Chapter 2: Blood
The smell of brimstone and blood hung in the stale air as the small demon pressed onward through winding tunnels. Its wound from the centipede demon had scabbed under the new patch of scales, but a dull ache remained—a reminder of how close it had come to death already. Hunger gnawed at it, not for flesh, but for souls. The fraction of energy it had scavenged from the centipede's soul only sharpened its appetite. It needed a whole soul, a true kill, and this time it would hunt deliberately.
It kept to a narrow path along the wall of a broader tunnel, where jagged rocks provided cover. Here and there, clumps of bioluminescent fungi clung to the stone, their sickly green light mixing with the faint red glow from distant lava to paint an otherworldly tableau. The fungi gave off a sweet, rotten scent that masked the demonling's own smell – a small advantage while stalking prey.
Up ahead, the tunnel opened into a cavern with multiple exits – a crossroads of sorts in the depths. The demonling halted at the edge of an archway of stone and crouched low, peering out. It could hear movement: scuffling footsteps, and a raspy muttering voice echoing from somewhere in the chamber. Slowly, it edged around a stalagmite and crept behind a boulder to observe.
In the center of the crossroads cavern, illuminated by a natural skylight of lava far above, was a hunched figure. At first, the demonling tensed, fearing it was another larger predator. But as its eyes adjusted, it recognized the creature: an imp.
The imp was scrawny, only a head taller than the demonling itself. Its skin was a mottled red and brown, covered in warty bumps. A pair of tattered bat-like wings were folded against its back, seemingly too small to grant true flight but perhaps enough for a short glide or hop. The imp clutched a crude spear – a sharpened femur bone tipped with obsidian – and appeared to be picking at something on the ground.
The demonling's slit-pupilled gaze followed the imp's actions. It was prying a lizard-like demon carcass off the ground, one that had been partially eaten. Likely scavenged leftovers from some bigger beast's meal. The imp cursed as it worked, speaking a demonic tongue that the newborn could catch fragments of now that its mind had started to awaken.
"…always scraps… no good flesh left…," the imp grumbled to itself, snapping off a piece of the dead lizard's tail and sniffing it.
The demonling instinctively shrank back a little further behind the boulder. An imp was a cunning opponent; not as feral as the centipede or random beasts. It had a weapon and could think. But that also meant it possessed a higher-quality soul than a mindless vermin. And importantly, it was alone.
The small demon's tail flicked as it calculated. Its earlier fights had been straightforward struggles of tooth and claw. This would require stealth and a bit of planning. The imp hadn't noticed it yet, which was an advantage it could not squander.
It silently set down the glowing fungus clump it had been carrying for light (one of the bioluminescent bulbs it plucked earlier) – the light could betray it. Darkness enveloped the demonling once more, but it could still see well enough in the dim lava glow from above. It then carefully unstoppered the clay jug it had taken from the goblin-smith's forge during its earlier wanderings (a lucky find). A waft of acrid fumes rose from within, burning its nostrils. The demonling recognized the scent: a strong acid or venomous concoction. Perhaps the goblin-smith used it for etching metal or poisoning blades. Now it could serve as a weapon.
With delicate movements, the demonling poured some of the viscous, smoking liquid onto its blade's jagged edge, coating it. It remembered how the centipede's venom had almost caught it; now it hoped to turn the tables on a new foe.
A plan formed in its mind. The imp was still distracted, now gnawing on the lizard's tail with a look of disgust. The demonling needed to get close without the imp skewering it with that spear. Perhaps a diversion…
Its eyes fell on a cluster of loose rocks near the cavern wall opposite from where it hid. If it could make a sound over there, the imp might look away just long enough.
The demonling carefully picked up a pebble and tossed it toward the cluster of rocks. It clattered against the stone. Immediately, the imp's pointed ears pricked up. It dropped the piece of tail and brandished its spear, yellow eyes darting toward the sound.
"Who's there?!" the imp hissed, voice echoing. It took a hesitant step toward the noise, spear leveled.
The demonling seized the moment. It slipped from behind its boulder, keeping low, and crept swiftly across the cavern floor toward the imp's turned back. Each heartbeat felt like thunder in its chest as it closed the distance.
Five paces… four… The imp was moving cautiously toward the opposite wall, its back fully exposed.
Three paces… The demonling could see the imp's muscles tensed, ready to spring at any threat – but expecting it from the wrong direction.
Two paces… It raised its shard-blade, shimmering with corrosive liquid.
One.
The demonling lunged, driving its blade toward the imp's side. At the last instant, some instinct must have alerted the imp – it tried to spin around, eyes widening – but too late. The jagged metal sunk into its flank just below the ribs. The acid-coated tip punched through leathery skin and soft flesh with a hiss.
The imp screeched in agony, a high-pitched, grating wail. The demonling snarled, feral triumph surging through it, and ripped the blade out, dark blood spraying across the cavern floor. The imp lashed out blindly with its spear, clipping the demonling's shoulder with the bone tip. Pain flared as it tore a shallow gouge, but the newborn's hardened skin held against what could have been a deeper thrust.
They fell upon each other in a tangle of limbs. The imp dropped its spear in favor of clawing at its ambusher, its face twisted in rage and pain. Its claws scraped against the demonling's scaled hide, drawing sparks but little blood. The acid was already working on its insides – the imp gagged, spitting up black bile as the corrosive poison spread from the wound. Its strength waned moment by moment.
The demonling pressed its advantage mercilessly. It raked its claws across the imp's throat, shredding the tender flesh there. Hot blood gushed over its hands. The imp gurgled, eyes bulging. It tried to scream but only a wet choke emerged. With a final savage snarl, the demonling opened its jaws and clamped down on the imp's neck, biting through to the spine in a crunch.
At last, the imp went limp, a ragged whisper escaping its lips: "…no…please…" Perhaps a final plea, or just the air leaving its lungs. The demonling did not care which. It held on until it was sure the body beneath it was truly lifeless.
Panting, it shoved the corpse off and rose, dripping in the imp's blood. Its own shoulder stung, but a quick inspection showed only a minor puncture; the imp's desperate strike had lacked strength and aim. A bruise, nothing more.
It had done it – a deliberate hunt, a kill by its own design. A crude plan executed well enough to secure victory. The demonling allowed itself a moment of grim satisfaction.
Then came the feast of essence. Just as with the centipede demon, a wispy aura began to emanate from the fresh corpse. But this soul was stronger, more defined. The imp's chest glowed with an inner fire that cracked through its sternum, and from those cracks rose tendrils of orange-red luminescence, like smoke from embers.
The demonling eagerly reached out with its own being, instinctually drawing that energy in. The soul flowed out of the imp's body and into the victor, coursing down its throat and into its core. It felt warmer, richer than the centipede's – colored with the cunning and malice that the imp had possessed in life. The demonling shuddered in ecstasy as vitality surged through its small frame, knitting minor wounds, fueling growth.
The imp's soul was a full one, not a shard, and the system within reacted immediately:
New options unfurled themselves in its mind's eye, more advanced than before. The demonling's nascent intelligence understood that with greater power came greater possibilities:
• Adaptations Available: Improved Claws (1 Soul), Enhanced Vision (1 Soul), Minor Strength Boost (1 Soul), Spiked Tail (1 Soul)…
• New Category Unlocked: Minor Demonic Abilities (requires 2 Souls or more) – currently greyed out, inaccessible.
It hissed in pleasure. So many choices now, but it had limited Soul energy. It could afford one adaptation at the moment (the interface implied fractional souls might not be usable until reaching whole numbers or thresholds).
Among the options, one shone in its desires: Improved Claws. It recalled how difficult it had been to pierce the centipede's hide and how the imp's throat only gave way under persistent effort. Sharper, stronger claws would make killing easier, faster – a necessity for survival.
Without delay, it confirmed the choice in its mind.
The now-familiar pain of transformation seized it, though this time less shocking since it half-expected it. The demonling dropped its blade and hunched over with a snarl as it felt its hands begin to change. Its fingers elongated slightly, joints popping. The black keratin of its nails grew out into curved talons, each claw-tip glinting with a razor sheen. The bones in its forearms thickened to support more powerful muscles, and its grip reflexively tightened.
It roared through clenched teeth as the last wave of heat passed. When it opened its eyes, it flexed its hands and saw the result: where before it had paw-like claws good for scrabbling, now each hand bore a set of vicious talons akin to a raptor's, capable of slicing flesh like soft cloth. The demonling dragged a claw against the stone floor experimentally, leaving a shallow scratch – something it couldn't do before.
The soul count in the interface ticked down, showing 0.4 remaining. The other adaptation options dimmed, some vanishing if they were one-time purchases like the claws. It had gotten what it wished for.
Only then did awareness of the outside world crash back in – including the fact that the imp's dying shriek might have alerted others. The crossroads cavern suddenly felt far less safe than a moment ago. The demonling's pointed ears caught a new sound: the distant flapping of large wings and a bubbling snarl echoing down one of the tunnels connected to this chamber.
It hurriedly retrieved its blade, wiping the blood off on the imp's loincloth. Its eyes darted around, looking for a place to hide or flee.
From the tunnel to the left, opposite of where it had come, a shape emerged from the darkness: a grotesque thing waddling on two stout legs. It resembled a toad the size of a bear, but with patches of scales and two small malformed wings flapping uselessly at its sides. Its mouth was a massive, fang-filled maw that split its head nearly in half, and a long barbed tongue flicked out to taste the air. The creature's eyes, milky white and devoid of iris, locked onto the sight of the imp's corpse – and then onto the smaller demon standing over it.
A Biletoad – a carrion demon known to inhabit these crossroads, scavenging on kills it didn't make. But this one looked half-starved and dangerously aggressive, likely drawn by the scent of fresh blood and soul energy.
The demonling tensed. The Biletoad was not extremely high on the abyssal chain, but it was certainly stronger than a mere imp or vermin. Alone and head-on, the demonling doubted it could win against that beast; it was outmatched in size and likely strength. And those warty bumps on the toad's skin were known to exude hallucinogenic or acidic slime.
The Biletoad let out a wet, gurgling croak that reverberated through the cavern. It was a warning and a claim all at once: the kill belonged to it now, and any interloper would be eaten as well.
The small demon's mind raced. Fight or flight? Its brand-new claws twitched, eager for another test, but logic overrode bravado. This foe could crush it with a single snap of those jaws. No, a direct fight was suicide. Better to escape and find easier prey than become prey itself.
With a low growl of frustration – hating to abandon a kill site and possibly any leftover soul remnants (though likely all taken) – the demonling began to back away slowly toward one of the unexplored tunnels. It kept its eyes on the Biletoad, which was now shuffling toward the imp's corpse. The creature seemed content to claim the easy meal first, slurping the body into its maw with a sickening slop. That distraction was the demonling's chance.
It turned and bolted down a narrow side passage, the one that led in the direction it originally had been heading – vaguely upward through the Abyss's maze. A furious croak sounded behind as the Biletoad saw its meal's killer running off. The thunder of heavy footsteps followed; apparently, it wanted dessert.
The demonling sprinted, scampering on all fours to maximize its speed. The rough stone cut into its hands and feet, but pain was secondary to survival. The tunnel shook as the larger demon barreled after it, roaring with hunger.
Luckily for the smaller creature, the tunnel ahead started to narrow. Already the Biletoad was scraping its bulk on the walls, slowing it down. The demonling squeezed through a gap between stalagmites, nearly getting stuck but popping out the other side with a desperate wriggle.
Behind it, the Biletoad came to a momentary halt, wedged by the stone formations. It bellowed in frustration and began to vomit a stream of hissing bile from its distended maw. The acidic fluid splashed through the gap, droplets sizzling on the rocks – and on the demonling's back.
Searing pain lanced across the demonling's left shoulder as some of the bile found its mark, eating into flesh. It hissed and stumbled, patting at the burning patch reflexively. Even with hardened skin, that concoction hurt; it likely would have been far worse without the scales.
No time to dwell on the injury – the Biletoad was forcing its way through, rocks cracking under its strength. Finally, the stalagmites broke and the beast lurched forward anew.
The passage turned upward sharply just ahead, twisting into a steep incline strewn with rubble. The demonling scrambled up, using claws to grip the uneven surface. The clack of those improved claws digging into stone was the only thing hauling it up fast enough. The Biletoad snarled from below, less adept at the climb but relentlessly pursuing, its hunger driving it to overcome where its bulk would have balked.
Hand over hand, claw over claw, the demonling ascended the chute until it suddenly burst out onto a ledge opening into a wider cavern. A hot wind greeted it, carrying embers from a river of lava that flowed across this new chamber. On the opposite side of that river, other tunnels beckoned.
The demonling dashed across the ledge, glancing frantically for any path the Biletoad could not follow. The cavern housing the lava river was large and dome-like, with a ceiling lost in darkness. Stalactites dripped molten droplets and the air was thick with sulfur.
It spotted a solution – a narrow stone bridge spanning the lava, likely a natural formation. It was slimy and looked fragile, but it might hold a small demon's weight. The Biletoad, however, would be far too heavy.
Behind, the Biletoad hauled itself onto the ledge with a final heave, its eyes burning with rage at the chase. It saw its quarry and belched out another glob of bile. The demonling ducked instinctively; the bile sailed overhead and landed in the lava with a hiss, sending up a burst of acrid steam.
Not waiting for any more, the demonling leapt onto the narrow bridge. The heat from the molten flow below was like an open oven, singeing its skin and sucking the moisture from the air. Step after careful step, it ran across, arms out for balance, heart pounding. The makeshift bridge quaked under even its light steps, cracks forming.
The Biletoad reached the bridge's start and stopped, clearly understanding the risk. It croaked in fury, pacing at the edge of the lava river. As the demonling neared the other side, the creature attempted a last resort: it slung its long tongue out in a whipping motion across the gap, aiming to ensnare the smaller demon and drag it back.
The barbed tongue whipped past the demonling's head, barely missing. The tip lashed around its left forearm, though, the barbs hooking onto flesh. A line of agony ignited along the arm as the tongue yanked taut. The demonling screeched, digging its claws into the bridge to resist being pulled off.
The Biletoad roared, flexing its tongue to reel in the prey. The demonling felt itself sliding back toward the lava's edge, feet scrambling for purchase on the crumbling span. In desperation, it raised its right hand – still clutching the acid-coated blade – and slashed at the tongue binding its left arm.
With its enhanced claws and the added blade's bite, it sheared halfway through the slimy appendage. The Biletoad gave a gurgling howl as dark green blood spurted from the wound. The tongue loosened in reflex and the demonling tore free, nearly falling over but catching the very end of the bridge.
It wasted no time. With a final leap, it hurled itself onto solid ground on the far side of the lava river, tumbling and rolling to extinguish a flame that had caught on its loincloth.
The Biletoad, enraged and in pain, attempted to lunge onto the bridge in a blind fury to reach its escaping prey. The moment its full bulk moved onto the narrow span, the rock, already weakened from the acid and the demonling's escape, gave way with a thunderous crack.
The bridge collapsed, and the massive toad demon plummeted into the churning lava below. Its scream was earsplitting, a sound of pure agony, that echoed off the cavern walls. The lava swallowed it greedily; the beast thrashed for a few seconds, its warty hide igniting, then it sank beneath the molten surface with a final bubblish belch.
Silence fell, save for the burbling of the lava and the demonling's ragged breaths.
It had escaped by the slimmest margin, the evidence of which was etched in its wounds: acid burns on its shoulder and a bloodied, lacerated forearm from the barbed tongue. Such injuries would have been debilitating to a human, but the demonling was made of sturdier stuff and fueled by recent soul energy. Already, the burns were scabbing over, and the lacerations, while painful, did not impede movement much.
Using a bit of torn cloth from the imp's loincloth (which it still had around its waist), the demonling crudely wrapped its injured arm. It then sat for a moment, catching its breath and letting the adrenaline ebb.
The gravity of the close call sank in. Had it not been for the environment and quick thinking, the Biletoad would have made a meal of it. This underscored a harsh truth: even as it grew stronger, there would always be something stronger still lurking in the Abyss.
But another truth stood out as well: it had survived yet again, against the odds. Through stealth, cunning, and the judicious use of its system-granted upgrades, it had overcome both an imp and escaped a greater predator in one fell swoop.
Now, on this new side of the lava river, the demonling rose and surveyed the path ahead. The air here was marginally fresher, suggesting it might lead to higher levels of the Abyss – not to safety exactly, but perhaps to new hunting grounds, new challenges, and more souls.
Cradling the faint glow of its demon-eye orb once more, and with bloodied blade in hand, the demonling moved on. In its wake lay the proof of its burgeoning prowess: a slain imp and a defeated Biletoad, however indirectly defeated the latter was. It was no longer a hapless spawn; it was a hunter, blooded and baptized in the first real trial of the Abyss.
As it disappeared into the tunnel beyond, the lava's glow casting its stretched shadow on the wall, the heavy darkness of the Abyss seemed just a little less intimidating than before. The creature's resolve only hardened: survive, consume, and become something to be feared, one kill at a time.