Chapter 50: Ghoul
We linger.
The moonlight here is strong. Steady. I can feel it soaking into my core, replenishing my Lunar Ascension little by little with every breath. It's not fast—but it's real. That quiet pull, like the lake itself, is knitting me back together from the inside out.
So I stay.
Tessa sits nearby, head resting on her paws, tail flicking lazily as she keeps watch.
And him.
That thing—the fleshling—still follows.
At first, it stayed a few paces back, muttering to itself. But now it's crouched at the edge of the lake, watching its own reflection, occasionally throwing rocks at the water and giggling when the ripples hit it back.
Honestly?
…I don't think it's that bad.
It's unnerving. Creepy. But also… unpredictable. Dangerous in a way you'd rather have on your side than against you. Something about the way he moves—like gravity doesn't quite work on him—makes it clear that if he wanted to hurt us, it would already have happened.
So I let him trail. For now.
But then that feeling returns. The heartache. Faint but still there, clawing at the edges of my ribs.
Except this time… It's softer.
Wearing down.
The ache doesn't cut as deep as before, and that unsettles me even more. Like it's fading on its own but leaving a bigger question behind.
Why does he—why does this thing—feel so familiar?
And why does every second I stand in this moonlight make that question louder?
Well.
It's not like everything in this world hasn't been a mystery from the second I woke up here.
I mean—really. A dungeon that eats people alive. Moonlight lakes in the middle of a pit. My own body is turning into a spine-shooting death machine. Humans are hunting us for silk.
And now this thing.
It just… adds to the list.
Tessa glances at me, catching my expression, and smirks faintly. "What? Not used to weird yet?"
I snort. "Getting there. But it's a long damn list."
The fleshling tilts his head at me from the water's edge, his reflection still warped, then mumbles something about "shadows eating the moon" and flicks a pebble into the lake.
Yep. Just another mystery in a world full of them.
I guess I'll figure it out.
Or it'll kill me.
Whichever comes first.
While we're here — moonlight steady, no predators breathing down our necks — I figure it's as good a time as any to practice.
So I plant myself by the water, draw mana into my thorax, and aim at a jagged boulder on the other side of the lake.
"Arcane Blast."
It fires clean — a spiral of faintly glowing violet energy — and smashes against the stone with a loud crack. Bits of rock flake off, the surface scorched.
Not bad. But not great either.
The damage? Mediocre at best. The mana it burns through? …Ridiculous. My reserves already feel it after just one shot.
I click my mandibles and mutter to myself. "So far the only thing I know is 'Arcane Blast,' and it's basically just an Arcane… blast. Real creative."
Behind me, the fleshling suddenly perks up, one bulbous eye locking on me as he straightens.
"Ohhhhh," he croons in that unsettling, singsong rhythm of his. "You spoke it! Arcane! Yes, yes, the basis of everything! The quiet hum! The first chord! The soup all flavors swim in!"
Tessa groans, ears flattening. "Here we go again…"
But he keeps going, his voice rising like a preacher and a lunatic at once:
"Arcane — the mother and the child, the cradle and the hammer! Everything else is just spice, spice, lovely spicy spice! But Arcane — pure! Basic! Boring, yes, but everything starts from there, doesn't it? Doesn't it?"
He giggles, spins in a half-circle, then plops down on the stone like he's delivered some great revelation.
I stare at him for a second.
"…So… you're saying it's the foundation."
His head snaps up and he beams. "Oh good! One of you has ears!"
Then he goes back to mumbling about soup and hammers under his breath.
Tessa sighs and mutters, "Why does he sound smarter when he's crazy than when he's quiet?"
I hold up a leg, signaling Tessa to hush, still watching the fleshling as he hums and rocks back and forth.
"Hold up, bestie," I say. "I… think he might actually be onto something."
Tessa raises a brow. "You think? He just compared Arcane to soup and hammers."
I ignore her and step a little closer to him, crouching so we're eye-level. Or… as eye-level as one can get with that warped spiky-caterpillar head and two mismatched eyes.
"You," I say. "You seem to know about magic. Don't you?"
He freezes, then slowly—slowly—turns both his horrifying eyes on me.
"Maaaagic," he drawls in this distorted, almost musical way, stretching the word into something alien.
Then he starts talking.
And it's… kind of brilliant.
"Replication," he says, claw tapping the ground. "You make what already is. Take. Copy. Rearrange. Stone becomes sword, water becomes dagger, air becomes shield—imitation of existence! Yessss!"
Another tap, this time a little harder.
"Manipulation," he continues, voice rising. "You change what exists. Shape it. Twist it. Take fire and bend it into rope, take wind and make it a spear—rewrite the rules of the thing! Beautiful! Blasphemous!"
Then he stops. His whole body stiffens for a second.
And his voice drops lower.
"Original… or Raw… as you just did…" His bulbous eye glints, and for a second the smile fades into something eerily serious. "It is the mother's breath. The unshaped. No pattern. No command. Just power. Dangerous. Hungry. Yours… if you survive it."
Then he shudders, the manic grin slapping back onto his face as he starts rocking and giggling again.
Tessa looks at me like I've grown a second head. "What. The. Hell. Did he just say?"
I exhale slowly, mandibles tight.
"…I think I actually understood most of that."
And that's somehow more unsettling than him.
I stare down at the surface of the stone in front of me, still faintly lit by the moonlight.
If I understood what he said — and that's a big if — then…
Replication is making something that already exists.
Manipulation is changing what already exists.
And Original is just… letting the raw mana do what it does.
I glance back at the fleshling. He's now stacking pebbles and whispering something about "the elegance of triangles." Not helpful. But his explanation lingers in my head.
Alright.
If I understood it right… Then this should work.
I focus. Imagine heat — the way it clings to skin, the way it warps the air, the way the stones sometimes feel after Tessa's paws have scorched them. Not fire exactly. Just… heat.
I let that image sit in my mind. Then I press my claw to the stone.
Nothing at first.
Then — a faint shimmer.
The surface beneath my claw warms. A wisp of steam curls up as tiny beads of moisture on the stone hiss away.
It's faint, sloppy, but real.
Tessa tilts her head, eyes wide. "Did you just…?"
I smirk faintly. "Looks like I did."
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The fleshling claps once without looking up from his pebbles. "Ah! The soup stirs!"
I pull my claw back, watching the faint steam rise off the rock.
"So… that's magic?" I murmur. "Feels… simple. But not."
Then I glance at Tessa. "Wait a second—how did you even make fire in the first place? If I'm over here imagining heat like an idiot, how did you just… do it?"
Tessa blinks, then shrugs. "I dunno. I just… think fire. And it pops out. Everything just gets hot and… happens."
I narrow my eyes. "That's it? You just think fire?"
"Yeah? What else am I supposed to think? Sandwiches?"
Before I can say anything snarky back, the fleshling suddenly lets out a sharp laugh and starts clapping his weird claws together, still facing his little pebble tower.
"Ohhh, there it is! The little secret they never tell you in the manuals written on leaves! Yes, yes—listen now!"
He spins in a slow circle, his ragged cloak flaring like a torn flag.
"The basis of magic," he proclaims, voice wobbling between a croak and a choir, "is talent! The soup of the soul! The match is already lit! A creature born of flame, of fire, will summon it without thought. Effortless! Because it is already inside them! Yes yes yes! Why struggle to pour water from a stone when you are already a river?"
He stops, head tilted so far sideways it's a miracle his neck doesn't snap.
"And you…" —he points one long, spiky claw at me— "…are not a river yet. But you could be. If you stop thinking like a rock."
Tessa snorts faintly. "Honestly… he's making more sense than I'm comfortable with."
I glare at her. "Don't encourage him."
The fleshling just keeps grinning.
"Alright," I mutter, pulling my claw back and watching the last bit of steam fade from the stone. "I think… I get it. How magic works. Somehow. Just needs practice. A lot of practice."
Tessa smirks at me like she's won something. I ignore her.
Instead, I glance back at him. The fleshling. Still perched by the water, now balancing a pebble on his claw and muttering something about "the tragic fate of lizards."
"Anyway," I say, louder this time, "who the hell is this thing? And how does he even know about magic?"
He freezes mid-pebble-stack, his neck turning unnaturally slow to look at me.
Then, his voice rises into a dramatic, uneven crescendo:
"Who am I?"
He spreads his mismatched arms wide, the jagged, twisted spines on his back rattling faintly.
"I… AM—"
Pause.
"…wait…"
His arms falter, his bulbous eye squints, and his whole body seems to shrink in on itself.
"Who am I?"
He blinks at me. Then at the lake. Then back at me.
"…oh. That's… hm. I… forgot."
His head tilts so far it's practically upside-down now, and he whispers faintly, almost to himself
"That's inconvenient."
Tessa groans behind me. "He's like a broken wind chime."
"Well," I say dryly, folding the map back into my silk wrap, "couldn't agree with you more, bestie."
Tessa snorts. "Finally. A little honesty."
I dust myself off, glance at the moonlight one last time, and nod toward the tunnel. "Anyway. Let's move out. I think I've recharged enough here."
Then my eyes cut back to the fleshling. He's just crouching there, staring at the water like it insulted him.
"You," I say. "You mentioned something earlier. About humans. Mind telling us what that's about?"
His head snaps toward me so fast it makes Tessa flinch.
"Or," I continue before he can spiral again, "at least lead us to it. Since you seem so in the know."
For a second he just… stares. His eyes blink out of sync. His mandibles twitch faintly.
Then he pops to his feet, muttering something under his breath — something about "red threads and iron mouths" — and starts shuffling into the nearest tunnel.
"Guess that's a yes," I sigh.
He doesn't stop talking as he leads us forward, his words slipping in and out of sense.
"The humans weave and weave, but the loom is cracked, and the shuttle screams. Yes. Yes, follow me. I'll show you where the shadows hum. Where they drink the stars and spit up blood. It's delightful. Horrible. Deliciously confusing. You'll love it."
Tessa leans close to me as we walk. "So… do you actually understand him now?"
"…Nope."
"Good. Thought I was the only one."
And so we follow him anyway. Because what's the worst that could happen?
We keep following him.
The fleshling moves with this strange, loping gait—half-stumble, half-glide—muttering riddles at the walls like they're old friends. His ragged silhouette seems to know exactly where he's going even though nothing about him inspires confidence.
The silver glow of the Lunerian Checkpoint fades behind us.
And then the path starts to change.
The air gets heavier. Colder. The faint blue shimmer of moonlight from before is gone now, swallowed by the black stone and narrowing walls.
Step by step, the tunnel swallows the light entirely.
And just like that—my sight is useless again.
Darkness presses in, thick enough that I can feel it. My spatial sense kicks in automatically, mapping the way ahead, but it's slower, fuzzier in this oppressive quiet.
Behind me, Tessa mutters, "Great. Back to blind and guessing."
Ahead, the fleshling hums a cheerful little tune, oblivious to the fact that the darkness here feels almost alive.
Of course, he'd feel at home in it.
Tessa pads closer to my side, her fur brushing mine as she mutters under her breath.
"I'll never get used to this."
Her voice is low, but I can hear the faint tremor under it. Not fear exactly—just that quiet discomfort that comes from walking into a place that clearly doesn't want you there.
"Yeah," I murmur back. "Can't say I blame you."
Ahead of us, that thing—the fleshling—just keeps walking like it owns the place. Like this suffocating black, this sticky silence, is his personal living room. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't even slow down. Just wanders deeper, still humming, still mumbling things about "iron veins" and "breathing stones."
And we?
We just follow him.
Crazy, right?
Following someone who's clinically insane, by choice.
But what else can we do?
There's a strange kind of gravity to him, the kind that makes you think—maybe, just maybe—he actually does know where he's going.
Or maybe we're just already too deep in to turn back now.
Then, suddenly—he stops.
No warning, no words—just stops dead and throws one twisted arm out to the side, gesturing wildly for us to halt.
We freeze behind him, and my senses flare.
Something's moving.
Ahead, in the dark, I feel it.
Humanoid… but wrong. The way it shuffles, the way it drags itself like its own body is a bad disguise. It reminds me of him, the fleshling—
—But this one feels heavier. Hungrier.
"Tessa," I whisper, "can you see it?"
She squints, her faint wolf-light barely catching the contours of the thing ahead.
"Barely," she murmurs. Then her voice catches—ears flattening as recognition creeps in.
"…Wait. I've seen one of those before."
Her eyes go wide.
"That's a… wait. THAT'S A GHOUL!"
I blink. "A ghoul? This is… my first time seeing one."
"Trust me," she mutters, her hackles rising. "You don't want to see more than one."
And before I can even ask what she means, the fleshling bolts.
He dashes ahead, limbs flailing but somehow eerily fast, screaming at the top of his lungs:
"ABOMINATION! ABOMINATION BORN OF MALICE AND SHAME, THE WRETCHED FRUIT OF SPITEFUL FINGERS, I SEE YOU—!"
His voice echoes through the black, bouncing off the walls as he barrels toward the ghoul without a shred of hesitation.
Tessa and I just… stare.
"…So," I murmur dryly, "do we… help him? Or just… let him do his thing?"
Tessa's eyes stay locked on the shape ahead, her body tense and low to the ground.
"Careful," she murmurs, her voice tight. "They're fast. Sharp. And creepy as hell."
"Yeah…" I mutter, eyes narrowing, "You've talked about these things before."
Her ears flick back as she watches it move — that jerky, gliding gait that doesn't seem to care about bones or balance.
"They don't just cut you," she adds. "They snatch. They're good at it. Like their whole body's a trap. And—"
"And?"
Her tail gives a faint lash, and she grimaces.
"They can stretch their mouths. Beyond their cheeks. Like… way beyond. Unhinge it.
"Oh. Cool," I say flatly. "So nightmare fuel. Excellent."
The ghoul finally lifts its head at the fleshling's screaming charge, and I can sense its jaw already beginning to split wider than it should.
Tessa mutters under her breath. "Told you."
And yet, the fleshling barrels on without pause, still shouting about malice and abominations like he's narrating his own funeral.
And then — they clash.
The ghoul lunges, its claws cutting through the dark like hooked scythes. The fleshling meets it head-on, one warped, spindly chicken claw snapping up to catch the strike mid-air.
For a second, the whole tunnel rings with that shrill, grating skreeeee—! of claws grinding against claws, sparks showering off as they push against each other.
I just stand there, watching, deadpan.
"…Ah yes," I mutter. "The timeless battle. Rotting death monster versus… poultry nightmare."
Tessa actually snorts despite herself, ears still pinned back.
"Yeah," she whispers. "Truly… a clash of titans."
The fleshling doesn't even notice us mocking him. He presses forward, talon scraping down the ghoul's arm with a shriek of metal-on-bone.
And the ghoul shrieks right back, mouth stretching wider and wider as their claws lock.
They clash.
The sound of it is sharp and ugly—claws scraping stone and each other in the dark.
The ghoul lunges with this horrifying grace — its movements wild but precise, like a starving dancer who never learned when to stop. Every strike is full of intent to maim, every step unpredictable.
But the fleshling meets it head-on.
His warped, chicken-taloned arm catches the ghoul's blow mid-air, sparks scraping off where they connect. His movements aren't fast, not wild—just… structured. Like someone who learned the steps of a fight but forgot why they matter. His defense is tight, blocking more than striking, but he doesn't let it through.
Claw meets claw. Chicken horror meets nightmare fuel.
And honestly… It's kind of ridiculous to watch.
I lean a little closer to Tessa and mutter, "Looks like someone threw a butcher shop and a petting zoo into a blender and hit combat mode."
Tessa snorts faintly, though her ears stay pinned back. "You're awful."
"Yeah. And yet still more dignified than them."
Ahead, the two abominations keep tearing into each other, and somehow neither seems inclined to lose just yet.
The ghoul shifts its weight suddenly, its grotesque jaw slack and twitching as it dives low.
Fast. Faster than it has any right to be.
Its claws slice upward, aiming for the fleshling's underbelly—
And for the first time, he's too slow.
He stumbles half a step back, his chicken-taloned arm too far out of position to block—
But then—
He waves his other hand.
Not even precise — more like an impatient swat.
And suddenly a gust of wind roars out of nowhere.
It hits the ghoul square in the chest and launches it backwards like a sack of bones.
The thing flips mid-air, screeching, and slams into the far wall with a loud CRACK.
"…well," I murmur dryly, "guess someone figured out how to change the settings on their lunacy."
Tessa snorts beside me, her eyes still on the ghoul as it starts to crawl back up. "That… was actually impressive. In a creepy, confusing kind of way."
The fleshling just stands there, head tilted, as if he didn't just fling a nightmare across the room with the world's laziest spell.
The fleshling raises his claw, chest heaving faintly, and suddenly screams something utterly unhinged—but this time it's coherent enough to sting
"PRIMORDIAL MAGIC! THE FIRST BLOOD IN THE RIVER!"
The words echo through the chamber like a curse.
Then—shhk-shhk-shhk!—violet spear-shaped projectiles manifest around him and hurtle toward the ghoul just as it's scrambling back to its feet.
The first spear slams into the wall near its head, spraying rock dust into the air. Another hits closer. Then another.
By the time the dust settles… the ghoul is gone.
I narrow my eyes. "Wait. Where—"
It takes a second. My senses flare, stretching upward—
There.
On the ceiling.
The ghoul clings there like some kind of nightmare spider, limbs splayed, its mouth still stretching wider than it should, dripping.
And before I can even warn him, it lunges from above—straight for the fleshling, who—for the first time—actually looks surprised.
But not on my watch.
My spines flex and fire without hesitation.
shhhk—shhk—shhk!
A volley of Arcane Spines arcs upward in a clean spread, catching the ghoul mid-pounce.
The projectiles rip through its shoulder and thigh, spraying black ichor as it lets out a distorted shriek.
"Stay down, ugly," I mutter, already loading another volley.
The ghoul screeches as my spines cut into it, its body twisting in midair and slamming back against the stone wall.
It clings there for a second, twitching, that grotesque mouth snapping at nothing.
The fleshling tilts his head up at it, rubbing his jaw with the tip of one claw, completely unbothered by the fact that it almost tore him in half.
Then he just says—almost impressed, in that strange, sing-song way of his
"Ohhh… ceiling. Crafty. Very crafty. Clever little meat-clock, ticking upside-down. Gravity is just a suggestion, isn't it? Yes yes, I see now."
He gestures vaguely toward the ghoul like it's just a mildly intriguing stain, muttering, "Always forgetting to check above, always forgetting the sky has teeth too…"
Tessa groans under her breath beside me. "Why does he even sound like he's cheering for it?"
I just snort, spines already flexing again.
"Let him have his little monologue," I mutter. "I'm finishing this."
I don't wait for the fleshling to finish whatever poetic nonsense he's spinning about ceilings and teeth.
I flex my body, feel the hum of mana coil down my spines, and fire.
A full volley.
They streak through the dark, cutting a clean arc upward and burying themselves straight into the ghoul's chest and neck.
It lets out one last wet, rattling shriek—then loses its grip.
The body slams down hard onto the stone floor below, twitching once before going still.
Quiet.
The kind of quiet that says it's done.
Tessa exhales sharply, the tension finally leaving her shoulders.
The fleshling just claps once, softly, muttering something about "threads cut clean, the meat-clock stops."
I straighten, shake the dust from my carapace, and mutter
"Good riddance."
End of Chapter 50