The air within the Labyrinth of the Flayed was stagnant, yet far from empty. The tunnels bore the scars of ten thousand years of excavation, their jagged walls carved by mortal hands and stained a deep, enduring black—not by rot, but by blood long pressed into the stone. It did not fade. It clung. A dull pressure lingered in the air, as though the dead had left something behind that refused to disperse. Only one thing disturbed that suffocating stillness: the censer in Dver's hand. A slow stream of purple smoke bled from its mouth, coiling low along the ground before spreading outward, thick and unmistakable, marking him without concealment.
"Over here! I smell it!"
The shout tore through the tunnel, followed by hurried footsteps that carried no caution. Dver did not move. He leaned against the rough wall, his body drawn inward, his breathing shallow, fingers tightening around the bronze censer as though it were the only thing holding him upright. Three disciples rushed into view, blades already drawn, their eyes locking onto him with immediate certainty.
One of them laughed. "The Saintess has a sense of humor. She handed us a corpse. Look at him—he won't last a breath."
They closed in without slowing.
Steel flashed.
A sharp clang rang out as a streak of silver cut between them, knocking the incoming blade aside. A girl stepped forward, placing herself between Dver and the three men. Her robes were worn and indistinct, but her stance was precise, her movements clean. The blade in her hand held a narrow, controlled thread of Qi—tight, deliberate, without waste.
"Three against one?" she said, her voice level. "Is this what passes for cultivation?"
The attackers slowed, recognition flickering.
"Ren," one muttered. "Move. This isn't your concern."
"It is now."
"Then leave," another said. "Give us your token and walk away."
"No."
The refusal carried no hesitation.
She did not turn back. "Run," she said. "Find another path."
Dver remained where he was. Within, his thoughts aligned without friction. A shield. A witness. A narrative. Each had its use.
"I… I can't," he said, his voice breaking. "My leg—"
"Then stay behind me," Ren replied, her grip tightening on her sword.
The three moved at once.
Ren met the first strike, her blade turning it aside with precision. She shifted to evade the second, but the third broke away, circling past her without pause. His intent was clear.
Dver.
The blade drove straight for his throat.
Dver watched. Every detail unfolded with clarity—the nicked edge of the iron, the tension in the man's wrist, the imbalance in his footing. The strike was fast.
Not enough.
At the last instant, Dver stumbled. His body pitched backward, unbalanced, the censer swinging in a wide, clumsy arc.
The blow caved in the side of his skull
The bronze struck the man's temple. The motion was weak. The impact was not. Bone collapsed inward with a wet, concave fracture, fragments driving into soft tissue as blood and grey matter burst outward in a short, violent spray. The body dropped without resistance, limbs folding unnaturally as it hit the ground.
Ren did not see the strike. Only the corpse.
"He tripped!" one of the remaining attackers shouted, disbelief breaking through his voice.
"Lucky trash," the other spat.
They pressed forward.
Dver scrambled upright, his movements erratic, unfocused. His foot came down on the fallen man's hand. The bones shattered under his weight, fingers flattening with a soft, wet crack. He flinched, panicked, swinging the censer again.
The edge of the bronze tore across the second man's throat. It did not cut cleanly—it crushed. The cartilage collapsed, the front of the neck caving inward as the impact sealed the airway. The man staggered, clawing at his throat as blood flooded upward, choking him from within. A broken, bubbling sound escaped him before he collapsed, twitching, eyes wide.
Ren ended the last one. Her blade drove forward, piercing through ribs and into the heart. The man stiffened, breath catching once before stopping entirely. His body sagged and slid from the blade.
The tunnel stilled. Blood spread slowly across the uneven stone, seeping into old stains that accepted it without change. For a few breaths, only the sound of breathing remained.
Ren lowered her sword, her chest rising and falling as she turned. Her gaze moved from the bodies to Dver—the trembling boy clutching a smoking censer as though it were the only thing keeping him alive.
"You're still alive," she said.
"I—I didn't mean to!" Dver stammered, his voice shaking. "I just swung it—I didn't see—I—"
Ren exhaled, wiping blood from her cheek. "You got lucky."
Luck had nothing to do with it.
She stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "You won't survive this place alone," she said. "That thing you're carrying will draw everyone."
Dver looked up, his expression uncertain, fragile. "Y-you'll help me?"
"I'll get you out," she said. "But you follow exactly what I say."
"Yes… yes, I will," he replied, lowering his head.
"Stay behind me. Keep the smoke out of my blind spots."
"Thank you, Sister Ren," Dver said, bowing low enough to hide his face.
She turned and moved into the darkness.
Dver followed.
The purple smoke trailed behind him, thick and unmistakable, marking their path through the labyrinth. His steps were uneven, his breathing unsteady, his posture weak.
None of it was real.
Behind lowered lashes, his eyes had already settled—cold, precise, unmoved.
He had not fought. He had not struggled. He had simply taken what was placed before him.
She believed she was leading a survivor through the dark.
She did not realize she was walking ahead of something that did not leave anything behind.