Tunnel of Beasts — Celsa, Targarth

  Several Awakened spilled from the now-inert portal in loose groups, the man at their head laughing boisterously.

  “So much loot,” he roared, slapping a companion on the shoulder. “I knew those freaks from Raventhorn were up to something. Good thing we didn’t let a beast horde scare us off.”

  Ole scanned the crowd. Though their armor varied in make and origin, every Awakened wore the same satisfied smile. Their numbers were thinner than before—their blood-smeared gear silent testimony to the violence they’d endured inside the dungeon.

  But why leave all that loot behind?

  The thought lingered for only a moment before he dismissed it. Whatever the reason, the outcome was the same.

  We’re rich.

  “Where’s Kuura?” a woman asked suddenly.

  Ole glanced around. No sign of the perverted bastard. Worse, there was no trace of the strange woman they’d encountered earlier.

  Don’t tell me that rapist found another victim…

  He scowled but said nothing.

  “I smell blood,” a man muttered, pointing toward a secluded patch of forest.

  Ole followed his finger.

  So he did.

  He felt no regret. If given the chance again, he’d make the same choice without hesitation.

  “Kuura!” another woman shouted. “Get the fuck over here—now!”

  Silence answered.

  “That vermin’s probably gone,” someone scoffed. “Ran off already.”

  Ole’s expression darkened.

  What if the rat went straight to Raventhorn?

  “We might have a problem,” Ole said aloud, drawing the group’s attention. “There’s a chance Kuura went ahead to Raventhorn’s representative in Celsa.”

  Faces hardened as the implication settled in.

  “But we didn’t do anything to those Raventhorn bastards,” a woman spat.

  “And you think they’d listen?” Ole shot back.

  He exhaled slowly. “First, we confirm whether that woman’s alive.”

  No one looked convinced. Ole could see it plainly.

  “Dead or not,” he continued, “her body can serve as proof—against Kuura.”

  He turned to a subordinate. “Bring the corpse. We leave as soon as you’re back.”

  The man nodded and sprinted toward the source of the stench.

  The remaining groups lingered, spreading out to rest and tend wounds. Ole seated himself on a nearby stone, methodically cleaning his broadsword.

  A middle-aged man in a windbreaker approached, smiling.

  “Ole,” he said, “what would it take to part with some Rainbow Chameleon hide? How many liters of Necro Jackal venom?”

  Ole chuckled, shaking his head. “Tomas, you can’t afford it. You know how insane prices are right now.”

  Tomas stroked his goatee, unfazed. “Don’t be like that. Fifty liters should be more than enough to—”

  A scream tore through the clearing.

  Ole shot to his feet.

  That was the same direction his subordinate had gone.

  That’s Mumuda.

  He moved instantly, bursting toward the trees.

  In seconds, he spotted Mumuda on the ground, frozen in place, staring at a mutilated corpse.

  Ole slowed.

  That’s not a woman.

  He stepped closer—and his blood ran cold.

  “It’s Kuura…”

  The man was dead. Thoroughly so.

  Gasps rippled behind him as the others arrived and recognized the body.

  That woman killed him? Ole studied the remains, disbelief gnawing at him.

  Tiny perforations riddled Kuura’s flesh, their origin unclear. His eyes and teeth were gone—cleanly removed.

  Ole frowned.

  Ran into someone even sicker than himself. Serves him right.

  With Kuura dead, the fear of Raventhorn retaliation evaporated.

  Then came a wheezing sound.

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  Ole turned—A thin crimson arc shimmered around the necks of his companions.

  “Huh—?”

  Their heads slid free, falling with soft thuds like rotting logs. Only when they hit the ground did Ole notice the blackened arrows embedded in their foreheads.

  No blood spilled. Not from the bodies. Not from the heads.

  Ole glanced at Mumuda.

  He’d been decapitated too.

  Ole swallowed, throat dry. He took a step back.

  Footsteps approached.

  Then came a cackling hoot—half laughter, half owl cry.

  “Nice shot, Lankesh,” a voice said. “Clean work.”

  “Focus,” another voice replied.

  Ole retreated again, resisting the urge to flee. He didn’t know how they’d died—or why he was still alive—but running would only hasten the end.

  Five warped shadows emerged ahead, carrying a foul, pungent stench.

  Ole stared, but a blur flashed past him.

  What was that?

  A voice murmured behind his ear, mournful and gleeful all at once. “You should’ve listened. Look at you now.”

  The laughter returned.

  Ole didn’t turn. One shadow ahead had vanished, yet he still couldn’t see those behind him.

  A massive hand clamped onto his shoulder.

  Instinct made him turn—and regret hit instantly.

  A towering, skinny man stared back at him. His mottled skin swirled with brown, orange, and white. His eyes were milky, lifeless. Thick veins webbed his bald scalp where hair should’ve been.

  He stood over seven feet tall. Piercings riddled his weathered face. A purple kurta draped over white trousers, wooden sandals planted firmly in the dirt.

  The man seized Ole’s head, forcing his gaze onto Kuura’s corpse.

  “Did you do this?”

  Ole tried to answer.

  The grip tightened.

  He screamed, clawing uselessly as pressure crushed his skull. Cracks rang in his ears. His vision dimmed.

  “Lankesh,” another voice said calmly, “how’s he supposed to answer if you crush his head?”

  The grip vanished.

  Ole collapsed to his knees, coughing and gasping for air.

  He finally caught sight of the figures lurking behind the warped shadows.

  They wore kurtas similar to the skinny man’s, but unlike him, their faces were hidden behind animal skulls—each mask distinct, each expression frozen in death. Every one of them carried a weapon, uniquely shaped and unnervingly unfamiliar.

  What kind of monsters are these…

  The thought barely formed before the skinny man seized Ole’s head again.

  Ole screamed, the sound tearing from his throat without forming words. This time, the grip didn’t loosen. Fingers dug in. Pressure mounted—

  Crack.

  Silence followed.

  Lankesh discarded the corpse with casual indifference.

  He turned toward the figure wearing an armadillo skull. “Pavani,” he called. “Anything?”

  That same peculiar laughter echoed as the man stepped forward. “Let me activate it.”

  He retrieved a golden stag beetle from his pocket.

  The insect lifted into the air, wings buzzing softly, hovering as if disoriented. Nearly invisible crimson motes trailed behind it. Then, without warning, the beetle twitched—as if sensing prey—and shot toward a section of the forest.

  The group moved instantly, following it until it halted above a shallow patch of disturbed earth.

  Lankesh noticed clothing partially buried beneath a rock.

  Pavani’s laughter burst forth again. “Female clothes?” He doubled over, clutching his stomach as his voice cracked with hysteria. “He died at the hands of a woman!”

  Lankesh ignored him, watching the beetle as it trembled, ready to fly again.

  He approached the clothes, dragging them free from the dirt. He lifted them to his face and inhaled.

  “They took Kuura’s eyes and fangs,” he said calmly, glancing at the others. “You all know what that means.”

  Pavani bounced on his heels, laughter escalating into shrill delight. “Scavs! Scavs—it’s them! We get to hunt Scavs!”

  This time, the laughter spread among the group, unified.

  The surrounding bushes rustled unnaturally.

  Seven massive, ostrich-like birds emerged, pale feathers stained deep red. One still gnawed on a severed human arm.

  The beetle took flight once more.

  The laughter stopped.

  It streaked into the night sky, and the group mounted the beasts with practiced ease.

  Pavani’s giggles pierced the silence. “Scavs,” he whispered. “I can’t wait.”

  Gido, Targarth

  Adam, dressed in a brown three-piece suit and checkered flat cap, climbed the bustling staircase toward the port.

  A colossal flying ship hummed above, its engines thrumming with restrained power as passengers streamed past.

  Men glanced at him with open envy—tinged with irritation. Women lingered, unable to fully hide their interest, though none dared approach.

  X walked beside him, fingers subtly entwined with his. She wore a knee-high white lace dress that accentuated her curves, paired with a wide-brimmed hat and veil that partially concealed her blonde hair.

  They ascended in measured strides, drawing stares from everyone around them.

  “You’re enjoying this,” Adam murmured near her ear.

  She smiled, barely containing a laugh. “This is a normal Tuesday for me,” she replied lightly. “But I don’t think the same applies to you.” She glanced sideways. “Make sure you savor it.”

  Adam caught her smile and suddenly pulled her closer by the waist.

  X froze. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Enjoying every moment,” Adam replied calmly.

  Before she could protest, he added, louder, “Let’s go, honey. Stick close.”

  Fire flared in her eyes, but she said nothing, matching his pace as they boarded.

  So this is VIP…

  Adam took in the lavish interior. Sandalwood scented the air. Drinks and freshly cut fruit waited neatly arranged. The seats were spacious and plush, luxury without restraint.

  This is my first time enjoying such luxury, he thought.

  Even across both lives, he understood the value of money.

  “First time in VIP?” X murmured, settling into her seat.

  Adam nodded.

  She smirked. “Don’t get used to it. But don’t say I never did anything nice for you.” She flicked her hair aside. “You may praise me now.”

  “Thank you, my goddess,” Adam said, bowing theatrically.

  She laughed softly, smug satisfaction written across her face.

  Adam was about to sit when a golden streak caught his eye outside the window.

  Was that… a beetle?

  “Why are you frowning already?” X muttered. “Isn’t it too early for regrets?”

  “I thought I saw a beetle.”

  “And?”

  “It was golden.”

  She sighed, rubbing her temples. “What are you—five?”

  Then she leaned closer. “We need to talk.”

  Adam smirked. “Is this about your leaky bladder incident—”

  X panicked, clamping a hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed, cheeks burning.

  She refused to meet his eyes.

  “Don’t think this is over,” she said at last. “I will get my revenge. But let me enjoy the next three months first, okay?” Her gaze hardened. “I deserve a vacation.”

  She released him and reclined, reaching for a bowl of berries.

  Adam chuckled quietly.

  A vacation without her antics… unlikely.

  Another golden blur crossed his vision.

  He turned.

  A stag beetle.

  Childhood memories of collecting insects stirred.

  It’s beautiful…

  A sharp chime cut through his thoughts.

  [Potential Source of Danger Detected!]

  A polite yet stern voice followed. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your conductor speaking. Please prepare for takeoff. Our destination is the beautiful nation of Vohmir. The voyage will take approximately three months. Please enjoy your journey.”

  The ship trembled gently as it lifted into the sky.

  “It’s finally happening,” X yawned. “I wonder when they’ll serve food.”

  Adam didn’t respond.

  Did the system identify the conductor as the source of the threat?

  He glanced back at the window and froze.

  The stag beetle clung to the glass.

  No way…

  The Port

  Pavani and his companions watched the flying ship disappear into the clouds, thick cloaks now concealing their forms.

  “We’re too late,” Pavani said, laughter bubbling up regardless.

  “According to our intel, the ship’s bound for Vohmir,” Lankesh added.

  Pavani turned slowly. “How fortunate.” He glanced sideways. “Barhama—buy tickets.”

  One of them departed at once.

  “It’s been a while since we visited the Sin City of the East,” Pavani chuckled, producing another golden beetle. The insect consumed the fading crimson particles left behind by its counterpart, restrained from flying.

  “Oyioooo…” Pavani laughed, giddy with anticipation. “I can’t wait.”