Dungeon Wars: The Rise of an F-Rank Soldier

Darkness.

It was the first thing Spencer felt, the first thing that greeted him after what he thought would be his last stand. Not the kind of darkness one experiences when closing their eyes, but an all-consuming, suffocating void, deeper than anything he had ever known. His body felt like it was floating, weightless, detached from reality. There was no sound, no sensation, only the vague awareness that he still existed. Somewhere.

Then, pain.

It came crashing into him all at once, ripping him out of that endless abyss. Every nerve in his body burned like it had been doused in acid, his muscles screamed in agony, and his bones ached as if they had been shattered and crudely stitched back together. A strangled gasp escaped his lips as his senses returned in fragments—first the overwhelming pain, then the suffocating weight pressing down on him, the thick dust clogging his throat, and finally, the cold, rough stone against his back.

He was alive.

But he had no idea where he was.

Spencer struggled to move, his body feeling heavier than ever, as though lead had been poured into his veins. His breaths came in short, shallow gasps, each one dragging more dust into his lungs. He coughed violently, spitting out grit and blood, and slowly forced his eyelids open.

Nothing.

Pitch black.

A wave of nausea rolled over him as he tried to sit up, his limbs trembling under their own weight. He reached out blindly, his fingers scraping against rough stone, damp and cold. A collapsed tunnel? No… it wasn’t just a tunnel. Memories of the last moments before the explosion came rushing back—the detonator in his hands, the rocks falling, the screams of the Canterlot soldiers being buried alive along with him.

The cave had collapsed.

The realization hit like a gunshot to the head.

He had brought the entire dungeon down.

And yet, he was still breathing.

How?

His mind raced, desperate to make sense of the impossible. The last thing he remembered was pressing the detonator, expecting to be crushed instantly. Had he blacked out? Had something protected him from the worst of the collapse? It didn’t make sense.

Then, the air around him suddenly shifted.

A low hum vibrated through the ground beneath him, faint but unmistakable.

Then, a voice.

Cold, mechanical, and inhuman.

"System Activation Confirmed."

Spencer froze, his breath catching in his throat.

The voice hadn’t come from any radio. It hadn’t come from a person. It had come from the dungeon itself.

Then, light.

A soft blue glow flickered to life in the darkness, emanating from a shattered structure buried under the rubble. At first, he thought it was another hallucination, but as the glow pulsed, bringing eerie illumination to the cavern around him, he realized it wasn’t. A holographic interface blinked to life in front of him, hovering in midair, symbols and text scrolling rapidly across the screen.

"Scanning Subject... Foreign DNA detected. Initiating adaptation process."

The words made no sense, but before he could react, a searing pain tore through his body.

Spencer barely had time to scream before the world shattered again.

It felt like being burned alive from the inside out. His bones twisted, his muscles constricted like iron bands, and his skin prickled as if thousands of tiny needles were piercing through it. Every nerve, every fiber of his being felt like it was breaking and rebuilding at the same time, like molten metal being reforged in a furnace.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

Spencer collapsed onto the stone floor, gasping for air. His entire body trembled, drenched in cold sweat. His heart thundered against his ribs, his head spinning so violently he thought he might vomit.

What… the fuck was that?

A soft beep echoed in the chamber, and new text appeared before him.

[STATUS WINDOW]

Name: Spencer Dracowski
Level: 23
Potential Rank: 10
Battle Points: 9,820
Rank: E
Attributes:

• Strength: 65 (+42 from Bloodlust Activation)
• Speed: 75 (+45 from Bloodlust Activation)
• Endurance: 90 (+48 from Bloodlust Activation)
• Intelligence: 10 (No change, still the same sharp but untrained mind.)
• Fighting Skill: 50 (+35 from experience and combat reflexes developing.)
• Magic: 0 (Still non-existent, Spencer has no known magical affinity.)
• Cyber Acumen: 2 (No change, not tech-savvy or cyber-enhanced.)
• Perception: 55 (+37, due to heightened battle awareness.)
• Stealth: 60 (+38, learned from hiding and evading in battle.)
• Leadership: 5 (No change, Spencer doesn't see himself as a leader yet.)
• Luck: ??? (Unknown, possibly affecting his survival.)

Spencer stared.

The numbers meant something now. He wasn’t some weakling anymore. He had been E-rank before this battle even started, barely above a civilian, a nobody in the military rankings.

And now?

He wasn’t strong. Not even close.

But he wasn’t nothing anymore.

His stats had nearly quadrupled, but the strange thing was… he didn’t feel invincible. He didn’t feel like some overpowered monster that had suddenly unlocked unlimited strength.

No, he just felt... capable.

Like he could finally stand on even footing with an average soldier.

But the knowledge that this power came from killing other humans sat uneasily in his stomach.

Had his Bloodlust skill activated when the cave collapsed? Was that why his stats had increased?

He clenched his fists.

It didn’t matter right now.

What mattered was getting out of this cave.

He pushed himself up, his legs shaky but functional. His fingers dragged along the cave wall as he moved forward, using the faint blue glow of the ancient system to navigate. The air was thick, the scent of blood, sweat, and crushed stone clinging to the ruins. His foot bumped into something, and he instinctively looked down.

A body.

Or what was left of one.

His breath hitched as he realized there were dozens of them, scattered across the collapsed tunnel, some partially buried, others twisted and broken beyond recognition.

All of them Canterlot soldiers.

He swallowed hard, nausea clawing at his stomach. These were the men he had buried alive.

His hands curled into fists, but he forced himself to breathe.

This wasn’t the time to fall apart.

Slowly, he dropped to one knee and began the long, agonizing process of pulling the bodies out of the rubble.

It took hours, maybe longer—time had lost all meaning in the darkness—but he refused to stop.

Even though his arms ached.
Even though his fingers were raw.
Even though every bone in his body told him to rest.

He moved each corpse carefully, laying them down in a separate chamber off to the side of the ruins. It felt like the least he could do.

The eerie glow of the dungeon flickered dimly, casting long shadows against the jagged walls. Spencer knelt beside the last body he had pulled from the rubble, his breath heavy, chest rising and falling with exhaustion.

Sixty-four bodies.

It took hours, maybe longer—time had no meaning here—but he had done it.

He had pulled out every corpse he could find, dragging them from beneath the collapsed stone and placing them inside a chamber just off to the side of the ruins. The room had once been part of the dungeon’s infrastructure, maybe a storage area or a resting place for ancient explorers. Now, it had become a mass grave, filled with the remains of men who had been alive just hours ago.

Enemies. Allies. It didn’t matter anymore.

They were dead.

And he was not.

His muscles screamed in protest, arms shaking violently from exertion. He hadn't stopped since waking up, driven by some unspoken obligation to recover the bodies of those who hadn't been as lucky as him. Or maybe it wasn't luck. Maybe it was something else.

Something darker.

Spencer closed his eyes for a moment, trying to drown out the nagging weight at the back of his mind.

He had killed them.

Not with a rifle. Not with a knife.

But by burying them alive under thousands of tons of rock.

His hand curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm. He had no choice. It was war. They would have killed him just the same. But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, for the first time in his life, he had done something terrible.

And yet, he had felt nothing.

No regret. No triumph.

Just… emptiness.

Then, he saw them.

Among the lifeless bodies, four figures remained breathing.

Spencer stiffened, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. He had pulled them from the rubble without realizing they were still alive, too focused on recovering the dead to check for survivors.

They were unconscious, their breathing shallow but steady. Their uniforms were torn, covered in dust and dried blood, but their chests still rose and fell.

They were Canterlot soldiers.

And for the first time since waking up, Spencer had a real problem.

His grip tightened around his knife, his mind running through the possibilities.

If they woke up and saw him, a Dragonlands soldier, standing over them, what would they do? Attack him? Assume he was the one who brought the cave down? He wasn’t in any condition to fight off four men, not after hours of digging and hauling corpses.

Killing them now would be the safest option.

A quick, clean cut. One by one.

The thought came too easily, too naturally.

And that scared him more than anything.

Spencer exhaled sharply, forcing the idea out of his head.

No.

Not unless he had to.

Instead, he crouched down, checking their conditions. None of them had any visible fatal wounds. They had been knocked unconscious by the explosion, buried under the rubble, but they were still alive. Just barely.

They weren’t a threat.

Not yet.

He pulled them away from the pile of corpses, dragging their limp bodies into a separate area of the chamber, far from the dead.

For now, that was enough.

The exhaustion finally hit him all at once.

His limbs felt like lead, his mind sluggish from fatigue. He hadn't eaten, hadn't had water, hadn't rested since waking up.

But he couldn't afford to stop yet.

He turned toward the deeper tunnels of the dungeon, where the faint blue glow still flickered, pulsing like a heartbeat.

There was something deeper in this place.

Something that might hold the key to escaping.

But first, he needed to rest.

Just for a little while.

With a slow breath, Spencer sat down against the cold stone wall, his knife still clutched tightly in his fingers.

His eyes flickered toward the unconscious soldiers one last time.

He had no idea who they were.

But if they woke up before he did...

He just hoped they wouldn't try to kill him on sight.

And with that final thought, he let himself sink into an uneasy sleep.

Spencer woke to the sound of labored breathing.

It wasn’t his own.

For a brief, disoriented moment, he thought he was back in the barracks, surrounded by the low murmurs of fellow conscripts, the distant march of boots against concrete, and the ever-present cold that clung to the Dragonlands' training grounds.

But then the scent of damp stone and death filled his nose, the taste of blood still fresh in his mouth, and the ache in his bones reminded him exactly where he was.

He wasn’t in boot camp. He wasn’t anywhere near the surface.

He was buried under thousands of tons of rock, deep inside a dungeon that should have been his grave.

And someone else was breathing nearby.

Spencer’s eyes snapped open, his fingers immediately reaching for the combat knife at his waist. His muscles protested the sudden movement, his body still sore and stiff from hours of hauling corpses, but his mind was already wide awake, every sense heightened by the awareness that he was no longer alone.

In the dim glow of the dungeon’s unnatural blue light, he saw one of the survivors stirring.

The man was lying on his back, still half-covered in dust, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His face was pale beneath the grime, his brows furrowed in pain as he groaned softly, shifting slightly as if trying to pull himself back into consciousness.

Spencer exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the hilt of his knife.

He had been hoping for more time.

More time to recover, to prepare, to figure out what the hell he was going to do when these men woke up.

But fate had never been kind to him.

The soldier coughed, his body jerking from the effort, and Spencer watched as his eyelids fluttered open, revealing dazed, unfocused eyes that darted around the cave in confusion.

For a few agonizing seconds, the man simply stared at the ceiling, blinking sluggishly, his brain still trying to make sense of where he was.

Then his gaze shifted—and landed directly on Spencer.

Silence.

The kind that felt heavy, thick with unspoken questions and unacknowledged dangers.

Spencer didn’t move.

Neither did the soldier.

They just sat there, staring at each other, two survivors from opposite sides of a war, buried together in a place that had no allegiance.

Then, finally, the soldier’s expression changed—not to fear, not to hostility, but to something much stranger.

Relief.

"You're alive," the man rasped, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. He swallowed thickly, his throat parched, and tried to push himself up, only to wince in pain, his arms trembling from weakness.

Spencer remained still, watching carefully as the man struggled to sit upright, his movements slow and uncoordinated, like someone waking from a deep coma.

For a moment, Spencer wasn’t sure what to do.

If the man had woken up with a weapon in his hand, if he had reached for a gun, a knife, anything—Spencer wouldn’t have hesitated.

But instead, he just sat there, his face weary, his body too weak to fight, too disoriented to recognize Spencer as an enemy.

He had expected hostility.

Instead, all he saw was a man trying to understand why he was still breathing.

Spencer slowly released the grip on his knife, his muscles relaxing just enough to ease the tension in his shoulders.

For the first time since waking up, he actually looked at the man.

He was older than Spencer by a few years, maybe in his mid-thirties, with soft features that didn’t match the hardened look of a career soldier. His uniform was standard-issue Canterlot military gear, but it was loose-fitting, like it had been made for someone broader.

Not a front-line fighter.

A supply officer? A logistics worker? A civilian conscript?

Spencer’s gaze flickered to the patches on his uniform.

They weren’t combat unit insignias.

They were kitchen division marks.

A cook.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, suddenly feeling a little less on edge.

The man coughed again, his body wracked with the effort, and then turned his weary gaze back to Spencer, studying him in return.

"...You don’t look like one of ours," he murmured.

Spencer didn’t answer immediately. He could have lied. He could have pretended to be a fellow Canterlot soldier, played along until he could figure out a way to get out of here.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he simply said, “I’m not.”

The man blinked slowly, his exhaustion evident.

Then, to Spencer’s surprise, he chuckled.

A quiet, rasping sound, barely audible, but undeniably a laugh.

"Figures," the man muttered, shaking his head. "I go through all that hell, get buried alive, somehow survive… and the first guy I see when I wake up is a Dragonlands soldier."

Spencer raised an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable change in demeanor—the moment when the soldier realized who he was talking to and reacted accordingly.

But it never came.

Instead, the man just sighed, leaning his head back against the cave wall.

"Well," he said tiredly, “if you were going to kill me, I think you would’ve done it already.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, studying him.

"...Probably."

The man let out another hoarse chuckle, then winced as he shifted his leg, a fresh wave of pain washing over his face.

"Shit," he muttered. "That’s gonna hurt later."

Spencer glanced at his injuries—not life-threatening, but bad enough that the man wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

"You don’t seem too concerned about this situation," Spencer said, finally breaking the silence between them.

The man sighed again, shaking his head.

"Son, I was in the middle of a battlefield, dodging artillery and sniper fire, running on two hours of sleep, carrying a crate of flour because command thought fresh bread was a priority during a fucking siege. And then I got buried alive. Forgive me if I’m just too damn tired to care right now."

Spencer didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he watched as the man closed his eyes, breathing slow and deep, trying to regain his strength.

For the first time in days, Spencer felt something strange.

Something he hadn’t felt since this war started.

Not suspicion.

Not fear.

Just a moment of shared exhaustion.

A quiet understanding between two men who shouldn’t be alive.

Spencer leaned back against the cave wall, letting out a slow breath.

"Got a name?" he asked.

The man cracked one eye open, smirking weakly.

"Justin Baker. People call me Mr. Cakes."

Spencer’s lips twitched slightly.

"...Really?"

"Yeah," Justin muttered. "And if you ever tell me I don’t look like a ‘Mr. Cakes,’ I will personally haunt you when I die."

Spencer let out a breath that was almost—almost—a laugh.

The first survivor had woken up.

And somehow, things had just gotten a little less complicated.

For now.

The silence stretched between them, thick and unbroken, save for the occasional drip of water from the cave ceiling. The dim glow from the dungeon’s unknown energy source pulsed softly, throwing eerie, shifting shadows across the rubble-strewn floor. Spencer sat against the cold stone wall, his muscles still sore from overexertion, his fingers unconsciously tracing patterns into the dirt beside him. His mind should have been focused on escaping, on figuring out their next move, but instead, he found himself staring at the man across from him.

Justin Baker, a man who should not have survived.

Spencer had seen countless bodies crushed under the weight of the cave-in. Many had suffered instant deaths, their skulls shattered, their bodies twisted beyond recognition. Those who had lingered had likely suffocated beneath the rubble, their lungs filling with dust and stone before their hearts gave out.

Yet, this man—a cook—was sitting here, not just alive, but awake and talking.

Something wasn’t adding up.

Spencer narrowed his eyes slightly, arms resting on his bent knees as he spoke. “You don’t look like a guy who should’ve survived that.”

Mr. Cakes chuckled, though the motion made him wince. He reached up to rub the back of his head, his fingers brushing against the dried blood matted in his hair. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Spencer remained quiet, waiting for an explanation.

The older man sighed, rolling his shoulders experimentally before glancing at Spencer with a smirk that carried a hint of knowing amusement.

“Alright, fine. I’ll tell you.” He cracked his neck before continuing. “Despite being a cook, I’m actually an A-rank adventurer.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly. “Bullshit.”

Mr. Cakes laughed again, shaking his head. “No, really. I used to be one of the top-ranked adventurers in Equestria. Semi-retired now, of course.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Spent the last ten years running bakeries, catering for nobles, and making pastries for little kids. Figured I’d had enough of the dungeon life.”

Spencer’s gaze hardened, trying to gauge the truth in the man’s words.

An A-rank adventurer? It was rare for anyone outside of high-ranking guilds or elite military units to reach that level. Even the strongest soldiers in the war were barely B-rank unless they were special forces. The fact that this guy was just casually mentioning it like it was nothing made Spencer's skin itch.

And yet…

Looking at him now, there were signs Spencer hadn’t noticed before.

His arms—though not overly muscular—had the compact strength of someone who had been through years of battle. His injuries, though serious, were not as severe as they should have been. A normal person would have had crushed ribs, broken limbs, but Mr. Cakes was still moving, still talking, despite what had happened to him.

It made sense.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “That explains how you’re still alive.”

Mr. Cakes grinned. “Yup. My body’s built for this kind of punishment. Not that I enjoy getting buried alive, mind you.” His grin faded slightly as he leaned his head back against the wall. “But I’ll take survival over being a pancake.”

Spencer scoffed. “Bit ironic for a baker.”

Mr. Cakes grinned wider.

A moment passed in mutual silence, the only sound the distant, rhythmic hum of the dungeon’s unseen energy source. Spencer turned his gaze toward the deep tunnel that stretched out beyond their small chamber.

The further the light from the collapsed entrance faded, the more unnatural the cave looked. This wasn’t just a series of random stone formations—there was structure here. Shapes too smooth to be natural, markings etched into the walls that pulsed with a faint glow, broken metal plates buried beneath layers of dirt.

This dungeon…

It wasn’t just a monster nest.

It was something older.

Something forgotten.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, forcing himself onto his feet, ignoring the stiffness in his limbs. He slung his rifle—empty but still useful as a blunt weapon—over his back and turned toward the tunnel.

“We need to move,” he said.

Mr. Cakes raised an eyebrow. “In a hurry, are we?”

Spencer gestured toward the three unconscious survivors lying nearby. “They’re not waking up anytime soon. If we want to find a way out of here, we should start looking before something else finds us.”

Mr. Cakes sighed but pushed himself up with minimal effort. “Alright, fine. Not the worst idea. But you do realize,” he stretched his arms, “this dungeon probably goes on for miles.”

Spencer nodded. “Yeah.”

“Got a plan?”

“Find a way out.”

Mr. Cakes chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, fair enough.”

The two men stepped into the darkness.

With each step, the blue glow along the cave walls pulsed, like a heartbeat growing stronger the deeper they went. The further they walked, the less natural the tunnel became.

It was no longer just stone and dirt.

It was metal.

Spencer ran his fingers along the wall, feeling the cold, smooth texture beneath the dust. The symbols that had seemed random before now began to resemble something more structured.

Some kind of language.

A warning? A system?

Whatever this dungeon was, it wasn’t just a cave.

It was a ruin.

And that meant it wasn’t just a hiding place.

It was a tomb.

Spencer’s boots scuffed against the strange metal plating beneath the dirt, and suddenly, a small vibration trembled through the floor.

Both men froze.

Mr. Cakes narrowed his eyes. “Tell me that was your stomach.”

Spencer shook his head slowly.

The vibration came again, stronger this time.

Then, a low mechanical groan echoed from deep within the tunnel, a sound that had no place in something that was supposed to be just rock and stone.

Something had woken up.

Spencer slowly reached for his knife, his body tensing.

Mr. Cakes rolled his shoulders. “Welp. There goes my retirement.”

The vibration became a tremor.

And then—

The blue glow intensified.

A hiss filled the air, and suddenly, from deep within the dungeon, something began moving.

The air had shifted.

It was subtle at first, a faint vibration beneath Spencer’s boots, barely noticeable over the rhythmic pulse of the dungeon’s strange blue glow. But then the tremors grew stronger, turning into an undeniable thrum of energy that pulsed from deep within the ruins, radiating outward like the slow awakening of something that had slept for a very long time.

Spencer and Mr. Cakes froze in place, their senses sharpening.

The temperature dropped slightly, a metallic tang seeping into the air. It reminded Spencer of gunpowder and old machinery, the scent of oil and rust, of weapons that had been left untouched for centuries yet still held the capability to kill.

Then, the noise came again.

A low, mechanical groan—not like the shifting of stone, but the sound of gears grinding to life.

Something was waking up.

Something ancient.

Something not human.

Spencer’s grip on his knife tightened instinctively, his body shifting into a ready stance.

Mr. Cakes cracked his neck, flexing his fingers. “Well. That doesn’t sound promising.”

Spencer didn’t answer—his attention was fixed ahead, where the glow had started to intensify. The walls, previously dim and passive, were now flaring with light, forming patterns that seemed to pulse in response to something moving in the dark.

And then, he saw it.

At first, it was just a silhouette, emerging from the far end of the tunnel. A hulking shape, broad-shouldered and inhumanly tall, its frame moving with an unnatural precision that sent a shiver down Spencer’s spine. As it stepped fully into view, the light of the dungeon revealed its true form.

It was not a living creature.

It was a machine.

The thing stood nearly eight feet tall, its body composed of layered metal plating, worn and battered but still intact. Its face was a featureless steel mask, save for two piercing red optics that flared to life like predatory eyes locking onto prey.

Its arms were too long for its frame, ending in razor-sharp claws that gleamed under the dungeon’s eerie glow. Across its torso, faint symbols were etched into the metal, the language foreign and unreadable, but pulsing with an energy that suggested it was far from being just a lifeless machine.

Then, the creature moved.

Its head snapped toward them, its mechanical limbs clicking into position with fluid precision. The air vibrated with a deep, synthetic growl, like an engine revving for the first time in centuries.

Then—

It charged.

Spencer barely had time to react.

The mechanical beast lunged forward, its clawed hands slashing downward with terrifying speed. He threw himself sideways, rolling across the ground as the metal claws tore through the space he had just occupied, leaving a deep gash in the stone floor.

Mr. Cakes had already moved, stepping back with the effortless grace of a seasoned fighter, his sidearm snapping up in a fluid motion.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots ripped through the air, slamming directly into the creature’s chest. The bullets hit with a metallic clang, ricocheting harmlessly off its armored plating.

Mr. Cakes clicked his tongue. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”

The creature turned its head sharply toward him, its optics glowing brighter. Then, with a mechanical snarl, it lunged.

Spencer saw it happen in an instant.

The thing was fast, far too fast for something its size. One moment, it was standing several feet away, the next it was right on top of Mr. Cakes, its claws swiping downward in a blur of motion.

Mr. Cakes twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding losing his head, but the beast adjusted mid-swing, its other arm snapping out.

Spencer reacted instinctively.

He surged forward, gripping his knife in both hands, and drove it into the back of the creature’s knee joint.

The blade bit into metal, sparks erupting as he twisted the weapon, using all his strength to jam it between the plates of armor.

The machine staggered, its balance momentarily thrown off.

Mr. Cakes seized the opening.

With a single, well-placed kick, he drove his heel directly into the creature’s damaged knee, forcing the metal limb to buckle inward with a horrible screech.

It collapsed, but only for a second.

Then, it lashed out.

Spencer barely managed to throw himself backward before the beast swung at him, its claws cutting through the air just inches from his face. He hit the ground hard, rolling to avoid the follow-up attack, but the machine was already adjusting, its limbs snapping into new positions like it was learning their movements.

It was adapting.

Spencer’s mind raced. They couldn’t keep dodging forever.

They needed to disable it—fast.

Then, he saw it.

The glowing core embedded in the machine’s chest.

It was small, partially protected by overlapping armor plates, but for a brief moment—when the machine moved just right—the core was exposed.

Spencer gritted his teeth.

That was their target.

“Cakes! Core—chest!”

Mr. Cakes caught on immediately.

Without hesitation, he darted to the side, drawing the creature’s attention, forcing it to turn toward him. Its optics flared as it prepared another strike, both claws raised high.

Spencer moved before it could attack.

He charged straight at it, using the momentary distraction to launch himself upward, planting his boot on its lower leg and propelling himself toward its chest.

At the last second, he grabbed the knife still lodged in its knee, yanking it free and using the momentum to drive the blade directly into the exposed core.

The effect was immediate.

The machine convulsed violently, its limbs spasming as the energy core ruptured. Sparks and smoke erupted from its body as it staggered backward, its once-smooth movements turning jerky and erratic.

Then, with one final shriek of mechanical agony, it collapsed onto its knees—

And went still.

Silence.

Spencer remained where he was for a moment, knife still buried in the core, chest heaving as adrenaline burned through his veins.

Then, Mr. Cakes exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders.

“Well,” he muttered, staring at the motionless machine. “That was fun.”

Before Spencer could respond, a new sound filled the cavern.

A deep, guttural roar.

Then another.

And another.

The dungeon had awakened.

Spencer’s blood ran cold.

“Run,” he said.

They did.

By the time they made it back to the survivors, Spencer and Mr. Cakes were breathless, their bodies drenched in sweat.

The noises from the dungeon had grown louder, distant howls and screeches echoing through the tunnels, getting closer.

Spencer scanned the area.

No food.
No water.
The gear he’d recovered from the corpses was damaged beyond repair.

No bullets. No vests. No medicine.

They had nothing.

Nothing but a knife, a machete, and three magazines for Mr. Cakes’ sidearm.

Spencer clenched his jaw.

This was going to be one hell of a long night.

The cavern was eerily silent, save for the slow, ragged breaths of the four unconscious men lying in a corner of the chamber. Spencer sat with his back against the cold stone wall, his fingers absentmindedly running over the hilt of his knife. Every part of his body ached, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his consciousness, but he forced himself to stay alert.

Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Not when the dungeon had come alive.

Mr. Cakes sat a few feet away, rolling one of the empty magazines from his pistol between his fingers, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t much better off—his face was still slick with sweat from their earlier fight, his muscles tense despite the apparent calm.

Neither of them had spoken in a while.

There wasn’t much to say.

The only thing between them and whatever was lurking in the darkness was a dull machete, a standard-issue combat knife, and three magazines of 9mm rounds.

It wasn’t enough.

Not even close.

A soft groan broke the silence.

Spencer’s knife was in his hand before he even realized he had drawn it. His body tensed as one of the survivors shifted, his breathing turning shallow and uneven before he finally let out a sharp gasp, his eyes snapping open.

For a long moment, the man just stared up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if his brain was still struggling to process where he was. Then, he turned his head—and his gaze locked onto Spencer.

The air between them grew heavy.

A flicker of recognition passed through the man’s exhausted eyes, and Spencer knew what was coming before he even saw the first glint of hostility.

The soldier lurched upright, his hand immediately going to his hip—where his weapon should have been.

It wasn’t there.

Spencer had already taken it.

Before the man could even think about trying to fight, Mr. Cakes let out a tired sigh.

"Yeah, don’t do that," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "The last thing we need is a screaming match in the middle of a monster-infested dungeon."

The soldier’s eyes flickered toward him, confusion flashing across his face as if he was only just noticing that one of his own was siding with the enemy.

“What…?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“You’re alive,” Mr. Cakes said simply. “You’re in a dungeon. It’s collapsing. And you’ve got bigger problems than whatever beef you might have with Greenie Slenderman over here.”

The man’s gaze snapped back to Spencer, suspicion still burning in his features.

Spencer stared back, his expression blank. He wasn’t about to justify himself or ask “Mr. Cakes” how he knew of his derogatory nickname..

They didn’t have time for that bullshit.

Another groan.

Then another.

One by one, the other two survivors began to stir. Their groggy movements were slow, their faces pale and drawn from blood loss and dehydration. They wouldn’t be at full strength for a while, but they were alive.

Which meant Spencer’s situation had just become a hell of a lot more complicated.

Four men. All Canterlot soldiers.

Three of them were staring at him with varying levels of hostility.

Only Mr. Cakes seemed unfazed, as if the tension rolling through the cavern didn’t exist.

Spencer let out a slow breath and sheathed his knife. “I’ll make this simple,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion. “We’re all stuck down here. The dungeon is alive. The entire place is waking up. If you want to get out of here alive, then put whatever military bullshit you’re thinking about aside and focus on survival.”

The three soldiers continued staring at him, their expressions ranging from disbelief to pure frustration.

Then, finally, one of them spoke.

“I need water.”

The voice belonged to the engineer—the youngest of the three. He looked to be around Spencer’s age, his face gaunt and drawn from dehydration, but his blue eyes were sharp and calculating.

Spencer reached into his vest and pulled out a small, dented canteen. It was nearly empty—only a few sips left—but he tossed it toward the soldier without hesitation.

The man caught it, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then took a slow, careful sip.

Spencer watched him silently.

He hadn’t asked about the state of their supplies.

Because if he had, he would have realized just how screwed they really were.

When the canteen was empty, the engineer let out a slow breath and leaned back against the stone wall.

Then, he spoke again.

“You said the dungeon is alive,” he said, his voice calmer than the others. “Explain.”

Spencer exhaled, keeping his voice steady and emotionless as he laid out the facts.

The cave-in.
The ancient technology.
The mechanical creature that had nearly killed them.
The monstrous roars now echoing through the tunnels, growing louder by the minute.

By the time he was finished, the three soldiers looked far less aggressive.

Fear had replaced hostility.

Good.

Fear meant they wouldn’t be stupid.

After a long silence, the engineer spoke again.

“We need weapons.”

Spencer nearly laughed.

“We have three magazines for a single sidearm,” he said flatly. “A machete and a knife. That’s it.”

The engineer frowned but didn’t seem surprised. Instead, he reached into his torn jacket, pulling out a small, worn-out leather pouch.

“I can make bullets.”

Spencer blinked, caught off guard for the first time since waking up.

“What?”

“I’m an engineer,” the man said. “And I’m also an adventurer. One of my specializations is field crafting. I can make bullets from scratch—rocks, scrap metal, whatever we can find. I won’t be able to make anything too high-caliber, but if I can get the materials, I can keep us armed.”

Spencer’s mind raced.

This changed everything.

“We’ll need supplies,” Mr. Cakes pointed out.

The engineer nodded. “I know. If we can salvage anything from the dungeon—old metal, broken weapons, even bones—we might be able to repurpose them.” He glanced at Spencer. “If you can get me gunpowder or a substitute, I can keep us armed. Otherwise, we’re stuck using blades.”

Spencer exhaled, rubbing his fingers over his forehead.

At least they had a goal now.

Before, survival had been about hiding and avoiding death.

Now?

They had a chance to fight back.

A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

Spencer pushed himself to his feet, glancing toward the dark tunnels that stretched deeper into the dungeon. The roars and mechanical growls had grown louder, no longer distant whispers in the abyss.

Something was coming.

And it wouldn’t stop until they were all dead.

Spencer inhaled deeply.

Then he turned back to the others.

“We move in five minutes.”

The soldiers hesitated, but none of them argued.

Mr. Cakes just smirked. “Well, at least we’ll be dying with bullets.”

Spencer didn’t respond.

Because if he had his way—

They weren’t dying at all.