Kaelen could not look at the old man. His gaze, even in the dim, ash-choked air, felt like a physical weight, pressing down, suffocating. Everything about the towering figure spoke of an ancient, untamed might. More than his immense frame or the fiery glint in his eyes, a palpable presence radiated from him. It was a force that made skin crawl, instincts shriek. Raw power, an unyielding current of sheer will, flowed from him like heat from a magma vent. Standing before him felt like a lone reed against an approaching storm. One could only bend, or break. No resistance felt possible. Still trembling, mute, Kaelen heard the old man’s voice again, a low rumble that vibrated through the ground beneath his feet. “Tongue tied, whelp? Your name, or the pyre-gators will have a new chew toy.” “Kaelen.” The name was a whisper, raspy from the sulfurous air. “Kaelen? Dull as a burnt ember, that name.” No retort formed on Kaelen’s lips. To speak out of turn, to offer even a hint of defiance, felt like inviting the wrath of a primal force. His mind conjured images of the lava behemoth, its final lunge, its effortless redirection by this very man. Cold fury, a predator’s patience, simmered in the old man’s eyes. He leaned closer. “Now, whelp! How did you crawl into this gullet? Not through the path I took, surely.” “Stammer once more, and you’ll share the fate of dust.” “An… underground passage,” Kaelen managed. He swallowed, the taste of ash and iron on his tongue. “I was in the Grim-Vein 72. A wall collapsed, something pulled me in. A breach.” “Heh. The trap then.” A low chuckle, devoid of mirth, escaped the old man. “Sometimes, a place like this, a true Hearth’s Gullet, mana overfills. To vent the pressure, it tears open an artery. A lure, to bleed off the excess. Draws in anything living, then digests it.” “Unfortunate luck, your constant shadow. Most never stumble into such a thing and live to regret it.” The old man’s eyes glinted, a cruel amusement playing on his weathered face. He openly savored Kaelen’s misfortune. Kaelen said nothing. A familiar bitterness settled in his chest. Misfortune was indeed a constant companion, a chill that clung to him like the ash itself. Summoning a flicker of resolve, Kaelen finally spoke. His voice, though still rough, held a quiet edge. “Who are you? Where is this place?” “My name is Roric. And from this moment, this Gullet becomes my hunting ground.” “Yes, a hunting ground.” Roric’s declaration hung in the air, heavy and absolute. Kaelen felt a chill that had nothing to do with the environment’s heat. No boast, no empty threat. The storm-like madness in Roric’s eyes, the sheer, unbridled power radiating from him, confirmed his words. Then, the ground beneath them shivered. Liquid fire rippled. Great forms began to emerge from the molten rock, shadows coalescing into monstrous shapes. Pyre-gators, their scales hardened by the primal heat, their jaws agape, glinted with solidified lava. They were massive, elemental. Their roars were guttural, echoes of the Gullet itself. Even as the terrifying beasts surged, Roric merely chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. His words died on his lips. A greatsword, buried tip-down in the hardened ground nearby, shimmered. It lifted, slow and deliberate, a monolith of black iron, streaked with crimson veins that pulsed with an internal fire. Roric’s hand closed around its hilt. “Cindermaw,” Roric murmured. The moment his fingers clasped the grip, a blinding burst of raw energy erupted from the blade. Sound itself seemed to warp. A deep, resonant thrum vibrated through the air, shaking the very bones of the Gullet. Kaelen clutched his head, a searing discomfort scratching at his nerves. His heart hammered, not with excitement, but with an agonizing pressure. The sword’s cry was an alien frequency, an assault on his very being. Kaelen was not alone in his anguish. The Pyre-gators convulsed, their guttural roars turning to agonized shrieks. The resonance of Cindermaw had agitated them, driven them to a feral frenzy. And not just the Pyre-gators. From every dark fissure, every molten current, every ash-choked corner of the volcanic realm, creatures stirred. Flying monstrosities blotted out the dim light above, while hulking beasts, larger even than the Pyre-gators, began to charge towards Roric. Cindermaw’s call had stirred the entire Infernal Maw. Kaelen watched, mouth agape, unable to comprehend the sheer scale of the madness unfolding. Then, the true frenzy began. Roric, wielding Cindermaw, launched himself into the oncoming tide of monsters. He was a blur, a dark streak against the molten backdrop. The colossal forms of the Pyre-gators met the blade, and were torn asunder. Hardened scales, flesh tough as volcanic rock, parted like mere ash in the wind. Not just the Pyre-gators; unknown creatures, writhing masses of elemental fury, were cut down with ruthless precision. Roric was a storm made manifest. Monsters, swept away by his terrible force, flew through the air, broken and mangled. The flowing lava on the ground, the volcanic debris churning in the air, all were consumed by the tempest that was Roric. What rank of power was this? Kaelen had never witnessed such raw, unadulterated might. No intricate ability, no subtle manipulation of elements. Pure, brutal strength, the swing of a greatsword named Cindermaw, slaughtering all in his path. Before long, the ground around Roric was a grim landscape of twisted limbs and lifeless husks, piles of dead monsters steaming in the oppressive heat. Roric’s maniacal laughter echoed through the Hearth’s Gullet, a sound as wild and untamed as the realm itself. Swinging Cindermaw, slick with ichor and fragmented flesh, he seemed less human than an ancient, terrible entity given temporary form. Kaelen felt overwhelmed by Roric’s sheer, unhinged power. He couldn’t move, could barely draw a ragged breath. The last of the hulking, rhinoceros-like beasts fell with a sickening crunch. Not a single monster remained standing on the ground. Roric, alone, had decimated the horde. Yet, he showed no sign of fatigue, no trace of effort. Kaelen swallowed, a dry, grating sound in his throat. Then, a new sound erupted, a primal roar that tore through the oppressive silence from the volcano’s peak. Kaelen’s mind went blank, a rush of static filling his senses. He struggled to maintain awareness, to anchor himself to the terrifying reality. From the summit of the colossal volcanic spire, a monstrous entity emerged. Its majesty was terrible, like a legend come to life. A creature of living fire, a mythical beast from the ancient tales of the Ash Shroud. Kaelen stood frozen, awe warring with dread. Roric smiled, a wide, predatory grin, as he looked up at the ascending leviathan. “Finally. The Scoria Wyrm.” Wrapped in scales of molten obsidian and glowing crimson from head to tail, its body stretched thirty meters, its leathery wings spanning even further when fully extended. *Not a dragon,* Kaelen registered, the thought a fleeting wisp in his stunned mind. He trembled, a sensation he rarely knew, before the presence of the Wyrm, unlike anything he had ever witnessed in the barren world above. An aura of deep crimson pulsed around the Scoria Wyrm, stark against its emergence from the lava. A silent language, Kaelen knew from fragmented lore, indicating immense physical prowess. Such high-rank entities possessed traits akin to human abilities, an elemental mastery that permeated their being. This was a creature of absolute physical might, steeped in the elemental fury of the Gullet. Roric tightened his grip on Cindermaw, his knuckles white. “That bastard is the final heart of this place.” Facing the ultimate beast of this realm, Roric showed not a hint of fear. Instead, he seemed delighted, his smile a chilling, maniacal display. Kaelen could not fathom such an individual. Did power twist all to this monstrous glee? Or did only monsters achieve such power? The Scoria Wyrm flapped its colossal wings, its ascent swift, its roar echoing. It soared towards Roric at a terrifying speed. Even before its arrival, a sharp, searing wind swept through the air, carrying the reek of ozone and sulfur. Roric bent his knees slightly, a coiled spring ready to unleash. His voice, for a moment, was devoid of madness, a low, guttural command. “Survive on your own.” In that instant, Roric pushed off the ground, a blast of displaced air roaring in his wake. It was astonishing for a man to fly, but a sonic boom rent the air, a whip-crack that stunned Kaelen. Roric shattered the sound barrier, appearing instantly before the Scoria Wyrm, a minuscule figure against the behemoth. The collision between the colossal monster and the diminutive human reverberated through the air, shaking the entire Gullet to its core. The previously surging lava erupted like a tidal wave, spraying molten fire in all directions. The volcanic spire belched out an even more intense plume of black smoke, raining down fresh ash and ember. The corpses of the monsters Roric had slain began to melt, dissolving into the lava. The protective aura, the inherent resistance to the Gullet’s heat, had vanished with their deaths. Lava, a molten wall, surged towards Kaelen. He scrambled backward, eyes wide, breath catching. It followed, relentlessly. Continuing on this path, he would be consumed, just like the fallen beasts. Kaelen darted frantically, a desperate dancer on the edge of the abyss, dodging splashes of molten rock, the air thick with superheated particles. Amidst the chaos, Roric and the Scoria Wyrm fiercely battled in the air, a cataclysmic dance of elemental power. Their clashes sent shockwaves through the very bedrock. A deflected breath attack from the Wyrm, a searing torrent of liquid fire, struck dangerously close to Kaelen. Accompanied by a deafening boom, a geyser of lava erupted, showering him with searing spray. Kaelen moved with desperate speed. There was no time to analyze, no moment for contemplation. Survival was instinct, raw and immediate. He needed to distance himself from the epicenter of this titanic struggle. He leaped across pools of lava, scrambling over precarious black volcanic rocks, his boots sinking into the loose, abrasive ash. Then, the rock he landed on crumbled beneath him, revealing a churning abyss of molten lava. He would fall. He would die. *No.* Instinctively, Kaelen gathered the ubiquitous ash from the air, from the ground, from the very particles suspended in the atmosphere. He willed it, shaped it. Just as he had improvised against the lava behemoth in his initial struggle, he solidified the air, forming a temporary platform of compressed cinder beneath his feet. He pushed off, leaping again. Another platform. Another leap. His ash reserves, usually vast, drained rapidly, the effort immense under such duress. He managed to land on a stretch of solid volcanic rock, a small island of reprieve, just as his strength buckled. He fell to his knees, gasping, each breath a painful rasp of ash and burning air. His heart throbbed, a metallic taste rising in his lungs. The rapid expenditure of his ability, the desperate struggle, had taken its toll. Again, the entire Gullet shook violently. Kaelen looked towards the origin of the tremor. Roric and the Scoria Wyrm’s fight was reaching its apex. Amidst Roric’s maniacal exclamation, an enormous force gathered within Cindermaw. For a fleeting moment, in Kaelen’s ash-strained vision, the sword seemed to double in size, a black hole of consuming power. Roric hurled Cindermaw towards the Scoria Wyrm. The blade flew like a meteor, a dark comet against the fiery backdrop, piercing straight through the Wyrm’s chest. The colossal beast let out a pitiful, gurgling scream as it plummeted, a thirty-meter-long titan crashing onto the lava terrain. Its immense body sprawled, devoid of strength, a monument of defeat. Roric descended, landing lightly on the motionless Wyrm. The Scoria Wyrm still gasped, its breaths ragged, its fiery eyes fixed on Roric. Looking down at the dying creature, Roric spoke, his voice low, almost intimate. “I scoured the Burning Sands for a year to find you. To imbue Cindermaw with your heart’s fire… so, die gracefully.” Roric lifted Cindermaw high into the air, its tip glistening with the Wyrm’s ichor, and plunged it deep into the monster’s chest. The Wyrm convulsed, a last, feeble struggle, as Cindermaw pierced its heart. Embedded in the Scoria Wyrm’s heart, Cindermaw glowed a furious red, absorbing an enormous amount of fiery essence, the inherent power of the Gullet’s final beast. The sword heated intensely, seeming to warp, on the verge of melting. At the peak of its fiery absorption, Cindermaw underwent a sudden, violent transformation. Roric expressed satisfaction, a harsh exhalation of breath, as he witnessed the metamorphosis. Cindermaw, now reassembled, had grown larger, sharper, its obsidian blade now veined with glowing crimson that pulsed like a living artery. A primal weapon, forged anew. With its core gone, the Gullet could no longer maintain its existence. A crimson portal, a tear in the fabric of this hellish realm, shimmered into being before the Scoria Wyrm’s cooling remains. The exit. Just before stepping into the swirling vortex, Roric turned, his gaze settling on Kaelen. “Aren’t you leaving, whelp?” Kaelen stood, ash-dusted and weary, watching the strange old man disappear. The Hearth’s Gullet, now without its beating heart, would surely not remain stable for long. He had to follow. Had to escape this inferno. But escape to where? He had known the Ash Shroud. Now, he had touched a deeper, older fire. What strange, desolate landscape awaited him beyond this burning threshold? Kaelen felt a profound weariness settle over him, heavy as the ash that coated his skin. Another journey, another unknown. He sighed, the sound lost in the dying whispers of the Gullet. He stepped into the portal.

The Hearth's Gullet