Ishar's breathing was steady, but his body burned with exhaustion. His wound throbbed, fresh blood still oozing from the gash on his side. Each step sent a pulse of pain through his ribs, but he had no time to stop.

  The air turned colder, heavy with a suffocating stillness. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the cavern walls. He felt them before he saw them—predatory gazes pricking at his skin like needles. Then, the first one moved.

  A low growl rumbled from the dark, followed by the whisper of paws on stone. Duskhounds.

  A pair of glowing yellow eyes flickered into view, then another, and another. Their sleek, wolf-like forms were shifting masses of shadow, flickering in and out of sight like mirages.

  [Skill: Phantom Wolf D] Activated

  Ishar tensed. He had faced monsters before, but these things weren't mindless beasts. They were patient. Coordinated.

  One darted in from the left. He barely caught the movement, twisting just in time. Fangs snapped shut where his leg had been a second ago. Before he could counter, another Duskhound lunged from the right, its teeth raking his forearm in a shallow bite.

  They weren't trying to kill him.

  They were herding him.

  Ishar cursed, slashing out with his dagger. The blade met resistance, slicing into one of the creatures. Its body shuddered, dark mist spilling from the wound, but it barely staggered before retreating into the shadows.

  Another Duskhound lunged. He moved to block—but too slow. The delay wasn't just reaction time. His arms felt heavier than before. The monster's jaws clamped around his calf for a split second before he ripped himself free, stumbling forward. Blood slicked his skin.

  [Skill: Phantom Wolf D] Activated

  They weren't done.

  His grip tightened on his dagger, but his fingers trembled slightly. His muscles ached, sluggish from exertion. Every breath he took was sharp, but not deep enough to fill his lungs. He was slowing down.

  The Duskhounds knew it too.

  Another set of jaws snapped at his thigh, forcing him to stumble forward. Then another lunged for his shoulder. He barely twisted away, but the movement sent him off balance. His foot skidded over loose gravel, and he nearly fell.

  Too many.

  His instincts screamed at him.

  He gritted his teeth and lunged forward instead of retreating, slamming his dagger into the nearest hound's neck. The blade sank deep, and this time, the creature let out a strangled snarl before collapsing into nothingness.

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  The pack hesitated.

  Good.

  Ishar didn't waste the opening. With his dagger still dripping black mist, he ripped it free and switched his grip, bringing up his club in his other hand.

  The Duskhounds circled warily now, shifting between the real and the unreal, their yellow eyes burning in the dark. They had lost one of their own, but they weren't retreating.

  They were testing him.

  Ishar exhaled sharply, adjusting his stance. His legs ached, and his wound still bled, but he forced the pain aside. He had no choice but to keep moving.

  One of the hounds lunged—he met it mid-air with a brutal swing of his club. The impact was solid, sending the creature crashing into the ground. Before it could flicker away, Ishar stomped down hard, driving his dagger into its skull.

  Another collapsed into mist.

  The remaining pack faltered, their movement uncertain. But Ishar knew better than to think they'd stop.

  They weren't afraid.

  They were adapting.

  A low growl rumbled from behind him—too close.

  Ishar spun, but the Duskhound was already mid-pounce. He barely got his club up in time, and the beast's shadowy mass slammed into him, driving him backward.

  His back hit stone, and for a terrifying moment, he thought they had driven him into a dead end.

  No.

  His fingers grazed the jagged edge of rock. His mind raced.

  The Duskhounds weren't attacking to kill—they were forcing him in a direction.

  Which meant—

  Ishar's eyes flickered past them, scanning the cavern. There. A narrow passage just ahead.

  A plan formed in an instant. It was risky, but he had no other choice.

  He let his stance loosen, feigning a stumble. The Duskhounds took the bait.

  They rushed in.

  Ishar twisted sharply and bolted toward the passage. He heard them snarl, claws scraping against stone as they gave chase.

  But this time, he was leading them.

  He plunged into the tight corridor, barely squeezing through. The shadows snapped at his heels. He felt the Duskhounds trying to lunge, but the narrow space worked against them.

  One got too close. Ishar pivoted sharply, slamming his club into its head, then drove his dagger into its throat. It dissolved into mist, leaving behind only silence.

  Panting, Ishar forced himself forward. He couldn't stop now.

  The Duskhounds wouldn't give up.

  But neither would he.

  ***

  Jake strode through the cavern at an unhurried pace, his boots echoing against the cold stone. The distant flicker of torchlight cast jagged shadows across his form, but the crimson sheen on his blade glowed unmistakably in the dim light. Blood dripped lazily from the tip, leaving a quiet, rhythmic trail behind him.

  The chamber was silent now—save for the occasional wet gurgle of the dying. Bodies lay sprawled in grotesque positions, some still twitching, their final moments stretching longer than necessary. Jake barely spared them a glance.

  He exhaled, rolling his shoulder as though shaking off the stiffness of a light warm-up rather than a battle. His grip on the sword was loose, casual, as if the weight of the weapon barely registered in his hand.

  A strangled cough rasped from behind a broken stalagmite. One of them was still alive.

  Jake tilted his head, listening. The sound was weak. Hollow. Pointless.

  With a sigh, he stepped forward, boots crunching over loose gravel and congealing blood. The dying orc tried to lift its weapon, trembling fingers barely able to grip the handle. Jake watched for a second, almost curious. Then he sighed.

  The blade flashed. The gurgling stopped.

  A soft chuckle escaped him.

  "Messy work," he muttered, shaking his blade free of excess blood with a flick of his wrist. It spattered onto the stone, joining the rest.

  Then, without urgency, he turned and continued forward, his pace unbroken, as if death was nothing more than an afterthought.