Freezing water slammed into Alrien's chest, knocking the air clean out of his lungs. He sank like a stone into the pitch-black depths of the sewer system, the sheer weight of his auxiliary gear dragging him down. His mouth opened in an instinctive gasp, only to fill with brackish, chemical-tasting filth that burned his throat.
Underneath the surface, the water was a churning vortex of freezing, black sludge. Something cold and rubbery brushed against his ankle, sending a jolt of pure terror straight up his spine. He kicked out wildly, his heavy boots sluggish in the deep current as he fought to find his bearings.
Splashing madly, his fingers clawed at the slimy concrete walls until his head finally broke the surface. He coughed violently, spitting out the rancid water as his lungs screamed for oxygen. A heavy stench of sulfur, rusted copper, and rotting organic matter hung thick in the air, making him gag.
Darkness pressed down from all sides, heavy and absolute. Only the faint, rhythmic pulse of red emergency lights far above offered any shape to the subterranean nightmare. This was the underbelly of the training facility, a place where failures were discarded.
"Get up, kid!" Jaxon's voice cut through the gloom, accompanied by a rough hand grabbing Alrien's collar.
Jaxon spat a mouthful of dirty water onto the ledge, his face pale under the flickering red light. "Damned training facility," he growled, wiping his brow with a bruised forearm. "They didn't tell us the lower levels were flooded with runoff from the Cursed zones."
"It's not just runoff," Alrien said, his voice shaking as he squeezed water out of his sodden shirt. "The energy levels down here are completely unstable. The system should have warned us before the drop."
"System-guided profiles don't care about auxiliary bait, kid," Jaxon grunted, pulling his heavy iron shield closer to his chest. "We are just grease for the gears."
With a powerful heave, the cynical shield-bearer dragged Alrien out of the deep channel and onto a narrow, slick concrete ledge. Alrien lay there for a moment, his chest heaving, his entire body shivering violently from the freezing water.
Around them, the darkness was alive with panic. Other recruits from the auxiliary unit were screaming, their terrified wails bouncing off the curved brick walls of the labyrinthine tunnel. Some were splashing aimlessly in the shallows, while others scrambled blindly along the ledges.
Two of the younger recruits, a boy and a girl whose names Alrien couldn't even remember, were whimpering in the shadows. They had dropped their weapons during the fall, and now they clung to each other like drowning victims.
"Get your weapons!" Alrien urged them, his heart aching at the sight of their sheer terror. "If you don't hold something, the Curses will take your hands first. Pick up your blades!"
"We can't!" the girl sobbed, her fingers digging into the boy's torn tunic. "There's something in the water! I felt it! It has fingers!"
"Quiet!" Alrien managed to hiss, pushing himself up on shaking hands. "Sound travels in these tunnels. You're going to draw them right to us."
"Too late for that," Jaxon muttered, his heavy boots squelching as he planted himself between Alrien and the open water. He raised his massive iron shield, his knuckles turning white against the grip. "Listen."
Through the rushing sound of the sewer water, another noise began to rise. It was a soft, wet, inconsolable weeping. It sounded like dozens of heartbroken children crying in unison, their voices echoing off the wet brickwork to create an agonizing, discordant chorus.
Cold sweat broke out on Alrien's forehead, mixing with the sewer grime. His analytical mind, sharpened by years of studying the bestiary databases, immediately identified the threat.
"Faceless Weepers," Alrien whispered, his voice trembling despite his best efforts. "Rank 1 Curses. They hunt in packs, and they are drawn to terror."
"How do we kill them?" Silas's voice barked from the darkness further up the ledge. The arrogant recruit was pale, his hands shaking as he held a standard-issue iron shortsword.
"We don't," Alrien replied, scrambling to his feet. "Not here. The water is too deep, and we don't have the numbers to handle a full horde. We need to orchestrate a tactical retreat. Jaxon, hold the center line. Silas, cover the rear. We move back toward the spillway we fell through!"
"To hell with that!" Silas spat, already backing away. "I'm not dying for some auxiliary trash!"
Silas turned and bolted into the shadows, his splashing footsteps fading down the tunnel. Panic, contagious and deadly, swept through the remaining recruits as they broke formation and scrambled after him.
Only Jaxon and Alrien remained, standing on the narrow ledge as the weeping grew louder, closer, and more desperate. Pale, rubbery heads began to break the surface of the dark water. Dozens of them. They rose slowly, their movements fluid and unnatural.
Blank sheets of pale, translucent skin stretched across their skulls where eyes, noses, and mouths should have been. Only raw, weeping holes existed beneath their jawlines, producing the horrific crying sounds. They dragged themselves onto the ledge, their long, spindly limbs ending in needle-like bone claws.
"Alrien!" Jaxon yelled, bracing his shield as three of the creatures lunged forward. "Do something!"
Alrien stepped forward, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hand hovered over his hunting knife. He had the knowledge, the positioning, and the opening to strike the lead creature right in its weak point—the weeping cavity beneath its jaw.
But his fingers froze. A sudden, suffocating paralysis seized his chest. The memory of his mother's final moments flashed behind his eyes—the way her skin had turned to ash, the way he had stood frozen, terrified to touch her, terrified of the violence of the curse. His pathological fear of causing harm, of engaging in the savagery of this world, locked his muscles.
"Strike!" Jaxon screamed, his shield vibrating as a Weeper slammed against it.
Alrien's hesitation lasted only a second, but in the Realm of Curses, a second was an eternity. Instead of driving his blade into the creature's neck, Alrien flinched backward. The lead Weeper sidestepped his clumsy movement, its bone claws grazing Alrien's shoulder, tearing through his jacket.
Before Alrien could recover, two more Weepers lunged from the dark water behind Jaxon. With a horrific screech, they wrapped their long, pale arms around Jaxon's ankles. The heavy shield-bearer lost his footing on the slick concrete, his massive iron shield clattering uselessly against the stone.
"Alrien!" Jaxon shouted, his hands clawing at the ledge as the creatures dragged him backward into the freezing, pitch-black water. A sudden splash, and Jaxon was gone. Bubbles broke the surface where he had been just a moment before, turning the dark water into a churning vortex of despair.
"No!" Alrien screamed, the word tearing from his throat. Guilt, hot and agonizing, pierced his chest. It was happening again. His weakness, his refusal to embrace the violence needed to survive, had cost someone else their life. He had let his mother die, and now he was letting Jaxon die.
Something inside Alrien snapped. Empathy, twisted by pure desperation, transformed into a cold, burning rage. He couldn't let them have Jaxon. He couldn't let his fear define him anymore.
Focusing his mind on his right hand, he called upon the terrifying passive ability that slept within his marrow. [Divine Adaptability] answered his call, surging through his veins like liquid fire. Pain, sharp and blinding, ripped through his hand.
His skin split open as five razor-sharp, obsidian-like claws erupted from his fingertips. The black chitin was hard as steel, catching the faint red light of the emergency beacons. But he didn't attack the water. He knew he couldn't fight dozens of them in their own element. He needed a distraction. He needed to make himself the only target that mattered.
Raising his mutated right hand, Alrien drove his own obsidian claws deep into his left forearm. He dragged the claws down, tearing open a long, jagged gash. Thick, dark blood spilled from the wound, dripping heavily onto the concrete and splashing into the dark water. It wasn't normal human blood. Under the influence of [Divine Adaptability], his blood carried a high-energy, mutated essence.
Steam actually rose from the fresh cut, the heat of his mutated biology reacting with the freezing sewer air. The smell was overwhelming—a hyper-concentrated, metallic sweetness that was almost intoxicating. It was the scent of pure, condensed life force, a delicacy that no Curse could resist.
Instantly, the weeping stopped. Absolute silence fell over the sewer, broken only by the rushing of the water.
Every blank face in the tunnel turned slowly toward Alrien. The creatures in the water stopped pulling Jaxon down, their pale, rubbery bodies turning in unison toward the scent of his mutated blood. From the dark water, Jaxon gasped for air, his head breaking the surface as the creatures abandoned him, crawling toward Alrien with frenzied, clicking hunger.
"Come on," Alrien whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. He stood his ground, blood dripping from his arm, his obsidian claws ready. "Come and get me."
Frenzied Weepers scrambled toward him, their bone claws scraping against the concrete in a mad, desperate rush to consume his essence.
Then, without warning, they froze. A sudden, paralyzing dread washed over the entire tunnel. The Weepers began to tremble, their faceless heads tilting toward the deeper water behind Jaxon. Slowly, they began to slide back into the shadows, retreating in a hurried, terrified crawl.
A heavy pressure descended upon the air, making it hard to breathe. Silence falls over the wet stone. The horde retreats in sudden, absolute silence as a massive, multi-limbed shadow rises from the dark water, whispering Alrien's name in his deceased mother's voice.