The ground above churned. Kael heard it, a deep rumble that vibrated through the rock floor of the Echo Caverns. It was the Bloodmire, the cursed terrain Varak had summoned after the sandstorm ambush, spreading like rot across the Crimson Wastes. It had forced them down here, into this damp, echoing blackness. Above, the Abyssal Hunt pressed on, horns blaring their relentless pursuit. No escape, only deeper descent.
Kael slid down a slick rock face, hands scraping against sharp crystal formations. Ragnar, grim-faced, went first, his heavy boots finding purchase with practiced ease. Sylvara, cloaked in black, moved like shadow, her longsword a pale gleam in the dim light. She landed soft, silent. Kael landed ugly, a stumble, jarring his already aching arm.
His right arm. The Bloodrot Curse pulsed under his skin. It had triggered fully after the lieutenant's defeat, pushing his Curse Gauge to thirty percent. Physical decay, unbidden visions, violent urges. Now, deep in these caverns, the rot was worse. It pulsed, a sickly green glow beneath the skin, faint but there. Like a second heartbeat, ugly and wrong. He felt a phantom itch crawl along his forearm, a growing pressure behind his eyes.
The air in the Echo Caverns was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else. Something ancient and sick. Distorted whispers crawled from the stone, soft at first, then growing. Not words. Just sounds. Screams. Agonized, drawn-out.
"Stay close," Ragnar grunted, his voice a low rumble. He drew his massive axe, its dull edge reflecting nothing.
Sylvara gripped the hilt of her sword. Her face was a pale mask, but Kael saw the subtle tension in her jaw. Her divine whispers, usually a faint hum, seemed agitated here, almost frantic. They hummed like angry bees, vibrating in the oppressive air.
The whispers clawed at Kael's skull. He clamped down, tried to push them away. "Just the caves," he muttered, the words tasting like ash. "Playing tricks."
But they weren't tricks. The sounds intensified. They were layered. Shrieks of pain, the wet tearing of flesh, a gurgling gasp. Images flickered behind his eyes. Not his. Someone else.
The Curse Gauge remained at 30%, but the pressure on his mind was enormous. The Aether Codex, that cold, metallic voice in his skull, remained silent, but Kael felt its presence. A watchful, calculating entity, observing his struggle. It was always watching.
He stumbled again. Sylvara reached out, her hand brushing his arm. Her touch, usually cool and precise, felt like an electric shock against the pulsing rot on his skin. She pulled back quickly, her frost-like eyes widening, a flicker of something in their depths. Not fear. Concern, maybe. Disgust.
"The Memory Echoes," Sylvara said, her voice strained. "The caverns... they're alive with them."
Memory Echoes. Psychic imprints of past events. The Weeping Stones, which bled when touched, contained trapped souls. These caverns were full of them, amplified, raw.
Kael's head pounded. The images became clearer. Not static. Moving. He saw a man, face contorted in agony, flesh dissolving. The same spectral rot that now crawled under Kael's skin consumed him. A chosen breaker. One of the predecessors. Another one who had been marked by the Codex, forced through its brutal trials. He saw the man scream, saw him try to tear his own arm off, before something unseen snapped his neck. A quick, brutal end.
Kael gasped, a harsh, ragged sound. His own arm throbbed, the rot visibly pulsing beneath his skin, a sickly green luminescence flaring and fading. Violent urges, hot and sudden, surged through him. He wanted to lash out. To break something. Anything. This was the Bloodrot. A constant, visceral reminder of the cost of power.
"Kael!" Ragnar's voice cut through the haze. "Focus!"
Kael blinked. Ragnar stood before him, axe raised, his gruff face etched with worry. Sylvara was a blurred figure to his right, her hand still on her sword, her gaze piercing through the gloom, scanning for threats.
"I'm fine," Kael rasped. A lie. His mental coherence was fracturing. Marcus Chen's memories, the cybersecurity expert who died with a bullet in his spine, were clashing violently with the scarred warrior's muscle memory, the rage he inherited. Now, the dying moments of another forgotten breaker. Three lives, warring inside him.
The claustrophobia was a heavy blanket. The air pressed in, damp and cold. Every echo seemed to multiply, distorted screams bouncing off invisible walls. The stench of decay grew, metallic and sweet, like stale blood.
He felt a pull. A desperate, pleading pull towards the glowing rot on his arm. It promised power. It promised release. It promised to make the pain stop. Just give in. Embrace the rot. Embrace the rage.
Survive or Be Erased. The Codex's omnipresent threat. It wasn't just a countdown; it was a constant pressure, driving him. Forcing him to act. Forcing him to gain power. Forcing him to embrace the curses.
He stumbled forward, deeper into the echoing black. His legs felt heavy. His vision swam. The screams intensified, overlapping into a cacophony of agony. He saw more flashes: a broken spine, eyes gouged out, a body split open, intestines spilling onto jagged rock. Each image a new jolt of inherited trauma.
The Bloodrot on his arm flared, burning. It wasn't just physical. It was psychological. It was stripping away the last shreds of Marcus Chen's empathy, replacing it with something cold, something efficient. Something primal.
"The air... it's thicker here," Ragnar rumbled. He wasn't speaking of atmosphere. He meant the psychic weight.
Kael squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the assault. It did nothing. The visions were inside him. They were him. The Aether Codex was making sure he understood the cost.
Your unraveling is... exquisite, the Codex whispered, a new, guttural note twisting its metallic voice. The taunt was deeply personal. It felt like a probe, a worm burrowing into his brain.
He opened his eyes. The cavern walls seemed to ripple, the jagged formations blurring into indistinct shapes. His grip on reality was loosening. The scent of blood was overpowering now, not just decay. His own blood. He felt a sharp, phantom pain on his leg, a claw graze. He looked down. Nothing there. Just the dirty ground. But the pain was real.
A high-pitched shriek ripped through the air, closer this time. Not an echo. A fresh one. Something was here. Something that hunted in the dark.
Kael's breath hitched. He tasted bile. The physical decay on his arm pulsed brighter, throbbing with the screams. The images of shattered bodies, of previous Breakers, filled his mind. He was trapped. Trapped between the relentless hunt above and the mental torment below. His vision swam with terrifying, fragmented glimpses of the past. His grip on reality was weakening. He didn't know which scream was his own.