Waylon pressed his shoulder against the damp cavern wall, peering into the new opening he had spotted. The glow from the swarm of insects behind him faded quickly past the threshold, plunging the narrow passage ahead into utter darkness. His heart hammered in his chest, but he drew his dagger with a shaky hand all the same. With his left hand sliding along the rough stone for guidance, he stepped forward into the pitch-black tunnel, senses straining for any sign of danger.
The air inside was stale and cold. Waylon moved slowly, careful not to trip, but more than once his boot scraped over loose stones. He stumbled over a jagged rock that jutted from the floor and had to catch himself against the wall. Cursing under his breath, he continued on, counting his own footsteps to gauge the passage of time in the oppressively silent dark.
Time lost meaning as he crept through the darkness for what felt like minutes on end. Each tentative step was an exercise in trust that the ground would hold and nothing lurked directly ahead. Every drip of water from the ceiling made him flinch, his ears hyper-attuned in the absence of light. The tunnel seemed to slope gently downward, and a sense of isolation pressed on him with every pace he took further from the lit cavern behind.
Every instinct told him to turn back to the relative safety of the illuminated cavern, to escape the suffocating darkness that pressed in from all sides. Fear gnawed at his resolve with each blind step, whispering that he had no idea what awaited him ahead. But Waylon swallowed down that fear. Something—curiosity, desperation, or sheer stubbornness—kept him inching forward into the unknown, determined to see what lay beyond the dark.
Just as the darkness felt endless, Waylon noticed the barest hint of light ahead. A faint glow flickered somewhere down the passage, a pale ghost of illumination against the black. He paused, straining his eyes; it might have been his imagination, but no—there it was again, a distant glimmer. Hope and caution warred within him as he moved toward it, careful to keep one hand on the wall as his guide.
The closer he got to that faint light, the more another sensation intruded: sound. At first it was so faint he thought it might be just the blood pounding in his ears. But as he crept forward, Waylon discerned a subtle scraping noise echoing through the tunnel. It was an odd, intermittent skittering and crunching, the kind of sound that made the fine hairs on his neck stand on end.
Waylon's mind raced through possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Perhaps it was just some harmless cave critters feeding, or the scrape of shifting rocks. But in the darkness, every unknown sound felt menacing. He tightened his grip on the dagger until his knuckles ached, bracing himself for whatever was making that noise.
Waylon flattened himself against the wall as the passage curved, the glow brightening just enough to reveal a bend ahead. Holding his breath, he inched forward and risked a peek around the corner. In a small alcove beyond, he spotted the source of the light: dozens of thumb-sized insects clinging to the rock, each emitting a bluish-green bioluminescent glow. The eerie light revealed a hunched, chitinous creature crouched among them, its movements accompanied by the wet crunch of it feasting on the glowing bugs.
For a moment, he watched in morbid silence as the creature fed. It would snatch one of the luminescent insects off the wall with a swift snap of its mandibles, then grind down with a wet crunch. Glowing goo smeared its mouthparts and dripped to the floor with each bite. The monster seemed entirely engrossed in its meal, blissfully unaware of Waylon's presence just a stone's throw away.
A surge of naive excitement swelled in Waylon's chest as he observed the creature. It was alone and preoccupied with its meal, an easy target—just like the low-level enemies from his video games back home. For an instant he imagined leaping out, plunging his dagger into its back, and winning his first battle in this strange world without trouble. Buoyed by that thought, he crept out from behind the corner, dagger poised and heart pounding with adrenaline-fueled confidence.
The creature's full form came into view as Waylon sneaked closer, illuminated by the soft green-blue glow of the insects. It was larger than a big dog, with a glossy black exoskeleton covering a long, segmented body. Bony, spider-like legs jutted from its sides, each ending in a hooked claw that scraped the stone as it shifted. A pair of serrated forelimbs, like the scythes of a praying mantis, clutched at the rock, while its head swiveled atop a sinuous neck.
It had too many eyes to count at a glance, bulbous and glassy, reflecting the eerie light as it tore apart its tiny prey. Two long antennae swept slowly through the air, sensing vibrations that Waylon's human ears couldn't detect. Each of those eyes glinted wetly in the gloom, unblinking and eerily inhuman.
Its mouth was the worst: jagged mandibles coated in glistening slime that dripped with the crushed remains of bioluminescent insects. When the creature shifted, plates of chitin along its back scraped together, emitting a subtle chitter that raised goosebumps on Waylon's arms. Everything about the beast's form spoke of a predator built to slaughter in the dark.
Waylon's blood ran cold as the full horror of the creature sank in. In an instant, his bravado evaporated, replaced by a visceral dread that rooted him to the spot. This was nothing like the sanitized monsters in games or movies—this thing was hideously real, every twitch of its alien body proof of a living nightmare. He felt his stomach churn at the sight and even the smell of it, a bile-and-copper stench of insect gore wafting from its glistening mandibles.
His instincts screamed at him to run, and Waylon finally heeded them, beginning to back away. Careful to keep his movements slow, he eased one foot behind him, then the other. His breathing was shallow and rapid, and his fingers felt numb where they clenched the dagger's hilt. If he could just retreat into the darkness, maybe he could avoid a confrontation with this monstrosity.
Then it happened—a betraying sound that shattered the silence. Waylon's boot came down on a loose shard of stone, producing a sharp crack that echoed down the tunnel. He winced as if he'd been struck, blood draining from his face. In the alcove, the creature's feeding noises stopped abruptly.
The chitinous creature went utterly still, save for the quiver of its antennae tasting the air. Waylon froze mid-step, heart pounding as he realized the thing was now aware of him. Slowly, unnaturally, the creature swiveled its head in his direction. A cluster of its glossy eyes caught the faint light and flashed as they focused on the intruder, fixing him with an alien, predatory stare.
The creature struck with sudden, explosive ferocity. One moment it was crouched among the glow bugs; the next it lunged at him, forelimbs scything through the air. Waylon yelped and threw himself backward, narrowly avoiding the brunt of the attack. Even so, a searing line of pain slashed across his upper arm as one razor-edged claw grazed him, tearing through cloth and skin.
Waylon hit the rocky ground hard, his back slamming into the wall as he stumbled from the creature's charge. A sharp cry escaped him; the gash on his arm burned, and warm blood was already trickling down to his elbow. He bit back a whimper, adrenaline blunting the pain just enough to keep him moving.
The creature wheeled around with a chittering hiss, enraged at having missed its prey. Waylon had no chance to recover; it was already lunging at him again, limbs flailing and jaws gnashing. Terror spiked through him as he scrabbled backward, every instinct screaming that he was about to be torn apart.
With a panicked grunt, Waylon hurled himself sideways along the wall as the creature's second strike came. The air whooshed past his face as a barbed limb scythed just inches from his head, smashing into the stone where he'd been a heartbeat before. Bits of rock exploded from the impact, pelting his cheek and shoulder. He didn't even register the sting of those small cuts—pure terror kept him scrambling away from the creature's reach.
He staggered back, adrenaline screaming at him to flee, but the creature was relentless. It lunged once more, mandibles gaping as it snapped at him with a vicious clack. Waylon threw his body to the side with no grace beyond desperation, feeling the rush of air and the scrape of chitin against his pant leg as those jaws clamped shut a hair's breadth from him. He nearly lost his footing completely, arms pinwheeling as he fought to keep from toppling over in the narrow tunnel.
Before he could fully regain balance, the creature came at him yet again with brutal speed. This time Waylon couldn't get away; it barreled into him like a living battering ram. The force knocked the breath from his lungs and sent him sprawling onto his back. His dagger flew from his hand on impact, skidding across the stone floor with a metallic clink as the creature's weight bore down on him.
Waylon found himself pinned under the monster's chitin-plated body, its weight crushing the air from his chest. The creature's head darted down, jagged mandibles gaping to clamp onto his face or throat. He caught the slimy maw with his hands just in time, grabbing hold of whatever he could—an antenna, the hard edge of its jaw—anything to hold it back. Trembling with exertion and terror, Waylon pushed against the snapping jaws, his arms the only thing keeping those serrated mandibles from closing around his flesh.
Waylon's arms quaked as the creature forced its weight down, its mandibles inching closer despite his desperate resistance. He could feel his strength waning; the monster's maw was a mere finger's breadth from his face now. A choked whimper escaped him as he realized he was on the brink of death. In that harrowing moment, the bitter thought flashed through his mind that he might die here, alone in the darkness, far from anything familiar.
His vision blurred with panic as the creature's mandibles snapped inches from his nose. Waylon's mind screamed in terror, but somewhere deep inside he forced himself to think rather than simply succumb to fear. There had to be a way out—some way to fight back. Desperately, his eyes darted around and caught a glimpse of metal: the dagger lay just within arm's reach at his side, glinting faintly in the bioluminescent glow.
With a guttural yell, Waylon released his left hand's grip on the beast and snatched up the dagger. The creature lunged in that split second, its jaws clamping onto nothing but empty air as Waylon twisted aside just enough. In the same motion, he drove the blade upward with every ounce of strength he had. The dagger punched into the softer joint between the creature's head and neck, and suddenly a gush of hot, foul-smelling fluid erupted over Waylon's face and chest.
The creature reared back, a shrill, ear-splitting screech ripping from its throat as the blade sank deep. It thrashed in agony, many legs scrabbling at the air and claws raking the stone floor as it recoiled off of Waylon. Dark, viscous blood sprayed in all directions, droplets of it splattering the tunnel walls and mixing with glowing smears of insect guts. Waylon rolled away the instant the weight lifted off him, coughing and choking as a coppery taste of blood spattered into his mouth.
For a few heartbeats, Waylon lay on the cold stone, dazed and gasping for air. The fact that he was still alive felt unreal. His body shook uncontrollably as the adrenaline coursing through him began to ebb, leaving weakness and nausea in its wake. The tunnel echoed with the creature's shrill cries, and he knew it wasn't dead yet—it wouldn't stop unless he finished it.
Shaking from head to toe, Waylon scrambled to his feet. His hand fumbled over the ground until his fingers closed around the hilt of his dagger, now slick with the creature's blood. He ripped the blade free from where it had lodged and wiped at his face with his sleeve, smearing away the worst of the warm, stinging fluid. Staggering upright, he pressed a hand to the wall to steady himself, chest heaving as he gulped in ragged breaths.
A wet gurgling sound drew Waylon's attention to the creature. It had collapsed against the tunnel wall, convulsing weakly as thick dark blood pumped from the wound in its neck. Its mandibles opened and closed in feeble motions, and a hiss that sounded almost like a whine seeped out of its maw. Waylon felt a surge of nausea and something like regret; as monstrous as it was, seeing it broken and dying churned his stomach with guilt and pity.
Gritting his teeth, Waylon forced himself to step closer to the dying creature. His legs felt like lead, but he knew he couldn't leave it to suffer. With shaking hands, he raised his dagger high. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking, as he drove the blade down into the creature's head, ending its struggles in an instant.
Waylon yanked the dagger free from the creature's skull, his breath hitching in his throat. He stumbled back a step, heart still hammering as the reality of what he'd done hovered at the edge of his mind. A tremor ran through him from head to toe, exhaustion and adrenaline crash mingling into a nauseating cocktail. It was over—at least for now, he thought with a shaky exhale, hoping that would be the last of it.
Only then did Waylon truly register his own injury. His left arm throbbed where the creature had slashed him, the shallow cut oozing blood that had soaked his tattered sleeve. Even that relatively minor wound was sending spikes of pain up to his shoulder now that the adrenaline was fading. He grimaced and pressed his free hand against it instinctively, feeling lightheaded at the sticky warmth coating his fingers.
Waylon had no time to absorb what he'd just done. In the ringing aftermath of the creature's death cry, a new sound reached him, echoing from deeper in the tunnel. At first it was subtle—another distant skittering that he almost dismissed as echoes of the fight. But as he stood there, chest heaving and dagger still clutched in his hand, he realized this sound wasn't fading. It was growing louder.
A chorus of chitinous clicks and shrieks built in the darkness ahead. The very ground began to tremble beneath his feet, dust trickling from the ceiling with each subtle vibration. He took an involuntary step back, dread coiling in his gut as the reality set in. There wasn't just one new noise—there were many, and they were getting closer by the second.
Out of the depths of the tunnel ahead, shapes began to emerge at the edge of the faint glow. First one, then another, then another—sleek black carapaces and glinting eyes catching the light. In horror, Waylon realized they were the same type of creature he had just killed, and there were more than he could count in that panicked moment. Ten at least, maybe more, skittering and crawling over each other in a frenzied rush straight toward him.
They swarmed forward with alarming speed, a tide of skittering bodies flooding the passage. The clatter of countless clawed legs on stone rose into a furious roar, drowning out Waylon's own ragged breathing. The tunnel walls shuddered with the onrush of the pack, the very air alive with their hunger and fury. In seconds, they would be upon him.
Waylon's blood turned to ice. Exhausted and wounded, he stumbled back another step, barely able to comprehend the doom bearing down on him. His dagger felt suddenly useless in his trembling hand against so many.
Barely a minute ago, a single one of these creatures had almost killed him. Now a dozen of them were closing in, chittering and screaming for blood. A strangled moan of despair escaped Waylon's lips as the sheer hopelessness of his predicament sank in.
His eyes went wide in abject dread as the pack of chitinous horrors bore down the tunnel. Their shrieks echoed in the dark. All he could do was stare, paralyzed, at the oncoming tide of death.
Waylon's pulse thundered like a frantic drumbeat inside his chest as he scrambled backward, desperate eyes scanning the tunnel for a way out. The chittering creatures advanced swiftly, their dark, glistening bodies illuminated eerily by the fading glow of the insects. His breath came in ragged gasps, panic gnawing at the edges of his fraying mind.
[There's no way out. There's no way out…!]
His fingers clenched painfully around the blood-slick dagger, the blade trembling uncontrollably in his grasp. Behind him, the glow of the insects grew dimmer, as if they sensed the impending slaughter and sought escape themselves. Waylon's heart nearly stopped as the cavern slowly darkened around him, shadows closing in like claws grasping for prey.
"Come on, come on!" he whispered harshly, his voice shaking with fear as he turned in place, eyes wild, desperately seeking an opening. "There has to be something!"
He staggered back, eyes catching sight of the glowing bugs rapidly retreating through a sizable crack in the cavern wall. A tiny glimmer of hope sparked inside his chest—an ember struggling for life amidst a storm. Without hesitation, he lunged toward the crack, heart hammering painfully as he reached the opening.
It was narrow, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through, but it was a lifeline. Waylon turned sideways, pushing himself into the tight gap, desperately forcing his battered body forward. Immediately, he felt resistance as the pack strapped to his back caught firmly against the rough edges of stone.
"No…no, damn it!" he hissed through clenched teeth, desperately jerking forward, sweat dripping down his brow as the pack refused to budge. He twisted and strained, but the rough fabric was wedged tight. [Move, please move!]
The sound behind him was growing louder, the rapid clicks and skittering legs signaling the creatures' approach. Panic seized him, flooding his body with adrenaline. Waylon braced himself against the wall, heaving with all his strength, but the pack remained stuck fast, trapping him in place.
Before he could struggle further, a sharp, searing pain exploded across his back. Waylon screamed as agony tore through his nerves, a fiery line carving itself deep into his flesh. The world blurred as he collapsed forward, suddenly freed from the rock's grasp.
He fell through the crack, landing heavily in the narrow passageway. Confused and dazed, he gasped for air, but another wave of blinding pain shot through him, crystallizing his senses with brutal clarity. Eyes wide, his stomach lurched as he saw the severed remains of his pack, shredded clean through and now useless.
Turning to see what attacked him, Waylon's breath froze in his chest. The creature's hideous face filled the gap, its countless glossy black eyes glittering hungrily in the fading bioluminescent glow. Purple fluid dripped from its grotesque mandibles, giving it the appearance of a demon risen from the abyss itself.
[Death…it's Death coming for me.]
His blood turned icy as he looked down and saw one of the creature's claws driven completely through his thigh, pinning him painfully to the ground. He gasped, panic-stricken, hands grasping weakly at the chitinous limb. The creature hissed, dragging him slowly back toward the opening, determined to pull its prey from hiding.
"Let me go!" Waylon screamed, raw terror stripping his voice to something primal and desperate. He clawed frantically at the creature's limb, ignoring the hot pain tearing through his leg. "Let go, you bastard!"
Yet the beast only growled, mandibles clicking viciously, its enormous head pushing further through the gap as Waylon slid helplessly toward its gaping maw. Its shriek echoed through the narrow space, a chilling promise of imminent death.
Waylon's thoughts spun wildly, panic numbing him even as memories flashed vividly before him. For an instant, he saw clearly the terrified face of his childhood bully—bloodied, begging for help. A sickening guilt churned his stomach, fueling his rage.
[No, I won't die like this. Not here—not now!]
With a defiant, guttural roar, he snatched the dagger from the stone floor, swinging wildly at the creature's claw. The blade scraped uselessly against the armored shell, barely leaving a scratch. But instead of despair, something primal and furious erupted inside him.
"Die!" he shrieked, voice cracking from the strain. Eyes bloodshot and frenzied, Waylon slashed again and again, each strike harder, more desperate, until the blade struck air. Blood sprayed everywhere, purple and thick, coating his trembling hands.
The creature howled in agony, its screech shaking the narrow passage. It retreated, leaving its severed claw lodged grotesquely in Waylon's thigh. Blood spurted violently from the wound, adding to the pool beneath him.
"G-get away!" Waylon sobbed, kicking and clawing backward, his vision blurry and darkening from blood loss. He dragged himself inch by inch, agony radiating from his leg, each movement sapping his fading strength.
Behind him, the creature's shrill cries faded, replaced by a chorus of furious hisses. Waylon glanced back, heart clenching in terror as more of those vile faces pressed against the crack, claws reaching desperately inside. He whimpered, crawling faster despite the fire scorching his muscles.
The passage grew darker with each passing second as the insects ahead scattered further away, dimming the only illumination. Soon, Waylon was nearly blind, feeling the jagged rock scrape cruelly against his open wounds.
[Can't stop…can't die here.]
He crawled onward, every muscle screaming, his breath ragged and shallow. Just as hope slipped from his grasp, Waylon felt the slightest whisper of cool air against his cheek.
Fresh air—freedom.
With renewed vigor, he surged forward, ignoring his battered body's protests. Yet, his brief hope shattered instantly when his hand landed on empty space, plunging him into darkness. He tumbled uncontrollably, smashing against rocks that bruised and tore at his skin.
He rolled faster and faster, unable to halt his momentum, pain erupting with each collision. Screaming hoarsely, he suddenly flew free from the slope's edge, suspended in air for a heartbeat of horrifying silence.
Waylon's body slammed into the river with devastating force, the impact knocking every ounce of breath from his lungs. Ice-cold water enveloped him, filling his ears and nose as he struggled helplessly beneath the current.
[Can't…breathe…]
The powerful current dragged him downriver, his limbs flailing weakly as he desperately fought for the surface. Each second dragged on painfully, lungs burning with a desperate need for air.
Just as his head broke the surface, drawing a fleeting, precious gasp of air, he crashed violently against a submerged rock. Pain exploded through his skull, blackness creeping into the corners of his vision.
[No…not yet…]
His body went limp, consciousness slipping rapidly from his grasp as the river carried him swiftly downstream. The world became a blur of cold water, deafening rapids, and searing pain.
[I…can't…die yet…]
Waylon's last coherent thought vanished, swallowed by the relentless darkness. His battered, bloodied body drifted helplessly downstream, at the mercy of a world determined to break him.