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Riddlest
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I wake on impact.
The first thing I feel is pain.
Sharp, agonizing pain, lancing up my legs like fire.
A sickening crack splinters through my bones as I hit the ground, the force rattling through me like a snapped wire. The breath is ripped from my lungs, my body folding against itself as I skid through burning-hot sand, my broken legs twisting wrong.
I don't scream.
I don't have the air to scream.
I just exist in the pain, my body writhing against itself, my mind struggling to catch up with reality.
I don't know how long I lay there.
Seconds. Minutes.
Long enough for the world to settle around me.
Long enough for the pain to become real.
It's bright. Too bright. The sky overhead is searing, empty and endless, the sun beating down like an executioner's blade. There's nothing but sand, stretching far and wide, an ocean of dull, shifting gold.
My breath shudders out of me in weak, ragged bursts. My body hurts in a way that doesn't feel fixable.
But something is wrong.
I can't move.
Not just because of the pain—though that would be enough—but because my body is sinking.
The realization hits me too late.
The sand around me is shifting, pulling, dragging.
A sinkhole.
A slow, merciless descent into the earth, swallowing me inch by inch.
My chest tightens. Panic flickers at the edges of my mind, creeping in like a whisper.
No.
No, no, no, no—
I try to move, try to shift, try to crawl, but my legs are useless.
My magic—
I reach for it, but it slips through my mind like water through broken fingers. The pain—the pain—it's too much, my focus splintering apart, my ability to grasp my own power severed by the agony radiating through my body.
I can't breathe.
The sand rises past my chest, past my shoulders.
I struggle, but it only pulls me down faster.
I try to speak, but my throat is dry, my voice shredded from the impact.
I try to think, but my mind is clouded, dizzy, unable to string together anything that will save me.
I try to do anything—
But I sink.
The sand swallows my neck.
My mouth.
My eyes.
Darkness.
Thick, heavy, suffocating.
The weight of the sand presses in from all sides, coarse grains grinding against my fur, forcing themselves into my mouth, my nose, my eyes. My lungs burn, my body screams, and my mind—
My mind is fraying.
I reach for my magic again, but it slips through my grasp, slipping through the cracks of my fractured concentration. The pain is overwhelming, drowning out my focus, making it impossible to think.
This is it.
This is how I die.
Buried. Crushed. Alone.
A forgotten thing, swallowed by the desert.
I refuse.
With the last shred of my will, I force my magic outward—not as a shield, not as a grand spell, but as the simplest, most desperate thing I can manage.
Push.
The sand resists. It fights me, pressing, collapsing in from all sides.
But I push back.
It takes everything I have left. The sheer pain of it makes my head spin, my skull feel like it's fracturing under the pressure of my own magic. But I keep going, gritting my teeth as I carve out the smallest, barest pocket of space—
Just enough to keep my head fron the suffocating weight.
Just enough to breathe.
The sand churns around me, pulling me deeper, deeper, dragging me down like I'm caught in the throat of a starving beast. My broken legs are useless, twisted in the wrong directions, sending white-hot agony through me with every slight movement.
I don't know how long I sink.
Minutes? Hours?
It feels endless.
The pressure builds, the air thick and stale. The deeper I go, the harder it becomes to hold the pocket open. My magic flickers, my focus fraying, exhaustion creeping in like a death sentence.
The crushing sunlight is gone, replaced by an eerie, absolute darkness. There's no sound, no wind, no movement—just the steady grind of shifting sand, an invisible force dragging me downward.
I feel like I'm falling.
Like I'm plummeting into the belly of the world.
And there's no bottom in sight.
I don't hit the bottom.
I spill into it.
The sand collapses beneath me, and suddenly, I'm falling, tumbling, rolling down a steep incline of shifting grains. The momentum tears at my broken legs, jolting the shattered bones with every sickening bounce. My body twists, limp and weightless, before slamming into solid ground.
Jagged rock.
A fresh wave of pain lances through me. My breath leaves in a choked, rasping gasp, sand filling my mouth and clinging to my fur.
I'm alive.
Somehow.
But I don't move.
I can't.
Not yet.
I just lay there, sprawled on my side at the foot of the sand pile, trembling, trying to breathe past the sheer agony of it all. My pulse thunders in my skull, and the heat—gods, the heat—presses in from all sides, thick and suffocating, like a living thing.
It's hot.
Not desert hot. Not sunburnt sand hot.
This is wrong.
I force my eyes open, blinking against the grit. My vision swims, unfocused and hazy, but the colors—
Deep, burning reds. Veins of molten rock pulse dimly in the distance, casting eerie, flickering light against the jagged cavern walls. Shadows stretch unnaturally, twisting against the uneven surfaces like something alive. The air is thick with the scent of sulfur, acrid and bitter against the back of my throat.
This isn't the Badlands.
Is this hell?
The land does not end. It just keeps going, stretching out into blackened rock and yawning chasms, into depths I can't even see.
I have no idea how far I fell.
No idea how deep this place goes.
But I know one thing for certain—
I'm not supposed to be here.
I lay there.
I don't move.
I don't think.
I just breathe. Shallow, ragged breaths that barely fill my lungs. Each inhale tastes like sulfur and scorched earth, burning my throat, making my chest ache.
The pain is unbearable.
My legs are ruined. Broken in ways that shouldn't be possible. I can't even tell which part of me hurts anymore, because it's all just one giant, throbbing wrongness.
I should give up.
Just lay here. Let this place take me.
I let the thought sit there for a while.
Maybe minutes. Maybe hours.
I don't want to move.
But I know I have to.
Slowly—carefully—I reach for my magic again.
It flickers at first, weak, unstable. Pain lances through my skull as I try to focus, my broken body rebelling against the very act of existing. The agony is too much, my mind too scattered.
I try again.
And again.
And on the fourth attempt, my horn sparks to life.
I exhale sharply, forcing my concentration forward, focusing not on my body, not on my pain, but on the ground beneath me.
I shift the intergranular bonds of the stone, manipulating the forces between them, weakening their cohesion just enough to cut.
A slab.
I carve out a thick, flat piece of stone, just large enough to support my midsection.
The first attempt is a failure—my magic sputters, the pain in my legs breaking my concentration, and the slab crumbles before I can even lift it.
I grit my teeth and try again.
The second attempt holds.
I breathe.
And then, with painful, deliberate effort, I shift my weight, sliding my torso onto the slab, dragging it under with shaky telekinesis.
The moment my broken legs leave the ground, the pain shifts—less sharp, more dull and distant. The relief is temporary, but it's enough.
I dangle my useless limbs off the edges, letting them hang there, limp and motionless.
I move.
Slowly.
The slab glides above the rocky floor, carrying me forward, bypassing my shattered legs entirely.
I can't move quickly.
It's not efficient.
But it's something.
And right now, something is all I have.
The stone slab glides forward, slow and uneven, shifting slightly with each pulse of my telekinesis. It's a rough ride, but it's movement. It's progress.
And as I move, I start to see.
Really see this place.
It's massive.
Impossibly massive.
Despite being underground, the ceiling is high, huge stalactites covering the surface. The air is thick with the scent of sulfur and burning rock, oppressive and suffocating, but beneath that, there's something else.
Something alive.
The cavern isn't still.
It breathes.
Huge magma rivers twist and snake through the landscape, carving through jagged black rock like glowing arteries, their molten glow the only real source of light. Shadows flicker and stretch across the cavern walls, distorted and elongated by the wavering heat.
Massive, mountainous structures loom in the distance, formed not from time or erosion, but from something else. Something deliberate. The shapes are too precise, too carved, like remnants of things that once stood, now eroded into barely recognizable silhouettes.
Ruins?
I don't know.
I don't want to know.
Because the worst part—the part that really gets under my skin—
Is the sound.
I can hear them.
Creatures.
Moving. Watching.
Never close enough to see. Never more than a glimpse—a flicker of motion in my peripheral vision, a shifting shadow against the cavern walls.
But they're there.
They skitter. They breathe. They whisper.
Soft, guttural sounds, low and distant, but unmistakably alive.
I am not alone down here.
The first warning is the wind.
A rush of air, sudden and unnatural, swirling the heat around me in a violent spiral.
Then comes the shadow.
It falls over me like a predator's gaze, vast and shifting, moving too fast to be something natural. I barely have time to react before the thing dives, a rolling wave of blackened soot cascading toward me like a living storm.
I move.
The slab beneath me jerks as I throw everything I have into pushing it sideways, my magic flickering from the sheer effort. Pain lances through my skull, my broken legs jolting uselessly with every shift.
I'm too slow.
The thing engulfs me.
Heat.
Burning, suffocating heat, wrapping around me like living smoke. The air is ripped from my lungs as the ash seeps into every crevice, pressing into my mouth, my nose, trying to choke me. My vision vanishes in the swirling black haze, thick and alive, coiling around me like it wants to be inside my lungs.
My magic sputters.
I panic.
Instinct kicks in, raw and desperate, and I lash out with the only thing I can still control—
Telekinesis.
I push.
The force ripples through the air, shoving the ashen mass back in a sudden explosion of movement.
The heat relents.
I gasp, sucking in the acrid, sulfur-choked air, coughing violently as the remnants of the burning soot cling to my fur. I can barely see through the haze, but the thing is still there, reforming, swirling back toward me, an amorphous cloud with glints of deep, angry red glowing within.
I see it now.
A drake.
Not flesh. Not bone.
A creature of pure ash, with wings made of smoke and a body of shifting, weightless soot. It doesn't have a form, not really—just a roiling, semi-dragon shape, barely holding itself together.
It moves again.
I don't think.
I grab.
Telekinesis locks around the swirling mass, seizing it mid-air.
It struggles.
The ash thrashes against my grip, shifting, breaking apart, trying to slip through. The heat burns against my magic, resisting, fighting—alive.
It's strong.
I grit my teeth, pouring more into it, my horn aching from the exertion. My magic wobbles under the strain, nearly breaking—
No.
No, I won't let go.
I tighten my grip.
The thing shrieks.
The sound is distorted, hollow, like wind howling through an empty canyon. It writhes in my grasp, twisting, trying to escape, but I won't let it.
I condense.
I force the swirling cloud inward, crushing it, pulling it together like compacting a dying star. The resistance is immediate—a violent pulse of heat radiates outward, my magic straining to hold it.
It screams.
A horrible, fractured wail—deep, resonant, dying.
Then—
A crack.
Something shatters.
The heat vanishes.
The ash collapses in on itself, spiraling downward in a fine, lifeless dust.
And then—
A clink.
Shards of a red gem drops to the stone floor.
Dead.
I stare at it for a long moment, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
The drake is gone.
Silence settles over the cavern once more.
I don't move.
I don't breathe.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the crumbling remains of the gem, my breath still unsteady.
Then, finally, I exhale and force myself to think.
I'm hurt. I'm exhausted. And now, apparently, I'm in a place where even the air wants to kill me.
I need to take stock.
Slowly, I shift my weight on the slab, wincing as the pain in my legs flares back to the forefront of my mind. I reach for my saddlebags, fumbling slightly as I check inside.
Still there.
I breathe a little easier.
Nothing for water.
A pit settles in my stomach.
I don't feel hungry or thirsty yet, but I will.
I need a plan.
I need to move.
I glance back at the pile of fine dust that was once a drake, then down at the shattered remnants of its gem core.
I don't know what that thing was.
But I know it won't be the last.
I steel myself, sucking in a slow breath.
Then, carefully, I direct my magic to the slab beneath me, tilting it forward slightly.
And I keep moving.
The glow of the magma river grows brighter as I drift closer, the heat intensifying with every inch. The air ripples around it, thick with sulfur and shimmering waves of distortion, making the whole cavern feel alive.
I don't get too close. I'm not that stupid.
But the river is a landmark. A guide. A light. If I stay near it, I can keep track of where I'm going, maybe find something useful.
I don't trust this place.
But I can use it.
Cautiously, I reach out with my magic, focusing on the air around me. The heat here is oppressive, rolling off the magma in waves, but I have an idea.
I slow the atoms, pulling the energy from them, forcing the surrounding heat to drop.
It works.
The air cools slightly in a small radius around me—not much, but enough to give me a moment to breathe.
I inch closer, scanning the river curiously, I've never seen lava before, I wonder if—
The surface erupts.
A massive form bursts from the molten depths, a wave of liquid fire cascading outward.
I barely pull my slab back in time, a blast of scalding air washing over me as something lands with a thud against the rock.
I see it now.
A salamander.
A big one.
Its skin is dark, mottled with ember-like patterns glowing just beneath the surface. Its limbs are thick, its claws sharp, its mouth stretching into a jagged snarl.
And it is angry.
It lunges.
I react.
I reach out with my telekinesis, grabbing a section of magma—pure, molten rock—and rip it from the river.
The heat is overwhelming. The strain on my magic is immense, the liquid fire resisting my grip, trying to burn through my hold.
But I don't let go.
I wrap it around the oversized salamander.
And I cool it near-instantaneously.
The magma hardens, its heat ripped away in a fraction of a second, shifting from molten to solid obsidian in an instant.
And the salamander is caught.
The black volcanic glass encases its limbs, trapping it mid-strike, its jaws snapping just short of me.
It thrashes, eyes flaring with rage, but it's too late.
I let out a slow, shuddering breath, staring at the half-trapped beast.
Then, with grim determination, I reach out again—
And pull another chunk of magma free.
I shape it. Fast.
The transition from liquid to solid is near-instantaneous, forming a long, jagged blade of pure, cooled obsidian.
A sword.
Not perfect. Not balanced.
But sharp.
The salamander lets out a shrill, furious cry, straining against its bonds, but I don't hesitate.
I end it.
The obsidian blade drives deep, piercing through flesh and fire, silencing it in a single strike.
For a moment, all is still.
Then the cavern falls silent once more, save for the quiet hiss of cooling rock.
I stare at the creature's lifeless body.
Then, slowly, I pull the blade free, the black glass gleaming in the dim, flickering light.
I have a weapon now.
And I'm going to need it.
I stare at the dead salamander for a long moment, my body aching, my head heavy from exertion. The heat from the magma river flickers across the cavern walls, casting deep, shifting shadows over its massive form.
My stomach twists.
It takes me a second to recognize why.
Hunger.
Thirst.
I haven't had anything since… Canterlot. Since before I was blasted into this hellscape, before I woke up buried in sand with shattered legs.
It's not desperate yet. Not bad. But it will be.
And down here, there's no telling when I'll get another opportunity.
I drag in a slow, measured breath and get to work.
The first step is liquid.
I use telekinesis to separate the salamander in half, pulling apart its molecular bonds with careful precision. The flesh parts effortlessly, cleanly, the inside still radiating warmth from the heat of its molten environment.
And it's meat.
Not stone. Not fire. Not some incomprehensible, otherworldly anatomy.
Just flesh.
I exhale slightly in relief, forcing the ache in my limbs to the background.
Then I focus on what I really need.
Water.
I know bodies are mostly water. I know I can extract it, I've done it before.
I pull.
The effect is immediate.
The salamander's body shudders, its flesh darkening and shriveling as the moisture leaves it, rising into the air in shimmering droplets before merging into a floating, twisting mass of pure liquid.
More and more rises, pulling from deep within, until—
I realize just how much there is.
A lot.
A disturbing amount.
The sphere of water in front of me grows huge, shimmering in my telekinetic grip, the weight of it pressing against my magic in heavy, shifting waves.
Sixty liters.
At least.
I stare at it, stunned.
I knew creatures carried water, but this much?
Maybe it had something to do with its environment, how it survived inside magma. Maybe the water inside it had to be pressurized, compacted in some weird biological way to keep it from evaporating.
Doesn't matter.
What does matter is that it's pure.
By pulling the molecules apart and reconstructing them into a single mass, I'd stripped away everything else—minerals, impurities, contaminants. What I have now is clean.
I don't even hesitate.
I drink.
I pull some of the liquid free from the main mass and down it in greedy gulps, the cool sensation spreading through me like life itself. The dryness in my throat vanishes, the burning ache in my chest fading slightly.
It's like oxygen after drowning.
I don't drink it all. I need to ration.
I separate thirty liters, keeping it suspended in my magic, the rest dripping uselessly into the rock below.
I can't store it. I have no bottles, no canteens. The only way I can carry it is with my telekinesis.
So that's what I do.
Water problem: solved.
Next step: meat.
I move the dried husk of one half of the salamander aside and turn to the other.
It's still fresh. Still raw.
Still useful.
I shift it onto a slab and move it closer to the magma river, letting the waves of radiating energy cook the meat slowly. I control it, monitoring the temperature, keeping the process steady and even.
It sizzles, the outer layers crisping, the smell of roasting flesh thick in the air.
By the time it's done, my body is tired. Every movement, every pulse of magic, every moment spent awake is agony.
But I eat.
I force myself to eat.
And I keep moving.
I keep moving until I can't.
My body is done.
The pain, the exhaustion, the slow gnawing ache of my broken legs—it all catches up at once, pressing down like a weight I can't shake off.
I need to rest.
I glance around, scanning the cavern for anything that could be shelter, anything that would hide me from the creatures I know are lurking just out of view.
The mountainous formations in the distance catch my attention.
Large. Solid.
They'll do.
I glide toward one, slowing as I reach its jagged, uneven base. It's pure rock—dense, thick. Good. I need something that will hold, something that won't shift or crumble while I sleep.
I reach out with my magic, pressing my will into the stone, searching for the bonds that hold it together.
And I separate them.
It's like slicing into butter.
The mountain yields beneath my will, the intergranular bonds of the rock breaking apart in an instant, clean and precise. A massive chunk detaches, revealing a deep, hollowed-out space inside.
It's large enough for me and my stuff to fit, but not much else.
Good.
I glide my slab forward, sliding myself inside, and carefully trim the back wall, deepening the space just enough so I won't feel trapped.
Then I seal it.
The rock I cut out shifts back into place, my magic sealing it with near-perfect precision—except for a few, small air holes.
I don't trust the air in this place, but I trust suffocation even less.
With that done, I shift my focus to my water.
I still have about 22 liters hovering in my grasp, but I need it to keep.
I slow the atoms, pulling the energy out of them, dropping the temperature as far as I can, adjusting the atoms into a lattice, and freezing it solid.
It should hold.
I sleep.
I don't know for how long. The exhaustion runs deeper than just my body—it sinks into my bones, my mind, pressing me down into a nothingness so complete that for a while, I forget where I am.
But when I wake—
The water is gone.
I don't understand at first.
I reach for it instinctively, expecting the cool weight of frozen liquid in my magic's grasp—only to find nothing.
Not spilled. Not stolen.
Just... gone.
Evaporated.
Even after freezing it solid, this place stole it from me.
I stare at the empty space where it used to be, my mouth dry, my throat aching.
Fuck. Why did I even think that would work?
I don't waste time panicking. I don't have time to panic.
I need water.
And I know where to find it.
I leave my shelter, gliding forward on my slab, my body still aching, my broken legs dangling uselessly beneath me. The cavern stretches out before me, as desolate and merciless as before.
I make my way back to the magma river.
The heat is suffocating, thick, pressing down against me like an invisible weight. The molten rock churns below, the light flickering, casting distorted shadows against the cavern walls.
I poke at it.
I use my magic to mess with the surface—adjusting the flow, disrupting the patterns, sending small pulses of telekinetic force across the top.
Bait.
I learned my lesson the first time.
I don't want to be ambushed. I don't want something waiting for me beneath the surface, creeping closer when I least expect it.
I want it to come now.
I want it to think it has the advantage.
For a few seconds, nothing happens.
Then—
The magma explodes.
A massive shape bursts out, sending molten rock splattering in every direction, the sheer size of it casting an impossible shadow against the cavern walls.
A centipede.
Huge.
Monstrous.
Its segmented body is covered in rocky plates, cracked and jagged, glowing deep red from the heat beneath its shell. A dozen legs, each ending in sharp, hooked claws, scramble for purchase against the cavern floor, its massive, gaping mandibles clacking open and shut, dripping with molten saliva.
It doesn't hesitate.
It lunges.
My slab yanks backward in an instant, my telekinesis ripping me out of range just as the centipede's mandibles slam down where I was moments ago. The impact shakes the cavern, cracks splitting across the stone from the sheer force.
I don't wait.
I look up.
The cavern ceiling is jagged, filled with sharp, towering stalactites, each one stretching downward like spears.
I grab one.
With a precise pulse of magic, I sever the bonds holding it in place.
The rock snaps free.
The centipede rears back, preparing to lunge again—
I guide the stalactites down, making slight adjustments as it falls.
It plunges through the air, its mass multiplied by the sheer force of gravity, cutting through the heat, cutting through the shadows—
And slams straight through the centipede's back.
A wet crack fills the air.
The centipede screeches—a horrible, reverberating wail that echoes across the cavern walls. It thrashes, its entire body convulsing as the rock pierces through its armored shell, splitting it open like a cracked stone.
Blood spills out in thick rivers, oozing from the wound, hissing as it makes contact with the cold stone floor.
It twitches.
Shudders.
Then—
It stops.
Dead.
I let out a slow, shaking breath.
Then, I move forward.
I don't waste time.
I do what I did before.
I pull the water from its body, ripping the moisture out, watching as the liquid coalesces in front of me
I pull a portion toward me, drinking deeply, letting the cool relief flood my parched throat. The taste is neutral, clean—better than anything I could have hoped for in this hellscape.
But I can't afford to lose the rest.
I need storage—something this place can't steal from me.
My eyes flick to the cavern floor, jagged and unyielding, but solid. I reach out with my magic, carefully manipulating the intergranular bonds of the rock beneath me.
Separate. Cut. Shape.
A hollowed-out stone container takes form, its sides smooth and thick. I lift it, inspecting it closely, making sure there are no cracks or imperfections.
It'll hold.
I gently guide the water inside, watching as the shimmering mass pours in, filling the carved basin.
Then, with a precise application of magic, I seal the top, fusing the stone together. The result is a solid container, airtight, unyielding.
The weight is noticeable—heavier than carrying it as a floating mass—but that's good.
It won't evaporate.
Water: secured. Again.
With water no longer a concern, I turn my attention to food.
The centipede's massive form is still sprawled across the cavern floor.
I move closer.
Using my telekinesis, I separate the flesh from the carapace, peeling away the rocky plating to reveal the soft meat inside. The texture is… strange, fibrous but not dissimilar to what I've eaten before.
I only take the fleshy bits, tearing them off before slicing it into manageable portions.
Then, like before, I use the magma river as a heat source, suspending the meat over the glowing surface, letting the intense radiating energy cook it through.
The scent is strong, rich, edible.
It isn't perfect, but it will sustain me.
I eat while I cook, not rationing yet—I'll have plenty to store when I'm done.
Food: secured.
Now I need to carry it all.
I could float everything with telekinesis, but that's too much strain to maintain indefinitely. I need a solution—something to move itself.
Something simple.
I glance at my rune books and open them, flipping through the pages, refreshing my memory on the symbols I need.
A cart.
Something that can move without me needing to constantly guide it.
I carve out the base first, shaping a flat, thick slab of stone, reinforcing it so it won't crumble under the weight. Then I carve raised edges, forming a container deep enough to hold my sealed water and cooked food.
Next, the movement system.
I etch two primary runes onto the underside:
A Fly Rune – to suspend the cart just above the ground, preventing unnecessary friction.
Direction Runes – one for each cardinal direction, ensuring the cart continues moving until told otherwise.
I don't want to constantly direct it, so instead of an order-based system, I keep it simple:
INITIAL CONDITIONS
cart_active = false
direction_set = false
current_direction = [0,0]
ACTIVATION RUNE
if command_heard("activate")
→ cart_active = true
DIRECTION RUNE
if command_heard("north")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [0,1]
if command_heard("south")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [0,-1]
if command_heard("east")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [1,0]
if command_heard("west")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [-1,0]
if cart_active and direction_set
→ fly(current_direction)
STOP RUNE
if command_heard("stop")
→ cart_active = false
→ direction_set = false
Unfortunately the cardinal directions in this case just correlate to random directions I chose.
I carve the runes deeply, ensuring they hold, then activate the system.
The cart hovers just slightly, stable and waiting.
I guide the sealed water into place, stacking the cooked meat beside it.
Finally, supplies secured, I take one last look at the cavern— "Activate: North."
And move forward.
I follow the magma river for what feels like hours.
The glow of the molten rock flickers against the cavern walls, casting twisted, flickering shadows that stretch impossibly far. The heat is relentless, rolling off the river in waves, but I've gotten used to it—or at least, as used to it as I can be.
The cart follows steadily behind me, hovering just above the ground, the runes humming faintly with latent energy. It's working perfectly, moving in the direction I set without complaint. All I have to do is supply the mana.
But my body is aching.
Even though I'm not walking, even though I'm not dragging anything, my exhaustion is growing again, pressing at the edges of my mind like a dull hammer.
And then—
The river ends.
I stop the cart.
Blink.
Stare.
The massive flow of magma I'd been following—my one reliable landmark—doesn't twist or branch or lead to some deeper passage.
It just slams into a wall.
No cracks. No openings. No tunnels leading deeper.
Just a fucking wall.
My ears flatten. My eye twitches.
I spit onto the ground.
"Fuck... Shit!"
The words echo through the cavern, swallowed quickly by the oppressive silence.
I stare at the wall for a long moment, jaw clenched.
I have no idea where to go.
This had been my plan—just follow the river. It had been working.
And now?
Nothing.
No direction. No clear path forward.
Just a wall and a lot of fucking magma.
I grit my teeth, breathing slowly, trying not to let the frustration take hold.
I need to stop for the night.
Even if I wanted to search for another path, I don't have the energy right now.
I turn, scanning the rocky surface, looking for a solid place to carve out shelter. The cavern wall where the river meets it is thick, dense, made of the same blackened volcanic stone as the rest of this place.
It'll do.
I reach out with my magic, pressing into the structure, feeling for its weakest points—
And cut through it.
The bonds break cleanly, and a section of the wall slides away, revealing a small, hollowed-out space just large enough for me and my cart.
I roll inside, hovering the cart in behind me, and seal the entrance—not completely, but enough that nothing can get in easily.
It's not perfect.
But it'll hold for the night.
And in the morning, I'll figure out where the fuck I'm supposed to go next.
I wake up feeling wrong.
Not just tired. Not just sore.
Wrong.
My legs—they don't move.
The moment I try, pain explodes through them, white-hot and unbearable. My breath catches in my throat, my vision going dark at the edges as I barely manage to not scream.
I grit my teeth, my whole body trembling as I force myself to breathe.
Slowly.
Shallow.
The swelling is worse. I don't even have to look to know. The joints feel locked, the muscles frozen in place, the kind of stiffness that means nothing is working right anymore.
I can't move them.
I can't move them at all.
I stare at the ceiling of my little alcove.
I don't move.
I don't try again.
For a long, long while, I just lay there.
I think about stopping.
I think about giving up.
It would be easy.
Just… stop fighting. Stop trying.
This place is going to take me eventually, isn't it?
The food will run out. The water will run out. I'll run out.
And for the first time since I got here, I realize—
I'm not even afraid anymore.
I feel numb.
Empty.
Maybe it would be better this way.
Maybe I should—
Thud Thud Thud
I freeze.
There's a sound.
Something moving outside.
I hold my breath, ears straining, listening harder.
The shuffling is faint, but fast. Deliberate.
Getting closer.
I go still, my entire body locking up, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.
I thought I wasn't scared.
I thought I had already stopped caring.
But now, I hold my breath like my life depends on it.
Now, I wait.
I don't move.
I don't breathe.
I want to live.
I don't want to die here, in this fucking hole in the wall.
The sound stops.
Right outside my alcove.
I wait.
One minute.
Two.
An hour.
It doesn't leave.
It doesn't move.
I'm not going to die in a box.
I can't take it anymore.
I let out a slow, controlled exhale, my magic coiling, ready to strike the moment I open my makeshift door—
I open it.
And it's Rachel.
I stare at her.
I don't breathe. I don't move. I just stare.
My mind struggles to catch up with what I'm seeing.
She's here.
Rachel is here.
The follow command. It was still active.
She stands perfectly still, her carved stone body unmoving, her expression as neutral as it always was. Her joints, her stance, her posture—exactly as I designed them.
And yet—
I have never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life.
My throat tightens, a choked sound catching before I can stop it. My body wants to move, to reach out, to grab hold of her like she's the only real thing in this nightmare—
But I can't.
I can't stand.
I can't hug her.
I can barely even breathe.
So I do the only thing I can do.
I move my slab closer, floating myself right next to her, my magic flickering with the sheer weight of exhaustion and relief crashing into me all at once.
And I nuzzle her.
I press my face against the cool, solid surface of her chest, the stone smooth and familiar, and sob.
I don't try to stop it.
I can't.
Tears burn hot trails down my face, my shoulders shaking, my entire body shuddering as the weight of everything—everything—finally cracks me open.
She's here.
I am not alone.
For the first time since waking up in this hell, I don't feel like I'm going to die here.
I cling to that feeling, to her presence, to the only thing in this place that doesn't want me dead.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself cry.
The first thing I feel is pain.
Sharp, agonizing pain, lancing up my legs like fire.
A sickening crack splinters through my bones as I hit the ground, the force rattling through me like a snapped wire. The breath is ripped from my lungs, my body folding against itself as I skid through burning-hot sand, my broken legs twisting wrong.
I don't scream.
I don't have the air to scream.
I just exist in the pain, my body writhing against itself, my mind struggling to catch up with reality.
I don't know how long I lay there.
Seconds. Minutes.
Long enough for the world to settle around me.
Long enough for the pain to become real.
It's bright. Too bright. The sky overhead is searing, empty and endless, the sun beating down like an executioner's blade. There's nothing but sand, stretching far and wide, an ocean of dull, shifting gold.
My breath shudders out of me in weak, ragged bursts. My body hurts in a way that doesn't feel fixable.
But something is wrong.
I can't move.
Not just because of the pain—though that would be enough—but because my body is sinking.
The realization hits me too late.
The sand around me is shifting, pulling, dragging.
A sinkhole.
A slow, merciless descent into the earth, swallowing me inch by inch.
My chest tightens. Panic flickers at the edges of my mind, creeping in like a whisper.
No.
No, no, no, no—
I try to move, try to shift, try to crawl, but my legs are useless.
My magic—
I reach for it, but it slips through my mind like water through broken fingers. The pain—the pain—it's too much, my focus splintering apart, my ability to grasp my own power severed by the agony radiating through my body.
I can't breathe.
The sand rises past my chest, past my shoulders.
I struggle, but it only pulls me down faster.
I try to speak, but my throat is dry, my voice shredded from the impact.
I try to think, but my mind is clouded, dizzy, unable to string together anything that will save me.
I try to do anything—
But I sink.
The sand swallows my neck.
My mouth.
My eyes.
Darkness.
Thick, heavy, suffocating.
The weight of the sand presses in from all sides, coarse grains grinding against my fur, forcing themselves into my mouth, my nose, my eyes. My lungs burn, my body screams, and my mind—
My mind is fraying.
I reach for my magic again, but it slips through my grasp, slipping through the cracks of my fractured concentration. The pain is overwhelming, drowning out my focus, making it impossible to think.
This is it.
This is how I die.
Buried. Crushed. Alone.
A forgotten thing, swallowed by the desert.
I refuse.
With the last shred of my will, I force my magic outward—not as a shield, not as a grand spell, but as the simplest, most desperate thing I can manage.
Push.
The sand resists. It fights me, pressing, collapsing in from all sides.
But I push back.
It takes everything I have left. The sheer pain of it makes my head spin, my skull feel like it's fracturing under the pressure of my own magic. But I keep going, gritting my teeth as I carve out the smallest, barest pocket of space—
Just enough to keep my head fron the suffocating weight.
Just enough to breathe.
The sand churns around me, pulling me deeper, deeper, dragging me down like I'm caught in the throat of a starving beast. My broken legs are useless, twisted in the wrong directions, sending white-hot agony through me with every slight movement.
I don't know how long I sink.
Minutes? Hours?
It feels endless.
The pressure builds, the air thick and stale. The deeper I go, the harder it becomes to hold the pocket open. My magic flickers, my focus fraying, exhaustion creeping in like a death sentence.
The crushing sunlight is gone, replaced by an eerie, absolute darkness. There's no sound, no wind, no movement—just the steady grind of shifting sand, an invisible force dragging me downward.
I feel like I'm falling.
Like I'm plummeting into the belly of the world.
And there's no bottom in sight.
I don't hit the bottom.
I spill into it.
The sand collapses beneath me, and suddenly, I'm falling, tumbling, rolling down a steep incline of shifting grains. The momentum tears at my broken legs, jolting the shattered bones with every sickening bounce. My body twists, limp and weightless, before slamming into solid ground.
Jagged rock.
A fresh wave of pain lances through me. My breath leaves in a choked, rasping gasp, sand filling my mouth and clinging to my fur.
I'm alive.
Somehow.
But I don't move.
I can't.
Not yet.
I just lay there, sprawled on my side at the foot of the sand pile, trembling, trying to breathe past the sheer agony of it all. My pulse thunders in my skull, and the heat—gods, the heat—presses in from all sides, thick and suffocating, like a living thing.
It's hot.
Not desert hot. Not sunburnt sand hot.
This is wrong.
I force my eyes open, blinking against the grit. My vision swims, unfocused and hazy, but the colors—
Deep, burning reds. Veins of molten rock pulse dimly in the distance, casting eerie, flickering light against the jagged cavern walls. Shadows stretch unnaturally, twisting against the uneven surfaces like something alive. The air is thick with the scent of sulfur, acrid and bitter against the back of my throat.
This isn't the Badlands.
Is this hell?
The land does not end. It just keeps going, stretching out into blackened rock and yawning chasms, into depths I can't even see.
I have no idea how far I fell.
No idea how deep this place goes.
But I know one thing for certain—
I'm not supposed to be here.
I lay there.
I don't move.
I don't think.
I just breathe. Shallow, ragged breaths that barely fill my lungs. Each inhale tastes like sulfur and scorched earth, burning my throat, making my chest ache.
The pain is unbearable.
My legs are ruined. Broken in ways that shouldn't be possible. I can't even tell which part of me hurts anymore, because it's all just one giant, throbbing wrongness.
I should give up.
Just lay here. Let this place take me.
I let the thought sit there for a while.
Maybe minutes. Maybe hours.
I don't want to move.
But I know I have to.
Slowly—carefully—I reach for my magic again.
It flickers at first, weak, unstable. Pain lances through my skull as I try to focus, my broken body rebelling against the very act of existing. The agony is too much, my mind too scattered.
I try again.
And again.
And on the fourth attempt, my horn sparks to life.
I exhale sharply, forcing my concentration forward, focusing not on my body, not on my pain, but on the ground beneath me.
I shift the intergranular bonds of the stone, manipulating the forces between them, weakening their cohesion just enough to cut.
A slab.
I carve out a thick, flat piece of stone, just large enough to support my midsection.
The first attempt is a failure—my magic sputters, the pain in my legs breaking my concentration, and the slab crumbles before I can even lift it.
I grit my teeth and try again.
The second attempt holds.
I breathe.
And then, with painful, deliberate effort, I shift my weight, sliding my torso onto the slab, dragging it under with shaky telekinesis.
The moment my broken legs leave the ground, the pain shifts—less sharp, more dull and distant. The relief is temporary, but it's enough.
I dangle my useless limbs off the edges, letting them hang there, limp and motionless.
I move.
Slowly.
The slab glides above the rocky floor, carrying me forward, bypassing my shattered legs entirely.
I can't move quickly.
It's not efficient.
But it's something.
And right now, something is all I have.
The stone slab glides forward, slow and uneven, shifting slightly with each pulse of my telekinesis. It's a rough ride, but it's movement. It's progress.
And as I move, I start to see.
Really see this place.
It's massive.
Impossibly massive.
Despite being underground, the ceiling is high, huge stalactites covering the surface. The air is thick with the scent of sulfur and burning rock, oppressive and suffocating, but beneath that, there's something else.
Something alive.
The cavern isn't still.
It breathes.
Huge magma rivers twist and snake through the landscape, carving through jagged black rock like glowing arteries, their molten glow the only real source of light. Shadows flicker and stretch across the cavern walls, distorted and elongated by the wavering heat.
Massive, mountainous structures loom in the distance, formed not from time or erosion, but from something else. Something deliberate. The shapes are too precise, too carved, like remnants of things that once stood, now eroded into barely recognizable silhouettes.
Ruins?
I don't know.
I don't want to know.
Because the worst part—the part that really gets under my skin—
Is the sound.
I can hear them.
Creatures.
Moving. Watching.
Never close enough to see. Never more than a glimpse—a flicker of motion in my peripheral vision, a shifting shadow against the cavern walls.
But they're there.
They skitter. They breathe. They whisper.
Soft, guttural sounds, low and distant, but unmistakably alive.
I am not alone down here.
The first warning is the wind.
A rush of air, sudden and unnatural, swirling the heat around me in a violent spiral.
Then comes the shadow.
It falls over me like a predator's gaze, vast and shifting, moving too fast to be something natural. I barely have time to react before the thing dives, a rolling wave of blackened soot cascading toward me like a living storm.
I move.
The slab beneath me jerks as I throw everything I have into pushing it sideways, my magic flickering from the sheer effort. Pain lances through my skull, my broken legs jolting uselessly with every shift.
I'm too slow.
The thing engulfs me.
Heat.
Burning, suffocating heat, wrapping around me like living smoke. The air is ripped from my lungs as the ash seeps into every crevice, pressing into my mouth, my nose, trying to choke me. My vision vanishes in the swirling black haze, thick and alive, coiling around me like it wants to be inside my lungs.
My magic sputters.
I panic.
Instinct kicks in, raw and desperate, and I lash out with the only thing I can still control—
Telekinesis.
I push.
The force ripples through the air, shoving the ashen mass back in a sudden explosion of movement.
The heat relents.
I gasp, sucking in the acrid, sulfur-choked air, coughing violently as the remnants of the burning soot cling to my fur. I can barely see through the haze, but the thing is still there, reforming, swirling back toward me, an amorphous cloud with glints of deep, angry red glowing within.
I see it now.
A drake.
Not flesh. Not bone.
A creature of pure ash, with wings made of smoke and a body of shifting, weightless soot. It doesn't have a form, not really—just a roiling, semi-dragon shape, barely holding itself together.
It moves again.
I don't think.
I grab.
Telekinesis locks around the swirling mass, seizing it mid-air.
It struggles.
The ash thrashes against my grip, shifting, breaking apart, trying to slip through. The heat burns against my magic, resisting, fighting—alive.
It's strong.
I grit my teeth, pouring more into it, my horn aching from the exertion. My magic wobbles under the strain, nearly breaking—
No.
No, I won't let go.
I tighten my grip.
The thing shrieks.
The sound is distorted, hollow, like wind howling through an empty canyon. It writhes in my grasp, twisting, trying to escape, but I won't let it.
I condense.
I force the swirling cloud inward, crushing it, pulling it together like compacting a dying star. The resistance is immediate—a violent pulse of heat radiates outward, my magic straining to hold it.
It screams.
A horrible, fractured wail—deep, resonant, dying.
Then—
A crack.
Something shatters.
The heat vanishes.
The ash collapses in on itself, spiraling downward in a fine, lifeless dust.
And then—
A clink.
Shards of a red gem drops to the stone floor.
Dead.
I stare at it for a long moment, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
The drake is gone.
Silence settles over the cavern once more.
I don't move.
I don't breathe.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the crumbling remains of the gem, my breath still unsteady.
Then, finally, I exhale and force myself to think.
I'm hurt. I'm exhausted. And now, apparently, I'm in a place where even the air wants to kill me.
I need to take stock.
Slowly, I shift my weight on the slab, wincing as the pain in my legs flares back to the forefront of my mind. I reach for my saddlebags, fumbling slightly as I check inside.
Still there.
I breathe a little easier.
Inventory:
- Two books on runes (good condition, slightly sand-covered)
- Small bag of bits (useless here, but still nice to have)
- Chalk bag (thank everything for that, I'd be screwed without it)
- A few odds and ends (quill, ink, some old notes, nothing particularly useful)
Nothing for water.
A pit settles in my stomach.
I don't feel hungry or thirsty yet, but I will.
I need a plan.
I need to move.
I glance back at the pile of fine dust that was once a drake, then down at the shattered remnants of its gem core.
I don't know what that thing was.
But I know it won't be the last.
I steel myself, sucking in a slow breath.
Then, carefully, I direct my magic to the slab beneath me, tilting it forward slightly.
And I keep moving.
The glow of the magma river grows brighter as I drift closer, the heat intensifying with every inch. The air ripples around it, thick with sulfur and shimmering waves of distortion, making the whole cavern feel alive.
I don't get too close. I'm not that stupid.
But the river is a landmark. A guide. A light. If I stay near it, I can keep track of where I'm going, maybe find something useful.
I don't trust this place.
But I can use it.
Cautiously, I reach out with my magic, focusing on the air around me. The heat here is oppressive, rolling off the magma in waves, but I have an idea.
I slow the atoms, pulling the energy from them, forcing the surrounding heat to drop.
It works.
The air cools slightly in a small radius around me—not much, but enough to give me a moment to breathe.
I inch closer, scanning the river curiously, I've never seen lava before, I wonder if—
The surface erupts.
A massive form bursts from the molten depths, a wave of liquid fire cascading outward.
I barely pull my slab back in time, a blast of scalding air washing over me as something lands with a thud against the rock.
I see it now.
A salamander.
A big one.
Its skin is dark, mottled with ember-like patterns glowing just beneath the surface. Its limbs are thick, its claws sharp, its mouth stretching into a jagged snarl.
And it is angry.
It lunges.
I react.
I reach out with my telekinesis, grabbing a section of magma—pure, molten rock—and rip it from the river.
The heat is overwhelming. The strain on my magic is immense, the liquid fire resisting my grip, trying to burn through my hold.
But I don't let go.
I wrap it around the oversized salamander.
And I cool it near-instantaneously.
The magma hardens, its heat ripped away in a fraction of a second, shifting from molten to solid obsidian in an instant.
And the salamander is caught.
The black volcanic glass encases its limbs, trapping it mid-strike, its jaws snapping just short of me.
It thrashes, eyes flaring with rage, but it's too late.
I let out a slow, shuddering breath, staring at the half-trapped beast.
Then, with grim determination, I reach out again—
And pull another chunk of magma free.
I shape it. Fast.
The transition from liquid to solid is near-instantaneous, forming a long, jagged blade of pure, cooled obsidian.
A sword.
Not perfect. Not balanced.
But sharp.
The salamander lets out a shrill, furious cry, straining against its bonds, but I don't hesitate.
I end it.
The obsidian blade drives deep, piercing through flesh and fire, silencing it in a single strike.
For a moment, all is still.
Then the cavern falls silent once more, save for the quiet hiss of cooling rock.
I stare at the creature's lifeless body.
Then, slowly, I pull the blade free, the black glass gleaming in the dim, flickering light.
I have a weapon now.
And I'm going to need it.
I stare at the dead salamander for a long moment, my body aching, my head heavy from exertion. The heat from the magma river flickers across the cavern walls, casting deep, shifting shadows over its massive form.
My stomach twists.
It takes me a second to recognize why.
Hunger.
Thirst.
I haven't had anything since… Canterlot. Since before I was blasted into this hellscape, before I woke up buried in sand with shattered legs.
It's not desperate yet. Not bad. But it will be.
And down here, there's no telling when I'll get another opportunity.
I drag in a slow, measured breath and get to work.
The first step is liquid.
I use telekinesis to separate the salamander in half, pulling apart its molecular bonds with careful precision. The flesh parts effortlessly, cleanly, the inside still radiating warmth from the heat of its molten environment.
And it's meat.
Not stone. Not fire. Not some incomprehensible, otherworldly anatomy.
Just flesh.
I exhale slightly in relief, forcing the ache in my limbs to the background.
Then I focus on what I really need.
Water.
I know bodies are mostly water. I know I can extract it, I've done it before.
I pull.
The effect is immediate.
The salamander's body shudders, its flesh darkening and shriveling as the moisture leaves it, rising into the air in shimmering droplets before merging into a floating, twisting mass of pure liquid.
More and more rises, pulling from deep within, until—
I realize just how much there is.
A lot.
A disturbing amount.
The sphere of water in front of me grows huge, shimmering in my telekinetic grip, the weight of it pressing against my magic in heavy, shifting waves.
Sixty liters.
At least.
I stare at it, stunned.
I knew creatures carried water, but this much?
Maybe it had something to do with its environment, how it survived inside magma. Maybe the water inside it had to be pressurized, compacted in some weird biological way to keep it from evaporating.
Doesn't matter.
What does matter is that it's pure.
By pulling the molecules apart and reconstructing them into a single mass, I'd stripped away everything else—minerals, impurities, contaminants. What I have now is clean.
I don't even hesitate.
I drink.
I pull some of the liquid free from the main mass and down it in greedy gulps, the cool sensation spreading through me like life itself. The dryness in my throat vanishes, the burning ache in my chest fading slightly.
It's like oxygen after drowning.
I don't drink it all. I need to ration.
I separate thirty liters, keeping it suspended in my magic, the rest dripping uselessly into the rock below.
I can't store it. I have no bottles, no canteens. The only way I can carry it is with my telekinesis.
So that's what I do.
Water problem: solved.
Next step: meat.
I move the dried husk of one half of the salamander aside and turn to the other.
It's still fresh. Still raw.
Still useful.
I shift it onto a slab and move it closer to the magma river, letting the waves of radiating energy cook the meat slowly. I control it, monitoring the temperature, keeping the process steady and even.
It sizzles, the outer layers crisping, the smell of roasting flesh thick in the air.
By the time it's done, my body is tired. Every movement, every pulse of magic, every moment spent awake is agony.
But I eat.
I force myself to eat.
And I keep moving.
I keep moving until I can't.
My body is done.
The pain, the exhaustion, the slow gnawing ache of my broken legs—it all catches up at once, pressing down like a weight I can't shake off.
I need to rest.
I glance around, scanning the cavern for anything that could be shelter, anything that would hide me from the creatures I know are lurking just out of view.
The mountainous formations in the distance catch my attention.
Large. Solid.
They'll do.
I glide toward one, slowing as I reach its jagged, uneven base. It's pure rock—dense, thick. Good. I need something that will hold, something that won't shift or crumble while I sleep.
I reach out with my magic, pressing my will into the stone, searching for the bonds that hold it together.
And I separate them.
It's like slicing into butter.
The mountain yields beneath my will, the intergranular bonds of the rock breaking apart in an instant, clean and precise. A massive chunk detaches, revealing a deep, hollowed-out space inside.
It's large enough for me and my stuff to fit, but not much else.
Good.
I glide my slab forward, sliding myself inside, and carefully trim the back wall, deepening the space just enough so I won't feel trapped.
Then I seal it.
The rock I cut out shifts back into place, my magic sealing it with near-perfect precision—except for a few, small air holes.
I don't trust the air in this place, but I trust suffocation even less.
With that done, I shift my focus to my water.
I still have about 22 liters hovering in my grasp, but I need it to keep.
I slow the atoms, pulling the energy out of them, dropping the temperature as far as I can, adjusting the atoms into a lattice, and freezing it solid.
It should hold.
I sleep.
I don't know for how long. The exhaustion runs deeper than just my body—it sinks into my bones, my mind, pressing me down into a nothingness so complete that for a while, I forget where I am.
But when I wake—
The water is gone.
I don't understand at first.
I reach for it instinctively, expecting the cool weight of frozen liquid in my magic's grasp—only to find nothing.
Not spilled. Not stolen.
Just... gone.
Evaporated.
Even after freezing it solid, this place stole it from me.
I stare at the empty space where it used to be, my mouth dry, my throat aching.
Fuck. Why did I even think that would work?
I don't waste time panicking. I don't have time to panic.
I need water.
And I know where to find it.
I leave my shelter, gliding forward on my slab, my body still aching, my broken legs dangling uselessly beneath me. The cavern stretches out before me, as desolate and merciless as before.
I make my way back to the magma river.
The heat is suffocating, thick, pressing down against me like an invisible weight. The molten rock churns below, the light flickering, casting distorted shadows against the cavern walls.
I poke at it.
I use my magic to mess with the surface—adjusting the flow, disrupting the patterns, sending small pulses of telekinetic force across the top.
Bait.
I learned my lesson the first time.
I don't want to be ambushed. I don't want something waiting for me beneath the surface, creeping closer when I least expect it.
I want it to come now.
I want it to think it has the advantage.
For a few seconds, nothing happens.
Then—
The magma explodes.
A massive shape bursts out, sending molten rock splattering in every direction, the sheer size of it casting an impossible shadow against the cavern walls.
A centipede.
Huge.
Monstrous.
Its segmented body is covered in rocky plates, cracked and jagged, glowing deep red from the heat beneath its shell. A dozen legs, each ending in sharp, hooked claws, scramble for purchase against the cavern floor, its massive, gaping mandibles clacking open and shut, dripping with molten saliva.
It doesn't hesitate.
It lunges.
My slab yanks backward in an instant, my telekinesis ripping me out of range just as the centipede's mandibles slam down where I was moments ago. The impact shakes the cavern, cracks splitting across the stone from the sheer force.
I don't wait.
I look up.
The cavern ceiling is jagged, filled with sharp, towering stalactites, each one stretching downward like spears.
I grab one.
With a precise pulse of magic, I sever the bonds holding it in place.
The rock snaps free.
The centipede rears back, preparing to lunge again—
I guide the stalactites down, making slight adjustments as it falls.
It plunges through the air, its mass multiplied by the sheer force of gravity, cutting through the heat, cutting through the shadows—
And slams straight through the centipede's back.
A wet crack fills the air.
The centipede screeches—a horrible, reverberating wail that echoes across the cavern walls. It thrashes, its entire body convulsing as the rock pierces through its armored shell, splitting it open like a cracked stone.
Blood spills out in thick rivers, oozing from the wound, hissing as it makes contact with the cold stone floor.
It twitches.
Shudders.
Then—
It stops.
Dead.
I let out a slow, shaking breath.
Then, I move forward.
I don't waste time.
I do what I did before.
I pull the water from its body, ripping the moisture out, watching as the liquid coalesces in front of me
I pull a portion toward me, drinking deeply, letting the cool relief flood my parched throat. The taste is neutral, clean—better than anything I could have hoped for in this hellscape.
But I can't afford to lose the rest.
I need storage—something this place can't steal from me.
My eyes flick to the cavern floor, jagged and unyielding, but solid. I reach out with my magic, carefully manipulating the intergranular bonds of the rock beneath me.
Separate. Cut. Shape.
A hollowed-out stone container takes form, its sides smooth and thick. I lift it, inspecting it closely, making sure there are no cracks or imperfections.
It'll hold.
I gently guide the water inside, watching as the shimmering mass pours in, filling the carved basin.
Then, with a precise application of magic, I seal the top, fusing the stone together. The result is a solid container, airtight, unyielding.
The weight is noticeable—heavier than carrying it as a floating mass—but that's good.
It won't evaporate.
Water: secured. Again.
With water no longer a concern, I turn my attention to food.
The centipede's massive form is still sprawled across the cavern floor.
I move closer.
Using my telekinesis, I separate the flesh from the carapace, peeling away the rocky plating to reveal the soft meat inside. The texture is… strange, fibrous but not dissimilar to what I've eaten before.
I only take the fleshy bits, tearing them off before slicing it into manageable portions.
Then, like before, I use the magma river as a heat source, suspending the meat over the glowing surface, letting the intense radiating energy cook it through.
The scent is strong, rich, edible.
It isn't perfect, but it will sustain me.
I eat while I cook, not rationing yet—I'll have plenty to store when I'm done.
Food: secured.
Now I need to carry it all.
I could float everything with telekinesis, but that's too much strain to maintain indefinitely. I need a solution—something to move itself.
Something simple.
I glance at my rune books and open them, flipping through the pages, refreshing my memory on the symbols I need.
A cart.
Something that can move without me needing to constantly guide it.
I carve out the base first, shaping a flat, thick slab of stone, reinforcing it so it won't crumble under the weight. Then I carve raised edges, forming a container deep enough to hold my sealed water and cooked food.
Next, the movement system.
I etch two primary runes onto the underside:
A Fly Rune – to suspend the cart just above the ground, preventing unnecessary friction.
Direction Runes – one for each cardinal direction, ensuring the cart continues moving until told otherwise.
I don't want to constantly direct it, so instead of an order-based system, I keep it simple:
INITIAL CONDITIONS
cart_active = false
direction_set = false
current_direction = [0,0]
ACTIVATION RUNE
if command_heard("activate")
→ cart_active = true
DIRECTION RUNE
if command_heard("north")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [0,1]
if command_heard("south")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [0,-1]
if command_heard("east")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [1,0]
if command_heard("west")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [-1,0]
if cart_active and direction_set
→ fly(current_direction)
STOP RUNE
if command_heard("stop")
→ cart_active = false
→ direction_set = false
Unfortunately the cardinal directions in this case just correlate to random directions I chose.
I carve the runes deeply, ensuring they hold, then activate the system.
The cart hovers just slightly, stable and waiting.
I guide the sealed water into place, stacking the cooked meat beside it.
Finally, supplies secured, I take one last look at the cavern— "Activate: North."
And move forward.
I follow the magma river for what feels like hours.
The glow of the molten rock flickers against the cavern walls, casting twisted, flickering shadows that stretch impossibly far. The heat is relentless, rolling off the river in waves, but I've gotten used to it—or at least, as used to it as I can be.
The cart follows steadily behind me, hovering just above the ground, the runes humming faintly with latent energy. It's working perfectly, moving in the direction I set without complaint. All I have to do is supply the mana.
But my body is aching.
Even though I'm not walking, even though I'm not dragging anything, my exhaustion is growing again, pressing at the edges of my mind like a dull hammer.
And then—
The river ends.
I stop the cart.
Blink.
Stare.
The massive flow of magma I'd been following—my one reliable landmark—doesn't twist or branch or lead to some deeper passage.
It just slams into a wall.
No cracks. No openings. No tunnels leading deeper.
Just a fucking wall.
My ears flatten. My eye twitches.
I spit onto the ground.
"Fuck... Shit!"
The words echo through the cavern, swallowed quickly by the oppressive silence.
I stare at the wall for a long moment, jaw clenched.
I have no idea where to go.
This had been my plan—just follow the river. It had been working.
And now?
Nothing.
No direction. No clear path forward.
Just a wall and a lot of fucking magma.
I grit my teeth, breathing slowly, trying not to let the frustration take hold.
I need to stop for the night.
Even if I wanted to search for another path, I don't have the energy right now.
I turn, scanning the rocky surface, looking for a solid place to carve out shelter. The cavern wall where the river meets it is thick, dense, made of the same blackened volcanic stone as the rest of this place.
It'll do.
I reach out with my magic, pressing into the structure, feeling for its weakest points—
And cut through it.
The bonds break cleanly, and a section of the wall slides away, revealing a small, hollowed-out space just large enough for me and my cart.
I roll inside, hovering the cart in behind me, and seal the entrance—not completely, but enough that nothing can get in easily.
It's not perfect.
But it'll hold for the night.
And in the morning, I'll figure out where the fuck I'm supposed to go next.
I wake up feeling wrong.
Not just tired. Not just sore.
Wrong.
My legs—they don't move.
The moment I try, pain explodes through them, white-hot and unbearable. My breath catches in my throat, my vision going dark at the edges as I barely manage to not scream.
I grit my teeth, my whole body trembling as I force myself to breathe.
Slowly.
Shallow.
The swelling is worse. I don't even have to look to know. The joints feel locked, the muscles frozen in place, the kind of stiffness that means nothing is working right anymore.
I can't move them.
I can't move them at all.
I stare at the ceiling of my little alcove.
I don't move.
I don't try again.
For a long, long while, I just lay there.
I think about stopping.
I think about giving up.
It would be easy.
Just… stop fighting. Stop trying.
This place is going to take me eventually, isn't it?
The food will run out. The water will run out. I'll run out.
And for the first time since I got here, I realize—
I'm not even afraid anymore.
I feel numb.
Empty.
Maybe it would be better this way.
Maybe I should—
Thud Thud Thud
I freeze.
There's a sound.
Something moving outside.
I hold my breath, ears straining, listening harder.
The shuffling is faint, but fast. Deliberate.
Getting closer.
I go still, my entire body locking up, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.
I thought I wasn't scared.
I thought I had already stopped caring.
But now, I hold my breath like my life depends on it.
Now, I wait.
I don't move.
I don't breathe.
I want to live.
I don't want to die here, in this fucking hole in the wall.
The sound stops.
Right outside my alcove.
I wait.
One minute.
Two.
An hour.
It doesn't leave.
It doesn't move.
I'm not going to die in a box.
I can't take it anymore.
I let out a slow, controlled exhale, my magic coiling, ready to strike the moment I open my makeshift door—
I open it.
And it's Rachel.
I stare at her.
I don't breathe. I don't move. I just stare.
My mind struggles to catch up with what I'm seeing.
She's here.
Rachel is here.
The follow command. It was still active.
She stands perfectly still, her carved stone body unmoving, her expression as neutral as it always was. Her joints, her stance, her posture—exactly as I designed them.
And yet—
I have never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life.
My throat tightens, a choked sound catching before I can stop it. My body wants to move, to reach out, to grab hold of her like she's the only real thing in this nightmare—
But I can't.
I can't stand.
I can't hug her.
I can barely even breathe.
So I do the only thing I can do.
I move my slab closer, floating myself right next to her, my magic flickering with the sheer weight of exhaustion and relief crashing into me all at once.
And I nuzzle her.
I press my face against the cool, solid surface of her chest, the stone smooth and familiar, and sob.
I don't try to stop it.
I can't.
Tears burn hot trails down my face, my shoulders shaking, my entire body shuddering as the weight of everything—everything—finally cracks me open.
She's here.
I am not alone.
For the first time since waking up in this hell, I don't feel like I'm going to die here.
I cling to that feeling, to her presence, to the only thing in this place that doesn't want me dead.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself cry.
wcw0N
