The adventurers' boots sank lightly into the moss-carpeted ground of Oukra, the air heavy with the damp scent of old rain and flowering fungi. The forest's canopy pressed close overhead, blotting out much of the daylight, leaving the path toward the dungeon in a cool, green shadow.
A swordsman in steel half-plate took point, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the gloom. Behind him, the healer — a young woman with her hair bound in a neat braid — clutched a worn staff, lips murmuring quiet prayers under her breath. The archer walked light-footed, bow already strung, gaze flicking from tree to tree. The thief lingered near the back, hands twitching toward the twin daggers at his belt.
They were still young — not children, but green enough to move with that eager, nervous haste that marked amateurs. They had one purpose: collect spider silk from the dungeon. A simple quest, or so the guild board had promised.
But with each step deeper, the forest seemed to tighten around them. Branches arched low, threads of silver webbing drifted lazily across their path, and the distant clicking — faint and irregular — teased at the edges of their hearing.
The swordsman paused once, fingers tightening on the hilt of his weapon."…Anyone else feel like we're being watched?"
No one answered outright, but the archer's hand stayed near her quiver from then on.
They reached the dungeon entrance — a jagged tear in the base of a great stone ridge, framed in ancient roots. Cold air breathed from within, carrying the faint tang of iron and the dry musk of old predators.
Inside, the darkness swallowed them. The walls shimmered in places with dew and strands of webbing thick as rope. They encountered the first monsters quickly — skittering, dog-sized spiders, swift and aggressive. Steel flashed, arrows flew, the healer's chants rang soft and sure.
They pressed deeper.
And somewhere in the unseen dark ahead, Ren waited.
Not with the intention to strike — not yet. He crouched in silence, the threads of the dungeon humming faintly against his senses. He could feel their footsteps through the web-laced stone, hear the rasp of their breath, smell the sweat and faint mana clinging to them.
He did not need to hunt them.They would come to him.And when they did… they would see him.
The air in the dungeon had weight.Not the damp heaviness of underground stone or the faint rot of neglected passageways — this was different. This was the weight of a gaze.
The adventurers didn't know how they knew it, but they did. The way one knows a shadow is about to move.
The swordsman stood at point, his hand on the hilt of his blade, the cheap steel reflecting faint orange torchlight. He told himself the sweat on his neck was from the heat of the torch, not from the slow realization that every step deeper into the dungeon was somehow… allowed.
Allowed. That was the word that crept into his mind without his permission.Something was letting them be here.
The healer's voice was a brittle whisper. "We should mark the way back. Just in case."The archer didn't argue, quickly scratching chalk marks into the smooth dungeon wall, trying not to notice how the marks seemed… smaller the next time they passed them.
The thief was the first to notice the threads.They were fine, silvery strands that ran along the edges of the passageways, glinting when the light caught them — threads that hadn't been there when they first entered. They crossed the ceiling like veins, descended in single strands to brush just above their heads, and in places gathered into loose webs that seemed to shiver without breeze.
"Guys…" The thief's voice cracked. "The threads. They're—"
A sound rolled through the air like thunder underwater.A howl — but no wolf had ever sounded like that. Too low, too broad, vibrating through the stone. It lingered, the kind of sound that wasn't just heard but felt deep in the ribs.
The swordsman gritted his teeth. "Wolves. Beastkin, maybe."
"Wolves don't make the walls vibrate," the thief shot back, his voice almost breaking.
Before anyone could reply, another sound came — softer, closer. A murmur, just on the edge of hearing.It wasn't in a language any of them knew, but the tone was unmistakable: it was speech. Gentle, curious, like someone musing to themselves… or speaking to something else entirely.
The healer gripped her staff tighter. "I… I think it's a woman's voice."The archer shook his head, eyes darting to the shadows. "No. That's not—" He stopped, shivering, because he suddenly wasn't sure if it was a woman's voice or just a voice shaped to sound like one.
The threads above their heads shifted.Not a lot. Not enough to be certain. But it was enough to make the healer step closer to the swordsman and the thief's hand drift toward his dagger.
They rounded the next corner and froze.
Standing there, in the center of the passage, was something knee-high.
It was not a goblin. Not a beastkin. Not any monster the Adventurer's Guild had ever logged.Its body was plated in dark chitin, limbs folded in strange, almost ceremonial stillness. Its head tilted slightly, and two burning crimson eyes stared out from the smooth armor — steady, unblinking.
The creature stood on one leg, the other tucked up against its body. Its upper limbs — too many joints, too fluid in their folding — rested neatly against its sides. It looked, for all the world, as if it were waiting.
No one spoke.
The thief's hand inched toward his dagger again. The archer felt for an arrow.The creature didn't move.
Then, from somewhere deep in the dungeon, the howl came again — closer this time, resonating through their bones. A second later, a whisper slid along the walls. Not quite words, but it made the hair on their arms rise.
The healer swallowed hard. "What… is it doing?"The swordsman forced a scoff. "It's… it's just standing there. Probably scared of us."
The larva blinked slowly.
It was the first movement it had made — and somehow, that single blink was worse than if it had leapt at them. Because it wasn't fear. It was patience.
The thief's voice was a dry rasp. "It's watching us.""And?" the swordsman demanded, more harshly than he intended."And it's… not the only thing," the thief whispered.
Because now they could hear it — the faint scuff of movement in the webbed ceilings, the creak of silk under weight. Shapes slid in the dark just above the torchlight, never quite close enough to see.
Another murmur. This one was lower, darker.
The healer pressed herself closer to the group. "I think we should—"
And then, without warning, the larva spoke.
The voice didn't match the size of the creature.It was too deep, too certain, each word carrying a weight that pressed into their bones.
"You've killed enough."
The words landed like the snap of a trap.
The archer's bow creaked in his grip. "What—"
"You've taken silk from my walls. You've stepped where you don't belong." The voice didn't rise, but it didn't need to. Each word was like a slow, deliberate step forward — except the creature still hadn't moved.
The swordsman tried to find his bravado again. "We came here on a guild quest—"
"I know," the creature cut in. "And I know why."
The healer's knuckles whitened on her staff. "We… we don't want trouble."
The larva tilted its head."Trouble?" A pause. "You're already in it."
From somewhere deeper in the dungeon, a dozen voices rose in unison — some howls, some whispers, some laughter that didn't sound entirely human.
The larva's crimson eyes narrowed. "Tell me… when you took silk from the dungeon, what did you think you were taking?"
The thief's mouth went dry. "…Material. For armor. Rope. Whatever pays."
A slow blink. "What you took… was my thread."
The words hit differently — not as a metaphor, but as a truth. The adventurers didn't understand it, but their bodies did.
The threads along the walls and ceiling quivered. One strand descended slowly, like a finger brushing the air.
The archer stepped back. "We'll… we'll leave."
"No," the larva said simply.
The torchlight flickered — or perhaps dimmed, as if the air itself were drawing closer.
"You will not leave until I have decided what you are."
The thief's voice cracked. "Decided what—"
"Prey. Guest. Or thread."
The howl came again — so close now it was almost deafening — and from somewhere behind them, a single wordless murmur curled around their ears like a hand at the back of the neck.
The healer's breath hitched. "Wh–what do you want from us?"
The larva didn't answer right away. It let the silence stretch, so taut they could hear the blood rushing in their ears.
Finally, it spoke again.
"I want to know if you can walk out of here alive without making me regret it."
The crimson eyes burned brighter in the dim."Because if you can't… this dungeon will keep you."
The threads above them shifted — dozens now, swaying in slow unison, their movements far too deliberate to be wind.
No one moved. No one spoke.
The larva remained perfectly still. Watching. Waiting. Measuring.