Souls soared upward one after another—translucent silhouettes no taller than three feet. Children's faces showed through the radiance, blurred yet recognisable. Orcs, humans, earthlings, dwarves. Boys, girls, infants. They didn't weep. Didn't cry out. Simply rose towards the cave's vaults, slowly, like leaves caught by an ascending current.

  Ayan watched without tearing his gaze away. A lump constricted his throat. His fingers dug into stone, but the pain throughout his body receded into the background.

  "They're... children," Ainur breathed out, having lowered herself to the floor beside the lad. Her voice wavered, but she didn't look away. "How many of them are there?"

  "Many." Yernazar raised himself on his elbows, following the next silhouette with his gaze. "Far too many. And that creature devoured them all!"

  The souls continued to ascend. Ten, twenty, thirty. He lost count. Each lingered for a moment, as though glancing back, then dissolved in the darkness beneath the ceiling.

  The final soul tore from the creature's chest—tiny, barely distinguishable. It didn't soar immediately. It froze above the boss's body, turned towards Ayan.

  A little face showed more distinctly than the rest. A girl, about five years old, with loose hair and enormous eyes. Her lips moved.

  "Thank you."

  The voice was quiet, barely audible. But it sounded not inside his head—outside, as a living echo.

  The soul soared upward, melted into the darkness.

  The boss's body began to shrivel. Flesh deformed, bones lost their former solidity. Within seconds nothing remained of the creature's fearsome appearance. In its place on the stones lay a shapeless thing. Like a slug it spread, contained only by remnants of skin. The head underwent a similar transformation, only on a smaller scale.

  Ayan exhaled, threw his head back. The cave's ceiling swam before his eyes, moss blurred into green patches.

  "What was that?" Ainur didn't release his shoulders. Her fingers trembled, but her grip didn't slacken.

  "I don't know." The lad closed his eyes, concentrated on breathing. The moment the children's souls were freed, pain had reminded him of itself anew. "But now they're free. That's what matters."

  The next ten minutes passed in absolute silence, disturbed only by the heavy, intermittent breathing of the young orcs. Each inhalation came with difficulty—exhaustion had descended like a leaden weight, and muscles ached from the strain. Ainur still hadn't released Ayan's shoulder, as though fearing he'd vanish if she loosened her grip. Her amber eyes wandered about the cave, slid across the moss-covered walls, lingered on the spot where the final souls had dissolved.

  Yernazar was first to come to himself—he sat up, leaning on one arm, ran his palm down his face, wiping away droplets of sweat. He remained silent, but his gaze stayed fixed on the creature's deformed remains.

  Following the healer's gaze, Ayan slowly rose to his feet. He straightened, caught his breath and headed towards what remained of the boss. His steps echoed dully across the stone floor.

  [Voice Collector (0/38 000)

  Level 25

  Rank: S

  "Amongst the Devourer's most terrible spawn are the soul witches—creatures that feed on the suffering and memory of the dead. This particular specimen managed to devour hundreds, if not thousands of souls, absorbing their pain, fears and final moments of life. Her greed and success in the hunt drew the favourable—if this word is even applicable—attention of her master. The Devourer granted her a portion of his dark power, elevating her above other spawn and transforming her into something greater than simply a soul hunter."]

  Ayan stopped by the remains, squinted, peering at the lines that appeared before his eyes.

  "Voice Collector," he pronounced aloud, and his voice echoed off the walls. "Level twenty-five. Rank S."

  Yernazar raised his head, grew alert.

  "S?" He asked. "Is that good or bad?"

  "Bad. I did explain—that's the most dangerous rank amongst mobs." Ayan didn't tear his gaze from the text. "The description indicates the boss used to be a soul witch. Fed on the suffering and memory of the dead. Having devoured hundreds, perhaps thousands of souls, she pleased the Devourer and he granted her a portion of his power for her hunting successes."

  The words hung in the air. Ainur slowly rose, leant against the stone wall. She folded her arms across her chest, but her fingers clenched into fists.

  "So this is only the beginning," she exhaled. "If the first, as you say, boss turned out like this... what comes next?"

  Yernazar stood, leaning on his knees. He shook his head.

  "We barely survived," he said, and his voice held not panic but sober assessment. "If not for you, Nullus, we'd already be lying there, beside the bones."

  Ayan turned, looked at them both. Exhaustion could be read in their every movement. Ainur's shoulders had dropped, Yernazar held himself together, but his right hand trembled when he reached for the flask at his belt.

  "We need a plan," the lad began, but broke off. A plan? What plan, when they had no idea what awaited ahead? When each step forward threatened encounter with something even more terrible?

  Silence dragged on. Yernazar took a drink of water, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Ainur stood, staring at the floor. Her braid had slipped onto her shoulder, but she didn't fix it.

  "Rest," the orc maiden finally pronounced. "We need rest. At least a little."

  Yernazar nodded.

  "Agreed. Without a break we won't get far, plan or no plan."

  Ayan exhaled, relaxed his shoulders. Rest. Sensible. Logical. They hadn't decided what to do next, but this didn't require an immediate answer.

  "Right," he agreed. "We'll examine the hall. Perhaps we'll find something useful."

  The trio dispersed about the chamber. Ayan headed for one of the walls, ran his palm across the stone. Cold, rough, covered with moss in places where water seeped through cracks. Nothing special. He crouched, examined the floor. Bones, fragments, bloodstains—old and fresh.

  Yernazar walked the perimeter, peered into recesses, checked every crack. His face remained focused, but his gaze darted about, as though seeking something specific.

  Ainur froze by the far wall. She stood motionless, gazing at a small niche hewn into the rock. Inside lay scraps of fabric, children's toys—a wooden horse without a head, a rag doll with torn-off limbs. She extended her hand, touched the doll with her fingertips.

  "They were here," she whispered. "The children. Were here when the ogres sealed the exit. And then, then this creature came and devoured their souls..."

  Her voice broke. Her hand dropped.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Ayan approached her. Looked into the niche, looked away.

  "Now they're free," he said quietly. "That's important."

  Ainur nodded but didn't answer.

  Yernazar crouched by the scattered bones, ran his fingers across a skull—small, no larger than an adult orc's fist. His jaw clenched, muscles worked beneath his skin.

  "We must bury them," he exhaled. "We can't leave the remains like this."

  Ayan turned, looked at the healer. The latter raised his head, and such pain swam in his blue eyes that the lad involuntarily looked away.

  "You're right. Only we'll have to spend a very long time working with the stone. Better we collect them all and transfer them to the Seal, and once we've left this cursed place, we'll bury them."

  They worked in silence. They gathered the bones very carefully, as though fearing to cause pain to those who'd long ceased to exist. Ainur found several more toys, children's belongings.

  In ten minutes they'd collected everything they could find. Bones and belongings they laid on cloth spread on the cart. After which they made a bundle of it and Ayan removed it to his inventory.

  "What next?" Ainur asked, leaning back against the stone. "We can't sit here forever."

  "No," Ayan agreed. "But you need to recover, whilst I'll check several suspicious spots."

  "What spots?" Ainur enquired.

  "Most likely more caches. I'll manage quickly, whilst you prepare a snack." The lad rose and headed for the nearest wall, not forgetting to unload the supplies.

  As he'd supposed, in the suspicious spots were discovered four caches.

  Now his inventory had been replenished by three pouches of silver. Ayan didn't count how many coins were in them—he already knew he wouldn't use this money for personal purposes. The silver reeked of others' misfortune, others' grief. As soon as the opportunity arose, he'd donate it to a good cause. So he decided, and this decision settled calmly in his soul, without doubts.

  Two health potions—this time not lesser ones, but ordinary, restoring three hundred HP each—he handed to Ainur together with a D-rank dagger, its hilt wrapped in darkened leather. The orc maiden took the blade silently but nodded gratefully, checking the weapon's balance in her palm.

  And Yernazar received five mana potions and a bracelet more resembling prayer beads—round bone beads strung on sturdy thread. Despite its unremarkable appearance, the bracelet proved C-rank and enhanced any healing abilities—exactly what a healer needed. The orc, thanking the lad for the gift, studied the find for a long time, fingering the beads, as though trying to catch their hidden power.

  When Ayan returned to the improvised camp, Ainur had already lit a small fire—dry wood was plentiful, since broken carts lay in the hall. Freezing, the lad wondered how the refugees had managed to bring them through the narrow passages.

  "Perhaps before the ogres, the corridors were wider?" Having considered this, he decided not to burden his head with nonsense and accepted the bowl of food Yernazar held out.

  They ate in silence: porridge with pieces of dried meat seemed almost a delicacy to Ayan after everything they'd endured.

  "Strange..." He pronounced, when he'd finished the porridge and set aside the bowl.

  "What?" Ainur raised her head.

  "The loot from the boss never dropped. In theory, after its death a chest with spoils should have appeared. Or at least a sack."

  Ainur thought, then snorted.

  "Sometimes it seems to me he's mocking us. What do you think, Naz?"

  The orc shook his head, finishing his water from the flask.

  "No, I've heard about that from my father too."

  The trio exchanged glances, rose and set about examining the hall again—methodically, step by step. Ayan walked the perimeter, checked every niche, every crack in the walls. Ainur peered behind the broken carts, moved aside several large stones. Yernazar walked along the far wall, feeling the surface with his palms, as though seeking a hidden mechanism.

  Nothing.

  No chests. No sacks. Not even a simple coin lay on the floor.

  Ayan stopped in the middle of the hall, folded his arms across his chest.

  "So the changes affected boss loot mechanics too?" The thought came unexpectedly, but immediately seemed logical.

  After the quest "The Final Game", everything had changed. Why should bosses be an exception?

  He approached the remains, crouched. The smell struck his nose—rot, mustiness, something sour and metallic. The lad grimaced but didn't retreat. He extended his hand, touched the stretched skin.

  Nothing.

  He tried to shift the mass—it didn't even stir, as though it had grown into the stone.

  "What if there's simply no loot?" An unpleasant thought, but very probable. Deciding to consider the Voice Collector's corpse itself as spoils, he transferred it to his inventory.

  Rising, the lad dusted off his hands on his trousers. He turned to Ainur and Yernazar—they stood nearby, watching him.

  "There's nothing," he stated. "The mechanics have changed. Apparently now bosses—like ordinary mobs—don't drop loot. Or this particular boss simply held nothing valuable."

  Ainur sighed, ran her hand down her face.

  "So we wasted our time?"

  Her gaze slid to the exit—a dark opening in the far wall, leading deeper into the caves.

  "What next?" she asked. "Do we continue or turn back?"

  The question hung in the air. Ayan thought. Turn back? Easy to say. But then they'd have to leave everything as it was. The souls of the other refugees were still there, behind the stones. Their remains. And the unclean things desecrating them roamed the corridors.

  He remembered the girl—that final soul who'd turned before vanishing. "Thank you," she'd whispered. So small. So defenceless.

  "No," he exhaled. "We're going on. I can't leave it like this. Can't return and say: yes, we went part of the way, but then we were afraid to go further. I have children's remains in the Seal. We promised to bury them. But how will I do that if I don't reach the end?"

  Ayan voiced what they were all thinking. Surveying the others, he understood this from their gazes.

  "Let's buff up and forward!" He smirked. Whatever awaited them ahead, he at least knew that his heritage—"One Who Knew Solitude"—wouldn't let his companions die in any case. And as for himself, the loss wouldn't be so great if he did end up initiating after death.

  He didn't doubt that the characteristics earned through hard labour would remain with him anyway.

  The corridor narrowed. The walls closed in, the damp stone gleamed dimly in the torches' light. Spending mana maintaining a light stone, Yernazar had been forbidden to do.

  Ayan walked ahead, spear and shield at the ready. Ainur followed a pace behind, her right hand touching the wall. Yernazar brought up the rear, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.

  The air changed. Became heavier, denser. It smelt of something sweetish and spicy simultaneously—as though rotting meat had been sprinkled with spices.

  Ayan stopped, raised his hand.

  Ahead, in the darkness, something stirred.

  "Get ready!" After his words, his companions propped the torches against the walls and armed themselves.

  The creature emerged from the gloom—slowly, sliding across the stone with its entire body. A humanoid form, but distorted, twisted. Its torso was elongated, as though someone had pulled it at both ends. Arms reached to the ground, joints bent unnaturally. Its head was thrown back, jaw hanging as though broken. Skin—ashen grey, in places transparent, and through it showed shadows. Silhouettes of sentient beings of different species. They thrashed inside, beat against the inner walls of flesh, screamed soundlessly.

  The creature had no eyes. Instead—empty sockets from which oozed pale green fog. It spread across the floor, crept around the being in sticky tendrils.

  Two larvae appeared behind it. Weeping familiar to the point of grinding teeth filled the corridor.

  Ayan exhaled, turned his shield, gripped the spear shaft firmly.

  "I'll cover you!" He tossed out.

  Yernazar stepped back, Ainur moved left, freeing space to work with the spear.

  The new creature made a sound—low, gurgling, like a drowned man's rasp. Then it lunged forward.

  The speed caught them off guard. Ayan barely managed to raise his shield—the impact struck dead centre. The creature hit with all its weight, paws gripped the shield's edges, claws screeched against metal. Such force that the lad was thrown aside. His shoulder crashed into the wall.

  "Take out the larvae first!" The lad still managed to command.

  The first of them immediately darted at Ainur. The orc maiden leapt back and loosed five arrows clutched between her fingers with such speed they merged into a single line. And it converged on the head of the creature rushing at her—black slime sprayed in all directions. The larva shrieked, leapt back, opened its maw and fixed its gaze on her.

  Rayan didn't dawdle and immediately sank his jaws into the girl's leg. Gathering herself, she continued shooting like clockwork.

  The first creature wouldn't release the shield. Ayan braced his feet against the stone, tried to push it away. Useless. The being pressed, pressed, and the finger-like appendages began denting the iron rim. In the empty sockets shadows swirled—faces showed, vanished, appeared again. A child's face froze directly opposite, opened its mouth as though trying to scream.

  Ayan snarled, fury overwhelmed him and he didn't even realise he'd put Fury into the shove. The creature recoiled half a metre. In the same impulse, he hurled his spear—straight into its chest. The point entered deep, pinned the being to the opposite wall.

  The creature jerked, seized the shaft. It tore the spear from itself, flung it to the floor. From the wound poured not blood—greenish ooze reeking of rot. Inside the chest silhouettes showed—they tore outwards, tried to escape through the ragged flesh, vainly attempting to widen it with ghostly hands.

  Ainur rolled, dodged the larva's lunge—it had become like a porcupine, so many arrows stuck from it. It flew past, crashed into the wall. Yernazar instantly leapt up, swung briefly and brought his axe down on the creature's back. The blade passed through the body, cleaved it in half. The larva collapsed, thrashed in convulsions.

  To put it to rest required four more blows, severing the head from the body. Ainur no longer saw this, having switched her fire to the second larva, which until then had participated in the fight using only weeping.

  Realising his opponent still couldn't free itself, Ayan flew at the larva from the side and began working with his sword as though he wanted it to become a fan.

  The larva couldn't survive the furious assault from the lad who far exceeded it in characteristics.

  Having finished with the familiar opponents, the group set about the new one in earnest.