The air inside the Hollow Vein was heavy, thick with the smell of iron and rot. The walls of the cavern pulsed faintly, as if the stone itself was alive, veins of red light crawling through the cracks. Every sound was swallowed quickly, leaving only the echo of his own footsteps.
Asher held the Blood Rose Scythe loosely at his side. Its edge gleamed faintly in the dark, humming with hunger. He walked without caution, his eyes sharp, waiting for the first thing foolish enough to cross him.
From the deeper tunnels, shadows stirred. Shapes crawled out of the mist—twisted creatures made of blood and bone. Their limbs bent the wrong way, eyes glowing faintly as they hissed and shrieked. They rushed at him in a wave, claws outstretched.
Asher didn’t move until they were almost on top of him. Then the scythe flashed.
One clean sweep tore through the first row, bodies falling apart before they realized they were dead. The blade drank deep, the crimson glow along its edge brightening. The rest hesitated, screeching, but Asher stepped forward, scythe spinning in his grip.
He didn’t slow, didn’t waste a single movement. Each strike cut two, three, four creatures down, their bodies bursting apart into red mist. The cavern floor grew slick, but Asher walked as if on dry ground, eyes cold, scythe hungrier with every kill.
Minutes passed, and the entrance was silent again. Only the faint drip of blood from the stone remained.
Asher flicked the blade, scattering the last of the mist, and continued deeper into the Hollow Vein.
The further Asher walked, the more the Hollow Vein showed its nature. The walls weren’t just stone anymore. Veins of glowing red ran through them like giant blood vessels, pulsing slowly as if the place itself was alive. The ground was uneven, cracked, and slick with dried stains of those who had come before and never left.
From time to time, he saw scraps of armor, broken weapons, and even torn boots. All signs of failed adventurers. He didn’t bother with them. Nothing they left behind mattered.
Deeper in, the air grew colder. Strange whispers drifted through the tunnels, echoing from nowhere. To most, it would have been unsettling. To Asher, it was just noise. He kept walking, scythe ready.
Another swarm came. These were larger—blood constructs shaped like hulking beasts with too many arms. They moved fast for their size, slamming the stone floor as they rushed.
Asher didn’t back away. He stepped into them.
The first swung down, claws wide. His scythe cut the arm clean off and split its chest in the same motion. Blood sprayed, but instead of falling, the weapon absorbed it, its glow brightening further.
Two more came from the sides. He twisted, dragging the scythe in a low arc. Their legs snapped under the strike, sending them crashing to the floor. He finished them with one downward cut that crushed through their skulls.
The rest hesitated. He didn’t. A short dash, faster than their eyes could follow, and three more were split open before they even turned to defend.
Soon, the tunnel was filled with broken bodies, dissolving into mist that sank into the ground.
Asher rolled his shoulders once, scythe humming louder now, almost eager. He glanced deeper into the red-lit tunnel.
The map said the Hollow Vein was layered like a maze. And if the worshippers were really using it as a base, they wouldn’t stay near the front. They’d be deeper, closer to the heart.
The tunnel twisted down like a spiral, the walls pulsing brighter the further Asher went. The air was heavy now, filled with a copper taste that clung to his tongue. Most would have turned back by this point. Asher didn’t slow.
The ground shook suddenly. From ahead, a roar shook the cavern. Out of the red mist, a massive beast crawled forward. It looked like a wolf, but its skin was gone—just muscle and veins, its eyes burning with void light. Chains of blood wrapped around its body, dragging along the ground with a loud scrape.
It lunged the moment it saw him, jaws wide enough to snap a man in half.
Asher swung once. The scythe cut across its mouth, ripping through jaw and skull. The beast crashed into the wall, howling, but didn’t die. Instead, its body stitched itself back together, veins writhing like snakes.
It came again, faster. This time Asher moved in close, ducking under its bite. He drove the blade upward, cutting through its head from throat to skull, then twisted the scythe so the weapon drank deep.
The glow of his scythe flared bright crimson. The beast shuddered, its chains falling loose, before it finally collapsed.
The corpse melted into the floor, leaving only a black shard behind. Asher picked it up. It pulsed faintly—proof of kill, and a source of credits later. He pocketed it without a second glance.
The tunnel opened wider past the guardian. And now, the smell changed. Less beast, more human.
Torches lined the walls ahead, their flames sickly green. Faint chants echoed down the cavern.
Asher tightened his grip on the scythe. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. Step by step, he walked forward, the sound of chanting growing louder.
At the end of the tunnel, he saw them—hooded figures kneeling around a glowing altar made of bone and blood. At least a dozen, their hands raised high, voices chanting in rhythm.
Behind the altar stood one taller than the rest, masked in bone, aura thicker and heavier. A leader.
The leader’s head turned slowly toward the sound of Asher’s footsteps. The chanting stopped all at once.
Dozens of hooded faces turned.
Asher’s eyes burned red under his hood. His voice was calm, sharp.
The leader raised a hand. "You should not have come here."
Asher lifted his scythe, the blade glowing faint crimson.
"That’s where you’re wrong. You should not have been here."
Asher surged forward. The first cultist barely had time to gasp before the scythe carved him in two, body folding apart like wet paper. Blood sprayed across the altar, staining the bone-white surface deeper crimson.
The others reacted at once—some scrambling back, others raising hands as their chants twisted into spells. Green fire ignited in their palms, lashing outward in jagged bolts.
Asher didn’t flinch. His scythe swept wide, the crimson glow blooming into an arc of light that cut the spells in half. The fire dissolved before reaching him, and the cultists behind screamed as their own magic rebounded, burning them alive.
One rushed with a jagged dagger, chanting even as he charged. Asher stepped aside, caught the man’s arm, and snapped it at the elbow. The dagger clattered to the floor. Before the cultist could scream, Asher drove the scythe straight through his chest, the blade drinking greedily. The hooded body shriveled like dried parchment, collapsing in on itself. For more chapters visit novęlfire.net
The leader did not move. He simply watched.
More cultists rushed from the sides, some pulling chains of bone from their robes, others throwing strange black powder that exploded into clouds of choking smoke. The cavern filled with shouts, fire, and the clang of bone against steel.
Through it all, Asher was a storm. His scythe flashed, each swing a blur of crimson arcs. One cultist’s head flew free, another’s legs went out from under him before he was finished with the first scream. Blood slicked the floor.
Yet still, the leader stood, his bone mask tilted ever so slightly, as if studying Asher with amusement.
When the last of the chanting figures fell, twitching in a growing pool of red, silence returned. The torches flickered, shadows stretching long.
Asher’s boots crunched over bone fragments as he walked straight toward the altar. His scythe dripped with blood, its crimson glow fading to a steady hum.
The leader finally stepped forward. His voice was deep, hollow, as if echoing from a grave.
"You cut them down easily. Good. Their lives are... cheap. But tell me, hunter—" he tilted his head— "when the cracks split wide, and what we serve finally steps through... will your blade matter then?"
Asher’s expression didn’t change. His grip tightened on the scythe.
The air warped as the leader raised both hands. The altar behind him cracked open, spilling blood like a broken heart. From within, something crawled out—an arm, then another, slick with gore, fingers tipped with claws too long to belong to anything human.
The masked man spread his arms, voice booming now with dark joy.
"Face the first taste of the Maw."
The creature dragged itself free, a towering beast of bone and blood, with too many jaws and too many eyes, all fixed on Asher.