Kalem moved with care.
Every step forward was placed deliberately, as if the ground beneath him might bite. And in the Abyss, that wasn't just paranoia—it was memory. Somewhere behind him, buried in the cracks of his muscles and bone, was the sensation of the floor writhing. Of moss that breathed. Of soil that bled when stepped on.
He was tired. But not weak.
Ahead, the terrain was shifting again. The rock formations narrowed into canyons and dips like cracked ribs, their surfaces lined with coarse veins that pulsed with a faint orange glow—too dim to offer real light, but just enough to make the shadows dance. The air smelled of rust and something sweet, almost rotten.
The weapon crate, enchanted to float at his side, bobbed gently as it followed his path. He reached into it now and then, testing his arsenal. Rotating through blades, checking balance, inspecting enchantments for signs of strain. They were holding. Some better than others. The hammer-spear was still his best companion—its thunder enchantment kept it reactive, alive. He gripped it in one hand, thumb running along its spine like a comfort tick.
"Do you even know where you're going?" the voice asked.
Kalem didn't answer.
The voice was quieter today. Less intrusive. Less mocking. But it hadn't stopped. It never really did. He was just learning how to function with it—like learning to walk again with a knife in the leg.
The canyon narrowed suddenly, funnelling him through a jagged throat of obsidian rock. His fire-sword lit the way, casting sharp relief on the walls. There were carvings here—scratches that might have once been runes or words, long since scraped over by claw or claw-like stone.
One carving caught his eye: a spiral, wrapped in thorns.
The voice murmured, "You've seen that before."
He paused. "No, I haven't."
"Yes. But above. Different."
Kalem frowned. He didn't remember it, but something about the curve of the spiral made his neck itch. He moved on quickly.
The ground began to shift again—more subtly now. Sloped downward. Not much, but enough to suggest another descent. The rock underfoot crunched like bone in places. He thought it might be bone.
Then, a sound.
Not the voice.
A real one. From behind.
Scraping.
Slow. Deliberate.
Kalem turned, eyes narrowed, blade raised—but saw only mist. For a few seconds, all was still. Then another scrape—closer.
Something was following him.
Not charging. Not lunging. Just following.
He set the crate down and armed himself with a second blade—one lighter, faster. Both hands occupied. He stepped slowly backward, trying not to show panic. The canyon was too narrow for fast movement, and the mist made visibility useless beyond a few meters.
He pressed against one wall, eyes darting, breath low.
A shadow shifted. Something with too many limbs. Or maybe none at all.
He threw the thunder-spear.
It struck the fog, exploded with a crack of force—and hit nothing.
Silence.
Then—
A hiss. Low, wet, behind him now.
He spun, blade ready, and saw nothing. Again.
The voice chuckled.
Kalem's heart thundered in his chest. "Is this you?"
"Not this time."
Then he heard it again. Footsteps. His footsteps. Echoed, delayed by a second, as if reality itself was off-kilter.
He drew one more weapon—a dagger charged with sunfire, unstable but powerful. It hissed in his grip like it hated being used down here.
The scraping came again. This time directly above.
He looked up.
Too late.
A shape dropped, fast and silent. It had no real form—just flailing, spined limbs and a mouth where a chest should be. Kalem rolled back as it struck, blades raised, slashing as he moved.
Sparks flew. His blades made contact—barely—raking across something solid and carapaced. The creature recoiled, skittered sideways, and then vanished into the fog again with a tearing screech.
Kalem stood, panting.
Then three more shapes dropped behind him.
He didn't think.
He moved.
The fire-sword in one hand, dagger in the other, he launched into a fluid spin, slashing low and fast. The first creature caught the edge of the flame and shrieked—its body seizing before it crumbled, but not before the others closed in.
A claw tore through his shoulder. He dropped the dagger but planted a boot in the creature's gut and used the fire-sword to cut through its face.
The heat and light cast terrible shadows on the canyon walls, warping and stretching with the mist. The last of the creatures hesitated—and Kalem saw it.
Fear. They feared the light.
He growled, "That's right. Come see how you burn."
It lunged anyway.
Kalem sidestepped, redirected it into the narrow rock wall, then shoved the sword into its back—fire flaring from the blade like a breath. It spasmed, then fell still.
Silence returned.
Blood ran from Kalem's shoulder, hot and thick. His vision swam for a second. He dropped to one knee, breathing hard.
"You're still bleeding," the voice said.
"No shit," he muttered.
"You should have died."
"I'm aware."
"You're adapting," the voice mused. "You change. That's good."
Kalem ignored it, crawling to retrieve his weapons. He summoned his crate with a whistle—its enchantment still intact. From inside, he pulled out binding wraps and sealed the gash in his shoulder. No time for magic. No time for hesitation.
Just blood. Sweat. Teeth.
He took a long breath and stood.
"I'm going to keep moving," he said aloud.
"To what end?" the voice asked, almost softly.
Kalem didn't answer. He just walked forward, deeper into the canyon, stepping over the charred corpse of the thing that had almost ended him.
He didn't know how far the Abyss stretched.
But he would measure it with scars.