Waylon pressed forward into the dark, his bare footsteps silent against the rough, uneven stone. The mantis blade rested easily at his side, its curved edge gleaming faintly in the low light. The tunnels ahead twisted and forked like the roots of an ancient tree, and with every step, the air grew cooler—more alive.
He retraced his path through the winding tunnels with greater ease now. His vision, sharper than ever, caught every groove in the rock, every shift in the stone walls, and he moved with increasing confidence. Each motion was efficient, a far cry from the clumsy stumbles that had defined his earliest steps in this place.
Soon, he reached the junction—the place where seven tunnels branched off in multiple directions, each a dark and looming mouth. He stood in the center, recalling how he'd spun and chosen randomly before. But this time, something was different.
Waylon paused.
There was a shift—subtle, but unmistakable. The air pressed faintly against his left cheek, a breeze so light it might have gone unnoticed by someone less attuned. He narrowed his eyes and turned slowly toward the sensation.
He focused, drawing in a breath through his nose. The faintest hint of dryness lingered in the air—less damp than the other tunnels. The faint flow tugged at the loose ends of his shirt and tickled the edges of his hair. His heightened perception zeroed in on it like a predator locking onto its prey.
His heart skipped once in excitement. [Airflow… There's airflow here.]
He approached the tunnel to his right, standing at the edge and holding his breath to be sure. A soft draft brushed his face again, cool and consistent. [That means… there's an opening somewhere up ahead.]
An exit.
Hope surged through him, chased by a burst of adrenaline. His grip tightened on the blade as a wide grin spread across his face. "Finally… a way out."
He took off jogging, his strides quick and light. His feet barely kissed the ground as he moved deeper into the tunnel, the breeze growing steadily stronger the further he went. Every footfall echoed in rhythm with his breath, the cool wind guiding him like a silent beacon.
The walls here were rougher, jagged in places, but he hardly noticed. The promise of escape—of open sky, fresh air, and sunlight—pushed him forward, lifting his spirits. For the first time since waking in this cursed world, he felt free.
His pace quickened as anticipation built in his chest. He rounded a bend, eyes wide, lungs filling with that dry, crisp air that promised so much.
But then he heard it.
A faint chitter. Sharp. Echoing.
Waylon skidded to a stop, boots grinding against the stone. His ears perked. Ahead in the tunnel, maybe twenty yards out, a soft white light glowed in the distance, moving steadily toward him. Small at first—pinpricks of brilliance dancing in the dark—but they grew larger with each step.
He narrowed his eyes, slowing his breath, letting his vision adjust to the contrast. The lights weren't floating or flickering randomly—they were attached. To something. As they drew closer, their shape began to resolve.
The silhouette of an ant-like creature emerged, large and imposing, its chitinous frame glinting faintly in the pale glow. A soft, ghostly-white light radiated from the center of its forehead, casting eerie shadows across the walls as it moved.
Waylon's muscles tensed. [That's not just a reflection… It's a light source. Internal? Like bioluminescence?]
The ant came closer, slow but deliberate, its legs tapping methodically against the ground. Waylon stood completely still, watching, absorbing every movement. His earlier excitement simmered down, replaced with focused caution.
The light from the ant's forehead painted it clearly in his vision—taller than the others he had seen, with a sleeker build and longer limbs. It moved with the confidence of a scout. A sentinel.
Waylon crouched slightly, his breathing shallow. [What the hell is that thing?]
The ant stopped suddenly, as if sensing him. Its antennae twitched rapidly, and its head jerked toward his direction. The white light from its forehead flickered, then brightened slightly. It let out a sharp screech—a piercing, bone-rattling sound that echoed violently through the tunnel.
Waylon didn't hesitate.
He sprinted forward, closing the distance in a blur of motion. The creature reared up, legs flaring wide in alarm, but it was too late. As Waylon approached, time seemed to slow—just slightly.
He saw every detail now. The twitch in the creature's foreleg. The tilt of its mandibles. The white light casting long shadows behind it. And then, the moment it lunged forward.
But Waylon was already moving.
He pivoted his body with practiced grace, shifting just enough to let the ant's strike pass harmlessly beside him. The wind from its movement brushed his shoulder.
In that same instant, he twisted his hips, raised the blade, and brought it down in a single, fluid motion. The mantis scythe hissed through the air with frightening precision.
The creature's head parted cleanly from its neck, falling to the floor with a wet thud as its body collapsed behind it, twitching once before going still.
Waylon stood in silence, blade held low, heart pounding in the quiet aftermath. His breath came heavy, but steady. Blood—thick and dark—pooled around the ant's severed neck, glistening like tar beneath the soft white glow of the fading light.
He blinked once, then exhaled. "Damn…"
He looked down at the blade, its curved edge coated lightly with black ichor, still gleaming. He hadn't even thought—his body had just moved. Reacted. Like it knew what to do.
He turned toward the fallen creature, crouching down
slowly, eyes fixed on the severed head of the ant-like creature. The faint, ghostly-white glow still shimmered from its forehead, casting pale reflections across the stone beneath it. A cold curiosity crept over him—this wasn't natural. Not for an insect. Not like anything he'd seen before.
He reached out cautiously, fingertips brushing over the surface of the creature's skull. As expected, his hand met the hard, smooth exoskeleton—unbroken, unmarred, perfectly intact despite the creature's decapitation. Still, the light glowed as if it were shining from inside.
He narrowed his eyes. "How the hell am I even seeing that?" he murmured, glancing around. The glow wasn't a reflection—it was emanating through the dense chitin, clearly visible even from the underside. No matter the angle, the light remained as bright and unyielding as before.
Kneeling lower, Waylon lifted his foot and nudged the head with a firm kick, rolling it over once… then twice. Still, the glow shone steadily from within, unaffected by position or orientation. The light didn't flicker or waver—it simply was, constant and deliberate.
He frowned, heart beating a little faster. [That means it's coming from inside. Something internal. But how can I see it through bone?]
His mind raced for answers, but his body had already made a decision. Gripping the mantis blade tightly, he positioned the edge along the top of the skull, where the glow seemed strongest. "Sorry, buddy," he muttered. "I need to know what's inside you."
With a swift downward chop, the blade cleaved into the exoskeleton, splitting the head cleanly in two with a wet crack. Dark blood and viscous brain matter spilled out, pooling messily onto the ground, the smell instantly turning his stomach.
Waylon recoiled slightly, gagging at the stench, but forced himself to lean in closer. The glow was still there, buried deep in the mess of tissue and gore. Disgust twisting in his gut, he reached into the ruined cavity and fumbled blindly through the muck.
His fingers brushed something hard—smooth and cool, unlike the rest of the pulpy material. Gripping it tightly, he pulled it free, immediately wiping it off on the hem of his shirt as best he could.
The gore came away in thick clumps, but as he scrubbed, what emerged beneath was unexpected—a small, pale-white crystal. Oval-shaped and roughly the size of his thumb, it pulsed softly with that same ghostly light he'd seen earlier. The glow wasn't bright, but steady, unwavering, and unmistakably alive.
Waylon stared, wide-eyed, turning it over in his palm. The surface was flawless—smooth like polished glass, yet warm to the touch. [What is this?] he thought, examining it from every angle.
More baffling still was the fact that he'd seen it before he retrieved it, buried inside the creature's head, beneath solid chitin. That shouldn't have been possible. There was no reason light should have passed through the skull—especially not from something this faint.
"Why could I see this?" he muttered aloud. "How…?"
No answer came. Just the silent pulse of the crystal, like a heartbeat captured in stone.
He turned the gem again in his hand, mesmerized. Something about it felt wrong—not in a dangerous way, but unnatural. Unfamiliar. Yet at the same time, it was fascinating. There was power here. Maybe information. Maybe use.
But the moment was cut short.
A sharp chatter echoed down the tunnel—the exact same sound the ant had made before it lunged. Only this time… there were more of them. Many more.
Waylon's breath hitched in his throat. He turned sharply, staring down the tunnel from where he'd come. His golden eyes adjusted immediately to the dark—and what he saw made his stomach lurch.
Dozens of small lights—white, cold, and identical to the one that had guided the scout—began to appear in the distance, bobbing and weaving as they approached. First three… then seven… then twelve. Too many to count clearly.
Each one was a warning. Each light meant another ant.
Waylon's heart began to pound, the quiet hum of the crystal in his palm now dwarfed by the rising threat. [They're coming… and they're not alone.]
He backed up slowly, careful not to make a sound. The lights continued their advance, methodical and hungry, like a silent wave of approaching death. He glanced down at the crystal in his hand, then clenched his fingers tightly around it.
"I don't know what you are," he whispered, eyes fixed ahead, "but I'm not dying with you in my hand."
He spun on his heel and sprinted back up the tunnel, heart thundering, blade in one hand and the glowing gem in the other. Behind him, the chittering sounds grew louder, like the grinding of dry bone and stone, filling the passage with their unholy chorus.
The exit was close—he could feel it in the air. But the ants were closer now, and gaining with every second.
Whatever that crystal was, whatever strange light pulsed from within it, it had just painted a target on his back.
And now, he had to run.