He started running as fast as his legs could carry him, he didn't look back. He didn't need to.
His legs were jelly, lungs burning, but he ran. The tomb walls blurred past him as he ran, cracked stones, ash covered carvings, broken sconces still smoldering with cold fire.
Behind him, the pounding hooves never stopped.
The Gravemare was faster. Stronger. It knew these halls better than he did. In the game, it patrolled the tomb's final corridor. But now… now it was hunting him like prey and he didn't know why.
"Left, there should be a left turn around here...."
He cut a corner hard and nearly tripped. The floor sloped downward, uneven, slick with something wet. Blood? Slime? He didn't stop to check.
He saw a thin crack of light ahead, natural light. An opening, it was a way out.
He didnt waste any time, he dove for it.
Stone scraped his arms. His shoulder slammed into rock, but he squeezed through the narrow gap just as a shadow passed behind him.
The Gravemare didn't follow, at least not yet.
He collapsed on a patch of dead grass, panting hard.
The light here was weak, like the sun had forgotten this place. The trees around him were unimaginable things, hanging like bones draped in ash. The wind smelled of rust and smoke.
He gagged and his chest heaved. His arm was bleeding and his right ankle throbbed, probably twisted or maybe just bruised. He didn't care, all that mattered was that he was alive.
He was cleaning off the blood that bled out of his arm, and that's when he heard them.
Not hooves this time, it was lighter and faster.
Snarls and Chittering, Leaves rustling.
He froze, head low. Watched them come out from the edge of the ruin. Small, hunched things. Too fast and too many limbs. A demi-pack, probably hunting the same scent the Gravemare had.
"A demi-pack. They hunted by scent in-game too, always circling around weakened players". He recalled
He couldn't run. Not again, he was too injured to take another sprint.
He looked around. No sword. No UI. Just rocks, dirt, and the cold burn of panic in his gut.
Then he saw it, a toppled statue, half-buried. Chains wrapped around it, cracked stone piled at its base. And near it, a dead body laid.
A real one and it was fresh.
He crawled over. The corpse was chewed, throat torn out, but the grip still held a dagger. A tiny rusted thing. Not a weapon, but a last resort.
His hand closed around it.
"Think. Think, think, think…"
He looked at the roots nearby, thick and tangled. The statue leaned at a slant, perfect for cover. He backed into it, clutching the chain.
Set the dagger in the dirt.
He pulled the chain taut across the narrow path. Just low enough.
Then he waited.
The demi-creature that found him first didn't even pause. It leapt for the scent.
The chain snapped up into its legs.
It hit the ground hard and began screeching.
He lunged forward without a second to waste.
Not with skill or with Emberlight.
Just survival.
He slammed the dagger into its throat and it shrieked, choked and then it went still.
Blood soaked his arms. Warm and Sticky. Smelled like metal and bile.
The others scattered out of fear.
He didn't chase after them, He didn't move either. He just knelt there, breathing so hard it hurt.
It took a long time for his hands to stop shaking.
He didn't know how long he sat like that. The wind picked up. Ash blew through the trees. The sun or whatever passed for it, barely moved.
But something in him had.
He looked at the dagger. Notched now and bent. But it was now his and this was his first kill.
He didn't level up. There was no music, just silence that seemed to trouble him.
But the weight in his chest was different.
The fear was still there, but so was something else, something that felt worse than fear. Probably the realization that he might never leave this place.
He wasn't just a lost boy anymore. He was in the game now and he was going to survive, no matter the cost.