The Veil's twitching had stopped.

The floor was soaked in thick, syrupy blood (drip... drip… squlch…), pooling beneath the shattered shards of the creature's mirror-face.

Luke stood over it.

Breathing ragged (hhh—hhh—hhh), blood seeping from his shoulder in wet rivulets (drip… drip… plik.).

He swayed slightly. The world felt too quiet now.

 I lived.

He blinked down at his blood-slicked blade.

I lived.

Then, softly—his voice cracking through the silence:

"These skills of mine… have finally had some use… after all these years…"

His laugh was low at first, more of a wheeze.

"Haha… if that beast wasn't already dying… Hah… I'd be the one lying there."

A distant metal clang echoed in the corridors. Something... somewhere still moved. But Luke was past hearing.

He stepped over the mutilated corpse (squelch—crack) and raised the 

shortsword again.

 It's too still. Too quiet. Too… easy.

Just in case.

Just in case it's not dead.

CRUNCH!

The blade sank into its shoulder.

SHLK!

Again—through its abdomen.

THNK! SPLRT!

Again—ribs. Again—neck. Again. Again.

The soft puncture of meat and the grinding 

of bone was drowned only by Luke's laughter.

"Haha… HAha… HHAAAAHAHAHAHAH—!"

It started as a release.

Then a rupture.

 "HAHAHAH! YOU BEAST!"

STAB!

"I WOULD'VE DIED!"

STAB—STAB!

 "IF YOU WEREN'T FIGHTING THE OTHERS BEFORE ME—!!!"

SPLORT—SKLCH!

"HAHAHA—HA—HAHAHAHAH!"

Blood coated his arms, his face, his chest. His wounded shoulder flared with each motion, a sharp throb-throb (fsshh—fsst…) in sync with his hammering heart.

He stabbed until the creature's body looked like a rotten fruit gnawed by starving rats, until the torso was riddled with holes, pulpy and soft like a Surinam toad's back, split open and used.

"I WON! I LIVE—HAHAHAHH!"

The echoes of his scream spiraled upward through the rafters, bouncing against the chamber's unseen walls like a madman trapped in a steel drum.

Silence followed.

Until Luke breathed again.

"hhhhh… hhhh…"

And collapsed to one knee, his body twitching. The madness began to fade—like a fever breaking.

He glanced at his shoulder—bloodied and raw.

"Tch."

Ripping off his bandana with his teeth (rrrrrrip—ffsshh), he quickly bound it tight around the wound. It soaked red immediately, but it held.

Not clean. But enough. For now.

Luke stood up.

Wobbling.

Eyes glinting with the last embers of adrenaline.

"ERALIN…!"

His voice cracked—raw from shouting, from laughing, from breathing too hard for too long.

 "ERALIN! …ERALIN! …!!!"

The corridors ate his voice, but he knew—she would hear.

And she would come.

Because she always did.

Because her trust was blind. Unshakable. And sometimes—

A blessing.

And sometimes…

He looked down at the shredded corpse.

A curse equal to death.

Eralin's POV — To the Crate

'ERALIN.'

'ERALIN!'

The voice cut through the dark like a flare through fog.

That voice…

Sir Luke.

 He's calling for me… shouting.

Panic flared in her chest.

Her hand pressed harder against the wall she'd been hugging—cold stone, wet with condensation. She'd been crouched there in the dark, hiding, conserving strength, alone. With no teammate to guard her back, the wall was her only ally.

 But now—he needs me.

She stood.

Legs shaky.

Adrenaline overriding fear.

Using the wall as leverage, she pushed off and ran—footfalls soft (tap-tap-tap) but swift.

The cries had already stopped.

But she knew.

 This direction. The crate. He's there.

The air grew thick with smell—iron, rot, 

blood.

The walls near the crate flickered with dim orange light, not enough to guide her fully, but enough to blur her vision when she entered.

"Ghh—"

She raised an arm, shielding her eyes.

And then—

She saw him.

Luke.

Slouched against a wall inside the massive crate.

His shirt was soaked in blood. His breathing was uneven (hhh—hhh—hhh).

Sweat clung to his brow.

His blade was limp in his hand, trembling.

And at his feet—

A monster.

A beast, sprawled across the floor in a sludge of black-red blood and slime, its body punctured so many times it looked porous, like diseased flesh or a toad's back filled with eggs.

Eralin froze.

Her heart skipped.

But not from the sight of the beast.

 Luke…

All that left her mouth was—

"Luke… are you alright?"

She didn't care what the thing was.

Didn't care how it died.

All she saw was him.

Her friend.

Her leader.

 My pillar. The only reason I'm still sane.

Her hands trembled slightly. Not from fear—but from relief.

He was alive.

Bloodied, maybe broken—but alive.

That was all she needed.

//

Luke's POV

Footsteps.

Soft. Careful.

Getting closer.

They heard the shout… they're coming for the crate… for the supplies…

Luke gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his feet, shoulder flaring in pain (throb—throb), blood running warm down his side. His hand clenched around the shortsword, slick with his own sweat and the beast's thick gore.

 I'm not done. I'll fight again if I have to.

He staggered forward, preparing to take a stance—

Eyes locked on the shadow rounding the edge of the crate—

And then he saw it.

Mint green hair.

That soft, gentle glow. Familiar. A flicker of color against the blackened walls of the 

Center.

His heart eased.

"Eralin… you came…"

His legs gave slightly, and he leaned against the crate's wall, exhaling hard.

She stepped into the light.

Her eyes scanned the crate. The pools of blood. The beast's ruptured corpse.

Then her gaze met his.

Warm. Unshaken.

"Luke… are you alright?"

Her voice wasn't panicked.

It was calm. Anchoring.

Luke swallowed thickly, his body trembling more now that the danger was over.

She moved to him slowly—purposefully—not afraid of the blood, or the smell, or the madness in his eyes.

She knelt in front of him.

Her hands, always cold, brushed against his arm as she examined the wound on his shoulder.

She didn't flinch.

She didn't speak more than she needed to.

 Just her being here… it's enough.

Luke looked at her.

The pain didn't vanish.

The exhaustion didn't leave.

But for the first time in what felt like a lifetime— He didn't feel like a shadow....

Eralin stepped closer, her shadow folding over Luke like a veil.

The light behind her flickered, casting everything in broken half-frames.

Luke tried to rise again.

 "No—don't. Let me."

Her voice was soft, but firm.

She slid one arm under his and gently helped him to his feet. Luke hissed as his legs fought to hold his weight, the pain in his shoulder flaring sharp like broken glass grinding inside muscle.

 "Tch—shit…"

Eralin didn't react. She steadied him carefully, guiding him to lean against the inner wall of the crate.

She reached into her belt—fabric, frayed but clean enough—ripped some and began dabbing at the worst of the blood on his shoulder. The soaked bandana he'd tied there was loose and useless now.

 dsshhh… sscrape…

The cold cloth bit at the wound, and Luke winced.

But he said nothing.

Then, without a word—she leaned forward, arms sliding around him, careful not to brush the wound. Her chin rested against his good shoulder.

A quiet, steady embrace.

Not for comfort—

But for confirmation.

He was real. Alive.

Not just another corpse in the dark.

Luke let out a long breath—shaky, ragged.

"I killed it," he muttered.

She pulled back slightly, looking at him.

 "It was dying when I found it… I think it had fought the other beasts. It was already broken."

He looked at the sword in his hand—stained, trembling.

"But I finished it. Even now, I don't know if it was luck or cowardice that pushed me forward…"

His voice faded into the low hum of silence.

From outside the crate, faint screams still echoed, somewhere far. Wet ones.

Someone else losing their fight.

Splrch—SHHHHK—AARRRGH—

Eralin remained quiet.

She didn't need to say it.

Luke straightened slowly, slipping the sword back into a sheath he fashioned crudely from a shirt strap.

"We need to regroup with the others," he said at last, eyes still heavy with the weight of what had happened. "I don't know where they are… or if they're alive. But we need to move."

He looked at the Veil's shattered body.

"Before something else comes. Before 

this… thing draws them."

Eralin nodded.

She stood beside him without a word, eyes forward, jaw clenched.

She would follow.

She listened, because she knows that no words can help a person ease up after experiencing a life or death situation. 

Luke stepped toward the crate's exit, the darkness outside yawning like an open throat, thick with the scent of rot and fear.

 Time to descend again.

They vanished into the dark.

One light, barely flickering, holding another.