The stairwell narrowed as Hari descended.
Cold air coiled around his skin like smoke. Every step echoed, swallowed by the stone and silence. He couldn't see the bottom. The deeper he went, the heavier the air became, thick with the weight of something forgotten.
The whispers had gone quiet now.
But the silence was worse.
It wasn't peace.
It was a warning.
The stairs ended abruptly, opening into a massive underground chamber. Unlike the last dungeon, this one wasn't carved from stone — it was grown from it. Twisted roots crawled across the walls, pulsing faintly like veins. Crimson mist clung low to the floor, glowing where it touched his feet.
Hari stepped forward.
And then—
They came.
Eyes opened in the darkness. Dozens. Hundreds. Small at first — rat-like creatures, but misshapen. Their skin was pale. Their bodies twitching and jittering as if something underneath the flesh wanted to crawl out.
They weren't natural. They were born from the dungeon itself.
And they were hungry.
---
Hari didn't wait.
He moved like shadow unleashed — fast, silent, without hesitation. The first creature leapt at him with a screech, fangs wide, claws extended.
He caught it mid-air.
And crushed its neck with one hand.
Its body twitched violently, then went limp. Black blood poured down his arm.
Hari's eyes glowed.
His mouth twitched into a grin.
> "Too slow."
They rushed him all at once.
---
He weaved between them, blade flashing in the dim light. The bone dagger moved like a part of him now — guided not by thought, but by instinct. A slash to the throat. A twist into the spine. A reverse grip through the back of the skull.
Blood splashed across the chamber walls.
He didn't stop.
Not even when claws raked his shoulder. Not even when fangs tore into his side.
He moved faster.
Drinking their pain.
With every kill, his body pulsed. He could feel the energy being drawn in. Not just absorbed — devoured.
Something inside him was feeding.
And it loved the taste.
---
By the time it ended, the floor was littered with twitching corpses. The mist had turned darker, redder, thicker. Hari stood in the center of it all, chest heaving, body soaked in black blood.
But his wounds were gone.
He touched his side — smooth. He looked at his arm — bone plating had extended to his shoulder now, forming sharp ridges along his elbow. His fingers were longer. Sharper.
His reflection in a puddle of blood didn't look like the boy who fell into this world.
He looked like a reaper.
---
From the far wall, a sealed door cracked open with a groan.
A second chamber.
Hari turned toward it slowly, his eyes still glowing violet beneath bloodstained hair.
But before he stepped forward—
A voice spoke.
Low. Cold. Ancient.
And not a whisper.
"You are not the first to drink from the dungeon," it said.
Hari froze.
From the shadows stepped a figure — tall, draped in tattered robes. Its face was hidden beneath a porcelain mask stained with centuries of dried blood. It didn't move like a monster. It moved like something worse.
Something cursed.
"Who are you?" Hari asked.
The figure tilted its head.
"I am what happens… when a hunter forgets he was once prey."
---
To be continued in Chapter 8: The Blood Masked One
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