The stench of rot clawed at Edda’s throat, thick and putrid, threatening to make her gag. Her legs trembled beneath her, barely able to keep her upright.
Nigel had already drawn Reaper, its sleek blade gleaming under the dim glow of his flashlight. His stance was firm, controlled—a stark contrast to the chaos pressing in around them.
At least thirty of those things had surrounded them in an instant.
Nigel’s grip tightened on his weapon as his eyes flicked to Edda. Her breathing was ragged, her body stiff. She was on the verge of panic.
“Edda,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his muscles. “Focus on me. Just listen to my voice.”
She didn’t respond.
“Stay behind me,” he pressed. “Don’t move.”
Edda’s lips trembled. Her pupils shrank as she whispered a single, horrified word.
“…Darkcrawlers.”
The creatures moved slowly at first, their grotesque, twisting forms shifting in the low light.
Nigel raised his flashlight—
And the moment its beam washed over them, his stomach tightened.
They were wrong.
A grotesque hybrid of human and mollusk, their bodies were stretched and bloated in unnatural ways. Their heads were a mass of writhing flesh, riddled with dozens of tiny, glassy eyes, each one twitching independently. Instead of hands, two long, bladed appendages curved from their arms—razor-thin but unnervingly sharp.
One of them moved. Then it lunged.
The Darkcrawler launched itself toward Edda, its blades slicing through the air—
Nigel spun, already moving before his mind registered it. His muscles coiled, and with a single swing, Reaper sliced through the creature’s midsection.
A wet, piercing shriek echoed through the cavern as the Darkcrawler split in half. The two severed pieces crashed to the ground, spilling thick, green entrails across the rocky surface.
For a brief moment, the remaining creatures froze.
Their countless eyes flickered toward their fallen kin. Then—slowly, eerily—they turned to face one another, as if whispering in some language only they understood.
Nigel exhaled through clenched teeth. That wasn’t easy.
His hands throbbed. Even with his strength, cutting through that thing had been like slicing through reinforced steel.
And there were so many more.
“Not ideal,” he muttered.
The moment shattered.
The Darkcrawlers’ heads snapped toward them in unison.
Then—they charged.
A flood of monstrous limbs and gnashing jaws surged forward, the sound of skittering, clawing flesh against stone filling the cavern.
“Stay behind me!” Nigel barked, bracing himself.
The Reaper gleamed as he raised it, preparing to meet the oncoming horde.
You won’t make it out of this.
Let me take control.
The voice slithered through Nigel’s mind, a dark whisper threading itself between his thoughts.
His vision blurred for a split second. Too many things at once.
Blocking. Dodging. Countering. Protecting Edda.
The sheer mental strain of juggling every movement, every decision, every enemy was suffocating. His body was screaming for relief, his muscles burning under the relentless pace of the fight.
And yet—
Every time he felt himself faltering, his strength waning—something pulled him back.
A soft, cooling sensation flooded through him, soothing his battered body like a second wind. The wounds that should’ve slowed him down closed before they could fester. The pain that should’ve crippled him dissolved into nothing.
Edda. Even as she trembled on the edge of panic, even as fear clung to her like a second skin—she never stopped healing him.
They were an ideal team. Raw power and precision, paired with constant, unwavering restoration. An unstoppable force.
The Darkcrawlers fell in droves.
Their grotesque, bladed limbs twitched and convulsed as they were cleaved apart—one by one, their numbers dwindled.
Half gone. Then only a quarter remained.
Minutes stretched into eternity.
By the time the last of them crumpled to the ground, the cavern was silent—except for their heavy, labored breathing.
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Nigel stood, chest rising and falling, surrounded by a sea of disfigured corpses. The overwhelming stench of rot thickened the air, clinging to his skin like oil.
It was over, for now.
Don’t think it’s over yet. You’re wasting a lot of time trying to figure it out.
“It’s over,” Edda murmured, her breathing still uneven but steadier now.
Nigel exhaled, trying to catch his breath. “I hope so.”
The air was thick—too thick. The overpowering stench of rot clung to the cavern, almost suffocating.
“There’s too much decay here… we should leave,” Edda suggested, shifting uncomfortably.
“Yeah, let’s—” Nigel stopped mid-sentence.
His body went rigid. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe.
Edda blinked. She hadn’t been affected.
“Nigel?” She turned toward him. “Are you—?”
He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
Every muscle in his body refused to obey.
Then the voice returned.
You finally noticed, didn’t you?
Paralytic venom.
The realization hit like ice-cold water.
The creatures—when he cut them open, they bled out a nearly invisible fluid. A secretion so faint he hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Now, his body was drenched in their blood, his skin soaked in that toxin.
Edda had touched the same creatures, yet she was fine. Immunity? Maybe. A side effect of her abilities? Possibly. But that didn’t help him. How long would the venom last? Impossible to tell.
Edda took another moment before realizing the truth.
“Poison.” Her voice shook as she scanned the pools of blood and fluids coating the floor.
She rushed to Nigel’s side, fingers pressing against his forearm as her bracelet activated.
[Antidote].
Warmth spread through Nigel’s limbs, slowly dragging him out of his frozen state.
But it wasn’t fast enough.
I warned you.
The shadows shifted.
Darkcrawlers poured from the darkness.
They came from everywhere. The walls. The ceiling. Crawling over their own dead, their soulless eyes locked onto their next prey.
And Edda was defenseless.
“Move!” Nigel growled, his breath returning just as sensation flickered back into his upper body.
Then…
Agony.
A sharp, searing pain tore through his shoulder.
His breath hitched. A slow, creeping dread coiled in his stomach as he turned his head—
A massive Darkcrawler loomed over him.
Its grotesque maw dripped with anticipation. Its twisted, sinewy arm still raised mid-swing—
And in that clawed appendage, clutched between its deformed fingers—
Was his right arm.
Time stopped.
A dull, distant numbness crept up his side. His arm was gone. He should have been in pain. He should have been screaming. But his mind refused to process it.
Not again.
Not again.
Not again.
The shock was so intense that it shattered the last of the paralysis. His body, fueled by pure instinct, reacted.
In one swift, almost unnatural motion, Nigel dismissed the Reaper into his inventory—then instantly resummoned it into his left hand, reclaiming control after losing his right.
A single, brutal swing cut the creature in two. The thing barely had time to shriek before collapsing, its blood painting the cavern walls.
But Nigel’s vision was already blurring.
His balance wavered. His mind was spinning.
And then—
Edda.
Frozen.
Eyes wide.
She wasn’t moving.
Nigel saw it happening before it happened—before he could stop it.
His left hand reached for her, desperate, outstretched—
Too slow.
The Darkcrawler behind her plunged its bladed arms straight through her chest.
A quiet gasp.
Edda’s body jerked, her mouth parting slightly as blood trickled from her lips.
The creature flung her like discarded meat, her body hitting the stone with a sickening crack.
Something inside Nigel snapped.
A feral rage surged through his veins. He lunged—
His fist connected with the creature’s skull, shattering it in one blow.
Everything stopped.
The Darkcrawlers didn’t move.
They watched. They were enjoying this.
Nigel’s breathing was ragged. His whole body trembled.
“I… I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Edda’s gaze flickered up toward him, her eyes wet with tears.
“…It’s not your fault,” she murmured, her bloody fingers pressing lightly against his chest.
Her body dissolved into light before she could say another word.
The cavern spun.
Nigel’s ears rang, a piercing hum drowning out the sound of his own heartbeat. The world blurred at the edges, fading into something indistinct, broken.
The Darkcrawlers laughed.
Their grating, guttural chittering filled the chamber, twisting into something almost… human.
Nigel’s mind splintered. Memories he had buried long ago forced their way to the surface.
Martin.
Mitra.
The past he swore he would never relive.
It was happening again.
And this time—
I’m taking over.
“Yes,” Nigel whispered.
But the voice that left his lips no longer felt like his own.
His body was drifting—no, disconnecting.
Fading into the background.
His limbs went numb, his senses dulled. The pain—the unbearable, searing agony of his missing arm—vanished, swallowed by something much worse.
The weight of the world shifted.
The cavern darkened, though no light had gone out. A pressure settled over the air, thick and suffocating, like a storm on the verge of breaking.
Then—the ground trembled.
A deep, suffocating aura spilled from his body, curling into the atmosphere like smoke.
The Darkcrawlers twitched uneasily.
Nigel’s form convulsed.
His muscles spasmed and coiled in agony, contorting under the weight of an unseen force. Deep, blackened bruises erupted across his skin, veins bulging like they were ready to burst. His eyes rolled wildly, pupils dilating, shrinking, twitching in erratic patterns.
Then—they turned red.
Scarlet lines spidered across his sclera, bleeding through the whites of his eyes like ruptured vessels. His breathing hitched—then slowed.
The blood he had spilled—all of it—stopped mid-flow. Then, like a river defying gravity, it began to creep back toward him.
It re-entered his body as if it had never left.
A long, deathly silence settled.
Then—
A deep, raspy inhale.
“Ahh… fresh air. It seems he gave up full control this time around.”
He straightened, rolling his shoulders, his form eerily still despite the carnage around him.
Then, his gaze fell upon the Darkcrawlers.
And he smiled.
A slow, sinister curl of the lips, a smile that did not belong on Nigel’s face.
He walked—calmly, almost leisurely—toward where his severed arm had fallen.
It was ruined.
Sliced twice—the first cut at the shoulder, the second midway between the elbow and wrist. Torn flesh, shattered bone. Useless.
“If Edda were alive,” he mused, tilting his head, “maybe she could have helped me fix this.”
The thought sent a surge of fury through him.
His fingers twitched.
Then, with no hesitation, he tossed the remnants of his arm aside like worthless scraps of meat.
His head snapped back toward the Darkcrawlers.
They had stopped moving.
They felt it.
They knew—the real fight had just begun.
His eyes burned, wild and unhinged.
Then—he moved.
In the blink of an eye, he was upon them.
Laughter—raw, maniacal—echoed through the cavern as he ripped through them with inhuman speed.
His body was a blur, an unrelenting force of nature.
He tore through their ranks like a beast unchained, his movements a frenzied dance of destruction.
Some he decapitated instantly—clean, efficient.
But others? Others were toys.
He toyed with them, dragged out their suffering—methodical, macabre.
A limb severed here. A torso split open there. The cavern became a symphony of screams, a masterpiece of blood and torn flesh.
One by one, they fell, until only one remained.
The final Darkcrawler quivered, its bladed arms trembling as the figure loomed over it.
It understood—on some primal, instinctual level—it was prey.
The man tilted his head, crimson eyes burning.
“Kneel before the great Rampage, scum.”
His voice was mocking, commanding, as if the creature were capable of understanding.
It never got the chance. With a single, effortless motion, Rampage’s hand tore through its neck, ripping its head free.
"Heh, I always wanted to say shit like that. A pity this garbage didn't understand."
Then, silence.
Only he remained. Only Rampage.
Now, it was time for revenge.
