Walking through the never-ending hallways of this goddamn building was a pain in the ass especially since Desan had to limp the whole way thanks to his wounded leg.
"Turn left at the next corner," Velcrith said, guiding Desan through the maze.
"Oh sure. Left. Can't wait to find another corridor, maybe with this one I can get complimentary despair."
He stopped, panting, leaning against the wall. He'd been limping for what felt like hours. His leg screamed, his stomach growled, and frankly, he was just two steps away from drinking on his piss.
"Seriously, who designs this shit?… Now that I think about it, is this some kind of magic?"
"It's a relic called the Veilkeeper's Sigil. Gifted to the headmaster of the Forest Watcher household by one of the main families," Velcrith said, tone laced with that usual smugness. "Don't ask me the fine print—I don't do politics."
"What does it do?"
"It lets the owner carve out a subspace inside a set boundary. Total control over who can enter or leave."
Desan frowned. "Othren Vell's dead. So how the hell do we get out of this place?"
"How'd you know Othren was the headmaster?"
"That's the only name I know other than my own." Velcrith muttered something under his breath as Desan felt that familiar shift again at the base of his skull.
"There is a way out… If I'm right, there should be a gate that lets us leave."
"So what—you're saying we can just walk out without the owner's permission?"
"Well… yes and no," Velcrith replied. "To put it bluntly, gates are kind of like emergency exits. Backup plans."
Desan narrowed his eyes. "And the 'no' part?"
"Oh, right—the gate's guarded by an alchemical hybrid," Velcrith added, like he was pointing out bad weather.
But then—gurgling.
A wet, choking noise echoed down the hall ahead. It sounded like a dying goat gargling ink.
Desan froze mid-step. "...Yeah. That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
He tightened his grip on his sword and pushed forward with a limp, each step scraping pain up his leg.
"You sure this is the only way out?" he muttered.
"Never question my intellect." Velcrith snapped.
Desan didn't bother answering. Not now. Not when something was walking these halls, and he needed to figure out how to not die before worrying about who was right.
Hugging the left side of the wall to support himself, Desan limped toward the sound.
Then he saw them—five shapes in his line of sight.
They weren't like the mindless husks from the basement. These moved with purpose, back and forth, like trained soldiers patrolling a dead hallway.
One of them held a crossbow, clad in light armor. The rest wore mid-tier gear—functional, not flashy.
"They look different," Desan muttered, tracking their movement, watching for any weak point. "These aren't like the basement freaks. They're organized."
"Of course they're not," Velcrith chimed in. "The ones you fought before were just failed experiments."
"Experiments?" Desan's eyes never left the patrol.
"They tried to infuse foreign will into dead tissue and failed. Those things moved from leftover chemicals and brute stimulants. These…"
Desan had already tuned him out.
He saw an opening.
Without another word, he pushed off the wall and limped straight toward the crossbow wielder.
Ready to drop them first before hell broke loose.
Desan moved like a wounded predator
He kept low, boots dragging against the floor with minimal sound.
Closer.
Closer.
Now.
He surged forward, sword low.
The crossbow soldier turned, too slow.
The rusted steel of Desan's sword kissed its flesh. A single, sharp thrust slid between the armor plates at the side of the torso, punching through the lungs. The figure convulsed, letting out a wet gasp, but Desan caught them, lowering the body without a sound.
The weapon clattered as he picked it up.
It was barely audible.
Then the nearest patrol soldier turned, alerted by the faint noise.
Shit.
Desan looked up. Spotted a chandelier.
Perfect.
The armored one moved close to check up
He waited, counted their steps, and timed their rhythm. Matched it, beat for beat, to bury his own sound beneath theirs.
Then he moved.
Launched off the table with one good leg and sheer spite, catching the chandelier's edge mid-air. It creaked under his weight, but held.
He didn't breathe. Just waited. Muscles tight. Heart louder than footsteps.
One patroller moved beneath.
Desan dropped.
His blade sank into the back of the neck with a sickening crunch, severing the spine clean. The body collapsed like a sack of wet bones.
Two down.
Three to go.
And now, they knew something was wrong.
The moment the second body hit the ground, the others reacted fast. Too fast.
emaining three converged on his position.his was a goddamn execution squad.
Desan cursed under his breath and ducked behind a toppled—over table just as a sword cleaved through the air where his neck had been.
Splinters exploded.
He limped backward, blade up, sweat stinging his eyes.
Another strike came in with a wide arc aimed at his chest. He parried, barely, and the impact jarred his wounded leg. He collapsed to one knee with a hiss of pain.
Too slow.
The third one was flanking, coming around with a mace, ready to cave his skull in.
Desan kicked a broken table into his face. It did nothing—except buy him half a second.
Half a second was all he needed.
He grabbed the rusted nail and a broken leg of the table. He hurled the leg to the light above. Glass rained down. The bulb shattered with a pop, plunging half the hallway into dim, flickering shadow.
"Velcrith, guide me to the narrowest path," he hissed.
"To your right, four doors down. Tight corner between two fallen shelves."
Perfect.
He bolted for it, dragging his sword behind him, luring the soldiers into the choke point. His leg screamed in protest, but he didn't stop.
Once there, he planted himself, sword angled low, and waited.
The first charged in.
Desan sidestepped and rammed the blade upward, impaling the soldier through the gut and into the bookshelf to the side. The body twitched and hung like meat on a hook.
The next one swung blindly in the cramped space.
Desan slammed the crossbow he'd stolen earlier into the attacker's helmet, dazing him, then drove a rusted nail into the gap of the neck joint.
Blood sprayed in thick, arterial arcs.
The last one hesitated.
Desan, coated in gore, face pale and furious, stepped forward with a limp and a laugh.
"What's wrong? Lost your nerve?"
The soldier charged.
He parried.
Then drove his sword through the base of their skull with a sickening crunch, ending it.
Silence returned.
Breath ragged. Arms trembling. Blood dripping from both blade and body, Desan stood amid the wreckage of five corpses.
"Velcrith," he panted, "next time… try warning me if they're smarter than basement freaks."
Velcrith's voice dripped with smug amusement."You lived, didn't you?"
"Barely."
He wiped the blood from his face. "Let's keep moving before more show up."