Echoes of the Abyssal Blade: Path to Free Will-Chapter 104: Descent in darkness

The fire burned low, a feeble flicker against the omnipresent mist that curled and slithered through the narrow hollow like a living thing. Raerin sat with his back against the cold rock, his spear laid across his knees, eyes half-lidded but never fully closing. Every crackle of wood or shifting shadow drew a twitch from his fingers, a tightening of his grip.

The others were no better. Jonan sat close by, hugging his knees, his youthful face smudged with grime and streaked by thin lines of dried blood. The boy’s eyes had grown older in mere days. Around him, the remaining warriors and survivors clung to one another, their exhaustion deeper than mere fatigue. It was a weight that pressed on their souls.

No one spoke. Words had lost their power to comfort.

Now and again, the mist would part slightly, and the blood-red glow of the Third Layer would reveal itself—a vast expanse of craggy stone and yawning pits that seemed to plunge endlessly into the dark. And with every flicker of distant light, shapes moved. Things with twisted limbs and slick, chitinous hides that prowled the edges of sight, waiting.

Raerin did not delude himself. They wouldn’t last another day without a stroke of fortune.

He rose, the movement sending a ripple through the huddled group. The few who still carried weapons gripped them tighter.

"Rest what you can," Raerin murmured, though he knew none would truly sleep. "At first light—or what passes for it in this forsaken place—we move."

It was all he could offer. Duty, not hope.

Hours crawled by, marked only by the slow burn of their pitiful fire and the steady advance of that choking mist. More than once, distant wails echoed through the darkness, high and thin, too human to be beasts but too broken to be men. None spoke of it.

When at last Raerin judged the time had come, he stood. His joints ached, his body cold and battered, but it moved still. He glanced at the gathered survivors—twenty-three left of the original seventy-four. Nearly two-thirds of his people gone in less than four days.

"Up," he said, his voice a coarse whisper. "We move."

They obeyed because there was nothing else to do.

The Third Layer stretched ahead, its landscape a maze of narrow ridges and natural stone bridges arching over black abysses. The red mist clung low, but here and there, great stone pillars rose like the ribs of some titanic corpse, their surfaces slick with algae and carved with long-forgotten glyphs.

Jonan trailed near the middle of the group, his eyes darting to every movement, every flicker. His stomach twisted in on itself, gnawed by a hunger that felt more spiritual than physical. He caught up to Raerin as the older warrior paused near the edge of a narrow bridge.

"Raerin," Jonan murmured, voice barely audible. "Are we close?"

Raerin didn’t turn. "I don’t know."

A lie, or at least an omission. He suspected the Bleeding Cavern lay somewhere within this hellish expanse, but where, he could not guess. They had no maps, no guides but what the desperate markings on ruined walls and scattered bones suggested.

"Stay close to the middle, boy," Raerin muttered after a moment. "And if something takes me, don’t stop. You understand?"

Jonan swallowed hard and nodded.

They crossed the bridge one by one, the stone slick beneath their feet, the chasm below devouring all light. Midway across, a distant rumble made the mist dance and the stone shudder.

Something massive moved in the dark.

They hurried the last stretch, but before the last three could cross, a shriek split the air—a piercing, inhuman cry that echoed off the stone like a hundred jagged knives.

Raerin spun, spear raised, just as a creature hurled itself from the mist. It was huge—pale, bloated, with a nest of black, spindly limbs and a face that split open like a petaled maw. It landed on the bridge behind the stragglers, its weight cracking the stone.

"MOVE!" Raerin roared.

The nearest warrior, Faren, lunged forward, pulling a child ahead of him. The third—a young woman named Callis—was slower. The creature lashed out with a spiked appendage, catching her in the side. Her scream was short, cut off as she was hurled into the chasm.

Faren made it across, child in tow, as Raerin and two others attacked. Spears darted in, piercing translucent flesh. The thing shrieked again, its body convulsing.

"Cut the bridge!" Raerin bellowed.

One of the warriors, Yenn, swung an axe at the weakened stone. Cracks split the surface.

"Now!"

Another blow, and the bridge gave way. The creature shrieked once more as it plummeted into the abyss, its claws scrabbling at air. Silence returned swiftly, save for the ragged breaths of the survivors.

Raerin gritted his teeth, gazing into the black. One more gone.

They moved on.

The path led them through a series of narrow canyons, the mist thickening again. Bioluminescent fungi painted the walls in sickly green and yellow hues. More than once, they had to avoid growths that pulsed with a heartbeat-like rhythm. One touch sent spores billowing, leaving those caught gagging and vomiting blood.

By midday—or what they guessed was midday—they reached a fork.

Left: a wide passage with crimson-glowing pools and scattered bones.

Right: a narrow fissure between leaning stone slabs, barely wide enough for one at a time.

Raerin hesitated. The wider path screamed danger, but the fissure promised a slow, painful death if cornered.

He turned to the group. "We split. Ten with me through the fissure. The rest with Varun through the wide path. Meet beyond, if we live."

Jonan felt his heart sink. Splitting up here? It felt like madness.

But no one argued. Raerin’s word was law.

Jonan was among those assigned to Raerin’s group. They squeezed into the fissure, the stone scraping skin and tearing at packs. The darkness was near-total, the only light from faintly glowing moss.

Minutes stretched endlessly. Once, something skittered overhead, sending dust and pebbles raining down. Once, they found a carcass wedged between the rocks—half-decayed, something like a man, something not.

When they emerged, it was into a basin-like depression. The mist here formed a thin veil, and the ground was littered with broken statues and toppled columns. A strange, faint hum vibrated the air.

Raerin’s expression tightened. "The Bleeding Cavern," he murmured.

It was unmistakable. Ahead, a yawning cave mouth gaped in the rock, its edges streaked with something dark and glistening. A faint red light pulsed within, like a heartbeat.

The others had yet to arrive.

Raerin made a decision. "We hold here until nightfall. If Varun’s group doesn’t come, we go in alone."

No one questioned.

They formed a rough perimeter, weapons at the ready. Jonan sat near the cave’s mouth, staring at the pulsating glow. It seemed to call to him, a low thrum that made his bones ache.

Hours passed.

And then—movement.

Not Varun’s group. Something else.

A shape emerged from the fissure behind them. Tall. Emaciated. Its skin a stretched pallor, its face hidden behind a bone mask. In its hand, a staff made of fused vertebrae.

Raerin was on his feet instantly. "Form up!"

The creature raised a hand, and a voice—deep, ancient—echoed in their minds.

"Turn back, children of the dust. This place is not for you."

Raerin stepped forward, spear level. "We have no choice."

The figure tilted its head. "Then you will bleed."

The mist churned as others appeared—half-seen, their forms warped and flickering.

Raerin knew it was death.

And still, he raised his spear.

The mist thickened, clinging like a second skin, damp and choking. The ancient figure took another step forward, the vertebrae staff tapping once against the stone floor. A hollow, resonating *crack* followed, and the mist behind it shifted unnaturally, revealing a dozen more shapes — gaunt, skeletal beings with malformed bodies and weapons forged from bone and blackened iron.

Jonan’s throat was dry as sand. His fingers trembled around the shaft of his spear. Every part of him screamed to run. But there was nowhere to go.

Raerin didn’t waver.

He took a deliberate step forward, placing himself between his people and the oncoming horrors. His spear tip glimmered faintly in the red mist. He spoke, though his voice was rough and low:

**"We’ve bled enough to reach this place. If it takes the rest of our lives to make it matter, so be it."**

Faren gritted his teeth and stepped beside him. The others, one by one, followed.

The figure in bone mask tilted its head, a strange, almost mournful sound escaping it — like the distant sigh of wind through hollow trees.

**"So it shall be."**

Then, the battle began.

The first of the bone-bladed horrors surged forward, unnaturally fast. Raerin met it head-on, his spear stabbing through the thing’s chest with a sickening crunch. But it didn’t fall. Black ichor poured from the wound, and its skeletal claws lashed out, scoring deep gouges across Raerin’s arm.