Top-Level Extra: Lord of Adaptation

The Enshires were relentless.

"Next! Cross it," the bastard commanded.

The Descents hesitated, struggling to decipher its harsh cries.

"Did it instruct us to turn back?" one murmured to his companion, his voice edged with uncertainty.

Dane's response was measured, laced with quiet disappointment.

"No. It intended for us to proceed."

That grim truth was swiftly affirmed as whips tore through their backs, searing flesh with merciless precision. Agonised cries fractured the silence.

"Fuck!"

This bastard would leave him broken, too feeble to adapt. His Hindrance had warned him—injuries dulled his capacity for evolution in the battlefields.

He had only withstood those cannons because, in truth, they were far weaker than him.

Even if stripped of adaptation, this body still possessed the skill to challenge multiple of their kind—being a Hollow-Eyed type Seeker and a Top-Level to the addition.

Dane stepped forward, scanning the bridge.

It was ancient—wood splintered, ropes frayed, gaps wide enough to swallow a man whole.

Beneath, nothing but a vast, gaping darkness. The Shores were somewhere down there, waiting.

"The planks won't hold if you step wrong," he said, voice level. "Follow my lead exactly."

The Descents, shackled and weary, nodded. Dane glanced at the short one.

Maybe he would misstep.

Maybe he would second-guess and fall.

The thought filled him with a satisfaction so sharp it almost made him smirk.

But when Dane stepped onto the first plank, the short one followed without hesitation.

His hope shattered instantly.

'Why won't you just die?'

Halfway across, movement.

The Enshires were now on the other side, standing motionless, waiting.

'Those two cruel beings could teleport to the other side? And they decided to leave us here to face our fate. Bastards!'

The chains that bound them had stretched with unnatural ease, spanning the entire length of the bridge.

Oh. They could pull themselves across—if they wanted to die faster than the Shores could devour them.

Dane's mind worked fast.

A misstep meant death.

The bridge was unstable, but the chains were anchored.

He adjusted his stance, weight centred, steps deliberate.

The bridge swayed beneath them, planks creaking, ropes groaning.

Each step had to be measured.

Tested.

Placed precisely where the structure still held.

Behind him, the Descents moved stiffly, fear making them clumsy.

One faltered, shifting too much weight to the side.

The bridge tilted. Wood cracked.

Dane moved instinctively, shifting balance, guiding the momentum back.

"Step exactly where I do," he said again, sharper this time.

The wind howled through the chasm.

The chains rattled, heavy and stretched impossibly far.

The Enshires remained still, watching. Waiting.

Dane kept moving with the Descents.

Then, at last, after a harrowing stretch of time, they reached the other side of the bridge.

The first to fall had simply been bound to such a wretched fate. A cruel inevitability.

And these two towering creatures of malice were the cause.

The Enshires—especially the one with the whip.

"Good. Now we shall keep moving. We are close to the Stream of Darkness," the whip-wielding Enshire declared, gazing into the abyss ahead.

The Descents turned to Dane, their eyes expectant. He had translated before. They waited for him to do so again.

Brainless fools.

"It said we should keep moving. We're close to a place called the Stream of Darkness, or something along those lines."

The Descents exchanged knowing glances. For a time, they had wandered without understanding, uncertain of their destination.

Now they knew. At least it had a name.

The short one cast a glance at Dane's torn, bloodied back. Rage simmered beneath his clokaed skin.

Before Dane's arrival, the Descents had relied on him.

Now, all focus had shifted to Dane, as if he no longer existed.

His fists clenched, but he kept moving.

They walked in a straight line now.

Once, there had been sixteen of them. Now, only seven remained, including Dane.

They moved through the darkness, their only guides the pull of the chains and the faint outlines of the Enshires ahead. The whip-wielding one still held its weapon at the ready, its hand twitching as though eager to strike.

Yet, something was off. Its lips moved in silent motion, its posture subtly altered — all in Dane's wide imagination.

Was it… praying?

Dane kept his thoughts to himself.

There was no point in trying to understand the logic of these creatures.

The journey dragged on.

Their legs grew heavy, fatigue weighing them down. The air was thick, oppressive, suffocating.

Then, through the void, something emerged.

A forest.

Black. Silent. Lined with towering dead trees that refused to fall.

At its entrance lay a section of old, blackened bricks, consuming a third of the space.

A grey fog seeped outward, curling around the decayed structure.

The bricks bore the weight of something ancient—an old civilisation, long since faded.

Time had darkened their surface, their edges worn yet firm.

Vines, lifeless and brittle, crawled along the stone, tangled in a silent grip.

A red stain marred part of the structure, its hue disturbingly fresh.

Had someone been here before them?

It shouldn't have been possible. Every Descent's first night shift was set in a different location, another realm entirely.

No two were the same.

Yet, this place… It was human-made. Something impossible in this type of dead setting.

The bricks told a story.

Carvings adorned their surface, crude yet clear.

A stick figure, holding a rod, lashing thousands of slaves forward. Another, walking ahead, leading them into the unknown.

Suffering. Oppression. It mirrored their present.

Then—movement.

The drawings shifted, right before their eyes.

The slaves, once marching, now stood in a single line, frozen, staring at a single brick.

"Eh?"

A ripple of unease ran through them.

'A mirror?'

Dane's mind turned, trying to grasp the meaning.

Then, without warning, one of the figures twisted. Its body contorted, then tore apart, shredding into nothingness.

A scream followed.

Crimson sprayed across Dane's cloak as the Descent in front of him erupted into pieces just like the drawing.

Another cry rang out—a female. Terror laced her voice.

"What in hell is going on here?"

____

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