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The air crackles with tension as you descend into the abyss—thirty layers of jagged stone and whispering shadows. Your quiver hums, arrows hungry for bone. Level One: a skeletal horde shambles forward, rusted blades scraping the earth. You loose three shots—skulls explode like rotten fruit. Momentum carries you deeper. Level Five: archers emerge on crumbling ledges, arrows tipped with venom. You pivot, firing mid-roll—shattered ribs rain down. Level Ten: the ground quakes; a colossal bone golem rises, joints screeching. You vault onto its spine, driving an arrow into its vertebrae—it collapses into a avalanche of ancient hate. Level Fifteen: traps now—spiked pits, swinging blades. Skeletons adapt, flanking in eerie silence. You improvise: ricochet shots off stone, pinning foes to walls. Level Twenty: the air thickens with necrotic mist—visibility gone. You listen, breath steady, releasing arrows by sound alone. Twang. Crunch. Twang. Crunch. Level Twenty-Five: a labyrinth of mirrors, reflections warped—real vs. illusion. You smirk, planting explosive-tipped arrows at fracture points—glass and bone erupt in unison. Final ascent. Level Thirty: a throne of fused spines. The Lich King awaits, crown blazing with stolen souls. No dialogue. No mercy. You nock your last arrow—a relic forged in dragonfire. Draw. Release. The shaft screams through the void, piercing his core. A heartbeat of silence—then light erupts, consuming him. The throne crumbles. You stand amid the ash, bowstring still singing. Victory? For now. But the abyss breathes deeper... and something older stirs below.
