The chamber rumbled, stone dust pouring down, as staunch, fleshy vines whipped through the air, carving deep grooves across the cavern walls. Heavy stone fragments broke from the chamber walls. They crashed to the ground, scattering cutting shards as they shattered.
Havoc stood among the tumult, gripping his dislocated arm. Despite the apocalyptic sight of the spiked-shelled creature violently flailing, threatening to bring the cave crashing down upon his head, he sighed in relief. For the first time since crossing blades with the Abominable Spirit, he could see the path to victory.
The Spirit had threatened to possess him, declaring it would wear his skin like a second-hand cloak and assume ownership of his life. The thought of that fate quickened his pulse, surging anger and dread through his veins in equal measures. To be consumed in every sense—it was a fate worse than death. A fate he had narrowly escaped. But the Dungeon-Spawn, lashing at the chamber's centre, had not.
From what he understood, Dungeon-Spawn were not sentient. They had no complex thoughts, no hopes, no dreams—only raw, unrelenting instincts. That, at least, he could understand. He could still feel how his heart thrashed when the Abomination pinned him to the floor, and dove into his soul. The acerbic smack of impotent fury still coated his tongue—a bitter taste of near obliteration. But the Spawn had endured the full-course. Havoc could never be accused of being guileless— far from it. There were few things he truly believed in. Yet he trusted the fervid impulse the Abominable Spirit had provoked. The Dungeon-Spawn was no ally, but its fury was unmistakable. Its rage was a weapon pointed squarely at the Spirit—raw, mindless, and terrifyingly effective.
The stone-shelled monster gathered its vines, twisting them into a single, massive cord. An earth-shaking roar shook the air, vibrating through Havoc's aching frame. With a cacophonous blast, the thick trunk of interlocking vines crashed down. It burst the wall the Abominable Spirit had been hurled, carving a deep track through stone, hurtling debris as it pounded down to the ground. The cord retracted upward only to whip down again and again, forcing Havoc to shield his eyes, as a dense fog of pulverised rock flooded the cavern.
The corded tendrils raised another time, curving inward, ready to crash down once again, but as the tangled trunk descended, an ebony blur cut through the choaking grit, severing the bundled vines, which fell to the floor as though a marionette parted from strings.
From which orifice or organ, Havoc could not say, but the Dungeon-Spawn screeched a piercing noise, as emerald ichor spurt from its cleaved tendrils. It fleshy tendrils span in the air as they unravelled and retreated beneath its barbed shell.
Within the thinning haze of rock dust, a figure emerged. Its features were shrouded, indistinct within the swirling debris, but its movements betrayed its state. A foot dragged lazily across the ground, its gait lurching with a strained limp. It bore the shape of a man, though not entirely whole. Where two arms should have hung below its shoulders, there was only one. Holes punctured its body, blank voids that the settling fog seemed to glide through without resistance, as though the figure existed only partially in the physical world.
As the fog thinned further, a satisfied smile carved its way across Havoc's face. The Abominable Spirit's miserable state was plain to see. To witness that once-invincible monster brought low—it was worth every drop of blood, worth its weight in gold.
Don't get ahead of yourself—it's still standing, Havoc warned himself. He bit the corner of his lip, forcing the smirk from his face and his expression back to a neutral mask.
The Abominable Spirit staggered free of the dust cloud and dropped to its knees. Cracks spread across its scabrous, scarlet skin—missing in places. White vapour seeped from its perforations, curling upward before dispersing into the cavern's dim air.
Save for the rustling of shifting stone from the shelled creature and Havoc's shallow, crackling breaths, the chamber hung in silence. Yet he knew the stillness would not last. The battle was not over—and there was work to do.
He turned to the wall and paused, resting his hand against the rough, impregnable surface. Each breath burned in his chest, his lungs searing with every draw. Bracing himself, he slammed his shoulder into the stone. A sickening crunch resounded, and air hissed through his gritted teeth as the joint snapped back into place. Pain flared, sharp and unrelenting, but Havoc flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulder beneath the blade, testing its mobility. It would have to do.
'You're a fool if you think this will stop me,' the Spirit growled, its featureless face tilting toward Havoc. The serrated halves of its maw ground together with a sickening scrape, and though it had no eyes, Havoc could feel its fury burning through him. Uneven and faltering, the Spirit forced itself to its feet, its body a trembling wreck of cracks and mist.
Before the Spirit could take a single step, the Dungeon-Spawn struck. Restored vines erupted from beneath its spiked shell, sweeping through the air in a relentless barrage. They carved indiscriminately, slicing through stone, each lash a blur of blind devestation.
Havoc and the Abomination were forced into a frenzied dance, dodging, rolling, ducking, and leaping to avoid the whips. One misplaced step would mean bloody evisceration. Even as Havoc hurled bladed shards of light toward the Spirit, he had to evade its vicious retaliations in kind.
Mimicking Spirit! Havoc snarled inwardly as he dove to the side, narrowly avoiding a pitch-black shard that whizzed past his head. He hit the ground hard but sprang up instantly, his body screaming in protest. A heartbeat later, a fleshy vine lashed the spot he'd just vacated, tearing the ground apart with a wet, nauseating crack.
Despite the vaulted-mania erupting across the vast cavern, Havoc saw the frantic struggle as more benefit than burden. As he had expected, the Dungeon-Spawn seemed indifferent to whether he survived or ended up splattered across the stone—a grotesque canvas of blood if its tendrils found him. Yet it doggedly pursued the Spirit.
Though the Abomination clearly sought to end him, the Dungeon-Spawn acted as a distraction it could not afford to ignore—the price was too great. Increasingly, the Spirit turned its focus on the shelled monster, shredding its vines, and piercing its spiked, ebony shell with a bombardment of shards of pitch-black light. But every time the Spirit turned its back to Havoc, he was ready, launching unremitting blades of light. Wasting none of his dwindling Harmony, each shard struck true. With his every assault, white mist poured from the spreading punctures he bore into the Spirit's cracked and crumbling flesh. Matching the Dungeon-Spawn's rhythm, Havoc leaped, dodged, rolled, and attacked, forcing his body to obey despite its protests.
And then, at last, silence descended upon the chamber.
Havoc's body screamed in protest, his lungs burning as he hunched over, resting his arms on his thighs. Every muscle trembled with exhaustion, yet he remained standing. The same could not be said for either the Spirit or the Spawn.
The fractured stone of Dungeon-Spawn crackled and popped, sparks flaring up from its shell. As its deterioration progressed, it did not crumble to bones as Havoc had anticipated. Instead, spread limp across the battle-scarred ground, its vines shrivelled, coiled, and contracted, tucking beneath its shell. Its spiked stone casing—stripped of its ebony sheen—faded to a softly glowing white—its radiant power primed for Havoc to consume.
He felt the energy radiating from the slain Spawn, a potent pull that tempted him to act. But he suppressed the urge, shoving it down as though stuffing tightly rolled sheets into an already strained pack.
Comprised more of vapour than flesh, the Abominable Spirit knelt, its remaining arm hanging broken and limp. As Havoc approached, it lifted its face toward him, extending the fractured limb. Its fingers grazed the frayed edges of Havoc's waistcoat before the arm snapped from its shoulder with a dry crunch, like brittle twigs. The shattered limb crumbled to sand, scattering below before disintegrating into nothing.
'You must be so proud of yourself,' the Spirit said, its voice a strained, spiteful groan.
Havoc gazed down at the wretched creature. When victory was at hand, he had predicted a surge of pity might wash over him, knowing what he was about to do. Yet among the tempestuous convolution of emotions he felt, there was no compassion. The Abominable Spirit had sought to absorb him—body and soul. No fate could be more fitting than for it to face that same end.
When the Spirit slipped free from its monstrous host, Havoc felt his Anchor react. It was drawn to the Abomination like patched lips to water.
In pale light, your captive Spirit grows, Havoc recalled, thinking back to the promise whispered by the Midnight Urn.
At the time, the meaning had eluded him. But now, as the Urn stirred within, rumbling like a starving man's gut before a feast, its purpose became all too clear.
'As a matter of fact, I am proud of myself,' Havoc replied, his tone flat, as if stating a fact entirely devoid of personal investment.
'Cheater!' the Spirit growled. 'You cheated! You cheated! You cheated!' it snarled, each word dripping with venom as patches crumbled from its fractured face. 'You could never have beaten me fairly!'
'You're right. I couldn't have,' Havoc replied, his tone calm, almost indifferent. 'You were stronger, faster, tougher. But I guess none of that mattered in the end, did it?' he added, his voice dripping with mockery.
'Cheater!' the Abomination repeated frantically, its voice strained, yet cracking with fervent ire.
'I guess it's time,' Havoc said, his tone eerily calm as he echoed the Spirit's own words—the same ones it had spoken when it pinned him down, ready to claim his soul. He paused, a soft chuckle escaping as he savoured the wretched creature's lamentations, before finishing the recitation: 'I'll so enjoy commanding you.'
With his final word spoken, Havoc stopped resisting the Midnight Urn's ravenous hunger. White mist erupted from every pore, surging toward the Abomination in a furious torrent, engulfing it entirely.
****
The hours that followed Havoc's victory were marked by both discovery and confusion. When crumbled stone tumbled from the ceiling, followed closely by Annalise, Naereah, Aaron, and Lucia, he could only stare in bewilderment—if only for a moment. Vigilance soon overtook him, and he moved to catch them before they struck the ground. As Inheritors, he doubted the fall would kill them. Still, in their frail, vein-bulged state, they already needed healing. There was no sense in stretching their limited resources any further than necessary.
Understandably, when his companions regained consciousness, they were in no mood to talk. Even Lucia's biting tongue held still as she guzzled two healing potions pulled from Naereah's large brown coffer before unravelling her bedding near a hastily constructed campfire.
Annalise had been in the worst shape of them all. Even after four potions, she tossed and turned within her bedroll, groaning and whimpering as she slept. From their first meeting, she had seemed less like a person and more a force of nature, so seeing her in such a feeble state was startling. It made sense, of course—Havoc could not begin to guess how long she had been vine-infested, encased in stone before they had met. Even for her, it must have been an onerous ordeal.
And yet, he did not fully trust her present infirmity. Annalise was unfathomably devious. Even if her head were struck from her shoulders and tossed into his arms, Havoc would still suspect her teachery.
As for his discoveries, three stood out. The first came after absorbing the glowing remains of the Dungeon-Spawn. When he drained the last of its power and its shell crumbled to dust, Havoc felt a phantom pull—a third link forming in his Spirit Chain.
If he had doubted reaching the third step of his Servant Inheritance, those doubts vanished with his second discovery. Moments after the Dungeon-Spawn's collapse, runes carved deep into the floor lit up. The ground trembled and split, unearthing the Flesh-Weave Needle. The pale, slender bone, etched with thin runes along its shaft, whispered into his mind, promising to remould his flesh like clay.
It was not the Remnant Havoc would have chosen. Even after binding it to his third link, he doubted he would find much use for it. Still, he was not about to refuse the Dungeon's generosity. And while the Needle's potential remained uncertain, his third discovery more than made up for it.
It happened when Naereah used her healing abilities. The Midnight Urn had stirred. After drinking a healing potion, his most dire wounds had closed, but the rest—his cuts and bruises—had been left to mend the slow way. That is, until he felt a cutting chill spread from his chest. It coursed through his veins, sharp and unnatural, sending shivers down his spine. When the chill subsided, something stranger took its place: a sensation both foreign and familiar, like seeing a reflection after years apart.
He tugged on that feeling, letting it flow through him. By instinct, he ran his hands over a raw, seeping laceration across his chest. Warmth surged from his palms, and the wound sealed shut.
The Abominable Spirit—that loathsome being. Its powers of mimicry were his to command.