CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

Tremors on the Thin Path

Back in District 98, when I was small, I'd watch kids in the alleys play a game that stuck with me. They'd grab insects—ants, scorpions, spiders—and trap them in a sealed jar, left for days to fight. When they cracked it open, only one was left, twitching, surrounded by the dead. Some adults played too, tossing coins on which bug would last. It seemed simple, cruel, but I didn't know its weight until Elina's class years later. She called it the Darwin Cage, a test created in old Araksiun to test natural selection, letting creatures bite and eat each other until the toughest crawled out. It wasn't just a game, it was a lesson in what survival costs.

Now, standing at District 3's crater, I felt that lesson again. The hole stretched endless, a perfect scar in the earth, too clean to be natural, like a god had scooped it out for sport. Caves gaped along its walls, dark and silent, but I felt mana pulsing from below, heavy, wrong, like a heartbeat from something that shouldn't live. The whispering lens around my neck, wrapped tight in cloth, wouldn't stop humming, its pull to the gray realm clawing at my mind. Death was thick here, a smell, a taste, and I couldn't shake the thought: were the gods playing a similar game with us, tossing mortals into their pit to see who'd climb out?

"As long as I do not fall," I told myself, my voice barely a whisper, swallowed by the fog. I knelt at the bridge's edge, fixing the first anchor, improved from my last attempt, directly into the stone. They were my safeguard, meant to hold me even if I was half-gone.

The bridge of District 3 was as daunting as I remembered: a narrow strip of polished stone, barely wide enough for both feet side by side, stretching into the gray void. No supports, no handholds, just a magical thread defying the abyss below. Dozens of kilometers long, maybe more—its end was lost, hidden by fog. I'd fallen here before, too many times, each slip a lesson in survival. Now, I had power, but the bridge didn't bow to strength.

Doomcarver's weight pulled at me, its blade dragging a gouge in the stone, the scrape loud enough to wake the dead. I couldn't lift it for more than a few seconds, my arms screaming, so I hauled it behind me; the bridge was too narrow to let it rest at my side. Each step wobbled, my balance fighting the sword's mass, anchors my only safety.

The lens's hum grew louder, but I kept my eyes on the path, on the caves spilling movement. Shoggoths crawled out, their lumpy bodies heaving, tongues spearing the bridge, stone cracking under the force. Threxids buzzed above, wings like rusted blades, drawn to the shoggoths' chaos, turning the bridge into a slaughterhouse.

I held my mist in at first, trying to slip by, but Doomcarver's noise was a call to every beast. "If I could just get it off the ground," I muttered, straining to lift it. My muscles burned, the blade rising an inch before crashing back, shaking the bridge. I gave up, dragging it on, the scrape echoing, a dinner bell for the hungry. Their groans filled the air, hunger so thick I could taste it, bitter and sharp. I let my mist out, frost spilling from my mouth, coating the bridge. I couldn't move much, pinned by the sword and anchors, but my mist would make them pay.

Some beasts retreated, the cold too much for them. Others didn't, and I fed mana into the mist, the air growing dense, the temperature dropping until it stung. Shoggoths gasped, frost clogging their lungs, their leaps slowing. Threxids fell, wings iced over, spiraling into the abyss with shrill cries. The closer they got to me, the colder it was, my mist a barrier that killed most before they reached me. I walked, anchoring every few steps, Doomcarver's weight never easing, its runes glowing faint, like they recognized my effort.

My mist made me careless. Past the three-kilometer mark, I missed something, a presence too close, too fast. It lunged from below, legs like gnarled bone, tipped with venom that glowed red, shimmering even in my frost. I twisted, but Doomcarver's weight pulled me down, and the beast hit my chest, legs stabbing deep.

It was a spider, dog-sized, but no natural thing; its body was a pulsing sac, skin translucent, showing veins that writhed like worms, eyes like black sores, too many, blinking in chaos. Its legs, bent wrong, oozed venom that burned through my veins, spreading in moments. Another struck from under the bridge, legs piercing my side, more venom flooding in.

I staggered, the bridge's edge inches away, and felt them, dozens, maybe a hundred, skittering beneath, their clicks like teeth grinding. These weren't spiders but nightmares, onyx beasts with bodies that pulsed, as if stitched from the abyss itself. Their venom, cold-resistant, slowed my arms, my legs, in seconds. I'd faced them before, fallen to their venom, but these were worse, silent and waiting, a trap I'd walked into. "I can't fall so easy," I said, teeth gritted, memories of past encounters fueling me. I pushed my mana, letting my body's cold drop lower, frost eating the venom, my mist a blizzard that cracked the air.

Another spider leaped, and I grabbed it, my hands crushing its legs. It squirmed, its flesh soft, unnatural, like it might split open. The others watched, their eyes gleaming, as I held it up. It was fast, venomous, but weak in my grip. I tore off a leg, the snap loud, ichor spraying, freezing midair. Another, then another, each rip slow, the creature's screams a gurgling rasp. I kept going, eight legs torn free, its body twitching, alive but broken.

I wanted them angry, reckless. To my surprise they weren't. They stared, their bodies throbbing, like they shared one thought. So I tossed it into the abyss, that however, hit them harder.

Fear stirred, their legs trembling, and they lunged, dozens, a swarm of claws and venom. I couldn't dodge much, one hand on Doomcarver, the bridge too thin for movement. My mist did the work; ice blades flew, hundreds, from every side, slashing legs, piercing eyes. They fell, some frozen, some bleeding, their bodies sliding off the bridge or dropping into the dark. My reflexes were faster, my mana steady, the mist alive with my will. I moved, anchors set, toward the fourth, then fifth kilometer.

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Just like a chainrunner run, it wasn't about the distance—it was about time, about keeping moving, no matter the fight. The abyss waited, but I wouldn't fall.

By the six-kilometer mark, the furthest point I had ever reached, just as last time, the end was still nowhere in sight, lost in the fog's gray shroud. The bridge, a thin sliver of stone barely wide enough for my feet, trembled under Doomcarver's weight, its scrape a constant drone as I dragged it behind me.

Beasts swarmed now, not just the venomous spiders but countless others resistant to cold, their forms crawling over the bridge's top and underside, a writhing mass of claws and teeth. They fought each other as much as they came for me, tearing flesh, spraying ichor that froze in my mist. The spiders lingered, their red venom glowing, undeterred by the cold.

My display with the spider, ripping its legs off, letting it fall into the endless abyss, hadn't scared them. It enraged them, and they kept coming, skittering from below, their eyes like black sores glinting with hunger. These creatures weren't like the shoggoths or threxids I'd faced earlier; those had fled or died in my frost. These were different, their flesh toughened, their movements steady even as my mist thickened, the air so dense it pressed against my skin. They endured the cold, the high air density, as if born for this place.

But it was the whispering lens that shook me most. Tucked against my chest, wrapped in layers of cloth, it had hummed since I reached the crater, reacting to the death here, far worse than District 97's bloodiest days. Now, as beasts died by the dozens, their cores fading, the lens pulsed harder, its hum a scream I felt in my bones.

The cloth began to tear, fraying under some unseen force, until it split open, the lens's surface brushing my skin. Then the whispers came, loud, sharp, like knives in my skull. "Careful not to fall," one mocked, its voice dripping with glee. Another followed, low and sly: "Don't listen to him. You won't die, remember? The abyss will just be your prison forever."

I froze, the bridge swaying under me, Doomcarver's weight anchoring me to the stone. The whispers weren't just words—they brought something worse. A cold swept through my mist, not my frost but something deeper, a chill that didn't touch the body but the soul. It made my bones ache, my breath catch, even me, a crimson beast who thrived in cold.

My fingers stiffened, my grip on Doomcarver slipping, the sword's edge tilting toward the abyss. I pushed frost into my hand, ice coating the hilt, locking it to my hand, but the gray realm's touch was stronger, seeping into my mist, turning it wrong.

The beasts around me faltered, their resilience crumbling. Their eyes dulled, losing color, their movements erratic, like they were unraveling. A cluster of spiders ahead, weaving a thick web to block my path, began to change. Their bodies melted, fusing with the web, legs dissolving into strands, eyes sinking into pulsating flesh.

The web became a living thing, a writhing amalgamation of half-formed spiders, their screams high and wrong, not the cries of any natural creature. They clawed at themselves, tearing their own skin, faces twisting into shapes that shouldn't exist, mouths splitting wider, leaking ichor that burned the stone.

Other beasts joined the madness. A gloomwing, crashed onto the bridge, its wings thrashing. It tore at its own ears, ripping them free, then clawed at its face, where no eyes should be, until its skin bubbled, sprouting new limbs, twisted and too long, ending in claws that turned on itself. It burst, a wet explosion of flesh, scattering shards that writhed on the stone.

Beasts fought, not just each other but their own bodies, growing extra limbs, faces splitting, clawing themselves apart in a frenzy of insanity. My mist, once mine, took on a gray haze, so thick I could barely see a meter ahead, alive with the gray realm's touch.

I kept walking, one anchor after another, the bridge's narrowness forcing me to move slow, Doomcarver's scrape a steady beat. The beasts weren't attacking now, too lost in their own horror, but the path was no less terrifying. The gray realm's cold felt good, too good, a lure that whispered of surrender, of letting the insanity take me. I fought it, my frost pushing back, but it wasn't enough. Then I heard it, a sound that shouldn't be, deep and resonant, rising from the abyss below. Not a roar, not a scream, but a vibration that shook the bridge, sending cracks through the stone.

A shiver ran through me, not from the cold but from the weight of it. I felt them—multiple crimson horrors, their gaze locking onto me, unmistakable, like a blade at my throat. The attention from below was a presence, heavy, alive, and it saw me. I tried to move faster, but Doomcarver held me back, the bridge too thin for haste. One misstep, and I'd fall into that endless dark. I was powerless, trapped by the sword's weight, the path's danger, but I steeled myself, ready to face whatever horrors rose from the depths.

The gray mist churned around me, thick with the gray realm's insanity, as I stood at the six-kilometer mark, the bridge's narrow stone trembling under my feet. Doomcarver's scrape echoed, its weight pulling at my arm, but I couldn't see what stirred in the abyss below; the fog hid it, an endless gray that swallowed all.

The cracks in the bridge widened, stone grinding, and the whispering lens burned against my chest, its voices mocking, twisted with the beasts' dying screams. "An eternal prison one step away," they taunted, their tones sharp, gleeful, as if the gray realm itself laughed at my defiance.

I planted my feet, the bridge shaking so hard I nearly slipped, my anchors straining in the stone. The sound from below came again, a deep, bone-rattling rumble, not just noise but a wave of mana that surged through the air, heavy, alive, pressing against my mist like a fist.

It wasn't just a crimson horror; it was something older, vaster, its aura dwarfing mine, making my knees buckle. My chest ached, breath short, but I stood, refusing to fall. Doomcarver felt it too; its runes flared, glowing bright, cutting through the fog. The sword's weight eased, not enough to wield but enough to notice, its rust flaking away in patches, as if my will fed it, and it drank deep, pulling at my core in return.

The beasts around me, spiders, gloomwings, others—were gone, either dead, their twisted bodies melted into the bridge, or fleeing, clawing over each other to escape the presence below. But I smiled, small and fierce. This pressure, this terror—it was mine to face, and my will held strong, something Doomcarver recognized, a tool forging me as I forged it. For a moment, I thought I'd won, that I could keep going, one step at a time.

But the bridge had no will to share. The cracks grew, splitting wider, louder, stone crumbling under the entity's aura. The rumble pulsed again, shaking the bridge like a dying thing, and I saw it, chunks breaking free, tumbling into the abyss, silent, no end to mark their fall. My feet slipped, Doomcarver's weight dragging me toward the edge, anchors snapping loose. The bridge shuddered, then tore apart, stone dissolving beneath me. I clawed at the air, but there was nothing, only the gray realm's laughter and the endless dark below, swallowing me as I fell.

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