The descent down the mountain was… excruciatingly slow.

  Loose gravel, uneven stones, roots, and people treated each step like a puzzle they had never solved before. I kept my expression mild, even patient, but inside I was grinding my metaphorical teeth to dust. The curse didn’t compel patience; it compelled involvement. Every whimper, every stumble, every “wait, wait!” tugged on me like a barbed hook.

  And yet I stayed calm. My mask was well-practised.

  At the front, Tom was talking in low, easy tones, his version of keeping spirits up.

  “So there we were,” he said, gesturing with a hand as they walked, “day two in the Afghan desert, the sun beating down like it hated us personally, canteens empty because someone misread the supply map—”

  I raised a brow. “Misread?”

  Tom huffed. “Fine. Johnson drank all of his own because he thought dehydration was a myth. Anyway... halfway through the second day, nothing but heat haze and sand as far as you could squint. And our medic goes, ‘Sir, it appears we may have a problem.’”

  Behind us, a woman piped up sharply.

  “What if we found ourselves in the same situation? Where are we supposed to find water out here?!”

  I didn’t even turn. We talked about this already, but there is always somebody who doesn’t listen. “Mountain terrain is kinder than a desert. Streams and runoff are common. And going down increases the chances to find water even more.”

  That calmed her. Tom shot me a quick smirk, as if to say, 'Appreciate the assist.'

  He opened his mouth to continue... and stopped dead.

  A streak of red cut across the dirt ahead of them.

  Fresh red.

  He knelt immediately. The funny storyteller vanished; the serjeant returned in an instant.

  “Everyone hold.” His voice cracked like a whip. “Stay alert. Eyes on the tree line. Do NOT clump together.”

  Everybody froze, murmurs rising like panicked birds.

  “What is it?”

  “Is someone hurt?”

  “Is that blood?”

  “Is something watching us?!”

  I was already moving, and Jack, one of the few who took the fighter class, came right besides me. We crouched over the splatter, dark, wet, and unmistakably recent.

  “It leads off the trail,” he murmured, pointing with two fingers. “Someone moved, or was dragged, into the trees.”

  I felt it then.

  The pull.

  The tightening in my chest.

  I needed to go.

  My curse wound itself through my nerves and settled as a cold pit in my stomach. Someone might be hurt. Someone might need me. Logic protested: no screams, no signs of struggle, the blood was too much... but logic didn’t matter.

  Compulsion won.

  I stood and addressed the others, voice steady.

  “This might be someone who left the safe zone before us. They could be injured or worse. I’m going; I need volunteers to check it out.”

  Silence.

  Then, light footsteps.

  Quinn, the rogue boy, stepped forward, hand on his long dagger.

  “I volunteer.”

  Jack nodded. “Me too.”

  A mage followed, thin, focused, holding her staff tighter than necessary.

  One of the crafters, a man in his sixties, stepped forward as well.

  I stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Do you have combat skills?”

  “…No.”

  “I appreciate it, really, but it is better if you stay with the group. We need fighters; I hope you can understand.”

  The man clearly swallowed a reply but stepped back.

  The four of us formed up, ready to move.

  “Elias, wait!” Rhea called.

  I paused as she rushed towards us. Kneeling, she drew a circle in the dirt, then a four-point star inside it. Symbols flowed from her fingertips like she’d done this all her life. She placed small objects – a stone, a strange twig, a scrap of fabric and a fang of some animal – at each point, then directed each of us to stand at the tips.

  Rhea stepped into the centre.

  Her eyes fluttered shut.

  A soft hum filled the air.

  The circle pulsed faintly.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  Wind stirred, though none should have reached the forest floor.

  Thirty seconds later, the ritual concluded like a held breath released.

  Ding.

  Rhea sagged, bracing a hand on her knee.

  “Sorry… that’s all I can manage right now.”

  I blinked, genuinely impressed.

  Jack let out a quiet whistle.

  The mage whispered, “Nice…”

  Quinn, for his part, looked at Rhea as if she was a goddess.

  Nodding to her,were I said. “This’ll come in handy; thanks, Rhea.”

  However, I couldn’t linger anymore. The curse clawed at me now, urging, pushing.

  “Let’s move.” I muttered.

  We slipped into the underbrush, following the trail of blood. Birdsong faded. The air felt dense. Something had passed here, something that bled and suffered and didn’t go quietly.

  Two minutes in, Quinn gagged before he managed to point.

  “Th-there,” he whispered, voice shaking.

  I followed his trembling finger.

  A severed arm lay in the leaves. Small. Thin. The kind that belonged to someone young, maybe one of the teenagers who’d rushed down the mountain ahead of us.

  “Shit,” Jack muttered behind me.

  The blood trail beyond it became much more obvious now; thick streaks dragged across roots and stones, leading deeper into the trees. No screams, no movement. Rationally, they were dead. Rationally, there was no point.

  But the curse coiled tight in my gut, whispering that maybe, maybe someone still needed help. That I couldn’t turn away.

  I gritted my teeth.

  “Stay alert,” I said. “We follow it.”

  Some minutes later, the forest opened between a cluster of old, wide-bellied pines, and my stomach dropped.

  What was left of the boy lay sprawled on the ground, and something massive and pale was hunched over him, tearing flesh with wet, grinding noises. A fat, hairless humanoid, rolls of muscle under its sickly skin. It tore another chunk free with its teeth.

  We froze.

  The creature stopped chewing.

  Slowly, its head turned, and black, wet eyes locked onto us.

  What the fuck is that?

  The thought hit, sharp and animal. But only for a second.

  I forced myself steady.

  “Jack, front with me,” I whispered. “Lena... back, right side. Quinn, wait for an opening. Don’t rush.”

  I didn’t know if it heard me. Didn’t matter.

  The monster stood, dropping the half-eaten corpse with a wet thump. Eight feet tall, maybe more, built like a powerlifter who’d eaten two other powerlifters. But wounded: a deep gash across its right thigh, another smaller one across its belly.

  Didn’t seem to care.

  It roared, too deep, too wrong... and charged.

  Jack moved in front, showing impressive bravery. “BRACE!” he bellowed, slamming his tower shield into the dirt, spear aimed at the thing.

  Lena fired first, a beam of light snapping across the clearing, missing its head by inches as the monster thundered forward.

  I took the shot I could. Not the chest. The leg.

  My projectile slammed straight into the open wound, ripping deeper. The monster’s stride faltered just enough.

  It crashed into Jack like a truck.

  The shield shuddered loudly, but Jack held. Held like a man who refused to die. His spear punched deep into its belly, sinking halfway to the shaft.

  The monster shrieked, a gravelly, vibrating roar.

  Lena shot again, a direct hit this time, but it only carved a shallow burn across its chest. Skin deep, the creature barely noticed.

  I had an idea and no time to weigh it.

  I ran.

  Another projectile cracked into its chest, a small wound. I hoped to distract it, but it didn’t. The monster clawed at Jack’s shield, and the spear stuck inside itself. I slipped to the right, mace ready.

  It saw me.

  The monster swung with its left arm, a brutal swipe I barely blocked. The impact blasted through my shield, sending me stumbling back four or five steps. My arm went numb to the elbow.

  How could it be so strong while being in that terrible position…?

  I didn’t finish the thought. I charged again.

  The monster tried to pivot, but that injured leg buckled. Perfect.

  I swung at its good knee.

  Just as the mace connected, I activated Arcane Push through the weapon.

  Power surged, amplified, and my arm rang with it.

  A concussive blast ripped out from the impact point.

  Skin tore, blood sprayed, and the knee shattered.

  The monster simply collapsed on the side.

  Its scream was guttural, the kind that vibrated in your teeth, before its entire bulk toppled sideways, shaking the ground.

  Quinn didn’t wait.

  “DASH!” he shouted, more to himself than to us, and blurred into motion, the speed buff turning his sprint into a smear of movement.

  He pounced onto the monster’s head before it could react.

  His knife plunged into its ear canal.

  He slammed his palm into the pommel once, twice, and then he twisted hard.

  The creature convulsed, limbs jerking in blind instinct.

  Then it went still.

  Completely, totally still.

  For a second, no one talked. The only sound was our breathing.

  I kept my mace up just in case. Even dead, the thing radiated menace.

  Finally, I exhaled.

  “We’re clear,” I said softly. “For now.”

  Quinn staggered back from the corpse, chest heaving, sweat streaking the dirt on his face.

  He wiped his knife on the grass with a shaky hand.

  “H—hah… hah… I levelled,” he managed between breaths. “Twice. It was a level nine… Gorg Brute, whatever that is.”

  I glanced at the corpse.

  Up close, the creature looked even worse: bloated, pale flesh, long arms, and no hair anywhere. A face not even a mother could love.

  Jack lowered his shield slowly. “A level nine monster this close to the start point… great. Just great.”

  Before I could respond—

  Ding.

  A pair of translucent panels blinked into view.

  Two skills. Both glowing faintly.

  No class level. Figures. At least my control would improve.

  Quinn sat down on a rock, letting out a long, shaky exhale. “So… what now? Bury him?”

  We all looked at the body.

  Or what was left of it.

  There wasn’t enough intact flesh to recognise the kid. No backpack, no clothes worth salvaging, just shredded fabric and destroyed armour, and the broken stump of a sword lying near a tree, snapped clean in half.

  Jack rubbed his forehead. “We don’t have the tools. And even if we did… this thing’s friends might smell the blood. We can’t waste an hour digging.”

  Lena swallowed hard. “We should say something. Anything.”

  A moment of silence, not prayer, but respect… acknowledgement. That someone had died horribly, and that this world didn’t care.

  Then Quinn cleared his throat. “Should we… loot him? I mean, maybe he had—”

  “No,” Jack said immediately.

  “No,” Lena echoed, voice small.

  I shook my head. “There’s nothing left to take. And even if there was… the monster already broke most of it anyway.”

  Quinn looked away, ashamed but practical. “Right. Yeah. I was just... thinking.”

  We didn’t linger. Couldn’t.

  “Let’s return,” I said. “The others need to know what’s out here.”

  And the dangers we faced.

  Together, we turned our backs on the clearing and the ruined corpse, leaving the Gorg Brute’s carcas cooling in the shadows as we pushed back through the underbrush towards the trail and the uneasy safety of the group.