The tunnels mocked him. Every wall seemed to carry sound—clashes, screeches, shouts—twisting them into an endless loop until he couldn’t tell where they had come from, nor how far away. Each heartbeat was another second slipping away.

  Wor-en clenched his jaw. If I’m wrong, if it’s not them… But no. His instincts rarely lied, and this time they screamed at him. The posture, the way that archer loosed her bow. Boris’ height and body structure. The trio’s silence. Their masks. It had to be them. His students.

  And if that were true… then their lives dangled by the thinnest thread.

  “Break into smaller groups,” he said, forcing his tone steady. “Three or four. If you face a swarm, don’t fight. Retreat. If it’s a handful, you can handle them.”

  Even Mirodin Might—the immovable wall of a man, bare-chested and fearless—gave him a sharp nod, understanding this wasn’t an order of convenience. One of the silver rank adventurers. He understood the dire consequences. If those students die under their leadership.

  “I’ll go alone,” Mirodin rumbled, his spear slung casually across his shoulder. “I move faster that way.”

  “I can do the same,” Wor-en replied.

  That drew looks. Some anxious, others doubtful.

  “I’ve got [Camouflage],” he explained, voice flat, certain. “The bees won’t even notice me unless I let them.”

  Mirodin studied him, weighing the risk, then gave a curt nod. “Fine. But don’t engage. You’ll die.”

  “I won’t,” Wor-en promised.

  And then they ran.

  The tunnel swallowed him, stone dripping with damp, the air hot and stale from the buzzing hum that seemed to seep through the rock itself. He followed the loudest echo, the clash he thought he’d heard earlier, every stride heavier than the last. Not from fatigue, but dread. He had the sinking feeling that fate was pulling him forward—not to salvation, but to a truth he didn’t want confirmed.

  The Foragers came first. Small groups, four or five, darting from cracks in the walls, their wings vibrating fast enough to blur.

  [Camouflage]

  Mana surged through him. His outline bent, shimmered, melted into the stone. His breath slowed to match the rhythm of the cave, his footsteps dampened. The bees darted past

  But for every group he evaded, more appeared. Pairs became trios. Then fives. Then sevens. Their numbers thickened until the air itself buzzed like a hive. And still—no sign of the trio. No hint of masks, no glimmer of movement that wasn’t chitin and venom.

  Hours bled away. He hadn’t noticed until the ache hit him—his mana burning from overusing [Camouflage]. Mana drained fast when you ran it constantly, and he had been running it far too long. His reserves clawed at empty.

  He stumbled into a crevice, narrow enough to wedge himself in, heart pounding as the swarm buzzed past. He fumbled for a potion. A small glass vial, clear as ice. He bit out the cork and drank, throat burning with the metallic taste.

  His hands trembled. He reached for a second, slipped.

  Crash!

  The vial shattered on the stone floor, shards scattering.

  The sound was like thunder in the silence.

  The buzzing stopped.

  Wor-en froze, every muscle locked.

  Then the hum returned—angrier. Louder. Great Bee Foragers shot into the tunnel, their wings screaming against the stone, drawn to the echo of shattering glass. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dark as they swept toward his hiding place.

  Wor-en’s pulse slammed in his ears. He pressed against the stone, [Camouflage] flickering under the strain of his drained mana.

  One bee hovered inches away, its stinger dripping venom that smoked against the floor.

  If they pierce through the crevice…

  He didn’t dare breathe. Not yet. Not now.

  …….

  Suri led them through the twisting stone, illusions wrapping them like a cloak. They moved quickly, their breaths ragged, each footfall echoing too loud in the silence. At a fork, she stopped so suddenly that Boris almost collided into her.

  She closed her eyes. “Two groups searching the left tunnels.” She lifted a hand, pointing. “We’ll take the inner right.”

  No one argued. They ran.

  Time blurred in the oppressive dark. By now, they should have reached the exit. Instead, the search parties forced them into detours, paths that bent back on themselves, twisting like a trap designed to confuse prey.

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  At last, light. A shimmer ahead—a circular pool of blue, suspended in the air like liquid glass. The exit.

  Beyond it, the safe zone waited. A scattering of healers and wounded, too exhausted to return. Suri lifted her hand, weaving an illusion around them as they stepped through the glowing veil.

  ….

  Outside, voices. Merchants, hawking food and drink.

  Boris lowered Lett carefully. Her eyes were vacant, body slack as though her soul had stayed behind in the dungeon. Around them, people stared—confused. Adventurers murmured questions.

  Heads were already turning. Too late to vanish again.

  They turned to leave the gawkers behind, but Suri froze mid-step.

  “Wait.”

  Her voice changed—hard, low, urgent. Everyone stilled.

  “Wor-en…” She swallowed. “Professor Wor-en is in trouble. Deep trouble. He’ll die at this rate.”

  Kana felt the words strike like a dagger in her gut. She didn’t need to ask how Suri knew.

  Boris muttered a curse, tightening his grip on his spear.

  Kana straightened. “We’re going back.”

  Asha and Opel didn’t hesitate. They exchanged a glance, then both nodded. Quietly, decisively.

  They left Lett outside, pressing silver coins into one of their acquaintances' palms to watch her. Lett didn’t even blink as they walked away.

  Then, without another word, the five of them turned and stepped back into the dungeon—toward the buzzing dark, toward the danger, toward Wor-en.

  Because escape meant nothing if he didn’t make it out with them. They would blame themselves if he died searching for them.

  …

  Wor-en cursed under his breath. One slip. One mistake. That was all it took.

  The sound of the shattering vial still echoed in his ears, mocking him. He saw their faces in that instant—his wife, his children, their little home wrapped in sunlight. A memory as fragile as spun glass. He couldn’t die here. Not like this.

  The great bee forager hovered before him, wings thrumming, eyes like shards of glass. Its stinger darted forward, faster than his breath.

  He twisted, dagger flashing, steel meeting chitin with a jolt that numbed his wrist. He deflected, barely. He couldn’t kill it. He knew that. The thing knew it too—darting, testing, backing away each time he tried to press forward. It understood his range. His limits.

  Focus, Wor-en!

  He kept his stance low, muffling each clash so it wouldn’t echo through the tunnels and bring more. He wasn’t fighting to win. He was fighting for time.

  After what felt like an eternity, he judged he had enough. Just enough. He dug into his pocket with his free hand, pulling free a glass vial. With a flick, he hurled it to the stone.

  It burst in a plume of smoke. The bee screeched, wings thrashing.

  Wor-en didn’t wait. He triggered [Camouflage], his body melting into the shadows of the cave. He sprinted, lungs burning, feet scraping against the uneven ground as he fled into the next tunnel.

  But then it broke. Mana dried out. [Camouflage] collapsed. His form snapped back into view.

  He staggered to a halt, chest heaving. His hands trembled. Not from the run—but from the weight of what he knew. His instincts screamed the truth before his eyes confirmed it.

  Shapes moved in the gloom ahead. Not one pair of wings. Not two.

  Four.

  Four Great Bee Foragers, their wings humming in discordant unison, eyes reflecting the faint light like blades.

  Wor-en swallowed hard, his dagger heavy in his hand. Battle simulations spun in his mind—dozens of scenarios. Strike left, feint right, draw them into the choke point. He ran them all, desperate, calculating.

  Each ended the same.

  With his body broken and left as food for the hive.

  The buzzing grew louder, pressing in on him. Death, patient and inevitable, hovered in the dark.

  …..

  Wor-en gambled. He had no other choice.

  He ran—not forward, but back. Back to where the smoke still lingered, hoping, praying it hadn’t yet dissipated. His boots scraped stone, breath ragged, wings buzzing behind him like the rattle of death’s drum.

  The foragers followed, relentlessly. Their speed matched his own, closing the distance with each echoing wingbeat.

  He dove through the thinning mist, rolling across uneven ground, cloak scraping rock. For an instant, hope flared.

  Then died.

  The smoke was nearly gone, and worse—shapes emerged from within it. Not one group, but many. More Great Bee Foragers. Their wings cut the air like knives, dozens of stingers gleaming with venom.

  He’d trapped himself.

  “Help!” Wor-en’s voice cracked, echoing in the cavern as he yanked a bell from his sleeve. He rang it in sharp bursts, a cadence known by the main force. A cry for aid. A desperate plea.

  But he knew the truth even as he rang it. Help was too far away.

  There was only one path to survival: defend, hold them off, drain every ounce of strength he had until his mana returned. Then slip away beneath the cover of [Camouflage].

  A plan that sounded possible—until he felt the drag of his limbs, the fire in his lungs. His stamina was gone. Each deflection came slower than the last, dagger shuddering in his grip.

  The bees knew it. They circled him, patient. Cruel. Their strikes darted like vipers—testing, prodding, finding weakness.

  One found it.

  A stinger pierced his side, hot venom flooding his veins. Pain roared through him, and the strength nearly fled his legs. He stumbled, vision blurring. The thought struck him—this is how it ends.

  Then—

  A shard of ice split the air. It whistled past his shoulder and shattered against a forager’s carapace. The creature screeched, wings faltering.

  Wor-en blinked through the haze. He staggered back, fumbling for the antidote vial, downing it with trembling hands as his eyes widened.

  Figures emerged from the darkness. Masks glinting in the dim torchlight. A bear. A cat. A dog.

  And behind them, a mage with frost clinging to her hands, a tank with shield raised.

  The students.

  The ones he had been hunting.

  The ones he had prayed they were not them.

  They stood in defiance between him and death.