The Sovereign-V2: C45: Split at the Ribs

The Sovereign-V2: C45: Split at the Ribs

The deafening, bone jarring
CRUNCH
of the obsidian door slamming shut still vibrates in the marrow of their bones. Absolute, suffocating silence crashes down, heavier than the mountain above them. Only the frantic, irregular
thud thud thud
of the ward stone in Shiro’s white knuckled grip and the high pitched, teeth grinding whine from Corvin’s silver ring pierce the void. The chamber, vast and hungry moments before, now feels like a colossal stone lung holding its breath.
The silence didn’t last. It shattered under the frantic hammering of Shiro’s fist against the seamless obsidian expanse where the door had been.
Thud. Thud. THUD.
Each blow was swallowed by the immense slab, the sound flat, dead, hopeless against the wards that now blazed with a deep, bruised violet light, pulsing slow and malevolent like a diseased heart. The intricate symbols seemed to writhe under his knuckles, drinking the impact.
"Open, you bastard!
OPEN!
" Shiro snarled, the desperation sharpening his usually controlled voice into a ragged edge. He slammed his shoulder against the cold, unyielding surface next, a grunt of pain escaping him. It was like throwing himself against the mountain itself. The ward stone flared weakly in his other hand, its crimson pulse stuttering, painting his strained face in bloody flashes. The air tasted like licked copper and wet soil from a freshly dug grave, thick with the sharp tang of ozone that stung the nostrils. The cold wasn't just stealing warmth now; it was actively
gnawing
, sinking needle teeth deep into muscle and bone.
Kuro didn't waste breath on pleas. He scanned the chamber perimeter, his hand tight on his sword hilt, knuckles stark white against the worn leather. His eyes, narrowed to slits, darted across the walls where the ancient runes still glowed with their sickly, bilious yellow light. It wasn't illumination; it was contamination, painting the impossible scale of the cavern in shades of jaundice and decay. Stalactites hung like the fangs of some primordial beast, lost in the gloom above. The floor, slick with unseen moisture, reflected the diseased light in fractured, unsettling patterns. "Fucking wards," Kuro growled, the profanity a low, vicious rumble in his chest. "Solidified shadow and spite. No brute force cracking that shit." He kicked a loose chunk of rock towards the door. It skittered harmlessly across the slick floor, the sound unnervingly loud in the oppressive quiet, swallowed seconds later.
Corvin hadn't moved from where the violet backlash had thrown him back. He stood rigid, a statue carved from tension and shadow. His gaze wasn't fixed on the sealed exit or his companions, but seemed to pierce the oppressive darkness
around
them, listening to something beyond human hearing. His silver ring vibrated on his finger, the high pitched whine deepening into a subsonic thrum that resonated in Shiro’s molars and set Kuro’s teeth on edge. It wasn't just sound; it was a physical pressure, a warning screamed directly into the nervous system.
"The door's gone, Shiro," Corvin stated, his voice unnervingly calm, a dry whisper that somehow cut through the frantic energy. "Sealed tighter than a miser’s purse… or a tomb." He tilted his head, his pale eyes reflecting the dying rune light like chips of cold glass. "The path splits. Not just stone corridors. Choice’s bleed into the air here. The shadows… they whisper. Can you hear them? Not just Akuma’s trap closing." He paused, the ring’s whine spiking painfully. "It’s
alive
. And it knows its prey is cornered."
Drip.
The sound echoed, solitary and obscenely loud. Heavy. Thick. Like congealing blood hitting stone from a height.
Drip.
Shiro whirled from the door, his breath pluming violently in the freezing air. His eyes, wide and bloodshot in the ghastly light, scanned the vaulted darkness above. "Where is that coming from?" His voice cracked. "Kuro?"
Drip.
"Every fucking where and nowhere," Kuro rasped, his own gaze sweeping the perimeter. The diseased yellow runes seemed to pulse slightly in time with the drips now. He drew his sword slowly, the rasp of steel unnaturally loud. The blade caught the dim light, a sliver of cold defiance against the consuming dark. "Feels like we’re standing in the gullet of something big and fucking
hungry
."
The chamber walls
shuddered
. Not like an earthquake, but with a slow, viscous,
organic
rippling. Like the flank of a slumbering leviathan stirring. Dust and small fragments of rock pattered down. The runes flared violently, their bilious yellow light strobing, casting grotesque, leaping shadows that seemed to claw at the air. For a fractured, terrifying second, the sheer scale of the trap was revealed: walls that curved inwards like ossified ribs, the ceiling lost in a blackness deeper than any night, slick surfaces that glistened wetly, reflecting the sickly light. It wasn't just a chamber; it was an
innard
.
"Fuck Me," Shiro breathed, the profanity slipping out, laced with raw horror. He backed away from the wall, pressing his shoulders against the cold obsidian door as if it offered any sanctuary. The ward stone pulsed erratically in his hand, its crimson light weak, frantic, a dying ember against the overwhelming decay. The
drip drip drip
accelerated, a macabre drumbeat echoing from multiple points now, above, to the left, somewhere deep in the shadows to the right. Getting closer. Hungrier.
"Alive," Corvin murmured again, his voice barely audible over the ring’s escalating whine and the accelerating drips. He didn’t look afraid; he looked… resigned. And deeply focused. "The mountain’s heart isn’t just stone and ley lines. It’s dreaming. And its dreams are dark."
Kuro planted his feet, sword held ready, a snarl twisting his face. "Dreams can bleed, old man. Let it fucking try." He spat on the slick floor. The spittle sizzled faintly for a second before freezing. The cold was intensifying, frosting their breath instantly, forming rime on their clothes and hair. The air itself felt viscous, hard to draw into burning lungs.
The walls rippled again, a longer, more pronounced undulation. The runes flared one last time, a final, gasping eruption of that corpse light green, painting their faces in spectral, ghastly hues, Shiro’s pale with terror and determination, Kuro’s a mask of feral defiance, Corvin’s unnervingly serene yet etched with ancient knowledge. The light died abruptly, plunging them into near total darkness, save for the weak, frantic flutter of the ward stone and the faint, residual glow of the malevolent violet wards on the door.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; any instances of this story on Amazon.
The
drip drip drip
became a constant patter, a downpour of unseen ichor. The subsonic thrum from Corvin’s ring merged with a new sound, a low, grinding groan that seemed to come from the very rock around them, vibrating up through the soles of their boots. The scent of grave dirt intensified, mixed now with something older, fouler… the musk of something vast and slumbering for eons, beginning to rouse.
Shiro pressed the ward stone hard against his chest, feeling its weak, irregular pulse sync with his own racing heart. The path to Aki felt agonizingly close, just beyond this impossible barrier, yet receding with every laboured breath in this freezing, living tomb. The danger wasn't just growing. It was coalescing, breathing down their necks from the all encompassing dark. The mountain wasn't just a place anymore. It was the enemy, ancient and awake and
hungry
.
The ward stone pulsed once, twice, a feeble counterpoint to the growing cacophony of dripping and grinding stone. Then, a final, distinct thump vibrated against Shiro’s palm, weaker than the last, yet carrying an undeniable weight of finality.
Seventeen
The silence after the rune light died was a suffocating shroud. Only the ward stone’s frantic, dying sputter cast any illumination, painting Shiro’s knuckles bone white and etching deep, leaping shadows across Kuro’s furious face and Corvin’s unnervingly still form. The air was a physical weight, thick with the stench of ozone, grave dirt, and the terrifyingly organic
drip drip drip
that seemed to echo from the very walls themselves. The cold sank teeth deep, frosting breath, numbing exposed skin, making every movement feel sluggish, like wading through freezing tar. The mountain’s monstrous heartbeat vibrated through the soles of their boots, a slow, deep, relentless
thrum
felt more than heard.
Then, the darkness
shifted
.
Behind them, relative to the sealed obsidian door, the chamber wall seemed to…
breathe
. Stone groaned, a low, wet sound, and three jagged fissures tore open, widening with unnerving speed into arched passages. Light spilled out, not a welcome beacon, but a sickly, bilious yellow that pulsed from runes etched within the passages throats. It was the light of infection, of festering wounds, casting the vast chamber in a new, grotesque tableau. The yellow glow illuminated the dusty floor near the newly formed nexus point, revealing it wasn't smooth rock. Faint, intersecting lines were carved into the grit, converging precisely where they now stood, a crude, dark map sketched in ancient dust and shadow, its purpose inscrutable but undeniably deliberate.
The
drip drip drip
intensified, seeming to emanate from all three glowing maws simultaneously now, a rhythmic counterpoint to the mountain’s deeper thrum. It was closer, wetter, heavier. Like fat drops of congealed ichor hitting stone.
Shiro stared at the three identical passages, each a gullet leading into deeper, unknown horror. The pull towards Aki was a physical ache in his chest, a compass needle vibrating wildly down one of these paths. But the trap was undeniable. The living mountain, Akuma’s malice, it had anticipated them, herded them to this choice. Splitting up felt like walking willingly into a spider’s parlour. Staying together felt like waiting for the crushing weight of the tomb to settle. The ward stone pulsed erratically against his palm, a frantic bird trapped against his ribs. Time wasn't slipping; it was haemorrhaging.
"They knew," Shiro rasped, his voice raw from the cold and fear. He gestured sharply at the passages, then down at the disturbing map scored into the floor. "Akuma. This fucking mountain. They
knew
we’d be desperate. They
want
us separated." He forced steel into his voice, the profanity a brittle shield against the terror coiling in his gut. "We need to split up. Cover more ground. One of these… one of these
has
to lead deeper. Towards the Spire. Towards Aki. It’s the only fucking chance we have." The words tasted like ash.
Kuro whirled on him, his face a mask of incredulous fury in the jaundiced light. "Split up? In this fucking slaughterhouse? Have you lost your gods damned mind, Shiro?" He slammed the pommel of his drawn sword against his thigh, the
thunk
echoing dully. "We lose sight of each other in this pit, we’re dead meat. Worse than dead. We stick together. Watch each other’s backs. Whatever nightmare shit is waiting down those holes…" He jerked his head towards the dripping darkness of the passages. "…it’ll pick us apart one by fucking one if we’re alone."
Corvin had drifted silently to the convergence point of the dusty lines. He knelt, not touching the floor, but his hand hovered inches above the crude carving, the silver ring on his finger vibrating with a low, resonant
thrum
. It wasn't the painful whine from before; this was deeper, more unsettling, like the plucked string of a colossal, buried instrument tuned to the mountain’s own monstrous frequency. The bilious light deepened the hollows of his cheeks, making him resemble an effigy carved from bone and shadow. His eyes, reflecting the diseased yellow glow, were fixed on something unseen within the central passage.
"The shadows whisper," Corvin murmured, his voice flat yet carrying an unnatural weight that silenced Kuro’s next protest. "The paths are narrow. Knotted. They coil like the entrails of the earth." He tilted his head, a bird listening for a worm beneath the soil, but his focus was inward, on the vibrations only he perceived. "Choice is the trap’s sweetest poison. Yet choose we must." He finally lifted his gaze, not to his companions, but down the throat of the middle passage. His expression offered no comfort, only the reflection of decay. "The labyrinth’s core… pulses… differently within each vein."
Shiro met Kuro’s blazing eyes. The fear was a shared current, a cold wire connecting them beneath the fury and desperation. He saw the raw protectiveness warring with the grim understanding in Kuro’s gaze. The unspoken truth hung heavier than the mountain’s weight: Aki was dying. The ward stone’s weakening pulse against Shiro’s skin was a relentless metronome counting down to zero.
Thud… thud…
Slower now, but terrifyingly final. Splitting up was madness. Staying together meant condemning Aki. The carved lines on the floor seemed to throb faintly in sync with the stone’s crimson flicker.
The decision was a shard of ice driven into Shiro’s heart. He gave a single, sharp nod. "Left," he stated, his voice stripped bare, leaving only resolve. He took a decisive step towards the left hand passage. The jaundiced light washed over him, swallowing the ward stone’s feeble crimson glow. "Shout if you find
anything
. If you find
her
."
Kuro held Shiro’s gaze for a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity. The anger didn’t vanish, but it banked, replaced by a terrifying, granite hard determination. He understood the brutal calculus. "Right," he grunted, the word a vow carved in stone. He shifted his grip on his sword, the blade catching the sickly light with a dull, unhealthy sheen. "Don’t you dare do anything stupid, Shiro. Find Aki. Get her out. He turned, a broad silhouette against the pulsating yellow maw of the right hand passage, poised to be devoured by the gloom.
Corvin rose from his crouch with unsettling grace. Without a backward glance, without a word of acknowledgement, he simply stepped into the middle passage. The shadows within seemed to flow around him like living ink, absorbing his form almost instantly. The resonant thrum of his ring faded swiftly, swallowed by the passage’s depths.
No farewells. No reassurances. Only the crushing silence, the relentless, accelerating
drip drip drip
echoing from three dark throats, the bone deep cold, and the oppressive, pulsing yellow light that bled from the passages, staining the empty nexus point.
Shiro took one last, shuddering breath of the foul, freezing air, clutched the ward stone like a dying ember of hope, and plunged into the left passage. Kuro vanished into the right. The convergence point, marked by the crude, dark map, stood empty.
The ward stone pulsed once, a final, feeble flare of crimson in the lonely, jaundiced gloom of the forsaken chamber.
Thud.
Seven

.
!
V2: C45: Split at the Ribs