The sound of footsteps made Ishar freeze.

  Not the erratic scuffling of goblins—these steps were heavier, deliberate. Metal clinked softly. Boots ground against loose stone.

  Adventurers.

  His body tensed. Had they heard the fight? If they found him—if they saw what he was—there wouldn’t be a conversation. They’d kill first, ask questions never.

  He exhaled sharply. The bodies. The blood. He had to disappear. Now.

  His gaze snapped to the fallen goblin. A rusted dagger lay in its slack grip. He grabbed it without hesitation, the grime-coated handle rough against his palm. No time to think. No time to plan.

  He turned and sprinted.

  Stone blurred past him. His new body moved differently—faster, lighter. His footfalls barely made a sound, but his breath came sharp, heart pounding against his ribs.

  Behind him, the footsteps quickened.

  They were following.

  A voice rang out, sharp and alert. "Something moved—check the passage!"

  Ishar went rigid. That voice—he knew it. His grip tightened around the dagger, his pulse hammering in his ears.

  A shuffle of boots. The scrape of metal against stone. The footsteps inched closer.

  Then, he saw them.

  Three figures.

  Jake’s team. Hunters, every one of them. They weren’t the strongest, but they didn’t need to be. They knew how to track, how to corner, how to kill. And right now, something had their full attention.

  The archer swept his gaze across the cavern, bowstring drawn, an arrow nocked.

  The swordsman stepped forward cautiously, blade gleaming under the flickering torchlight.

  The spear-wielding woman crouched by the bodies, her fingers gliding over the fresh wounds. She touched the severed throat of one, then the crushed skull of another. Her jaw tightened.

  The swordsman’s gaze flickered toward the shadows. "That wasn’t a goblin."

  His voice was firm. Certain.

  The archer didn’t lower his bow. "Then what was it?"

  The spearwoman stood slowly, eyes narrowing as she traced her fingers over a smear of blood. Fresh.

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  Her gaze lifted, locking onto the darkness where Ishar hid.

  "Something else is here."

  Ishar's heart went cold.

  He didn't think—he moved.

  In an instant, he spun on his heel and bolted deeper into the tunnels, barely suppressing the urge to gasp for air. His body, still unfamiliar, carried him faster than it should have, his footsteps eerily light.

  But running wasn't enough.

  They were trackers. If he left a clear trail, they'd be on him in minutes.

  His eyes darted around as he ran, mind racing. Think. Think.

  Then, an idea.

  Reaching out, he dragged his claws against the rough stone walls, leaving deep, jagged gashes. A few strides later, he slammed his fist into a loose rock formation, sending a small pile of debris crashing down. The sharp clatter echoed through the tunnels.

  His heart pounded as he spotted the orc's corpse sprawled nearby, its lifeless eyes reflecting the dim torchlight.

  Make it look savage. Unnatural.

  Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees and drove the dagger into its face. The brittle resistance of an unseeing eye gave way with a wet squelch. He twisted the blade, shredding soft tissue, then wrenched it free. A thick, gelatinous streak trailed the blade as he flung the ruined eyeball aside.

  Not enough.

  He plunged his hand into the orc's gaping mouth, fingers curling around its lower jaw. With a sharp yank, bone popped free from its hinge, leaving the maw hanging at a sickening angle. Blood and spit dribbled down his wrist.

  Faster. He had to be faster.

  He pressed his foot against the corpse's shoulder and ripped. Flesh tore, ligaments snapping like wet rope as he wrenched an arm clean from its socket. The weight of it nearly threw him off balance, but he recovered, flinging the dismembered limb into the far shadows.

  Let them find it. Let them hesitate.

  His hands, slick with gore, reached for more. He carved jagged gashes across its torso, scooping out chunks of torn muscle and scattering them. The stomach—he punctured it, bile and half-digested meat spilling out in a putrid mess. The stench was overwhelming, clinging to the air, thick and rancid.

  Ishar stood, chest rising and falling in quick, sharp breaths.

  It was a scene straight out of a nightmare—like something monstrous had played with its prey.

  Perfect.

  Footsteps.

  They were getting close.

  Ishar wiped his bloodied hands on his tattered cloak and vanished into the tunnels.

  ***

  The swordsman was the first to step into the carnage, his breath hitching at the sight before him. The orc's body—if it could still be called that—lay in pieces. Its eyes had been gouged out, empty sockets staring blankly upward. The flesh around them was ragged, torn in a way that suggested claws, not blades. One arm was missing, ripped off at the shoulder, the jagged bone gleaming in the firelight. Its other hand had been severed and tossed aside like discarded meat.

  The spear woman inhaled sharply but didn't speak. Instead, she crouched down, inspecting the brutality with slow, methodical movements. Her fingers traced the torn flesh, her jaw tightening. Blood pooled thick beneath the corpse, but something about it was wrong—too much, yet not fresh enough to be recent. Her eyes flicked toward the gashes along the walls, the rubble deliberately scattered.

  "This wasn't a clean kill," she murmured, voice tight with restraint.

  The swordsman nodded grimly, his grip on his weapon tightening. "No adventurer did this."

  The archer took a step back, scanning the cavern walls, his breath slow and controlled. Then, with barely a shift in his stance, he raised his bow again, his hands steady despite the tension radiating from his body. He understood without words. They all did.

  The three exchanged looks. No need for discussion—just nods, subtle and sharp. They had hunted together long enough to read the unspoken. Something's wrong. Stay sharp.

  The spear woman straightened, her gaze flicking into the darkened passage ahead. "It left this for us to see," she muttered. Her voice was lower now, colder. "A warning... or a distraction."

  Silence settled thick between them.

  Then, without another word, they moved. Slower now. Blades drawn, bowstring taut, their formation instinctively tightening. Their movements were measured, deliberate