The aftermath of the cactus fiasco left them wary, treading the Blood Desert with newfound caution. The warrior trio no longer displayed hostility toward Vikram, nor did they show any intent toward the women. Suspicion lingered, but for now, the uneasy truce held.
Vikram walked alongside the old slave, the leader of the captives. Their brief conversations had been revealing. The old man had a daughter, a girl Vikram's age, and fear clung to him like a shadow. He feared what Vikram might do to her, making him desperately obedient.
Vikram studied the old man, then his daughter. She kept her face wrapped in cloth against the desert winds, but he suspected that wasn't the only reason. Whatever history his past self had with these people, Vikram didn't care to dig into it.
The sky above was a burning shade of orange, the sun a merciless overseer. Supplies were running low, and though hunger didn't gnaw at him—his stomach churned too much from what he'd seen—thirst was becoming unbearable. His throat was dry, and saliva no longer helped. Yet he refused to show weakness. Each step against the shifting sands was a battle of will.
Then, the old slave froze.
His eyes widened in horror, staring at the sand beneath his feet. Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees, digging through the layers of dust. The moment his fingers touched the sand beneath, his face drained of all color.
"I-It's... No, w-why is it here?" he stammered.
Vikram narrowed his eyes. The old man's panic was palpable, so he followed his gaze, picking up a handful of sand. It was… strange. Sticky. It clung unnaturally to his skin, layering itself instead of falling away.
Then the desert trembled.
A deep, rolling quake spread across the landscape, as if the very dunes were recoiling from what was to come. The ground beneath them shifted, retreating—no, being pulled somewhere. A vortex formed in the distance, churning violently. It was far, but distance didn't bring relief.
The old slave collapsed, pointing a trembling finger. His lips quivered, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I-It's coming... Shai-Hulud."
The Lord of the Sands.
Vikram didn't know what that meant, but when a seasoned man like this turned to a trembling mess, he knew better than to wait for answers.
Grabbing the old man by the collar, he hauled him to his feet. Without hesitation, he threw the daughter over his shoulder like a sack of grain and bolted in the opposite direction.
Strength surged through Vikram's body, allowing him to sprint despite carrying two people. His muscles burned, but his mind remained sharp. He expected the girl to struggle, but she remained still. Too still.
'Either intelligent or resigned,' he thought. He preferred the former.
Glancing back, he saw it.
A worm.
A giant worm.
Its sheer size dwarfed anything he had ever encountered. Its maw could swallow whales whole, serrated teeth forming a never-ending ring of death. There were no eyes, only an abyssal void within its mouth—an unnatural darkness that consumed even the sunlight that dared to touch it.
Vikram ran faster.
"Master! Run! No matter how far, it will catch you!" the old man cried.
But something was off.
The beast didn't lunge, didn't burrow after them. It rose—emerging from the sands like a god, its massive form stretching toward the sky. And then, it screamed.
A sound so terrifying, so guttural, it felt like the desert itself was crying out in agony. Vikram's breath hitched. That was no mere roar.
That was a scream of pain.
The massive worm writhed, its yellow skin bubbling—as though something inside it was moving. Crawling. The grotesque, pulsating waves concentrated around its throat, forming a dense mass beneath its skin.
Vikram watched in growing horror as the beast gagged, convulsing.
Then, it spat.
A black sphere shot into the sky, climbing higher and higher until it overlapped with the sun, creating an eerie eclipse. For a moment, Vikram thought it was an ability—perhaps a manifestation of the worm's power.
But then, the ball burst.
And his stomach turned to ice.
It wasn't an attack.
It was a birthing.
Hundreds—thousands—of writhing younglings rained from the sky like a plague.
Vikram swallowed hard.
His thirst was long forgotten. Now, there was only dread.