A chill, damp breath filled Torvin’s lungs. Air here was heavy, metallic, tasting of rust and forgotten machinery. He stepped through the jagged maw of the ruin, deeper into the maw of the System’s forgotten domain. His Feralkin blood pulsed with an instinctual dread, a raw fear of the unknown that his intellect, Elias Thorne, rationalized as environmental hazard assessment. Pre-Collapse schematics, etched into his very being, whispered warnings. These mega-structures, 'System-controlled,' were not mere dungeons. They were grave sites of a civilization, guarded by corrupted sentinels and the mutated spawn of their decay. At least, that’s what the data had promised. What it couldn't prepare him for was this. Blackness slammed into him. Absolute. Crushing. No metaphor. Just an utter absence of light. His eyes, accustomed to the dim glow of bioluminescent fungi or the stark glare of a desert sun, saw nothing. Not a flicker. Not a shadow. “Damn it.” A growl rumbled deep in his chest. His 'knowledge' had suggested the initial sub-levels of these structures often utilized ambient light sources. Crystalline deposits, energy conduits. A convenience, for easier navigation. Perhaps, out here in the real world, the System simply didn't care for player comfort. Perhaps a truly unlucky bastard could simply be shunted into the deep black. A grim probability. Still, his mind worked, cold and precise. If the entire sub-level was like this, survival would be a fleeting hope. No, this had to be an anomaly. A dark zone, deeper than anticipated, right at the entry point. A malicious twist of fate, or System protocol. Calm settled over him, thin but firm. His eyes, slow to the task, began to discern vague shapes. Not true sight, but an impression of mass against the void. His Feralkin senses, less reliant on vision, sharpened. Air currents, faint echoes, the subtle shift of stone beneath his crude, hide sandals. Alone, finally. A chance to test the limits of this new existence. “Status. Inventory. Archetype records. System log.” Each command, a whisper of a dying hope. His internal voice, a phantom limb. Nothing. The System, if it heard, did not respond. This was raw reality. No interfaces. No convenient data feeds. Gritting his teeth, Torvin pushed forward. His left hand, calloused and strong, scraped along the cold, slick wall. In his right, the heavy bone-reinforced shield felt more like a cumbersome weight than protection. Barely faster than a crawl. Any greater speed would be suicidal. A searing jolt ripped through his right ankle. A scream tore at his throat, a primal bellow of pain. He bit it back, hard, tasting copper. The agony was new, sharp, unlike anything his Feralkin body had endured. A spike, buried deep. Not a wild animal, not a rockfall. A trap. Crude, but effective. Made to cripple, not necessarily kill. Only one creature type on these initial sub-levels employed such tactics in the ancient data logs. Skitter-beasts. Mutated scavengers. Deceptively cunning, if the lore was to be believed. He’d stepped on a Skitter-beast trap. Fury flared, cold and sharp. His shield. The heavy, protective slab of bone and hide had obscured his vision. Had blocked his foot from sensing the ground properly. He’d prioritized psychological comfort over raw, unblinking practicality. A foolish, near-fatal error. “Curse it all.” A slow, shuddering breath. Pain threatened to overwhelm, to turn his analytical mind to panicked instinct. He wrestled it down. Screaming would offer no solace, only broadcast his presence, his vulnerability. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum against the silence. Focus. Breathe. Slow. What mattered wasn't the throbbing agony. What mattered was the predator. If a trap, then a Skitter-beast. Close. Watching. Waiting. Shield up, covering his head. Breath held. Every muscle tensed. Silence. Heavy, oppressive. Not a rustle, not a scuttling sound. Had it left? The thought, a seductive whisper of hope, was immediately crushed. Optimism was a luxury, a weakness in this place. Assume the worst. The Skitter-beast heard. It hid. It watched. Patient, in the way a predator watches injured prey. It wanted him to weaken, to bleed out. To lose the strength to fight. Its silence was calculated. It was, in its own savage way, smart. Slowly, Torvin exhaled. The stillness was a double-edged blade. It concealed the enemy, but also allowed him to hear the slightest disturbance. First, free his foot. A grunt of effort. Crouching, he pried open the spiked jaws of the trap. A wet tear of flesh as he pulled his foot free. He ripped a strip from the hem of his hide trousers, wrapping it tight around the wound. The crude sandal was shredded, useless. He tossed it away. Damn these Feralkin and their flimsy footwear. No, no more such thoughts. Lamenting the past was pointless. His fault, his mistake. A lesson, paid in blood and agony. His foot, numb. A dull warmth, fading. Paralytic poison. Skitter-beast venom. Not lethal, but crippling. A slow, agonizing death. Precisely what they wanted. “I know you’re there. Come out.” His voice, a low rumble, seemed swallowed by the vast darkness. No response. He pushed forward, a limping, uneven gait. Step. Drag. Step. Drag. The pain returned, a fiery throb. The poison was fading, or the damage was too great for it to suppress. Either way, his nerves were screaming again. A good sign, oddly. Nerves meant sensation. Sensation meant life. His mind, even amidst the agony, sought perverse comfort. “Your mother was a blight-rat, your father a dung-eater.” His tongue, loose with pain and adrenaline, spoke without filter. Crude Feralkin curses, meant to provoke. “So you’re a skittering, gnawing rat-thing too.” _Squelch._ A small sound. Barely perceptible. But in the crushing silence, it boomed. From behind him. Moving, reacting. He’d hit a nerve, literally. The Skitter-beast’s pride, or perhaps its patience, had broken. “What, little beastie? Didn’t like me insulting your ancestry?” Not that it would understand. But the tone, the challenge, was universal. It moved because he was getting away, because he was no longer an easy, bleeding target within its immediate ambush zone. Torvin accelerated. Not a sprint, but a faster, more painful shuffle. Behind him, the sound of its pursuit intensified. _Squelch, squelch, squelch._ A sticky, wet sound. Small, yet carrying an oppressive weight. Giggling. A low, guttural, _“Gruck, gruck!”_ A sound of raw, delighted malice. It wanted him to hear it, to know it was coming, to be terrified. Smart bastard. Smarter than the ancient data described. New plan. Torvin lurched, then deliberately stumbled. A crashing fall. His forehead slammed against rough rock. White-hot pain blossomed, but he clamped his jaw shut. Not a sound. A battle of endurance now. A test of nerve. If it approached, believing him down, he had a chance. “Gruck?” The guttural query was closer. Its footsteps, _squelch, squelch,_ moved with agonizing slowness. Suspicion. Even with its prey seemingly incapacitated, it was wary. This creature was unnervingly cautious. He felt a dull impact on his shoulder. _Thump. Clatter._ A small stone. The bastard was pelting him. Testing. Ensuring he was truly incapacitated. Not until he was just a mangled heap, no doubt. The Skitter-beast let out another triumphant, cackling _“Grurururuck!”_ He didn't react. It believed him dead. _Squelch, squelch, squelch._ Its steps hastened. Skipping, almost. Excitement in its movement. It was coming in for the kill. Torvin counted. Through the pounding in his head, through the throbbing in his ankle, he measured the sounds, the distance. And when he judged it close enough, within a single, explosive lunge— “Foul thing!” He surged upward, a coiled spring of Feralkin muscle and raw, desperate will. His hands shot out, claws extended, aiming for a kill-shot. The shield, he knew, would be too slow, too clumsy. But a gut feeling, a cold splash of adrenaline, told him it was wrong. Again. Two reasons. He was still a stride short. And the Skitter-beast, its movements a blur even in the oppressive darkness, was far more agile than anticipated. “Gruck!” It shrieked, leaning back, a grotesque ballet of evasion. It was gone, out of reach. His hands met only empty air.

Sub-Level Descent