The Butcher had been walking for hours, his heavy hooves echoing in the hollow depths of the dungeon. The corridor he was in was tight and jagged, every step crunching over loose gravel and broken rock. His breath came in deep, steady huffs, and his muscles rippled with the tension of someone who expected danger at every corner. But unlike other Coursers who might fear what lay ahead, The Butcher welcomed the thought. He lived for these moments. His approach to dungeon diving was a raw, brutal display of power, where finesse was secondary to sheer force and aggression.

He had just passed through a section of tunnel where the air was thick and humid, the smell of rotting vegetation filling his nostrils. The walls were slick with moisture, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed around him. He felt the subtle shift in the air—something was coming, but he wasn’t sure what. His instincts, honed over countless solitary dives, warned him that this place was different. Still, The Butcher moved forward, his muscles tense but ready.

Suddenly, with no warning, a deafening buzz filled the narrow corridor. The sound came from behind him, a low, ominous hum that quickly rose in pitch and intensity. The Butcher’s ears flicked backward, and he twisted his head just in time to see it—a cloud of cave bugs, thousands strong, surging toward him like a living, writhing storm. Their wings blurred together into a single, pulsing mass of sound and motion, and their tiny bodies glistened in the dim dungeon light.

The Butcher barely flinched. His reaction was instant, primal. With a low growl, he reared up on his hind legs, throwing his front hooves out in front of him. The cave bugs swarmed toward his face, their buzzing filling his ears, their tiny legs brushing against his skin. They crawled and flew in a chaotic frenzy, trying to blind and overwhelm him. He could feel them clinging to his mane, his coat, and most dangerously, his eyes. The swarm was relentless, as if trying to suffocate him with sheer numbers. Their tiny wings slapped against his face, and their mandibles clicked with a maddening, almost deafening intensity.

But The Butcher was no stranger to chaos. In fact, he thrived on it. His response wasn’t panic or hesitation—it was fury.

With a snarl that could send lesser creatures fleeing, The Butcher swung his head violently, his powerful neck muscles sending the bugs flying from his face. His body twisted with raw power, and his hooves crashed down onto the dungeon floor with a thunderous impact, sending small shockwaves through the ground. He didn’t bother trying to escape or outmaneuver the swarm—he met it head-on, embracing the fight.

Snapping his jaws together, The Butcher caught several bugs in his teeth, crushing them with brutal efficiency. He bit down harder, savoring the satisfying crunch of their bodies between his teeth. The taste of the bugs was metallic and bitter, but it only fueled his aggression. He spat them out with a snarl, not caring for the blood or the pieces of carapace now dripping from his mouth. The rest of the swarm buzzed around him, undeterred, but The Butcher’s patience was already spent.

In one swift motion, he reached over his shoulder and pulled his weapon free—a massive, brutal axe that he had forged himself from the bones of some long-dead creature. The weapon was crude but effective, its edges jagged and stained with the blood of countless dungeon beasts. The Butcher swung the axe with reckless abandon, cleaving through the air, aiming not for precision but for sheer destruction.

The blade cut through the swarm, sending bugs splattering against the walls and floor. His strikes were wild but powerful, each swing clearing a wide arc around him, creating a brief zone of safety in the midst of the chaotic swarm. The sound of the axe slicing through the air and the crunch of insect bodies being pulverized filled the corridor. He moved with terrifying speed, his muscles bulging with every swing, and though the bugs continued to swarm, their numbers were thinning under his relentless assault.

But the swarm was persistent, still pushing toward him in waves. They clung to his legs, biting and scratching with their tiny mandibles. He could feel their bodies squirming beneath his coat, crawling between the crevices of his armor. It was an irritating, maddening sensation, but The Butcher didn't falter. He was used to pain, used to the feeling of being under siege. He’d faced far worse in the dungeons—creatures that could tear flesh from bone, beasts with teeth as long as swords. Compared to them, this was nothing.

With another roar, The Butcher stomped his hooves into the ground, the impact shattering the stone beneath him and sending a shockwave through the waterlogged floor. The force of the impact caused the swarm to scatter briefly, just enough for him to seize the advantage. He bared his teeth, his lips curling back into a snarl of pure rage, and charged forward into the thickest part of the swarm.

His hooves pounded the ground with terrifying speed, crushing bugs beneath them as he charged. The Butcher used his entire body as a weapon, slamming into the walls and thrashing about, smashing the bugs against the stone. The dungeon itself seemed to tremble under the force of his fury. His axe swung in wide, brutal arcs, cutting through the air and slicing through the swarm, leaving nothing but twitching insect corpses in its wake.

But The Butcher wasn’t finished. He wanted to end this swarm for good. Dropping his axe to the ground with a heavy thud, he reached for one of the small vials hanging from his harness. With a quick, practiced motion, he uncorked it and flung the liquid into the air around him. The potion was a concoction of his own design—volatile, explosive, and devastating. It only took a few seconds for the air around him to catch fire, the liquid igniting into a sudden burst of flame.

The fire spread quickly, engulfing the remaining bugs in a blazing inferno. The heat was intense, but The Butcher stood his ground, his thick hide protecting him from the worst of it. He watched, impassive, as the swarm shrieked and buzzed in agony, their tiny bodies consumed by the flames. The cave walls flickered with the light of the fire, casting long shadows as the last of the bugs fell, their wings singed and their bodies turning to ash.

When the flames finally died down, the corridor was silent once again. The smell of burning insect bodies filled the air, acrid and foul, but The Butcher didn’t care. His chest heaved with exertion, his breath coming in deep, steady gasps. He stood among the smoldering remains of the swarm, his body covered in bug guts, his coat singed in places from the flames.

But he felt no satisfaction, no triumph. For The Butcher, this was just another obstacle—another enemy to crush beneath his hooves. He wiped the insect guts from his face with a swipe of his foreleg and spat a glob of bug entrails onto the floor. Without a second glance at the carnage he had wrought, he picked up his axe and continued forward, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. The dungeon was far from finished with him, and he was far from finished with it.