Upprisa gripped his katana, its dented hilt biting into his palm, a relic of everyone he'd failed. The Lost Kin's survival hung on him tonight, and he'd be damned if he let another promise break. The alley swallowed him, shadows twisting like accusations. Shattered needles crunched underfoot, ichor puddles hissing secrets he'd learned to ignore. The stench of rot clawed at his throat, thick with decay and regret. Each step felt heavier, the air pulsing with dread that tightened his chest.
A trident gleamed above a dumpster, four thorns, the Lost Kin's mark. His stomach churned with shame; last time, he'd barely escaped, bloodied and broken. "I, Upprisa, demand entry," he called, voice steady despite the ache in his bones.
A rat scurried out, Porkal. Its beady eyes glinted, sizing him up. A French-tinged rasp cut the silence. "Mon ombre, skulkin' back, eh? What's the Kin want with a ghost tonight?"
"Same grind, rat," Upprisa snapped, fingers brushing the locket under his shirt, its weight a faint anchor. "Door. Now."
Porkal's eyes narrowed, bitter. "Door? It's a cage, boy, an' I ain't the only one trapped." Its claws tapped, uneasy. "Coil's whisperin'."
Upprisa's pulse spiked. "Coil? Speak plain," he growled, sensing truth in the rat's unease.
"You hear it yet, or are you deaf to Kin's lies?" Porkal vanished into the dumpster. The ground trembled, the trident glowing as a hole yawned open, darkness swallowing him whole.
The katana, scarred by countless battles, was his tether to a world long broken. Its scratches and dents whispered of bloodshed, an heirloom of lost days, a collector would kill for. The tunnel's rot stung his lungs, the air heavy with decay. His mother's last whisper echoed, Keep them safe, Upp. He'd failed her, a boy watching her fade. The Lost Kin were his redemption, but the darkness felt alive, watching.
A slithering noise echoed, like a snake circling. That's new. Upprisa dismissed it as a Kin defence, but it burrowed into his nerves. He uncapped his flask, and the brandy burned sharply. One sip for luck, Ma used to say. "To hell with luck," he muttered, drinking deep, fingers tracing the katana's hilt. His pack, meds, stims, a stabiliser, rattled as he moved, the unease growing like a blade at his throat.
Hesitation was death here. Ten minutes through sticky mud, and his HUD blinked, no warning, just static. His instincts screamed. Danger lurks where you least expect it. He stopped, cursing his lapse. Closing his eyes, he followed his master's teachings, entering the soul world. His consciousness stretched into the void, probing. Nothing. Then, something. A presence, too close. He poked it, expecting a silent worm, but a scream, not his, tore through, distorted, raw.
Better safe than sorry. Upprisa surrounded the presence, cutting off escape. His mental tendrils brushed a cold, alien force, instincts screaming caution. He pulsed inward for a crushing strike. But the presence shifted. Thorn-like tendrils erupted, slicing his consciousness. Pain seared, blinding. It hurled him back into his body with a snap.
He crumpled, thoughts shredded, skull throbbing. A voice, calm, insistent, echoed. Get up. His limbs were lead, muscles locked by shock. Get up. The words carved through pain. With a growl, Upprisa drew on years of discipline, forcing his body to rise, trembling but defiant.
The worm knew his position now. Upprisa ran, boots sticking in mud, hands waving to feel vibrations in the walls. The tremors doubled, it's coming. Fear and adrenaline surged, a terror he'd never known in this hellish world. His legs ached, breath ragged. At an intersection, he veered left, heart pounding, eyes straining in the dark. His foot caught a root. He slammed into the mud, skull rattling, vision spinning. He scrambled up, katana drawn, as a gaping mouth, wide as a train, burst through the wall, rows of teeth glinting.
The worm hesitated, fang-petals quivering, tasting something in his blood. Then it lunged, ravenous. Upprisa dove, letting it pass, then twisted, thrusting his blade into its underbelly. Ichor sprayed, burning. He laughed, defiant. "Come on, filth!"
He clenched his teeth, holding on as the worm's body slithered, sawing itself open on the blade. Green ichor exploded, coating him in tar-like muck. It smelled of corpses and burning plastic, alive, burning his skin. Boils erupted, bursting as fibres pulsed beneath, learning his heartbeat. His nerves screamed, it's consuming me.
The worm's body thinned, vanishing into the dark. Upprisa tried to stand, muscles torn, ichor sizzling. He grinned, victorious, then a whisper, not his, hissed, You failed. The ichor burned deeper, shame heavier than the corpse.
His laugh cracked, hollow, like a coffin's echo. He collapsed, face down in sludge, lungs burning. Blackness swallowed him.
A buzz stirred him, a ghost's heartbeat in his skull. Beep. His eyes cracked open to blinding white, the infirmary's sterile hum replacing the tunnel's rot.