A lifetime spent studying the digital battlefields had conditioned Jasper. He knew the data streams, the probability curves, the optimal loadouts. This new reality, brutal as it was, still operated on principles. Combine his tactical mind with the raw, untamed strength of the Ash Nomads, and survival wasn’t just possible; it was inevitable. At least, that’s what he told himself. As the thick, reinforced steel door clanged shut behind them, plunging the entryway into finality, every shred of light vanished. Not a metaphor. Not a trick of the eye. Absolute, unyielding black swallowed the air. Couldn't see his own hand inches from his face. Felt like a blindfold clamped over his skull. No, worse. A lead blanket, suffocating the light. “Shit,” he muttered, the word a rasp in the sudden void. Others had carried salvaged torches, flaring chemical sticks, crude lanterns. Jasper hadn’t. Why would he? The Maw’s outer layers, even the initiation routes, were supposed to have ambient bio-luminescence. Fungi, moss, glowing mineral deposits. A dull, sickly green or blue, but enough to navigate. Was this a deeper section? Already? Quickly, he ran through the scenarios. Past game logic dictated entry points were safe, illuminated. But this wasn’t a game. Devs didn’t smooth out the rough edges here. If luck, or lack of it, meant you spawned in a blind pocket, tough shit. No, it had to be this. The alternative – the entire Maw being this dark – wasn’t a concept his survival instinct could entertain. He sucked in a ragged breath, the recycled air tasting like rust and grave dust. Still, the raw panic began to recede, replaced by his usual cold analysis. His eyes strained, muscles around the iris twitching. Slowly, impossibly, vague shapes began to resolve. Blobs of darker dark against the total dark. Enough to know there were walls, a floor. Not enough to discern detail. Suicide wasn’t on the table. Not yet. Time to check the vitals. Internal monologue, a habit from his previous life, still offered a degree of comfort. “Status window. Inventory. Character sheet. Journal. Damn.” Nothing. Just the echo of his thoughts against the oppressive silence. He hadn't truly expected a digital interface. The denial was more a ritual. Moving forward. One hand flattened against the rough, cold stone of the wall, the other gripping the heavy, blunt disc he’d chosen. A salvaged manhole cover, sharpened at the edge. Heavy, unwieldy, but solid. Barely faster than a crawl. Any greater speed felt suicidal. A searing jolt ripped through his right ankle. A scream clawed at his throat, but he choked it down. Pain flared, immediate, visceral. Not like any pain he’d ever known. Every nerve ending in his foot screamed. He lurched, falling heavily to one knee. What in the name of the Wastes? No need for a combat log. The brutal reality hit him. He’d stepped into a trap. Not some crude pit, but a spring-loaded jaw of twisted scrap metal and jagged bone splinters, designed to snap shut and hold. What was the strategic oversight? Obvious. The disc, heavy and cumbersome, had been held too close, obscuring his peripheral vision. A shield offered psychological comfort, yes. But in this absolute dark, it was a hindrance. Observation. Awareness. Those were the true weapons. Not a slab of metal he couldn’t even see. “Fuck it,” he rasped, exhaling slowly, carefully. His hair felt like static, standing on end with the agony. He wanted to howl, to rage. But the sound would only invite more trouble. Worse trouble. Heart thudded against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat. He pressed his lips together, forced shallow, controlled breaths. The priority wasn't the pain. It was the predator. Only one creature type in these immediate outer zones used traps. Scuttlers. Vermin. Agile, vicious, and always, *always* close to their snares. His disc rose, instinctively guarding his head. He held his breath, straining to hear. Nothing. Silence. Deep, ancient quiet. Had it heard him and fled? Or was it just... waiting? Could be. Maybe it had just stepped out for a piss. Scuttlers had basic needs too, right? Cut it out. That's optimistic idiocy. He shredded the fleeting thought. What he needed was a negative mindset. Assume the worst. The Scuttler heard him. It was here. Hidden in the black, waiting for his strength to fail. That’s why there was no sound. In the game, a trap always meant a monster. Reality wouldn't be kinder. Jasper released the breath slowly. Quiet was good, for now. As long as he didn’t blunder, he’d detect an approach. First, the leg. “Huuup!” He grunted, forcing himself to crouch, despite the screaming agony from his ankle. Reaching down, his fingers found the serrated edges of the trap. With a grunt, he pried the metal jaws open just enough, dragging his foot free. A sickening wet tearing sound accompanied the movement. He tore a strip from the hem of his salvaged cargo pants. It was coarse, stained. His right boot, a cracked leather affair scavenged from a corpse, was ruined. Mangled. He pulled it off, tossing it into the dark. It made no sound as it landed. Damn these Ash Nomad rags. Proper combat boots would have resisted. But no, they valued speed and silence over protection. A fitting irony. Stop dwelling on the past. Blaming external factors. It was his fault for not checking the terrain. Whining changed nothing. Body check. This was bad. Numbness had already set in, spreading from the wound up his shin. A dull, distant throb replaced the acute agony. Fading fast. Likely a paralytic agent. Scuttlers often coated their traps in local neurotoxins. A cruel efficiency. Was this a good thing? Reduced pain, yes. But now he couldn't feel his foot. A phantom limb. “I know you’re hiding,” he whispered into the dark. His voice was hoarse, but steady. “So come out.” Still nothing. The Maw held its breath. He started moving again, favoring his left leg. A hobbling, unbalanced shuffle. But moving. “Come out, you bastard.” He continued to provoke, kept inching forward. Time was critical. Injuries like this invited secondary infections. And who knew what else was lurking, drawn by fresh blood? “Aren’t you coming?” Perhaps it was all in his head. Maybe no Scuttler. Maybe he’d just stumbled onto a stray trap, injured himself, and was now talking to the shadows like a lunatic. So what? He wanted to survive. Even if it meant playing the fool. “Then stay there. I’m leaving.” He tried to pick up the pace. A pathetic shuffle faster than crawling, but to Jasper, it felt like a full sprint. Each step was a deliberate act of will. One, then another. His right foot began to throb again. A sharp, insistent ache this time. The numbness was wearing off. Or the pain was too much for the toxin to suppress. Neither option felt particularly good. But feeling was better than nothing. Nerves were still working. Why am I so positive about this? He didn't have the mental bandwidth for self-recrimination. “Your mother’s a damn Scuttler.” The words slipped out, unfiltered. Blood loss, maybe? His brain felt dry, pickled. “And your father. Also a Scuttler.” His feet kept moving, the disc held ready. “So you’re one too, you mangy piece of waste.” Then, a sound. Small, but it hit his hyper-alert ears like a gong. A wet, clinging noise. *Squelch.* Finally. A presence. “What, couldn’t take a little talk about your parentage?” He knew the taunt was useless. Scuttlers didn’t understand language. But it kept *him* grounded. The sound came from behind. He was moving away, so it was forced to give chase. Forced to make noise. *Squelch, squelch, squelch.* Footsteps were odd. Sticky, sucking. The sound of something heavy-bodied, but low to the ground, moving with an unnatural gait. Scuttlers were barely knee-high, but the pressure felt like a beast was closing in. He kept talking, kept taunting. He was still a strategist, not a berserker. But if it came to it, in close quarters, he wouldn't lose to a glorified sewer rat. “Don’t just follow me, come have a go. You coward.” It kept its distance. A calculated gap. *“Gruck, gruck!”* A chittering, guttural sound. Not just a howl. A chuckle. An actual, delighted cackle. It was enjoying this. Watching him bleed. It was a smart bastard. New plan. Stop. He stumbled, deliberately, pitching forward. Landing hard. *Crack!* His forehead smacked against a jagged rock. Stars exploded behind his eyes, but he kept the pain to himself. Not a sound. This was a test of wills. If it thought he was down, finished, and approached, he won. If he truly passed out first, he lost. *“Gruck?”* He trusted the strange, durable physiology of this new body. It had carried him hundreds of meters, a mangled foot dragging behind. It would hold. Footsteps drew closer. Slow. Painfully slow. Even with its prey seemingly incapacitated, the Scuttler was cautious. Insanely cautious for a low-tier mob. *Squelch.* Jasper cursed it internally. Game Scuttlers were dim-witted. This thing was a goddamn tactician. He finally understood why the village elders had always spoken of their cunning. *Squelch.* The sound stopped. Five, maybe ten meters away. Why? A dull thud against his shoulder. Then another. *Thump. Clatter.* What the— It was throwing rocks. Little jagged fragments. Just enough to test for a reaction. Was it going to pelt him until he was a bloody pulp? *“Grurururuck! Gruck!”* Its chittering cry of joy ripped through the dark. He’d given no reaction. It thought him dead. *Squelch squelch squelch squelch.* Now it approached, faster. Its excitement was almost palpable in the quickened pace of its steps. Jasper calmed his own accelerating pulse. He counted the distance by sound alone. When the squelching grew loud enough, close enough— “Fuck you!” He exploded upwards, lunging, his hands outstretched. He judged a quick grab would be faster, offer more reach, than trying to swing the heavy disc. But the plan crumbled. Two reasons. First, he was still just out of reach. A single step short. Second, the Scuttler moved with impossible speed, a blur in the oppressive dark. *“Gruck!”* It leaned back, twisting its torso, scuttling backwards. Jasper’s grasping fingers found only empty air.

Abyss Gaze