The orders were simple:
Find out what happened.
But simple never meant easy.
Kalem and Serka moved with the 13th Abyssal Recon Unit, heading toward the last known location of the missing scouts.
The group was small—ten in total, including Kalem and Serka. They were lightly armored, built for speed and survival rather than prolonged engagements. Unlike the frontliners who clashed with the abyssal horrors in brutal melee, recon units were meant to observe, report, and adapt.
The wind howled as they moved through the uneven terrain, past the deep cracks and jagged formations shaped by centuries of war against the abyss. The land was scarred, its very essence tainted. It was the kind of place where nothing stayed dead for long.
"So," Kalem said, keeping his eyes on the rough map in his hands. "I know the order was to find what happened, but with who exactly?"
Serka walked beside him, her movements effortlessly light despite the rough path. "Another set of scouts was sent out after the Bone Devil incident. The higher-ups wanted to make sure nothing else passed the frontlines."
Kalem hummed in thought, his gaze still fixed on the parchment.
The wind carried distant echoes—whispers that weren't there.
A soldier behind them, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred jawline, gave Kalem a sidelong glance. "Hey, smith boy. You've been looking at that thing since we left."
Kalem didn't look up. "And?"
"Don't you think you should be a little bit more alert?"
Kalem tapped the side of his cart. Onyx, the armored bull pulling it, huffed in response.
"Onyx can hear most things from a distance. If something happens, he'll be the first to know."
Serka smirked. "That's your excuse? Relying on your mount?"
Kalem shrugged. "It works."
"Sure, sure." The soldier rolled his eyes. "And what's so important that you'd rather stare at that instead of watching the terrain? A love letter?"
Kalem finally looked up. "It's a ruin circuit."
"For?"
"My new weapon."
Serka raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you just finish making one?"
Kalem nodded. "I'm planning for another one."
The soldier scoffed. "You forge-crazed bastards never stop, huh?"
Serka grinned. "Since you're in the mood for weapon-making, how about you make one for me?"
Kalem didn't hesitate. "File a commission. After this, we'll talk details."
Serka feigned offense. "You charge friends?"
"Yes."
She chuckled. "Figures."
Strange Signs
The group moved deeper into the terrain, and soon, the air began to shift.
The wind grew too still.
The distant noises—usually a mix of howling winds, shifting earth, and unseen things moving in the dark—faded into silence.
A bad sign.
The leader of the unit, a woman with short silver hair and a cold demeanor, raised her hand. The group stopped immediately.
Kalem narrowed his eyes. He had seen this before.
When things go too quiet, something is waiting.
One of the scouts knelt by the ground, running a gloved hand over the dirt and stone. His expression darkened.
"Tracks," he muttered. "Fresh. But... wrong."
Kalem and Serka stepped closer.
The ground was disturbed, as if something heavy had passed through—but there were no normal footprints. The impressions were deep, uneven, almost erratic, as if whatever made them was struggling to walk properly.
"Not human," the scout confirmed. "And not natural."
Serka crouched beside him. "Abyssal?"
The scout shook his head. "Not entirely. Something changed. It doesn't match the usual monster tracks."
Kalem exhaled slowly. He studied the pattern. The way the tracks twisted and dragged…
Something was wrong.
Then Onyx snorted sharply, his armored body shifting uneasily.
Kalem's grip tightened on the hilt of his whip.
The bull's ears twitched. His nostrils flared.
He had sensed something.
Kalem turned his head. "Onyx hears something."
The silver-haired leader nodded. "Weapons ready."
Swords were drawn. Bows were strung.
The wind picked up again, but this time it carried something with it—a sound, faint but growing closer.
A wet, dragging noise.
Then came the first figure.
A lone scout, staggering forward from the mist, his armor cracked and covered in something black and pulsing. His body twitched, his movements unnatural, as though fighting something inside his own skin.
"One of ours," a soldier whispered.
Another scout followed. Then another.
They stumbled forward, their heads tilted too far to the side, their fingers twitching, their breathing ragged and broken.
Then they stopped.
Their faces were pale, but their veins bulged black, crawling under the skin like something alive.
Kalem's eyes sharpened.
The substance wasn't just coating them—it was growing inside them, pulsing beneath the skin, shifting as though sentient.
A parasite.
Serka exhaled. "Well. That's not good."
One of the scouts twitched violently. His jaw cracked as his mouth opened too wide, a wet gurgling sound escaping his throat.
The black veins along his arms burst, writhing tendrils pushing out of the wounds.
The silver-haired leader raised her sword. "Formation. Now."
Then the scouts screamed—a sound that didn't belong to anything human.
And they charged.