The smell hit him first. Not the smoke of the Great Library burning—that was a dry, choking heat. This was wet. It smelled of ammonia, old copper, and things that had died in the dark a long time ago.
Elian Thorne opened his eyes. He saw nothing. Just a suffocating, velvety blackness.
My hands. Where are my hands?
He tried to push himself up. His palms slid against cold slime. A shiver violently rattled his spine, knocking his teeth together.
INNER VOICE: Okay. Panic assessment. Heart rate: 180. Temperature: Freezing. Location: Unknown. Probability of survival based on current data: Zero. I died. I definitely died. The ceiling beam... I saw it fall.
OUTER VOICE: "Status report."
The voice that left his throat wasn't the squeak of a terrified academic. It was hollow, echoing, and oddly authoritative. It bypassed his fear center entirely.
A blue rectangle shattered the darkness, searing his retinas.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: ABYSS WEAVER PROTOCOL] [Host Identity: Elian Thorne] [Location: Layer 100 - The Dregs] [Current Condition: Malnourished, Hypothermic] [Unique Trait: Silk Sovereignty (Tier 0)]
Elian stared at the floating text. Light. He looked down. He was naked, pale, and thinner than he remembered. But the strangest thing was the itch. A maddening, pulsing itch inside his wrists, just below the palms.
Scritch. Scratch.
A sound to his left. Something hard dragging over stone.
Elian froze. The vibration traveled through the wet floor and into his skin. He didn't need eyes to feel the weight of it. Something big. Something with too many legs.
INNER VOICE: Oh god. Oh god. It's clicking. Mandibles? It sounds like giant scissors. I have no weapon. I have no book. I have...
He rubbed his wrists. The itch flared. Instinct took the wheel from logic. Elian flexed his hand, fingers splayed.
Thwip.
A thin, translucent white line shot from his wrist, sticking to the damp rock wall three meters away. It wasn't spider web; it was tensile, steel-like wire.
OUTER VOICE: "Material analysis: Bio-organic polymer. Tensile strength: High. Sticky."
The clicking stopped. The creature had heard him.
Elian scrambled back, his heels slipping in the muck. The blue light of the System panel illuminated a face emerging from the gloom. It was a moth, but wrong. The size of a wolf, with fur matted by slime and empty, white faceted eyes. Its proboscis uncurled like a wet whip.
It shrieked—a high-pitched tear in the silence.
INNER VOICE: Run! You idiot, move your legs!
OUTER VOICE: "Inelegant."
Elian didn't run. He couldn't; his legs were jelly. Instead, he flicked his left wrist. Another thread shot out, anchoring to a stalagmite to the moth's right. He flicked his right wrist. A thread crossed the first, creating a tripwire at shin-height.
The Corpse-Moth lunged.
It was fast, but blind aggression has a trajectory. It hit the tripwire. The silk didn't snap. It stretched, humming like a violin string, and then held.
The moth's momentum betrayed it. Its front legs caught, its heavy thorax tumbled forward, and it slammed face-first into the slime with a wet crunch.
Elian saw the opening. The creature thrashed, its wings beating up a storm of ammonia-scented air. He needed to end this before it freed itself.
He pointed both hands at the creature's head.
Focus. Connect.
INNER VOICE: Disgusting. It's going to be disgusting. Do it!
Silk erupted from both wrists, not a single thread, but a chaotic spray. It plastered the moth's head to the floor, wrapping the proboscis, blinding the white eyes, sealing the spiracles.
Elian pulled. The [Silk Sovereignty] trait activated. He didn't pull with his muscles; he pulled with his mind. The threads tightened, cutting into the moth's chitin.
Snap.
The neck gave way. Green ichor sprayed across Elian's chest. It burned like acid, but he was too full of adrenaline to scream.
[Foe Defeated: Lesser Corpse-Moth (Lvl 1)] [Experience Gained] [Material Acquired: Moth Dust, Low-Grade Chitin] [Alert: Biomass consumption recommended for silk replenishment.]
Elian slumped against the cold stone, his chest heaving. The silence returned, heavier than before. He looked at the dead bug. He looked at the notification telling him to eat it.
INNER VOICE: I'm going to vomit. I'm a vegetarian. I organize archives. I don't eat giant bugs in hell.
OUTER VOICE: "Resources are scarce. Adaptation is mandatory."
He crawled toward the corpse. But as he reached for the shattered carapace, a faint, rhythmic pulsing caught his attention. It wasn't the moth.
It was coming from behind the moth's corpse, hidden in a nest of rot.
Elian pushed the carcass aside. There, glowing with a faint, violet internal light, sat an egg. It was the size of an ostrich egg, wrapped in black veils that moved on their own, caressing the shell.
He reached out. The moment his fingertip brushed the shell, a jolt of electricity—not pain, but pleasure—shot up his arm. The System window turned a deep, seductive crimson.
[Compatible Soul Signature Detected] [Type: Abyssal Arachne (Royal Caste - Dormant)] [Action: Incubate?]
The webs on the egg reached out, wrapping around Elian's finger like a child holding a parent's hand.
INNER VOICE: It's... warm. It's the only warm thing in this entire world.
OUTER VOICE: "The first strand of the web is cast."
Elian picked up the egg. It pulsed against his chest, matching the beat of his terrified heart.