Day 22
By the twenty-second day, the expedition moved like machines—eat, march, collapse, repeat. Every kilometer deeper into the forsaken lands carved away at their spirits.
Temporary shelters dotted their path—thin walls, weaker than the darkness pressing against them. They offered no comfort, only a reminder: you are still alive… for now.
Food was stretched thin but holding. Fuel, however, bled away too quickly. Every day they consumed more than they could afford. And after more than 110 kilometers of barren ruin—still nothing. No cities. No villages. Not even bones.
Only silence. Only emptiness. Only the abyss.
Inside one shelter, the silence cracked.
Tom Wilton's breath hitched. His trembling fingers clawed at the seal of his helmet. Too tight… can't breathe…
The hiss of released air filled the room.
"Tom!" Elena's voice cut through the comms, sharp and terrified.
Nausea surged through him. His vision swam. The barrier should have kept them safe—but the oppressive miasma seeped in, clawing at his sanity, whispering madness.
His hands shook as he fumbled the helmet back on, panic burning through him. Elena caught him, steadying his arm, voice calm but firm in his ear.
Tian stormed over, his tone edged with urgency.
"How long without the helmet?"
Tom's lips quivered. "…F-four minutes."
A stunned silence fell.
Suit scans flickered across Tian's visor—heart rate high, fever rising, but stable. Stable… for now.
"Continuous monitoring. No risks. Once back, we run full examinations."
No arguments. No hesitation. The team resumed their march, but unease hung heavy. Each step felt like they carried Tom's burden on their backs.
Back at the complex, Tom was rushed to the labs. Exhaustive scans, endless tests. Results: stable vitals, only a stubborn fever… and fatigue that clung like chains.
Yet by nightfall, he had not stirred.
Day 23 came. Tom still slept.
Everyone knew what that meant. The drivers. The coma. The curse of breathing the poisoned air.
One more life stolen. One fewer soul to march into the dark.
Day 23
The expedition set out again—reduced, but unbroken. Each face was harder now, steel hiding the grief of yesterday.
Amara led as always, her glowing spirit a fragile candle in the infinite black.
Three hours into the march, her eyes widened. Her voice shook.
"…Life."
The word froze the team in place.
Then she saw them.
Six twisted monsters—hulking, horned nightmares, their spiral antlers jutting like thorns. Their bodies were a grotesque mix of predator and nightmare, griffin grace warped into monstrous frames clad in matted black fur.
They fed.
Their prey were beasts no less terrifying—hippo-like juggernauts, fanged maws torn open, blood painting the broken earth.
Predator against predator.Nightmare devouring nightmare.
The scene seared itself into Amara's ethereal vision. Her voice broke across the comms, urgent, trembling.
"We need to move. Now."
Her spirit flickered—then fell.
Unconscious.
Tian wasted no breath.
"Retreat! Full speed—now!"
Engines roared, boots pounded, and the convoy pulled back, every eye burning with dread.
They reached the sanctuary without incident, but the silence was suffocating. Amara awoke trembling, eyes haunted.
Her words chilled the room.
"There is life out there… but it's not what we hoped."
That night, no public gathering was called.
Only the expedition team met in the conference chamber. The walls felt tighter than ever, the air heavy with unspoken fear.
Amara stood at the center, the weight of revelation pressing against her trembling shoulders.