Chapter 8: The Hunt Begins

The air felt heavier now.

Nate's back pressed against the jagged rock, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The wound on his arm throbbed, the warm trickle of blood seeping through his torn sleeve. He clenched his sword tighter, his knuckles white against the worn hilt.

The silence had changed.

It wasn't just unnatural anymore.

It was watching.

His eyes flicked across the cavern, scanning the darkness, searching for movement. But the thing was too fast—too precise. It attacked, then disappeared into the black, giving him just enough time to understand one thing:

It wasn't attacking to kill.

It was testing him.

Nate exhaled slowly, trying to force his pulse under control. Panicking wouldn't help. Running wouldn't help. He had to think.

The jagged rocks at his back gave him some protection—at least from attacks from behind—but that wasn't enough. If this thing was faster than him, it would strike again before he could react. He needed to level the playing field.

But how?

A shift in the air.

Nate's instincts screamed at him. He barely ducked in time. A blur of shadow sliced through the space where his head had been a second ago. A sharp gust of wind followed, carrying the scent of something cold, something metallic—

Blood. His blood.

The pain flared, a shallow cut across his cheek. Small, but deliberate. Precise.

He twisted away, slamming his back against the rock once more, breathing hard. His grip on his sword tightened. His eyes darted to the spot where the attack had come from, but there was nothing there.

Nothing but darkness.

Then—

A whisper.

Low. Faint. Like a breath of wind that shouldn't be there.

"Not bad."

Nate's blood ran cold.

It spoke.

Not human. Not entirely. The voice wasn't just one voice—it was layered, distorted, like a thousand voices murmuring at once, overlapping in a way that made his skin crawl.

His fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword.

This wasn't just a beast.

This was something else.

Something that enjoyed the hunt.

He took a slow, careful step to the side, keeping his back to the rock, forcing himself to control his breathing. He couldn't afford to let it see fear.

Because if it was playing with him—if it thought he was prey—then that meant one thing.

It wasn't hunting at full strength yet.

He needed to change that.

His mind raced. What did he know so far?

It was fast—inhumanly so.

It was intelligent—it was testing him, not just attacking.

It could see in the dark—or at least sense him well enough to strike with precision.

It was waiting for something.

A fight would be suicide. He needed to make it think he wasn't worth the effort—or better, make it think he was more dangerous than he looked.

Another whisper, closer this time.

"Thinking?"

A slow chuckle, distant yet right next to his ear.

"Good. More fun that way."

Nate moved.

He didn't wait for another attack—he lunged forward instead.

His sword sliced through the air, cutting toward the source of the voice. For a brief, impossible moment, he felt something—something there—

Then it was gone.

Another gust of wind.

A low, amused hum.

"Close."

Nate twisted, barely dodging as the thing lashed out again. A sharp, thin line of pain streaked across his side—a shallow cut, just like the others. Deliberate. Measured.

It was toying with him.

He gritted his teeth. He wouldn't last like this. He had to force it into a mistake.

His eyes flicked toward a narrow passage to his left. The walls there were closer together. If he could lure it inside, force it into a confined space, maybe—

Another attack.

This time, he was ready.

Instead of dodging away, he stepped into it, twisting his body at the last second. The creature's claws sliced through his sleeve again, but this time—

He struck back.

His sword met resistance.

A sharp hiss.

Then—a splash of something dark against the stone.

Blood.

Not his.

He didn't hesitate. He bolted for the passageway. His boots slammed against the stone as he sprinted, breath coming in sharp bursts. He didn't have time to second-guess.

Move. Now.

The air behind him shifted.

A blur of motion. A low snarl—the first real sound of frustration.

The game had changed.

The thing wasn't toying with him anymore.

It was angry.

Nate ducked into the passage, his shoulders nearly scraping the rough walls as he pushed deeper. His legs burned, his lungs ached, but he kept moving. The space was narrow, too tight for something that moved like smoke and shadow.

That was the gamble.

He slid to a stop near a sharp bend, pressing his back to the cold stone. His breath was ragged, heart hammering against his ribs. He gripped his sword with both hands, waiting.

Listening.

Silence.

Then—

A whisper.

But this time, not from one voice.

From many.

"You think you're safe?"

A slow, creeping dread slithered down Nate's spine.

He hadn't been fighting one of them.

He had been fighting the weakest one.

The air in the tunnel grew colder.

A second pair of glowing red eyes blinked open in the dark ahead.

Then another.

Then another.

Dozens.

Watching.

Waiting.

The realization hit him like ice in his veins.

The hunt hadn't even started yet.

The Dungeon wasn't just a place.

It was a feeding ground.

And he had just stepped deeper into it.