Anthony wandered deeper through the dim corridors of earth and stone, his feet raw, his limbs hollowed by exhaustion. Fatigue finally conquered him.
He needed rest.
But rest meant death without protection.
There were no saints here. No holy texts. No one to teach him barrier magic.
So he began to try. To feel. To speak. To blend the sacred tongue with desperation.
"Да те защитя от пламъците на боговете."
FAILED.
"Боговете земя ще закрилят."
Activating…
FAILED.
Again.
And again.
Whispers in dead languages and fractured faith.
Silence.
Then—
SUCCESS.
A shimmer.
A wall.
A thin dome of black and blue magic surrounded him, flickering like a dying flame. He didn't question it.
He kindled a fire.
He closed his eyes.
And saw it.
Far away, unmoving, pure white—
A tall figure without a face.
It made no sound. It cast no shadow.
It simply stood. Watching.
He awoke in panic, gasping.
The fire still burned.
It wasn't real.
Yet something had watched him.
Anthony shook off the fear and turned to necessity.
He skewered a slab of meat from the grotesque organism. The scent was unholy, like rotting brine and smoke. But when cooked, the meat tasted only strangely salty.
He forced it down.
Every bite a compromise.
Then he boiled the leftover fat in a hollow stone. Drank it. It was thick and bitter, but it warmed his gut.
Survival > Comfort.
Six hours passed.
Nothing but rock.
Until he heard something.
Shuffling. Wet.
He froze. Gripped his crude spear.
A twisted creature—once a rabbit, now warped by something unnatural—leapt from the dark.
He struck.
The spear pierced it, and the beast bled... clear liquid.
Anthony, mouth dry, leaned in.
Drank.
Not water. Not clean.
But it cooled his tongue.
Enough.
He skinned the creature. Harvested bone, muscle, fur. Every part used.
And then—laughter.
Faint. Childlike. Echoing from above, near the surface.
A reminder that life existed above ground.
He didn't want rescue.
He wanted companionship.
---
Another shape emerged.
A man, wild-eyed and snarling.
He lunged.
Greedy. Desperate.
Holding a stone like a club.
He wanted Anthony's flesh. His bag. His food. His fire.
Anthony didn't flinch.
He struck first.
The spear drove into the man's gut—
A sickening pop.
Intestines spilled, wet and steaming.
The man screamed and held them, begging, trying to keep himself inside.
Anthony stepped forward, and with a twist of the spear, ripped the rest out.
The man howled.
Anthony's voice was calm. Cold.
> "You chose this. You tried to survive off of me.
I don't hate you.
I'm just living...
how it always should've been.**"
The man's cries blurred beneath Anthony's words—like rain behind glass.
Anthony delivered the final blow—
A thrust into the throat.
As blood bubbled from the man's mouth, he choked on one final word:
> "Θεός… Γιατί πρέπει να βασανίζετε τις ψυχές μας?..."
God… why must you torture our souls?
Anthony didn't answer.
He simply cleaned his blade.
And moved on.