A long, grinding sound filled the chamber.
Its eyes moved across them one by one.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Deciding.
Then—
It crouched.
Low.
Coiled.
Ready.
Seryna's voice cut through the tension.
Cold. Clean.
"…Kaelira."
A pause.
"…Break its rhythm."
Kaelira smirked.
Dangerous.
"…Gladly."
"…You," Seryna said, glancing toward Lucien's sister, "…pressure its blind spots. Don't let it settle."
A nod.
"…And you—" she said to the mage, "…keep us alive."
He swallowed hard.
But nodded.
Seryna stepped forward fully.
Lightning crawled across her body—arms, shoulders, neck—spilling light into the chamber until the air itself seemed to hum.
The atmosphere changed.
Heavy. Charged.
The hobgoblin's grin faded slightly.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Because now—
the prey had stopped hesitating.
Kaelira lowered her stance.
Mana condensed around her legs like compressed violence.
Lucien's sister exhaled once.
Aelion tightened.
The mage braced.
Barrier trembling.
And Seryna raised her hand.
Lightning screaming louder.
"…Now."
The chamber exploded into motion.
Kaelira vanished first—too fast to follow, a blur of intent and violence aimed directly at its throat.
—
Elsewhere.
Another chamber.
Another monster.
And silence heavier than fear.
Lucien was still on the ground, breathing hard, trying to steady himself after being thrown aside.
Tharic clutched his bleeding shoulder, face pale, trembling.
The last surviving recruit had pressed himself against the wall, eyes wide, body rigid with instinctive terror.
No one spoke.
Because what stood before them made speech feel unnecessary.
The orc towered in the chamber like a walking siege engine.
Steam rolled from its tusked mouth in slow bursts.
Its massive chest rose and fell like a furnace forced into motion.
Its cleaver—an enormous slab of crimson metal—still dripped.
Blood slid down its edge in slow, deliberate lines.
**Tap.**
**Tap.**
Draven moved.
Not urgently.
Not cautiously.
Just inevitably.
He stepped forward past Lucien.
Past Tharic.
Past the weight of fear itself.
Chains clicked softly with each step, metal brushing stone in a steady rhythm.
The only sound that mattered.
The orc's red eyes tracked him without blinking.
Predatory.
Certain.
But Draven never looked back.
Never acknowledged the others.
Never acknowledged anything behind him at all.
Because to him—
It was already decided.
He stopped beside the corpse.
Or what remained of it.
The recruit's body was unrecognizable—half-buried beneath shattered stone and pooled blood, as though the corridor itself had tried to swallow the aftermath.
And embedded deep in the floor—
Still lodged from the force of the impact—
Was the orc's cleaver.
Draven looked at it once.
Briefly.
Not with hesitation. Not with concern.
Like one might evaluate weight. Balance. Usefulness.
Nothing more.
Then his hand closed around the hilt.
Lucien's breath caught.
"…Sir…"
A whisper. Uncertain.
Because the weapon—
Was enormous.
Twice Draven's height. Far too large for any normal person to even lift, let alone wield.
The orc's grip tightened instinctively on the second cleaver still in its remaining hand. Its massive fingers flexed. Muscles coiling beneath scarred green-grey flesh.
Its eyes narrowed.
Because something about the boy—
Was wrong.
Draven pulled.
Stone cracked.
A low, grinding groan filled the chamber as the blade tore free from the floor, dragging blood and dust in its wake.
Then—
He lifted it.
One arm.
Cleanly.
Effortlessly.
Silence.
Lucien went rigid.
Tharic forgot to breathe entirely.
Even the last surviving recruit pressed himself harder against the wall, as if distance alone might explain what he was seeing.
The blade looked impossible in Draven's hand.
Too large.
Too heavy.
Too violent.
And yet—
He held it as though it weighed nothing at all.
The tip scraped the stone as he began to walk.
**SCRAAAAAPE.**
A long, grinding line carved into the floor followed him, sparks flickering where metal met stone.
The sound echoed through the chamber like a slow sentence being written.
The orc watched him approach.
Steam hissed harder from its maw. Its stance shifted—subtle but immediate. Weight adjusting. Balance correcting. Preparing.
Its grip tightened around its own cleaver.
The metal groaned faintly under the pressure.
It understood now.
This wasn't prey.
Draven stopped.
Right in front of it.
A child before a mountain of flesh and fury. A stolen blade far too large for human hands.
And yet—
The chamber felt smaller.
Compressed.
As if even space itself was bracing.
Steam rolled down from the orc's tusked mouth, heavy and hot. Its shadow swallowed Draven whole.
Red eyes locked downward.
Intent. Hungry. Certain.
The orc flexed its grip again.
Waiting.
Measuring.
Draven, however—
Wasn't looking at it.
His crimson eyes rested on the blade in his hands.
On the blood sliding slowly down its edge.
On the faint reflection caught in the steel.
Almost… detached.
Almost irritated.
As if the thing in front of him was secondary to the weapon itself.
Then he spoke.
Quiet.
Flat.
"…An orc."
The word landed like a verdict.
The orc's pupils narrowed.
Its muscles tensed.
The stone beneath its feet cracked.
For the first time—
The monster understood.
It was not the hunter here.
It roared.
Not in rage.
In instinct.
A warning from something that had survived too long to ignore danger when it appeared.
The sound shook the chamber. Dust rained from above.
Then—
It moved.
Fast.
Violent.
Its cleaver came down in a brutal arc that split the air itself, turning the space into a descending wall of destruction.
Lucien's voice broke through instinct.
"…Sir—!"
He never finished.
Draven was already gone.
Not retreating.
Not evading backward.
Forward.
Inside the strike.
Beneath the descending blade.
In the single blind fraction where killing intent failed to cover everything.
The orc's cleaver slammed into stone.
**BOOOOOOM.**
The floor ruptured. Shockwaves tore outward. Debris exploded into the air.
But Draven had already slipped past the path of destruction.
The oversized cleaver in his hand rose.
Not hurried.
Not heavy.
Perfect.
He swung.
Once.
The movement was almost unremarkable.
Until it wasn't.
**SHHHK.**
A soft sound.
Too soft.
The cleaver passed cleanly through the orc's thigh—precise, deliberate, final.
For a heartbeat—
Nothing happened.
Then—
The leg separated.
Mid-thigh down.
Cleanly severed.
Blood erupted outward in a violent, steaming torrent.