Escape or confront

The fifth floor was a symphony of despair, conducted in the key of damp stone and the minor chords of echoing drips. Baylan hung suspended in its heart, quite literally. He'd been so close, so tantalizingly near to the hidden passage he'd sought for the next level. its location gleaned from fragmented maps and whispered legends. He'd felt the subtle shift in the air, the faint coolness that promised an opening, disguised behind a seemingly solid wall. But then, the floor had vanished, in fact not just the floor but everything. Not dramatically, with roaring gears and grinding stone, but with a sickeningly smooth, almost liquid give. He'd landed with a jarring thud, not on the floor he expected, but in a pit, and before he could regain his bearings, heavy chains, cold and brutal, had snapped around his wrists and ankles, hauled taut by unseen mechanisms.

Now, he dangled from the ceiling, his limbs aching, the iron biting into his flesh with each restless shift. The air here was thick, pregnant with the stench of mildew and something else… something acrid, almost metallic, that prickled at his nostrils. He was surrounded by the oppressive darkness of the dungeon, punctuated only by the flickering, greasy light of braziers set in alcoves along the rough-hewn walls. And watching him, with the impassive, predatory gazes of seasoned hunters, were the Kordan mercenaries.

They were a grim tableau of hardened men – four of them, not seven as he'd first guessed in the initial shock of capture, each clad in dark leather and studded steel, their faces obscured by shadows and helms that resembled snarling wolves. Their leader, a hulking brute with a scarred cheek and a braided beard like tarred rope, leaned against a pillar carved with grotesque faces, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. He held a length of chain, the other end disappearing into the ceiling, Baylan's lifeline and his prison.

"Well, well, well," the leader rumbled, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "The shadow wolf, finally caught in a proper snare. Thought you were too clever for us, little one."

Baylan spat a mouthful of blood onto the stone floor. These Kordan were known for their expertise in dungeon delving and capture. They were not fools, and this trap… this had been crafted with precision.

"I underestimated your… thoroughness," Baylan managed, his voice strained and raw. He tried to ignore the ache in his dislocated shoulder, a souvenir from the platform's sudden descent.

The leader chuckled, a sound like rocks grinding together. "Thoroughness is our profession, little fox. We've been paid handsomely to ensure you remain… contained. Shall we say, for the foreseeable future?"

Baylan knew what "foreseeable future" meant in Kordan parlance. It meant until he broke, until he revealed whatever scraps of knowledge they were after. He had nothing to give them, nothing tangible anyway. His secrets were not of gold or maps, but of whispers and echoes, of bloodlines and forgotten names.

Despair, cold and clammy, began to seep into him. He'd been so close. He could almost taste the freedom, the air of the lower levels rumored to hold relics of power, of forgotten magic. Now, he was dangling here, a broken puppet, at the mercy of these brutal men.

But then, something shifted within him. It wasn't a sound, or a feeling, but a void, a strange hollowness that opened up in his chest. It was as if a part of him, dormant for so long, had finally recognized its prison, its need, and was beginning to stir. He'd felt this sensation before, fleetingly, during moments of intense pressure, of life-or-death decisions. He'd always dismissed it as adrenaline, as the primal fight-or-flight response. But now, amplified by the darkness, by the sheer hopelessness of his situation, it resonated with a different frequency, a deeper vibration.

He closed his eyes, focusing inwards, willing himself to grasp at this nascent power, this strange, unfamiliar energy coiling within him. He remembered the Primordials, the fragments he had gotten from them, the glimpses he'd poured over in dusty libraries – whispers of bloodlines touched by ancient forces, capable of manipulating the very fabric of reality, of summoning echoes from the primordial void. He'd never truly believed them, dismissed them as folklore and fanciful tales. But now, in this abyss, with the cold steel of his chains biting deep, a desperate hope, a wild, improbable belief, sparked within him.

He focused on the chains, not on their physical form, but on their essence, their cold, binding nature. He pictured them breaking, shattering, dissolving into nothingness. He poured all his desperation, all his defiance, into this mental image, channeling the strange energy that thrummed within him.

Then, it happened.

Not with a flash of light, or a thunderous roar, but with a silent, almost imperceptible ripple in the air around him. From the void within, something… coalesced. It wasn't material at first, more a distortion of the air, a shimmer of heat and shadow, like looking through water. The mercenaries stilled, their predatory smirks faltering, their eyes drawn from the now gone spatial gap to the strange disturbance around Baylan.

And then, it solidified.

From nothing, from the very absence of matter, a blade materialized in Baylan's hand. It wasn't forged of any metal he recognized. It seemed to be formed of solidified shadow, edged with a flickering, ethereal light. It was impossibly sharp, impossibly cold, pulsing with a power that resonated deep within his bones. It wasn't just a weapon; it was an entity, an echo from a time before time, a shard of primordial darkness given form. The air around it crackled with unseen energy.

The Kordan leader's smirk vanished completely, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief, bordering on terror. The other mercenaries shifted nervously, their hands instinctively moving towards their own weapons, but they hesitated, mesmerized by the impossible apparition in Baylan's grasp.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the soft hiss of the elder blade, a sound like the whisper of wind through ancient ruins. Baylan himself was awestruck, staring at the blade as if seeing it for the first time, even though it had sprung directly from his will, his need.

He didn't need to think, didn't need to plan. The blade seemed to guide him, to know its purpose. With a roar that tore from his throat, not of pain, but of unleashed power, Baylan swung the elder blade.

The chain holding his wrists snapped as if it were brittle glass. The sound was sharp, echoing, and in the same instant, Baylan was in motion. The mercenaries, still caught in their trance of disbelief, were too slow to react. The elder blade moved with impossible speed, a blur of darkness in the dim light.

The first mercenary, the one closest to Baylan, lunged forward, axe raised. But the elder blade simply passed through the axe head as if it were smoke, then continued its arc, bisecting the mercenary's leather armor and flesh with equal ease. The man crumpled to the ground, not a scream escaping his lips, only a choked gasp.

Panic finally broke the mercenaries' stupor. They surged forward, a chaotic mass of steel and fury, but they were too late. Baylan was a whirlwind of motion, the elder blade his extension, his will given physical form. The blade danced, weaving through their clumsy attacks, cleaving through armor and bone. He was no swordsman, never trained in formal combat, but the elder blade moved with a terrifying intelligence, anticipating, deflecting, striking with deadly precision.

Another mercenary fell, his sword arm severed, his screams mixing with the clang of dropped steel. Then another, and another. Each strike was clean, swift, lethal. The air filled with the metallic tang of blood, the harsh grunts of exertion, the dying gasps of men trained to kill, now facing something they couldn't comprehend, let alone defeat.

The leader, the scarred brute, finally shook himself free of his paralysis. He roared, a desperate cry of rage and fear, and charged towards Baylan, a massive warhammer raised high. He was the strongest, the most experienced, and he knew this was his last chance.

Baylan turned to face him, the elder blade humming softly in his hand. He felt no fear, no adrenaline-fueled frenzy, only a cold, focused clarity. He met the leader's charge, the elder blade a dark counterpoint to the warhammer's brutal swing. The hammer crashed against the stone floor where Baylan had stood moments before, sending splinters of rock flying. Baylan sidestepped, fluid and silent, and brought the elder blade up in a swift, diagonal strike.

It connected. The leader's roar died in his throat, his eyes widening in disbelief as he looked down at the thin, dark line that appeared across his chest, widening, deepening, until his body split open, collapsing in two halves with a sickening thud.

Seven mercenaries, not four. Baylan realized he'd miscalculated in the chaos. Three more lay scattered around the pit, lifeless, broken. He stood panting, the elder blade still humming in his hand, the silence deafening now, broken only by the dripping of water and the settling dust. The primordial entity in his hand pulsed once, twice, then faded, dissolving back into shimmering nothingness, leaving Baylan holding empty air.

He stood for a moment, staring at his empty hand, then at the carnage around him. He had done it. He had survived. He had unleashed something within himself, something ancient and terrifyingly powerful. And now… he was free.

He scrambled out of the pit, his muscles screaming in protest, his dislocated shoulder throbbing. He glanced around the chamber, the braziers now flickering weakly, casting long, distorted shadows. The hidden passage. He still felt its pull, faint, insidious, calling him downwards.

Without hesitation, without looking back at the fallen mercenaries, Baylan turned towards the darkest corner of the chamber, where the air felt coldest, where the whispers of the dungeon seemed to deepen. He found a narrow stairwell, spiraling downwards into the black depths. This floor was done. The Kordan were dealt with. But the Obsidian Labyrinth had many more secrets, many more levels. And Baylan, now armed with a power he barely understood, driven by a force he could no longer deny, descended into the darkness, seeking the unknown depths below. The fifth floor had been a trap. But it had also been his awakening. And the dungeon, he suspected, would lead him to the strength to end the fights amongst clans