Kraghul burst out of the mine's side entrance like a shadow fleeing the light, his massive frame stumbling into the open night air of the foothills. The confrontation with the Stonehide Chieftess had been a revelation as he knew the limits of his own power—her broadsword clashing against his resolve. There was only one outcome if he engaged her and if he raised his sword or challenged her, escaping would have been impossible. He had fought dirty but even that wouldn't have worked: a handful of dust hurled into one of the female orc's eyes, a desperate shove that sent one of her guards sprawling, allowing him to bolt into a narrow crevice which the Chieftess didn't follow as she knew she could always find him later. But the cost was high. His torso burned from Byung's deep slash, the wound a ragged gash that wept blood with every step. Ribs cracked from Maui's tackle throbbed like fire, and Vrognut's lingering venom made his limbs feel heavy, sluggish even though he was past the worse.

None were fatal—his playfulness almost cost him his lifet—but each breath was a knife twist, each movement a grind of bone on bone.

He clutched the wound on his side, fingers sticky with his own blood, the warm flow seeping between them despite the pressure. The night was cold, the wind whipping through the ravines like icy fingers, but Kraghul barely felt it. His eyes scanned the dark slopes, ears straining for pursuit. The Chieftess had seen him—recognized him as the son of the orc she had vowed to kill. Returning home now was suicide. Her watchers would swarm the paths, her guards block every pass. The peaks were her domain; he was cut off, a lone predator in hostile wilds.

Vrognut's crumpled body flashed in his mind—the cannibal goblin he had come for, the primary target from his father's orders which he had failed to meet.

He had meant to drag him out as a trophy, but time had betrayed him. The Chieftess's arrival had forced his hand. No matter. His life took priority over any prize. Empty-handed was better than dead.

Kraghul coughed, a wet hack that doubled him over, blood flecking his tusks. Byung's strength lingered in his thoughts—the little goblin had fought like a demon, knife biting deep enough to nearly spill his guts. He had underestimated the runt. But he had killed him, pulverized that skull until it split. No worries there. Another cough wracked him, venom bubbling in his lungs. He needed rest.

He found a shallow cave in the lee of a boulder, barely more than an overhang, and wedged himself in. The ground was hard, cold, but he ignored it. Hibernation came easy to his kind—slow the heart, seal the wounds, let his body get enough rest to work its magic. He closed his eyes, breath deepening to a rumble, and sank into dreamless black. Days blurred. Three, perhaps four—he woke only once to lap water from a trickle in the rock, then slipped back under. His body slowly mended: the slash was barely closed up but the bleeding had stopped and venom completely purged from his system.

He had regained adequate strength but expected the orc he came with to find him however he never did.

Kraghul took a look at his environment and realized it was unfamiliar, even the air felt different because his nose couldn't perceive a thing.

Kraghul snarled but pushed on. He wandered north, avoiding known paths, deeper into unknown territory where maps ended and only stories existed. The air grew colder, the rocks sharper, the wind felt like they were speaking to him. Kraghul's wounds itched as they healed, but his mind was clear: survive, regroup, strike back.

Then the ground gave way.

A hidden sinkhole—camouflaged by thin rock and moss—collapsed under his weight. He fell, tumbling into darkness, boulders crashing around him. The landing jarred every bone, but he rolled to his feet in a crouch, axe ready.

The tunnel he had fallen into was wrong, it didn't look like a tunnel whatsoever, not with how sophisticated it wasl.

Refined walls, smooth as polished marble, etched with glowing runes that pulsed faint blue. Arches curved overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast, and the air hummed with a low, mechanical vibration. Crafted. Not by goblins or orcs—too precise, too elegant. A different world, buried deep. Kraghul was astonished by this but there was a smell oozing from ahead, it had the stench of death.

Kraghul knew he needed to find the source and chose to investigate this incident.

He went further and further, each step uncovering a new revelation, this tunnel was huge and had multiple branches.

Kraghul's eyes narrowed soon after discovering what was responsible for the smell.

"What in the..." Kraghul was shocked because what he was looking at was his companion.

This would explain why he hadn't found him in three days, he was dead but what killed him? Kraghul had to found out but something told him if he stayed here any longer, this could be him.

He might not be leaving here empty-handed after all. He smiled as he plotted how to escape this place but not before cutting out a huge chunk of the wall, it was material they had never seen before.

It wasn't from the mines and these paths seemed like a transportation system that connected multiple paths underground. Kraghul had never seen anything like this and this must have taken more than twenty years to make.

Kraghul wanted to explore the tunnel further but before he could step forward, pain exploded at the back of his skull.

A powerful blow, hard and sudden, like a hammer from the dark. Stars burst. The world tilted. He dropped to one knee, then slumped forward, unconscious.

The tunnel fell silent, save for the soft drip of water and the faint hum of hidden machines.

"Grum toran? Khadur uz-dûmar?" A mysterious voice said, staring right at Kraghul.

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