The descent into the fissure was immediate and profound.
The crimson-tinged light of the Obsidian Scar's sky vanished within moments, replaced by an oppressive darkness that felt thick and cloying, like a physical weight.
Einar activated his internal light, a soft blue glow emanating from his spiritual form, barely cutting through the inky blackness.
Lyra's white lightblade flared, casting sharp, elongated shadows on the jagged obsidian walls of the narrow crevice.
The air grew heavy with the scent of burnt energy, now mixed with a metallic tang that Einar found unsettling.
The whispers, though fainter down here, seemed to cling to the walls, their fragmented murmurs echoing in the close confines.
The fissure opened into a network of twisting tunnels, the Shadowed Veins the Obsidian Weaver had spoken of.
The walls were slick and uneven, the obsidian having formed strange, organic shapes, like calcified roots reaching into the darkness.
Crimson energy pulsed intermittently within veins of crystal embedded in the rock, casting eerie flickers of red light that danced with their own ethereal glow.
"Stay close, Einar," Lyra projected, her lightblade illuminating their path.
"The Weaver's warning about ancient guardians… we need to be prepared."
Einar reached out with his Void sense, the darkness amplifying his other senses. The corrupted energy was even stronger here, a palpable presence that thrummed with the distorted resonance of the ancient power.
He focused, pushing through the chaotic noise, searching for the specific signature of the nexus point, the dark, pulsating thread he had sensed from above.
The tunnels twisted and turned, often leading to abrupt dead ends or branching off into multiple narrow passages.
It felt like a natural labyrinth, reflecting the "fractured state" the Weaver had described. Einar relied heavily on his Void sense, following the increasing pull of the corrupted energy, guiding them deeper into the veins.
Suddenly, the air before them shimmered, and a figure began to coalesce from the shadows.
It was vaguely humanoid, its form composed of swirling dust and faint crimson light, its eyes glowing with an ancient, malevolent yellow. It drifted silently, its gaze fixed on them with an unnerving intensity.
"An Echo of the Scar's Pain," Lyra warned, her lightblade rising. "A remnant of the great tear, likely a manifestation of the ancient guardians the Weaver mentioned, twisted by the Void."
The dust figure drifted closer, emitting a silent scream that resonated as a wave of pure anguish washing over Einar.
He stumbled back, momentarily overwhelmed by the raw suffering. Lyra, however, reacted instantly, her lightblade flashing as she struck the ethereal form.
The dust figure shrieked, dissipating into swirling motes before reforming a few feet away, its yellow eyes burning with renewed intensity.
This was no ordinary foe; it seemed tied to the very essence of the Scar's tormented history.