The man walked ahead, a bag slung over his back, the corner of a weathered map peeking out. His movements were steady and deliberate, eyes scanning the ruins with quiet urgency. A long machete rested across his back, its dark handle worn from years of use. The blade, curved and matte, bore the marks of countless battles—sharp in some places, dulled in others. A second machete, smaller and serrated, hung at his side, its leather-wrapped grip molded perfectly to his hand after years of carving through thick foliage and flesh alike.
Karnak followed in silence, their boots crunching over debris as they made their way through the decaying corridors of the facility. The air was thick with dust and the lingering scent of rust and rot. The footsteps of their pursuers grew louder, echoing through the crumbling halls. Time was running out.
The man veered into a side room, Karnak close behind. The footsteps drew closer. Pressing himself into the shadows, the man remained still, his breathing measured. As the first figure stepped into the doorway, he struck—silent, swift, lethal. His machete slid effortlessly between ribs, his free hand clamping over the man's mouth to stifle any sound. The body went limp in his grasp. Without hesitation, he dragged it into the shadows, laying it carefully among the debris.
Outside, the search party pressed forward, growing uneasy. One of their own was missing. They whispered among themselves, retracing their steps, checking each room one by one. When they reached the final doorway, their unease turned to alarm—the sight of fresh blood smeared along the threshold sent a ripple of tension through them.
Too late.
The first man stepped inside, and before he could react, the gleam of a blade cut clean through his neck. His head hit the floor with a sickening thud. The second barely had time to flinch before a sword carved through his chest, bisecting him in a spray of crimson. The third swung wildly, panic setting in. The man in the glasses sidestepped with eerie precision, bringing his blade up in a diagonal arc. The steel sliced from the attacker's groin to his skull, splitting him open in a gruesome display of flesh and bone.
The last man hesitated, his breath shuddering. His confidence shattered. His hands trembled as he turned to flee, but before he could move, the man in the glasses stepped into the room where Karnak was hiding. His voice was cold, calm.
"Let's go."
Karnak followed, but before they could make it far, a chilling voice slithered through the air.
"Plagueborn."
It wasn't the aberrant from earlier.
Emerging from the darkness was a grotesque figure—half-human, half-mutated horror. The left side of its body retained a shred of its former self, clad in a tattered green coat over a dirtied white shirt. The right side, however, was a nightmare—jagged crystalline growths of red and blue tore through its flesh, distorting its arm into a monstrous claw, its leg fusing grotesquely with the ground as if the infection had taken root. Its face was a split horror of sharp teeth and glowing yellow eyes, seething with malevolent hunger.
The man in the glasses moved first, pushing Karnak back and lunging at the creature. His blade struck true—only to rebound with a harsh clang as it scraped against the crystalline growths. The sound was sharp, grating, like steel against stone. The aberrant barely flinched.
And then things got worse.
Another presence slithered forward—a towering abomination draped in a crimson, living shroud. Its pale, emaciated body was riddled with additional limbs, clawed hands stretching unnaturally from beneath its robes. Its skeletal face bore glowing, inhuman eyes, and curved ram-like horns jutted from its skull. Monstrous mouths gaped from its flesh, whispering in a language that twisted the mind.
It moved toward Karnak.
The man in the glasses saw it and tried to warn him—tried to tell him to run—but before the words could leave his lips, the aberrant struck. A single, brutal blow sent him flying. His glasses were torn from his face as his body slammed into the wall, cracking stone. He gasped, dazed, his pale, milky eyes darting across the floor in search of his lost vision.
But there was no time.
The aberrant with the clawed arm lunged, driving its jagged appendage into his chest. Again. And again. Blood dripped from the wounds, pooling beneath him as his breath hitched.
A warning flared in Karnak's vision.
Lurchers detected.
Beep. Beep.
Before he could react, the crimson-robed creature struck. Its many arms surged forward, piercing through his body with eerie precision. A monstrous kick sent him hurtling backward—right into the dying man.
Afterward, the two lurchers turned their gaze toward them, drool dripping from their gaping mouths as they began to advance. But they were not alone. Among them, a swarm of other lurchers emerged—twisted, unnatural amalgamations of rotting flesh and beastly forms. Grotesque fusions of human and animal, they lumbered forward, their mismatched limbs twitching, eyes hollow yet hungry. The air grew thick with the scent of decay as the horde closed in.
Blood seeped from Karnak's wounds.
And as it mingled with the open gashes of the fallen man, something shifted.
The man in the glasses, his beating heart, got slower and slower with every beat, then what followed was his fingertips becoming more faint and paling, veins darkening beneath the skin like ink spreading through water. Flesh, once warm and vibrant, took on a sickly, ashen hue, the color draining as if life itself were retreating. Muscles stiffened, joints locking with an unnatural rigidity, each movement becoming sluggish and jerky, as though the body were no longer fully its own.
A deep, drawn-out moan that rises and falls, often with a hollow, breathy quality. ("Uuuhhh… aaarghhh…")