PASSAGE 36: CARRION WEAVER

Alaric pushed his way through the throng of terrified civilians, their panicked energy a tangible force threatening to topple him. Every scream, every frantic gasp, fueled the fire in his gut. His father. He had to get to his father.

Just as frustration threatened to boil over, Jake's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and clear in his earpiece. "Alaric! Forget the streets! Jump onto the rooftops! You'll move a lot faster that way."

Alaric didn't waste time debating. With a surge of adrenaline, he launched himself towards the nearest awning, propelled by a newfound athleticism he barely recognized. He landed with a satisfying roll, the world tilting momentarily before he righted himself and pumped his legs, propelling himself across the rooftops. The wind whipped past his face, carrying the distant roars of the approaching Calamity.

"What's the situation, Jake? What are we dealing with?" Alaric gritted out between breaths, his voice raw from exertion. "And is the Hunter's Embassy sending reinforcements?"

The response came from his earpiece, laced with a hint of tension. "Here's the deal, Alaric. Good news and bad news. The good news is, the Calamity appears to be partially stuck, tethered to the rift it crawled out of. The bad news? Every single Hunter in the area is currently out on raids elsewhere."

A wave of dread washes over Alaric. "Everywhere?"

"Everywhere," Jake confirmed. "It'll take the nearest squad at least an hour to reach your location. In short, Alaric, if things go south – and trust me, this situation seems like it's heading south in a handbasket – it's up to you to buy some time."

Alaric swallowed, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. He was no seasoned Hunter, just a boy with a newfound power and a heart overflowing with fear and determination. But his father was out there, somewhere beneath the growing chaos, and that was all the motivation he needed.

"Alright, Jake," he said, his voice firm despite the tremor in his heart. "Tell me everything you know about that thing. Every weakness, every strategy. We're going to hold the line until those Hunters get here."

Alaric pushed himself further, leaping across rooftops with an agility he hadn't known he possessed. Rain continues to lash down, blurring the cityscape into a watercolor of fear. As he crested a particularly high building, a sight ripped the air from his lungs. In the heart of the city, a monstrous rift gaped open, spewing forth an ominous red glow. But it wasn't the rift that held him frozen – it was what emerged from it.

A colossal hand, black skeletal and cracked like an ancient relic, clawed its way through the rift. It was a monstrous appendage, seemingly detached from a larger body, yet radiating an aura of raw power that sent shivers down Alaric's spine.

"Oh my God, Jake! Are you seeing this?! What is that thing?!" he roared into the earpiece, his voice laced with raw terror.

"Damn it, Alaric!" Jake's voice crackled back in a panicked tone. "Get to your father, now! Don't even think about fighting that thing! Avoiding it is your only option!"

"What do you mean to avoid?" Alaric stammered, confusion warring with fear. "What am I looking at?"

"That, my friend," Jake replied grimly, "is a Carrion Weaver. A B-Tier Calamity, a reanimated monstrosity from another world. It takes at least three B-Tier Hunters and two A-Tiers to take one down safely. You're way out of your league here!"

Alaric's world tilted. B-Tier Calamity? Why now, when every Hunter worth their salt was out on a raid? This was the worst possible time for a monstrous hand to decide to play peek-a-boo with his city.

"Alaric, listen up!" Jake's voice cut through his despair. "Get your father and get out of there! NOW!"

Steeling himself, Alaric nodded, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He had to get to his father. Dodging the downpour, he leaped across the remaining rooftops, adrenaline propelling him forward. Reaching the construction site, he skidded to a halt, panting, and scanned the frantic crowd of fleeing workers.

"Hey, mister!" he barked, grabbing the arm of a fleeing man. "Have you seen Ricardo Cruz?!"

The man, eyes wide with fear, stammered a quick nod. "He's still inside! He wouldn't leave without his tools!"

Alaric's breath caught in his throat. His father, the ever responsible one, is trapped inside a building with a B-Tier Calamity looming over the city.

A surge of primal panic surged through Alaric as he threw open the building's front door. "What in Chronos' name are you doing here, Dad?!" he roared in his head, the thought echoing through the empty lobby. The air hung heavy with a cloying, metallic tang – the unmistakable scent of negative anima energy.

His father was nowhere to be seen. Alaric sprinted through the ground floor, his voice echoing in the desolate halls as he called out, hope battling with dread in his gut. His earpiece crackled to life, jolting him back to reality.

"Alaric! I can see heat signatures on the sixth floor with the drone!" Jake barked. "He must be up there! Move it!"

Alaric didn't need telling twice. With renewed purpose, he charged up the grimy staircase, each thump of his feet against the steps a frantic drumbeat. Bursting onto the sixth floor, a scene ripped the breath from his lungs. There, sprawled across the dusty concrete floor, lay Ricardo Cruz, Alaric's father.

Relief warred with a fresh wave of panic. His father was unconscious, his tools clutched tight in his hand. Had the overpowering negativity of the rift been too much for him? A sickening realization dawned on Alaric. The Carrion Weaver, that monstrous skeletal hand, was sucking the life out of the surrounding area.

He scooped his father up in a fireman's carry, adrenaline fueling his strength. As he turned to head for the stairs, a bone-chilling shriek tore through the air. The floor beneath his feet trembled, sending a shower of dust raining down. With a surge of morbid curiosity, Alaric glanced at the window.

His breath hitched. The Carrion Weaver was no longer a disembodied hand. Its monstrous form, bathed in an unholy red light, was clawing its way out of the rift. Its skull, fractured and pitted, loomed larger than a house. Razor-sharp teeth gleamed in its gaping maw, stained with the dried blood of countless victims. Crimson eyes, burning with a malevolent hunger, scanned the cityscape below.

Slowly, agonizingly, the rest of the colossal being materialized. Three pairs of skeletal arms, each thicker than a tree trunk, sprouted from its torso. Shards of rusted armor clung to its broken form, remnants of a forgotten war. Its spine was a horrifying display of jagged blades, and in one massive hand, it clutched a colossal, broken sword. The sheer power emanating from the creature was enough to vaporize the falling rain, creating a swirling vortex of steam around its monstrous form.

It was a behemoth of pure nightmare, the most terrifying thing Alaric had ever laid eyes on. Even from here, the dark energy radiating off it sent shivers down his spine. A primal scream rose in his throat, a desperate urge to fight, to protect his city. But Jake's words echoed in his head – a stark reminder of the reality of the situation.

This was no fight. This was survival. Alaric had to get his father, and himself, out of here. Now.