The deeper Kaelen descended, the less the Abyss felt like a cave and the more it felt like a grave. The air grew thick with the smell of wet fur and rotting iron.
He had walked for hours, his obsidian shard gripped tight. His level-up had mended his broken ribs, but the skin was still a ghostly, bruised grey. He wasn't human anymore—not really. He was a container for things that should have stayed buried.
A flickering light appeared ahead. It wasn't the pure gold of the Heavens, but a sickly green glow. Kaelen rounded a corner and stopped.
It was a camp. Rough tents made of monster hide were huddled around a fire of glowing mushrooms. But it wasn't monsters sitting there. They were people—or what was left of them.
A group of Ghouls and Dark Orcs sat in silence. These weren't the mindless beasts from the Hero's legends. They had hollow eyes and scarred skin. They were the "Failed Races," discarded by the Gods for being "imperfect."
"Who goes there?" a voice barked.
A massive Orc stood up, his green skin covered in brands that glowed with a faint, holy light. They were Slave Marks—the kind the "Heroes" used to keep their servants in line. He held a rusted cleaver, his eyes narrowing at Kaelen.
"A human?" the Orc spat. "No... you smell like the surface, but you look like death."
"I was a 'Hero,'" Kaelen said, his voice flat.
The camp erupted in harsh, jagged laughter. A female Ghoul with long, matted hair stepped forward. "A Hero? Then you're in the wrong place, little bird. The Gods don't drop their pets down here unless they're finished breaking them."
"They finished," Kaelen said. He held up his hand, letting the dark, purple veins of Malice pulse for all to see. "And now I'm looking for the way to the Second Stratum."
The laughter died instantly. The Orc lowered his cleaver, a look of pity—or perhaps fear—crossing his face. "The Second Stratum is ruled by the Screaming Warden. He's a fallen angel the Gods sent down to keep us in our place. No one goes there unless they want to be turned into meat."
"I need to get stronger," Kaelen said, stepping into the light of the green fire. "The Warden has a Divine Key, doesn't he?"
"He does," the Ghoul whispered. "But you're a Level 2 scrap of skin. He'll blink and you'll turn to dust."
Kaelen looked at the Orc's branded arm. He could feel the pain radiating from it—the lingering sting of the holy fire that had burned those marks into the Orc's flesh. To Kaelen, that pain was like a beacon. It was food.
"That mark hurts, doesn't it?" Kaelen asked.
The Orc growled, clutching his arm. "Every day. It's a gift from the God of Justice. It never stops burning."
"I can take it," Kaelen said. "I can take your pain. But in exchange, you tell me where the Warden sleeps."
The camp went silent. The idea of someone wanting to take pain was insane to them. But Kaelen walked forward, his hand outstretched.
"I'm the Thirteenth Apostle," he whispered, his eyes glowing with a dark, hungry light. "Taking pain is the only thing I was ever good at. Now, I'm going to make it my throne."
The Orc hesitated, then slowly extended his branded arm. As Kaelen's fingers touched the glowing mark, the purple veins in his arm flared.
[Passive Skill: Pain Absorption Activated.]
[Target: Named Orc 'Brak'.]
[Siphoning Divine Burn...]
The Orc's eyes widened as the constant, searing heat left his body for the first time in ten years. Kaelen, however, threw his head back as his own skin began to blister. He let out a ragged, choked breath, a terrifying grin spreading across his face.
[Malice Load: 120% (OVERLOAD)]
[Warning: Physical body sustaining damage from excess Malice.]
"The Warden," Kaelen gasped through the agony, his voice dripping with venom. "Tell me where he is. I have a gift for him."