Ishar ran, his breaths sharp and controlled, feet gliding soundlessly across the uneven stone floor. The tunnel felt endless, the deeper he went, the heavier the air became. Cold, damp stone pressed in from all sides, the suffocating stillness disturbed only by the faint drip of water somewhere in the unseen distance. The last flickers of distant torchlight had long vanished behind him—now, he moved through pure blackness.

  Then, he saw it.

  A glint of steel.

  Ishar barely had time to react before a blade whistled through the darkness. He twisted instinctively, the weapon slicing just past his ribs. He staggered back, his body tensed, eyes locking onto the hunched figure ahead.

  A goblin warrior.

  It was larger than the others he had fought, its sinewy arms gripping a chipped longsword far too big for its scrawny frame. Dried blood caked its knotted leather armor, and in the dim, its yellowed eyes gleamed with raw aggression. A low, guttural snarl rumbled from its throat as it lunged again.

  Ishar barely sidestepped the downward swing, the sword clanging against stone, sending up a spray of sparks. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs. He was still adjusting to his new body, and this thing moved fast. Faster than he expected.

  No hesitation. Ishar lunged forward, swinging his own club toward the goblin's side. A meaty thud—the goblin staggered but barely reacted. It was tougher than the smaller ones. More resilient

  The goblin roared.

  [Skill: Goblin Blade Dance D]

  A surge of movement. The goblin twisted unnaturally, blade flickering in the dim light as it slashed in a wild, erratic arc. Ishar barely had time to react before pain flared across his arm—a shallow cut, but deep enough to send a fresh wave of adrenaline crashing through him.

  Too fast!

  The goblin wasn't fighting wildly—this was a technique. The unpredictable swings, the shifting momentum… It wasn't random. It was meant to overwhelm.

  Ishar gritted his teeth. If he didn't act fast, he'd be cut to pieces.

  The goblin lunged again. Ishar barely managed to deflect the strike with his club, but his arms shook from the impact. He needed to turn this around. Now or those adventures would be on him anytime.

  [Skill: Charm D] Activated.

  The moment the charm took effect, the goblin's body stiffened mid-strike. Its jagged sword froze inches from Ishar's shoulder, its muscles locking up in unnatural tension. The wild glow in its yellowed eyes flickered, momentarily clouded—confusion? Pain? It didn't matter.

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  Ishar saw his opening. He threw himself forward, barely aiming, trusting instinct over thought.

  His left hand jerked, dagger catching dim light for the briefest moment before plunging forward. It aimed straight for the goblin's heart. The moment the tip sank into flesh, the creature's eyes bulged. A wet, strangled noise gurgled from its throat, its stiffened limbs jerking violently as its body fought against the unnatural paralysis.

  But it was too late.

  Ishar twisted the blade.

  The goblin convulsed, a violent shudder wracking its frame. A fresh gush of blood spilled down its chest, hot against Ishar's hand. Its jagged fingers twitched, struggling to grip its weapon—but there was no strength left.

  A final, choking breath.

  The light in its eyes faded.

  With a sharp jerk,

  Ishar ripped the dagger free, but he wasn't done.

  With a sharp inhale, he grabbed the goblin's limp body and plunged the blade into its throat, sawing through flesh and gristle. Blood sprayed in hot, messy spurts, splattering his arms, his chest, the cold stone beneath him.

  But it wasn't enough.

  He needed this to look like a massacre.

  With a grunt, Ishar grabbed the corpse by its matted hair and slammed its head against the wall. Once. Twice. On the third impact, bone gave way with a wet crunch, leaving behind a dark, oozing smear on the stone.

  Then, he turned his attention to the body.

  A monster wouldn't simply kill—it would tear, feast, desecrate.

  Ishar drove his club into the goblin's ribcage, feeling bones snap beneath the force. Then he tore at its armor, exposing flesh, raking deep gashes across its stomach. He dragged the goblin's own sword across its chest, splitting skin, making the wound look jagged—like something massive had clawed through it.

  The air reeked of blood and bile.

  Good.

  He smeared handprints across the floor, dragged the body a few feet to leave a streak of crimson. He grabbed loose stones and crushed fingers, snapping them unnaturally. By the time he was finished, the scene was nothing short of carnage.

  No human could've done this.

  Ishar flicked blood from his hands and stepped back, eyes scanning his work. It had to be convincing. Had to stall the adventurers.

  It would work.

  Without another glance, he turned on his heel and melted into the darkness, leaving the mess of torn flesh and shattered bone behind.

  His ribs ached. His side burned. The cut on his arm stung with every movement. But it didn't matter.

  No time.

  He had to move.

  ***

  The moment they descended into the tunnels again, the stench hit them first—thick, coppery, clinging to the damp air.

  Then, they saw it.

  The archer was the first to react, inhaling sharply as his grip tightened around his bow. "What the hell...?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

  The swordsman, a seasoned warrior, stepped forward—only to freeze mid-stride. His eyes flickered over the carnage, the mangled corpse, the streaks of blood smeared across the floor. For a brief moment, his jaw tensed, fingers twitching near the hilt of his blade.

  The spear woman, her expression sharp and calculating, crouched low beside the body. Unlike the others, she wasn't just staring in horror—she was analyzing. And then she saw it.

  Another streak of blood. Fresh. Not goblin.

  "This isn't just a monster attack," she murmured, her voice steady despite the unease creeping into her tone. "Whatever did this… it's playing with us."

  The swordsman's eyes darkened, his gaze flickering across the tunnel, scanning the shadows beyond. The bloodied handprints. The intentional destruction. It wasn't random—it was staged.

  A slow, exhaled breath. Then, under his breath, he muttered:

  "Smart prey…" His grip on his sword tightened, the fire in his gaze flaring. "Let's see how long you can run."