Boundless Evolution: The Summoning Beast

They dug for what felt like an eternity, but the earth refused to yield. Every handful of stone they pried loose only brought more crashing down from above.

The air was thick with dust and despair—each breath scraped their throats raw, each cough echoed like a reminder of futility.

The muffled cries beneath the rubble dwindled one by one, until there was nothing left but the distant groan of shifting rock.

A soldier finally dropped his shovel with a clatter that echoed like a gunshot.

His voice cracked as he spoke, hoarse from dust and defeat, "Captain… there's nothing we can do."

The words hung in the air, sharp as a blade.

Voln froze mid-motion, the grit biting his palms. He turned slowly, disbelief etched across his soot-streaked face.

"What did you say?" he whispered, as if refusing to hear it.

But when his gaze fell upon the rubble again, the truth struck him harder than the blast ever could.

A limp arm jutted from beneath the stone—a familiar scar running along the forearm.

He knew that mark. Gods, he knew it.

"Wilbert…" he breathed, stumbling forward.

His hands clawed at the rocks with renewed frenzy, nails splitting, skin tearing as he pried them loose.

"Help me! Get this off him!" he shouted, voice breaking.

But the others hesitated, their faces pale and defeated.

"Captain—" one began, but Voln's snarl cut him short.

"Help him, damn you!" he roared, striking the stone until blood streaked across the rubble.

Yet the debris did not move. The stones shifted, but only to settle heavier.

Reality crashed into him at last. His arms trembled, his voice faltered. He pressed his forehead against the cold rock, breath shuddering.

The silence answered him with indifference.

One of the older soldiers, his voice trembling, finally broke it, "He's gone, Captain… they all are. We can't bring them back."

His words carried the weight of resignation, cutting through the dust-filled air like a slow dagger.

Voln looked up at him in disbelief, his eyes wide as though the man had uttered blasphemy.

His mind refused to accept it, even as the truth stared back at him from the rubble.

He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. His throat tightened, his chest heavy with denial.

The world seemed to shrink around him—the flickering light, the reek of dust and sweat, the weight of stone pressing in until even thought felt crushed.

His eyes darted across the rubble, desperate for something, anything to contradict the words still ringing in his ears.

Then he saw it—that single limb jutting out from the rubble, pale beneath the grime, the skin torn where the rock had split it open.

A scar, faint but unmistakable, curved along the forearm.

"Wilbert…" he whispered, the name spilling from his lips like a wound reopening.

The sound of it broke something inside him.

The soldier's laugh, his constant grin in the face of death—gone. Buried under the same ground they had sworn to tame.

"No… no, he's right here," Voln said suddenly, his voice rising as he scrambled forward, hands clawing at the stone. His nails cracked, blood smeared across the rock, "He's right here! Help me get him out!"

The others exchanged silent glances—faces caught between pity and terror.

The older soldier stepped forward, shaking his head, "Captain… he's gone. We can't—"

"Don't you say that!" Voln roared, his voice a snarl. He tore at the debris, shoulder muscles straining, veins standing out across his neck.

"He was laughing just this morning! He was—he—"

His words broke off, lost beneath a strangled sound of pain as another slab shifted and crushed his hand against the stone.

He pulled it free, bleeding, trembling—but still he reached again.

The world narrowed to the sound of his own breathing, the sting of blood, and the cold, unyielding weight of the earth refusing him.

Finally, his strength gave out.

His hands fell limp against the rubble, and he pressed his forehead against the stone.

"Please," he whispered, voice cracking, "Please, not him…"

But the ravine gave no answer. The silence was merciless, deeper than grief, its weight immovable.

Behind him, the older soldier spoke softly, almost reverently, "He's gone, Captain… they all are. We can't save them."

Voln lifted his head slowly, turning to the man. His eyes were wide and hollow, disbelief carving lines deeper than age ever could.

"No," he said, his voice hollow, "No, they were my men. My responsibility."

He stared at the soldier's face, searching for hesitation, for even a flicker of hope—but found none. Just tired resignation.

The air seemed to thicken, pressing against him until he could barely breathe.

He looked back down at the hand—at Wilbert's hand—and something inside him shattered. His breath turned ragged, his face twisted not in sorrow but in something far darker.

His fists clenched. The veins in his neck bulged.

When he stood, the motion was violent, raw—his boots grinding against the rubble as the torchlight caught his blood-smeared armor.

"Damn this cursed place," he growled. The words came out low at first, then louder, echoing through the cavern until the walls seemed to recoil, "Damn that commander! Damn this mission!"

His fury exploded outward—a storm breaking free of the restraint he had worn like armor,

"They trusted me! And this—this is what the gods give in return?"

He struck the wall, the blow sending a dull echo through the rock, "Why won't this hell end!"

The soldiers flinched at his rage, their captain unmade before their eyes. For a moment, he wasn't the man who led them—he was another victim of the ravine's cruelty, lost in his own despair.

Captain Voln paused, his expression hardening into something colder, more deliberate.

"This wasn't an accident," he muttered darkly, the bitterness in his tone cutting through the silence, "That commander—he sent us here blind. And those foreign spies he protects, the ones from outside our borders, they led us into this."

A stunned silence lingered, broken only by the soft crumble of falling dust.

Then one of the younger soldiers, voice uncertain, stepped forward, "Captain… are you… are you all right, sir?"

Voln's head turned slowly toward him, eyes wild with something between grief and fury. The flickering torchlight caught in his irises, reflecting a blaze that made the boy take a step back.

For a long heartbeat, no one breathed.

Then, slowly, something in Voln shifted. His shoulders lowered, his expression shuttered. The storm in his eyes dimmed—but it didn't fade.

His chest still heaved, his face still burned, but when his voice came again it was quieter, colder. The rage hadn't vanished; it had crystallized into something sharper, focused.

He drew a breath that trembled but steadied at the end.

"I'm fine," he said softly, though the words carried an edge that made it sound more like an order than reassurance. He turned to his men, his eyes hard as forged steel.

But some of the soldiers hesitated.

One of the older veterans exchanged a glance with another, whispering, "He's not himself… that anger's driving him blind."

A younger soldier frowned, gripping his weapon tighter, "He's lost too much to stay calm. But if we question him now…"

The murmur died as Voln's gaze swept over them, a warning without words. Still, doubt lingered behind their eyes as they followed him into the dark, wondering if their captain's rage would lead them to vengeance—or ruin.

"We move —" he said, the words measured, stripped of all warmth, "We carry their deaths with us… Their sacrifice will only mean something if we live long enough to finish what we came here for."

Voln turned to face him, his expression unreadable in the flickering half-light. "They knew the risks," he said quietly, "We all did. I am going to make sure they all pay."

Far across the ravine, beneath the jagged ridge and the collapsed entrance of the cave, Bennet and Kieran moved like shadows through the half-light.

The glow of the oil lamps bled across the slick rock, casting rippling reflections that made the walls seem alive.

The air was thick—acrid with oil, smoke, and sweat—every breath tasting of burnt resin. Every sound mattered. Every step could give them away.

Kieran crouched near the tunnel mouth, fingers tracing the network of fuse cords they had strung like veins through the passage. The faint sheen of oil along them shimmered with menace.

"They're close," he murmured, his voice nearly lost in the hum of the cavern, "You feel that? The ground's trembling. They must have triggered the cave entrance trap."

Bennet's eyes narrowed. He knelt beside a flask, checking the line for kinks, the motion slow and practiced, "Good. Let them come. The tunnels will herd them in. Once they reach the core chamber, they'll have nowhere left to run."

The ridge gave a low groan, rock grinding on rock. A faint echo—shouts, muffled but distinct—filtered through the cave.

Kieran looked up sharply, sensing the voices travelling faster than he had thought.

"They've breached the outer section and it seems they are angry," he said, drawing the flint striker from his belt, the metal catching faint light, "It's time."

Bennet's hand shot out, stopping him.

His tone was steady, but steel edged his whisper, "Not yet. Let them fill the chamber. We want their weight to trigger the cave's own breath."

Kieran's mouth curved into a tired grin, "Still giving orders, Governor?"

Bennet gave the ghost of a smile in return, "Someone has to."

They waited—still as statues—listening to the growing cadence of boots and armour. The sound crawled closer, multiplied, echoing through the rock like the slow toll of a war drum. The vibration crept through the soles of their boots, into their bones.

Bennet's hand hovered over the fuse. The stone pulsed faintly beneath his touch, alive with heat.

"Now."

Kieran struck the flint. Sparks leapt like fireflies, kissing the oiled cords.

In an instant, the flame raced outward, twisting along the walls, a river of light sprinting into the dark. The air changed—pulled taut, electric.