Dungeon Wars: The Rise of an F-Rank Soldier

The chamber was dimly lit, the eerie blue glow of the dungeon’s ancient mechanisms casting long, jagged shadows across the cold stone walls. The silence had grown heavier, thick with unspoken tension as the group prepared to move out for the first time since waking up in this nightmare.

Spencer stood near the chamber entrance, his arms crossed, eyes scanning the three newly awakened survivors. Their postures varied—one still cautious, another resigned, and the last calculating—but they all had one thing in common.

They were all waiting for him to speak.

Spencer wasn’t used to that.

He had always been the one in the background, the nameless grunt following orders, the expendable conscript sent to die so that stronger soldiers could claim the glory. But down here, in the depths of this dungeon, surrounded by enemies both seen and unseen, he had somehow become the one making the calls.

He didn’t like it.

But if it kept them alive, he’d deal with it.

For now.

Spencer’s gaze flickered between the three men, finally settling on the engineer. The one who had spoken the most so far. The one who had offered the only viable plan they had.

“You,” Spencer said simply. “What’s your name?”

The young man straightened slightly. His face was still pale from dehydration, but there was a sharpness in his gaze now—the kind that belonged to someone who solved problems instead of panicking.

“Manato Chiba,” he said, voice steady. “Field engineer. Former adventurer.”

Spencer nodded. “You’re the one who said you can make bullets.”

Chiba smirked faintly. “I don’t say things I can’t do. If I can get my hands on scrap metal and something that burns, I can make crude bullets. Might not be pretty, but they’ll work.”

Spencer filed that information away. A problem solver. Useful.

He turned to the next man.

The soldier was older, maybe in his early forties, with gray streaks in his dark hair and sharp lines etched into his face. He sat slightly apart from the others, arms crossed, an almost permanent scowl on his features.

And when Spencer’s gaze landed on him, the older man narrowed his eyes.

“You’re the leader, huh?” he muttered.

Spencer didn’t bother answering.

Instead, he repeated, “Name.”

The man exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face before giving a curt nod. “Charles Woodrow. Sergeant, retired. But most people just call me Cranky.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly.

Cranky? That explained a lot.

Woodrow noticed the look and let out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I didn’t pick the name.” His gaze hardened. “But don’t think I’m just some old man past his prime. I’ve seen more warzones than any of you. And I don’t take orders from kids.”

Spencer let that hang in the air for a moment.

Then, he simply said, “Then try to keep up.”

Woodrow scowled but didn’t argue.

Good enough.

The last man was different from the others.

Where Woodrow was all hardened edges and Chiba was all calculating sharpness, this one had an air of discomfort, like he didn’t belong in this kind of situation.

His uniform was cleaner than the others, not as stained with blood or dust. His features were refined, his hands too well-kept for a soldier.

And when he spoke, Spencer immediately understood why.

“Randall Peng,” the man said, running a hand through his disheveled dark blond hair. “But most people know me as Royal Pin.”

Spencer blinked. “What?”

The man sighed dramatically. “Royal Pin. Actor, model, charity spokesman. You know, public figure.”

Spencer just stared at him.

“…You’re an actor?”

“Yes,” Royal Pin replied dryly. “And yes, I volunteered for the war. Thought it would be good for my image.” He sighed again, shoulders slumping. “That was clearly a mistake.”

Spencer almost rolled his eyes.

Of course. Of course, he would end up trapped in a monster-infested dungeon with a goddamn celebrity.

“…So what can you do?” Spencer asked, already bracing for a useless answer.

To his mild surprise, Royal Pin’s expression turned dead serious.

“I’m a damn good shot,” he said.

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “How good?”

Royal Pin leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest. “Ever heard of the Annual Canterlot Marksman Invitational?”

Spencer hesitated. That was one of the most prestigious sharpshooting tournaments in the world.

“…Yeah.”

“I won it. Twice.”

Spencer’s eyebrow lifted slightly higher.

Okay. Maybe the guy wasn’t completely useless.

Now that the introductions were out of the way, Spencer exhaled and turned his focus to the real problem.

Survival.

“We don’t have enough supplies,” he said bluntly. “No food. No water. The gear I recovered from the corpses is useless. We have a knife, a machete, and three magazines for a pistol.”

Chiba frowned. “That’s bad.”

“No shit,” Woodrow muttered.

Spencer ignored them. “The dungeon’s coming alive. Whatever we do, we need weapons.” His eyes flickered toward Chiba. “You’re the only one who can make that happen.”

Chiba nodded. “I’ll need metal. Gunpowder or an alternative. Even bones could work.”

“Good,” Spencer said. Then he turned toward Royal Pin. “You’re the best shot here. If Chiba makes the bullets, you’re using them.”

Royal Pin smirked. “Finally, a role suited for me.”

Spencer’s gaze landed on Woodrow. “And you?”

The older man scowled. “What about me?”

Spencer held his stare. “You said you’ve been in warzones before. How many times have you been trapped behind enemy lines?”

Woodrow hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he muttered, “…Too many to count.”

“Then you know how this works,” Spencer said. “Keep everyone alive.”

Woodrow studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he grunted, acknowledging the order without outright saying it.

Mr. Cakes stretched his arms with a smirk. “Guess that makes me your second-in-command, huh?”

Spencer didn’t respond.

But he didn’t deny it, either.

The distant howls and screeches from the dungeon had grown louder.

The air had shifted again, a slow, crawling tension creeping into the walls.

They were out of time.

Spencer pulled the machete from his belt, gripping it tightly. “Move out.”

No one argued.

No one hesitated.

Because now, they all understood one simple truth.

If they didn’t find supplies soon—

They were all dead.

The tunnels stretched deep into the abyss, winding and jagged, their uneven surfaces marked with strange, pulsing symbols that had long been forgotten by the world above. The further they moved from the chamber, the more the blue glow of the dungeon shifted, no longer a simple pulse but an almost rhythmic flicker, like the slow, steady heartbeat of something waking up.

Spencer didn’t like it.

His grip on the machete was firm, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows ahead, ears attuned to every shift in the air, every subtle movement in the darkness.

Behind him, the others followed in tight formation—Mr. Cakes near the center, guiding Chiba as he examined every scrap of metal and stone they passed, while Woodrow and Royal Pin covered the rear, keeping watch on the tunnels behind them.

No one spoke.

There was no need to.

Because they could all hear it now.

The breathing.

Faint. Uneven. Wet.

Not their own.

Something else was down here.

Spencer exhaled slowly, steadying his nerves. Fear would get them killed.

He focused on Chiba, watching as the engineer carefully examined a jagged piece of rusted metal, his fingers running along the rough surface.

Chiba’s brow furrowed. “This could work.”

Spencer crouched beside him. “How?”

“Steel’s old, but not completely corroded. If I break it down, I can shape it into low-grade ammunition. Not perfect, but better than nothing.”

Spencer nodded. “How long?”

Chiba clicked his tongue, calculating. “Depends. If I can find a proper work surface and some heat, I can make at least a few rounds in an hour. If I had a proper forge? A full batch.”

“We don’t have an hour,” Woodrow muttered.

Spencer nodded grimly. He turned to Chiba. “Grab what you can and keep moving.”

Chiba didn’t argue. He stuffed the metal scrap into his pouch and pushed forward.

But then—

A sound.

Not the breathing.

Something closer.

A wet, slithering noise.

And then—

The stench of rot.

Spencer stopped instantly, throwing up his fist in a silent signal.

The others froze.

His eyes flickered toward the tunnel ahead. The shadows there were thicker, almost unnatural, the faint blue glow barely illuminating the space beyond. The air felt different now, thick with the scent of decay, like something had been left to rot for centuries.

Then—

A figure moved.

Not walked. Not stepped.

Dragged.

A slow, crawling movement, limbs scraping against the ground, a grotesque, jerking motion that set Spencer’s teeth on edge.

Then another.

Then another.

And then, from the darkness, they emerged.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

What had once been humans now stood before them—though human was no longer the right word.

Their bodies were twisted, elongated, their limbs stretching unnaturally, as though their bones had been warped by something unnatural. Their skin—where it still remained—was peeled away in patches, exposing muscle and sinew, riddled with deep black veins that pulsed beneath their flesh.

Their eyes were hollow.

Not empty—hollow.

As though something had crawled inside their skulls and hollowed them out, leaving only a whisper of the people they had once been.

Some still had remnants of armor, broken swords dragging behind them, their fingers twisted into jagged claws.

Adventurers.

Once.

Now?

Just another part of the dungeon.

A low, guttural hiss filled the air, a sound that didn’t belong in a human throat.

The closest creature’s head twitched sharply, its mouth opening, jaw unhinging far wider than it should have.

Then—

It screeched.

Loud. Violent. Piercing.

Spencer didn’t hesitate.

“MOVE!”

The creatures charged.

The first one lunged for Spencer, its clawed hands swiping toward his throat. He barely managed to twist away, the machete in his grip flashing upward, carving a deep gash into the creature’s shoulder.

It didn’t even flinch.

Instead, it pressed forward, faster, more aggressive, like pain meant nothing to it.

Spencer ducked low, twisting his grip on the machete and driving it upward, burying the blade deep into the creature’s stomach.

A sickening squelch.

The thing jerked violently, its movements spasming, but it still didn’t fall.

Instead, its bony fingers wrapped around Spencer’s wrist.

And squeezed.

A sharp, white-hot pain shot up Spencer’s arm, his bones straining under the unnatural pressure.

The thing wasn’t strong, not in the way a soldier was strong, but its grip was inhuman, like something was forcing its body beyond what it was meant to do.

And it wasn’t dying.

Spencer gritted his teeth. Fine.

Then he’d make sure it stayed down.

With a sharp twist, he yanked the machete sideways, carving through the creature’s midsection and nearly severing it in half.

The thing screeched, finally letting go, and collapsed in a twitching heap.

“SHOOT THEM!” Spencer barked.

Royal Pin didn’t hesitate.

The sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the tunnel, his pistol snapping up with perfect precision.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Each shot found its mark, slamming into the creatures’ heads, blowing chunks of decayed flesh and bone away.

But they kept coming.

Woodrow swung his knife, slicing into another’s neck, but it didn’t stop.

“THEY DON’T FEEL PAIN!” Mr. Cakes yelled. “AIM FOR THE HEADS!”

Spencer lunged for another, his machete flashing again.

This time, he didn’t go for the body.

He went for the neck.

The blade sliced cleanly through, the creature’s head snapping backward, severed completely from its body.

That worked.

The thing collapsed instantly, its body finally going limp.

“NECKS OR HEADS!” Spencer shouted. “DON’T WASTE TIME ON ANYTHING ELSE!”

The fight was brutal, fast, and relentless.

Each creature moved with inhuman aggression, their attacks erratic, unpredictable.

But the group adapted.

They worked together.

Chiba used his sharpest piece of scrap metal like a makeshift dagger, driving it through eye sockets and exposed skulls.

Woodrow fought with methodical brutality, knife flashing only when necessary, never wasting movement.

Royal Pin’s shots were perfect, each one taking down a target instantly.

Mr. Cakes, despite his exhaustion, moved with precision, his machete tearing through throats in clean, practiced motions.

And Spencer?

Spencer fought like an animal.

By the time the last creature collapsed, their bodies were covered in sweat, blood, and filth.

The tunnel was littered with twitching corpses, the stench of death thick in the air.

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then, finally, Royal Pin broke the silence.

“…Well,” he muttered. “That was disgusting.”

Mr. Cakes wiped viscera off his blade, sighing. “Welcome to hell, pretty boy.”

Spencer exhaled slowly, his grip on his machete finally relaxing.

Then, from the deeper tunnels—

Another roar.

Louder. Closer.

Spencer clenched his jaw.

They weren’t done yet.

The putrid stench of rotting flesh still clung to the air as the group moved quickly, their boots pressing into the damp, blood-stained stone beneath them. The tunnel stretched endlessly, an oppressive void of darkness only barely pushed back by the dim blue glow of the dungeon’s strange energy veins. The rhythmic hum of the walls had grown more erratic now, pulsing faster, as if the dungeon itself was aware of them.

Spencer wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a very, very bad thing.

Behind him, Mr. Cakes wiped the last remnants of blackened blood off his machete with a torn piece of cloth, his usual grin replaced by something far grimmer.

“Tell me we’re close to a safe spot,” Cakes muttered.

Chiba, who had been walking beside him, adjusted the pouch strapped to his belt, the makeshift scrap metal and other salvaged materials clanking softly with each step. His gaze flickered up toward the towering rock formations ahead, where the tunnel split in two directions.

“This way,” he said, nodding to the left path.

Spencer eyed him. “You sure?”

Chiba didn’t look up. “I don’t guess.”

Spencer didn’t question him further. He didn’t have to.

They reached a hollowed-out chamber at the end of the passage, its walls jagged yet oddly smooth, as if something had once carved through the rock, shaping it into an unnatural formation.

It was large enough to shelter them but also tight enough to defend if anything followed them inside.

Spencer scanned the area quickly, his machete still gripped tightly in his hands. The chamber’s back wall had collapsed inward slightly, creating a partial barricade that could be reinforced.

More importantly—

There were no other exits.

They could hold out here.

For a little while, at least.

“Alright,” Spencer said, glancing at Chiba. “Work fast.”

The engineer nodded, already crouching down, laying out the scavenged materials across the cold stone. He moved with a deliberate sharpness, his fingers sorting through broken metal, rusted pieces of armor, and other scraps, analyzing their usefulness without hesitation.

Royal Pin leaned against the wall, reloading his half-empty magazine, his sharp eyes flickering toward Chiba.

“How long is this gonna take?” he asked.

Chiba didn’t look up. “If I use the right materials, maybe half an hour.”

Royal Pin snorted. “We don’t have half an hour.”

Chiba paused briefly, then smirked. “Then let’s hope I’m fast.”

Mr. Cakes let out a long sigh, dropping his tired body onto a flat piece of stone. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, exhaling slowly.

“Feels like we’ve been running for hours,” he muttered.

Woodrow grunted. “Because we have.”

Spencer crouched near the chamber entrance, his ears tuned to the distant echoes that still lingered in the tunnels. The creatures they had fought weren’t alone. There were more. Many more.

And they were getting closer.

Chiba worked quickly, his hands moving with surprising precision despite the crude tools at his disposal. He took a rusted steel plate, wedged it against the stone floor, and snapped it in half with a well-placed kick. The jagged edges were rough, but when he held up the pieces, he nodded in approval.

“This’ll do,” he muttered.

He pulled a small metal tube from his belt—a field repair kit, the kind engineers carried for quick fixes on weapons and armor. From inside, he retrieved a dull, rusted file, pressing it against the broken steel and slowly grinding it into shape.

Royal Pin raised an eyebrow. “You’re really making bullets by hand?”

Chiba didn’t stop working. “It’s better than throwing rocks.”

Mr. Cakes let out a low whistle. “Now that I’d pay to see.”

The minutes dragged on.

The air grew heavier.

Each of them knew they didn’t have much time.

Woodrow kept watch, his knife resting loosely in his palm, though his sharp eyes never stopped scanning the chamber entrance. Royal Pin finished reloading, spinning the sidearm between his fingers before tucking it back into his holster.

Spencer?

Spencer just waited.

Listened.

And tried not to think about the deep, guttural sounds creeping through the dungeon walls.

The monsters were hunting them.

And soon, they would find them.

“Done,” Chiba finally muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

The others turned toward him.

Laid out before him on the stone floor were five bullets.

They were rough, uneven, and slightly misshapen, but they were bullets.

And right now, that was all that mattered.

Royal Pin stepped forward, scooping one up with his fingers, inspecting it with a practiced eye. “They won’t fly straight,” he noted.

Chiba smirked. “They don’t need to fly straight. They just need to kill.”

Spencer picked one up, rolling it between his fingers. The metal was coarse, the edges rugged, but it was solid.

It would work.

And they were going to need it.

Because the dungeon was waking up.

And something was coming.

The first sound was subtle.

A distant, rhythmic scratching, almost like nails dragging across stone. It echoed through the tunnels, soft at first, barely noticeable over the hum of the dungeon’s unnatural energy veins. But then it grew louder—not just one noise, but dozens, overlapping, merging into a dissonant chorus of scraping, clicking, and guttural breathing.

Something was coming.

And it wasn’t alone.

Spencer tensed, pushing himself up from his crouched position near the chamber entrance. His fingers instinctively tightened around the hilt of his machete as his gaze locked onto the darkness beyond the tunnel.

Mr. Cakes, who had been sitting with his back against the wall, let out a slow exhale as he straightened up, rolling his shoulders. “Tell me that’s your stomach,” he muttered.

Royal Pin, already gripping his pistol, didn’t even bother replying.

Chiba cursed under his breath, stuffing the remaining bullet-making tools into his belt before grabbing his makeshift dagger.

Woodrow’s grip tightened around his knife, his old soldier’s instincts already screaming at him.

No one spoke.

No one had to.

They all knew what was about to happen.

Then, the first silhouette emerged from the shadows.

It moved slowly at first, its long, twisted limbs crawling across the stone, its elongated fingers clawing at the ground as it pulled itself forward. The dim blue glow of the dungeon flickered over its deformed body, revealing black veins bulging beneath its half-decayed skin.

Then came the second.

And the third.

Then, dozens.

A flood of twisted, humanoid horrors, their hollow eyes gleaming in the darkness, their broken bodies crawling, limping, or outright sprinting toward the chamber.

The horde had found them.

“CONTACT!” Spencer barked.

Before the words were fully out of his mouth, Royal Pin had already raised his sidearm, his grip steady, his sharp eyes narrowing as he lined up his first shot.

Bang!

The bullet ripped through the first creature’s skull, its body jerking violently before crumpling to the ground.

Bang! Bang!

Two more went down, their heads snapping backward as the makeshift bullets tore through bone and flesh.

But the horde didn’t stop.

They never stopped.

Spencer moved.

He surged forward, machete flashing in the dim glow, meeting the first charging creature head-on.

It lunged for him, its clawed fingers stretching toward his throat, but he sidestepped at the last second, twisting his body and bringing the blade down hard.

The machete cleaved into its neck, carving through rotting muscle and brittle bone. The creature staggered, its body twitching violently before finally collapsing.

Another one came.

Spencer didn’t hesitate.

He pivoted, bringing the blade upward in a brutal arc, slicing through its jaw and into its skull.

It collapsed instantly.

But for every one he dropped, three more replaced it.

Mr. Cakes fought beside him, his machete swinging in powerful, deliberate strikes. His movements were less refined, less trained than Spencer’s, but he fought with brutal efficiency, each slash cutting deep, each blow meant to kill, not wound.

To Spencer’s left, Chiba fought defensively, using the scraps of broken metal he had sharpened into daggers, stabbing at the creatures’ necks and eyes before retreating behind the others. He wasn’t a front-line fighter, but he was fast, and speed meant survival.

Woodrow was different.

The old soldier didn’t waste energy.

Every motion was calculated, every movement deliberate. He didn’t bother slashing wildly like the others—he simply waited for an opening, then drove his knife into the softest parts of the creatures’ bodies with the precision of a man who had done this too many times before.

Royal Pin kept firing, his shots coming in steady, controlled bursts.

Bang. A creature fell.

Bang. Another collapsed.

Bang. The chamber flashed with the muzzle flare, the scent of gunpowder mixing with the stench of decay.

But then—

Click.

Empty.

Royal Pin cursed, ejecting the spent magazine. “I’m dry!”

“Switch to melee!” Spencer barked, ducking as a creature lunged for his throat.

Royal Pin tossed the pistol aside, drawing his combat knife as another horror lunged at him. He sidestepped, spun on his heel, and drove the blade into its temple.

The thing convulsed violently, its body seizing up before it collapsed.

“Chiba, how many more bullets can you make?” Spencer demanded, barely dodging a swipe from another creature.

“Not enough!” Chiba snapped back, driving a sharpened steel shard into another monster’s eye socket. “We need more time!”

But time was a luxury they didn’t have.

The creatures kept coming.

The pile of corpses was growing, but so was their exhaustion.

Spencer could feel it—the slow, creeping burn in his arms, the growing sluggishness in his movements. His strikes were still lethal, but they were becoming slower.

And the creatures knew it.

They were pushing harder now, their screeches growing louder, their attacks becoming more relentless.

If this kept up—

They were going to be overrun.

Then—

Something changed.

The dungeon shook.

A deep, resonating pulse rumbled through the walls, vibrating through the stone beneath their feet.

The creatures froze.

Their hollow eyes flickered, their bodies jerking unnaturally, as if something had interrupted their connection to whatever force controlled them.

Then—

One by one, they turned their heads toward the deeper tunnels.

And then, in perfect synchronization—

They retreated.

Spencer stood panting, blood dripping from his blade, his pulse still pounding in his ears.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

For a long moment, they simply watched as the creatures disappeared, vanishing into the darkness as suddenly as they had appeared.

And then, from the depths of the dungeon—

A new sound.

Not a screech.

Not a howl.

But a deep, guttural growl.

And it was coming straight for them.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Spencer’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, his breathing ragged, sweat dripping from his forehead. His machete hung loosely in his grip, the blade coated in thick, blackened blood. Around him, the others were in similar states—panting, exhausted, their bodies shaking from the sheer brutality of the fight.

But the horde was gone.

They had retreated. Something had called them back.

And that could only mean one thing.

Something worse was coming.

From the depths of the dungeon, the growl came again.

Deep. Resonant. Territorial.

Spencer felt it before he heard it, the very air around them vibrating with its sheer presence. Whatever was down there—it wasn’t just another mindless, reanimated husk.

It was bigger. Stronger. Smarter.

A predator.

And it was hunting them.

“We need to move,” Spencer said immediately, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. “Now.”

Mr. Cakes wiped the sweat from his brow, exhaling sharply. “Where? We barely survived that last fight.”

Spencer’s jaw clenched. He didn’t have an answer. Not yet.

Chiba suddenly crouched down, his hands moving quickly, gathering what was left of their makeshift supplies. “I need time,” he muttered. “If I can finish at least one more batch of bullets, we might have a shot at killing whatever’s coming.”

Woodrow scoffed, his voice sharp. “That’s a damn big if, kid.”

“Then buy me the damn time,” Chiba shot back.

Spencer didn’t hesitate. “We barricade,” he ordered. “Reinforce the entrance, block as many openings as we can.”

Woodrow clicked his tongue but didn’t argue.

They had no other choice.

They moved quickly.

Spencer and Woodrow gathered chunks of collapsed rock, stacking them against the main passage leading into the chamber. It wouldn’t stop a determined attacker, but it would slow it down.

Mr. Cakes and Royal Pin reinforced the side walls, using broken scraps of armor, weapon fragments, anything that could clog up the smaller openings.

Chiba worked fast, his hands flying across his makeshift workstation, shaping bullets from scrap metal, using a modified ignition spark from his toolset to simulate a low-grade gunpowder reaction. It was primitive, barely reliable—but it was all they had.

The ground trembled.

Then—a shadow appeared.

Spencer felt his entire body lock up.

At first, he thought it was another hallucination, a trick of the dungeon’s unnatural lighting. But then the blue glow flickered, and he saw it.

The massive silhouette at the far end of the tunnel.

At least nine feet tall, its body twisted and grotesquely elongated, its arms unnaturally long, fingers dragging against the stone floor.

Its **eyes—if they could even be called that—were glowing, not with the hollow emptiness of the lesser creatures, but with something far more dangerous.

Intelligence.

It was watching them. Studying them.

Then, it opened its mouth.

Rows upon rows of needle-like teeth glistened in the dim light.

Then—

It charged.

“CONTACT!” Spencer roared.

Royal Pin fired first.

The first shot slammed into the Alpha’s shoulder. The impact sent black mist-like blood splattering across the wall—but the monster didn’t even slow down.

Royal Pin fired twice more, aiming for its head—

But the Alpha ducked.

It was fast. Too fast.

It lunged, crossing the distance in seconds.

Spencer moved on instinct.

The machete flashed upward, aiming for the creature’s exposed midsection. But before the blade could connect—

The Alpha twisted its body unnaturally, its limbs bending at impossible angles.

Then, it counterattacked.

Its clawed hand lashed out, striking Spencer across the chest.

Impact.

Pain exploded through his ribs, and before he could react, his body was slammed into the far wall.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.

Then, the Alpha turned its attention to the others.

Woodrow lunged, knife flashing.

The blade pierced the Alpha’s side, sinking into flesh that felt too soft, too wrong.

But instead of pulling away—

The Alpha grabbed his wrist.

Woodrow’s eyes went wide.

Then—it twisted.

A sickening snap.

Woodrow screamed, his arm bending at a horrific angle.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Mr. Cakes roared, swinging his machete with full force.

The blade connected with the Alpha’s neck, sinking deep—

And yet, the creature didn’t die.

Instead, it laughed.

A horrible, inhuman sound, low and guttural, like bones grinding against each other.

Then, it threw Woodrow aside like a ragdoll and turned to face Mr. Cakes.

Spencer forced himself to his feet, his vision spinning, pain stabbing through his side.

“CHIBA!” he barked. “BULLETS!”

Chiba’s hands were shaking, his tools moving frantically as he tried to finish the last batch.

“Almost—done!” he gritted out.

Royal Pin switched tactics, lunging in with his knife—but the Alpha caught him mid-air, its massive hand gripping his throat.

It lifted him off the ground.

Royal Pin choked, struggling, kicking, his knife stabbing into the creature’s arm, but the Alpha didn’t let go.

Spencer had no choice.

He charged.

The Alpha saw him coming.

But this time, Spencer was ready.

At the last second, he dropped low, sliding beneath its swinging arm.

Then, with all the strength he had left—

He drove his machete upward, straight into its exposed gut.

The blade pierced deep, carving through black muscle and pulsating veins.

The Alpha screeched, its grip on Royal Pin loosening.

Royal Pin broke free, collapsing onto the ground, gasping for air.

“NOW, CHIBA!” Spencer roared.

Chiba threw the bullets.

Mr. Cakes caught them mid-air.

He slammed them into the pistol’s empty magazine.

Then—he fired.

The first shot hit center mass.

The Alpha jerked violently, black blood spraying across the chamber.

Mr. Cakes fired again.

This time—the bullet hit the monster’s skull.

The Alpha staggered.

And for the first time—

Its glowing eyes dimmed.

Then, with a final twitch, its body collapsed.

Silence.

Then, Chiba let out a weak laugh.

“…Holy shit.”

Mr. Cakes wiped sweat from his face. “I need a drink.”

Spencer didn’t move.

His gaze remained locked on the Alpha’s motionless corpse.

Then, a single thought struck him.

That was just the first.

And the dungeon wasn’t done yet.