Dungeon Wars: The Rise of an F-Rank Soldier

by underrated Drake

Rating: mature
Tags: Drama, Gore, Alternate Universe, Romance, Changelings, Equestria Girls, Spike, Main 7 (EqG), Dragons, Profanity, Adventure, Violence, Sex, Death, Human
Length: 25399

A world at War

The story follows Spencer, an orphaned weakling who is forcefully conscripted into the military of the Dragonlands—a world torn apart by the global Dungeon Wars. He has no talent, no physical strength, and is considered expendable by his squad. However, after a near-death experience inside an S-rank Dungeon, he gains an unknown power that allows him to defy the limits of human growth, setting him on a path to become the strongest soldier in history.

Yeah, so, a bit of an older one that I found in my Google Drive, I thought it was cool so I'm posting it.
Bare in mind that there might some discrepancies here and there with the show, but I wasn't as knowledgeable with the show yet.

Published 2025-02-01 06:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2025-02-09 23:41:12 UTC

Ch.1 - The Unwanted Son of War

Darkness.

That was the first thing I knew in this world.

It wasn't the comforting kind of darkness—the kind you get when you're wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold night. No, my darkness was empty, silent, and endless. A void that swallowed me whole the day I was born.

I don’t know who my parents were. Never even heard a rumor.

All I know is that on the coldest night of winter, a nun found me wrapped in rags, half-dead, inside a wooden crate outside the church. A damn crate—like an unwanted stray.

The orphanage was my home after that. A place where the forgotten were dumped like garbage.

I grew up watching other kids come and go. Families—rich, powerful, from up north where the war never touched—would visit, smile, pick their favorite, and take them away. Never me.

Maybe I wasn’t cute enough. Maybe I was too tall. Too quiet. Too… wrong.

Or maybe I just wasn’t worth it.

Food was always scarce.

The church got some funding from the government, but most of it never made it to us. Corrupt officials, greedy clergymen—it all vanished before it could fill our stomachs.

We learned to ration everything.

One piece of bread. One cup of thin soup.

That was a meal.

And me? I was the oldest.

I saw the new kids arrive—small, scared, hungry. They had nothing, just like me once.

So I gave them my food. Every time.

I figured… I was already used to hunger. They weren’t.

But it made me thin, weak, tired all the time.

The priests would say, “God rewards those who sacrifice for others.”

But God never gave me anything.

I just kept getting skinnier, paler, taller, and more… invisible.

It was the same scene every time.

A couple—dressed in expensive coats, clean, warm, well-fed—walking through the orphanage, scanning the children like they were shopping for a pet.

The kid in front of me—a small, timid boy named Eli—was up next.

“Look at this one,” the woman said, her voice filled with excitement.

“He’s perfect,” her husband replied, nodding. “Strong build, bright eyes. He’ll fit right in.”

I stood behind them, silent, waiting. Hoping.

The woman’s gaze flickered to me for a brief second.

I straightened my posture, pretended I wasn’t hungry, forced my lips into the best smile I could manage.

Then she looked away.

They took Eli. Just like all the others.

I wasn’t surprised.

I stopped getting my hopes up years ago.

Then came my 18th birthday.

A day that should’ve been a new beginning. Instead, it was the end of everything.

I woke up to packed bags, empty beds, and silence.

Father Matthias, the head priest, stood at the door. His face was unreadable, but I could see the tension in his hands.

“The orphanage is closing,” he said. Just like that.

The younger kids had already been sent off to adoption centers further north.

The nuns and priests—the only family I had—were leaving.

I looked at them, pleading, but I already knew the answer.

I wasn’t part of the clergy. I wasn’t one of them.

I was just an orphan.

And now, I was alone.

I had nowhere to go.

The war was still raging, but up until then, it had been distant, something happening far away on news broadcasts.

Now, it came for me.

The moment I stepped outside the orphanage’s gates, I was grabbed by two men in uniform.

“Got another one,” one of them muttered.

I struggled, confused, terrified. “W-Wait, what the hell—?!”

“By decree of the Dragonlands, all able-bodied men are conscripted into the military upon reaching adulthood. Congratulations, kid. You’re a soldier now.”

“No—No, I never—”

“Shut up,” the soldier barked, tightening his grip.

They dragged me down the street, past people who didn’t even spare me a second glance. Nobody cared.

I was shoved into a recruitment truck, packed with other young men, all of them with the same look in their eyes.

Fear.

And then the doors slammed shut.

That’s how my life ended before it even started.

No family. No home. No choices.

Just a uniform, a gun, and a war I never wanted.

They call me a soldier, but that’s a joke.

I’m just another nameless body in an army that sees me as expendable trash.

I’m nothing.

But maybe that’s why I’m not afraid to die.

Because when you’re already nothing, what’s there to lose?

The first day of training was hell.

Not the kind of hell people imagine from war movies, with explosions and gunfire. No—this was the kind of hell that broke you down before you even reached the battlefield.

We were dumped into Dragonlands Boot Camp—a sprawling military base carved into the jagged cliffs of Blackstone Ridge, where the wind howled like a starving beast and the sun cooked the ground into glass.

The moment the truck doors slammed open, we were greeted by the screaming voice of a drill sergeant.

"Welcome to hell, you sorry sacks of shit!"

A towering man in combat fatigues paced in front of us, his bald head gleaming with sweat, his voice a thunderous roar that made the weakest among us flinch. His name was Sergeant Juno Kragg, a war veteran who had no sympathy for the weak.

"From this moment forward, you belong to me. You are no longer civilians. You are no longer human. You are expendable, disposable, bottom-feeding maggots, and I have been given the honor of turning you into something barely acceptable as a soldier!"

His cold eyes scanned the crowd of new recruits, filled with a mix of poor bastards like me and awakened individuals—the ones who had latent abilities, the ones who actually had a future in the military.

Me? I was just a scrawny conscript who never had enough food to grow muscle.

That made me an easy target.

"Shit, would you look at this guy," a voice whispered behind me.

"Fucking skeleton," another chuckled. "How the hell is he supposed to hold a rifle?"

"Maybe they'll use him as a scarecrow to keep the enemy away."

I didn’t turn around. Didn’t react. I had heard worse growing up.

But the drill sergeant definitely heard them.

"You think this is funny, maggots?" Juno snapped, stopping right in front of me. His massive frame cast a shadow over my entire body.

The other recruits shut up immediately.

Juno squinted at me, like I was some kind of disease he needed to exterminate.

"You," he barked. "What the fuck is your name?"

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay steady.

"Spencer Dracowski, sir."

"Dracowski?" His lip curled in disgust. "No rank. No family. No future. You're just a useless conscript."

He stepped closer, until his breath was hot against my face.

"You’re gonna die out there, Dracowski," he said, low and menacing. "Might as well save me the trouble and off yourself now."

The other recruits chuckled, some shaking their heads like they had already written me off.

But I didn’t say a word.

I just stood there, staring straight ahead, fists clenched so hard my nails dug into my palms.

Because no matter what they said—I refused to break.

Boot camp lasted six months.

Six months of nonstop hell.

Six months of running drills, of sleeping four hours a night, of training in the freezing cold, of being beaten into the dirt every time I failed.

But I never quit.

I was the first to wake up.

The first to arrive at the training yard.

The last to leave.

While others with better physiques struggled, I kept pushing forward, refusing to let my own body’s limitations slow me down.

I was slower than the Awakened soldiers—so I ran harder.
I was weaker than the well-fed recruits—so I trained longer.
I had zero natural abilities—so I forced my body to keep up, no matter how much pain it caused.

And little by little, they started noticing.

"Hey… Runt’s still doing push-ups?"

"Damn, even the awakened guys already collapsed."

"How the fuck is he still moving?"

Even Juno Kragg, the bastard drill sergeant, stopped insulting me.

Instead, he watched.

Every time I got knocked down, I got back up.
Every time I collapsed from exhaustion, I pushed forward.

I was still thin, still weaker than the others, still slow—but I never gave up.

And that earned me something I never had before.

A little respect.

But the real turning point?

It came when I was sent to the church to check my stats.

The Church of the Scale was where every soldier, adventurer, and mercenary went to evaluate their potential.

It was a ritual, done before every major deployment.

The process was simple:

Step onto the Divine Scale.
Let the magical inscriptions scan your body.
See how strong—or weak—you really are.

I already knew what to expect.

Nothing.

The priest, an elderly man with tired eyes, placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Take a deep breath," he murmured. "Try to relax."

I nodded and stepped forward, standing on the engraved stone circle in the middle of the room.

A low hum filled the air as the magic scanned my body, flickering arcane symbols hovering above me.

And then the results appeared.

Name: Spencer Dracowski
Level: 1
Potential Rank: 10
Attributes:

Strength: 23

Speed: 30

Endurance: 42

Intelligence: 10

Fighting Skill: 15

Magic: 0

Cyber Acumen: 2

Perception: 18

Stealth: 22

Leadership: 5

Luck: ???

The room fell silent.

The priest blinked.

The guards stared.

Even some of the other soldiers waiting in line chuckled.

It was exactly what I expected.

Weak. Below average. Worthless.

One of the officers standing nearby scoffed.

"This guy’s not even worth the boots he’s standing in."

I gritted my teeth, clenching my fists at my sides.

But just as I turned to leave, a new screen appeared.

[Hidden Skill: Bloodlust – Active but Dormant]

Condition: Must kill a significant number of enemies to awaken.

Effect: Gains half of the highest stat of each kill.

The priest paled.

"That… that’s…" he started, but then shut his mouth.

Nobody noticed the new screen except him and me.

And in that moment, I realized—

Maybe I wasn’t as worthless as they thought.

Spencer stood outside the Church of the Scale, his boots scraping against the cracked stone steps as he clenched his fists.

The results were exactly what he expected.

Weak. Below average. Worthless.

Even now, he could hear the laughter from the other soldiers who had seen his pathetic stats.

It didn't matter.

None of it fucking mattered.

Stats didn't tell the whole story. Effort did. And Spencer? He never stopped pushing forward.

And if the world thought he was worthless, he would prove them wrong.

With that thought burning in his chest, he turned and walked toward the training field.

The training yard was a wasteland of blood, sweat, and shattered pride.

Rows of recruits were running through grueling obstacle courses, dragging their broken bodies over walls and barbed wire while instructors screamed in their faces.

At the center of the field, a crowd had gathered, murmuring with a mix of awe and fear.

And standing in the middle of them was her.

Ember Valkyria.

The Dragonlord’s daughter.

A Rank S+ warrior.

Only six months older than Spencer.

She wasn't just a soldier—she was a damn legend.

Her piercing cobalt eyes scanned the recruits like a predator sizing up prey.

Her body was pure muscle, toned and lean, built for speed and power. Unlike most officers, who wore heavy armor, Ember dressed in a tight combat vest and cargo pants, allowing her to move without restriction.

Her reputation was known across the Dragonlands military.

A prodigy. A natural leader. A warrior feared even by veterans.

And she wasn't here to make friends.

"Alright, listen up, you worthless bastards!" Ember's voice cut through the noise like a blade.

"You're all here because you have two options: become soldiers, or die trying."

Her cold gaze swept over the recruits, stopping for half a second on Spencer before moving on.

"Most of you are weak. Most of you won’t last past the first battle. And frankly?" She smirked. "I don’t give a shit."

A few recruits shuffled uncomfortably, but no one dared to talk back.

Because they all knew she was right.

"Only the strong will survive this war," she continued. "And right now? None of you are strong."

She took a step forward, tossing her combat gloves onto the dirt.

"So I’m gonna break you until you are."

She turned to Juno Kragg.

"Drill Sergeant, bring me your best recruit."

Juno smirked and gestured to a broad-shouldered man with a cocky grin.

Carter ‘Ox’ Balderas.

A genetically enhanced soldier, already A-Rank before he even stepped foot in training.

He towered over Ember, easily a foot taller, built like a damn war tank.

"Let’s see if you live up to your reputation, Princess," Ox sneered.

The other recruits laughed, but it died the moment the fight began.

Ox charged first, swinging a devastating right hook meant to crush skulls.

Ember?

She sidestepped it like she had all the time in the world.

CRACK.

Her elbow smashed into Ox’s ribs, sending a shockwave of pain through his body.

He staggered back, eyes wide.

Ember didn’t stop.

She lunged forward, her leg snapping up in a perfect arc.

Her heel smashed against his jaw, sending a spray of blood into the air.

Ox collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath, his body trembling.

The crowd?

Silent.

"Pathetic," Ember muttered.

She turned to Juno, her expression unimpressed.

"This is your best recruit?"

Juno scowled, his pride wounded. He scanned the recruits, eyes narrowing.

And then, his gaze landed on Spencer.

"You," Juno snapped.

Spencer stiffened.

"You’re up."

The crowd immediately started whispering.

"The runt?"
"You gotta be kidding me."
"He’ll get killed in ten seconds."

Spencer felt his gut tighten, but he forced himself forward.

Ember raised an eyebrow, studying him.

"You’re the conscript, right?" she asked.

Spencer nodded.

She smirked.

"This’ll be quick."

The fight began.

And Spencer?

He knew he couldn’t win.

But he didn’t need to.

He just needed to last.

Ember moved first, her speed blurring like a damn specter.

Her fist shot toward his ribs, too fast to dodge.

THUD.

Pain exploded through Spencer’s body as he staggered back, barely keeping his footing.

"That all?" Ember mocked.

Spencer gritted his teeth.

Keep moving. Stay in the fight.

She attacked again.

A kick toward his gut.

Spencer dropped low, barely dodging.

She threw a jab to his face—he ducked, countering with a clumsy punch to her side.

It barely touched her.

But the fact that he even tried to fight back made Ember pause for a fraction of a second.

She smirked.

"Not bad," she admitted.

And then she hit him like a truck.

A knee to the stomach.

An elbow to the back.

A punch straight to the face.

Spencer hit the dirt hard, his vision swimming.

His body screamed to stay down.

But his pride wouldn’t let him.

He forced himself up, spitting blood into the dirt.

The recruits were silent.

Even Juno looked surprised.

And Ember?

She grinned.

"You’re an idiot," she said. "But I like idiots who don’t quit."

She offered a hand.

Spencer hesitated—then took it.

The moment his fingers wrapped around hers, he felt something shift.

The first step toward respect.

The first step toward something greater.

And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t invisible anymore.

Spencer sat on the cold metal bench of the deployment barracks, his fingers wrapped tightly around the small, battered notebook he had salvaged from a supply crate weeks ago.

The ink had already begun to fade in some places, smudged from sweat, dirt, and the occasional drop of blood from his bruises.

Boot camp was over. The training, the humiliation, the struggle—it had all led to this.

He flipped through the roughly scrawled pages, re-reading the words he had written late into the night when he was too exhausted to sleep but too stubborn to rest.

A record.

A story.

His story.

Because even if no one else remembered him, even if his body was burned to nothing on some nameless battlefield, at least these words would exist.

Proof that he had been here.

That he had fought.

That he was more than just another nameless conscript.

His pencil scratched against the page.

"Most of my life, I was nothing. I was the empty seat at the dinner table, the extra bed at the orphanage, the forgotten child in the adoption files. When I was finally noticed, it was only because the war needed more bodies to throw at the meat grinder. I was never strong, never special, never chosen. I was just... here."

"But I survived boot camp."

"I lasted. I endured."

"And now, they’re sending me to fight."

"I wonder if they expect me to die."

A shadow loomed over him.

"Hey, Greenie Slenderman, you writing a eulogy?"

Spencer didn’t even look up. He knew the voice.

Private Darren Cole.

Another conscript, but one with a sharp tongue and the survival instincts of a cockroach.

"Figured I’d write something down before I get my head blown off," Spencer muttered.

Cole laughed, dropping onto the bench beside him, his combat rifle clunking against his armored vest.

"Shit, man, don’t say it like that. You’re making me nervous," Cole snickered.

He glanced at the notebook, tilting his head.

"Wait, are you actually serious?"

Spencer finally looked at him.

"I am."

Cole’s grin faltered for a split second, but he covered it with another forced chuckle.

"Man, you really are a weird one, you know that?"

He leaned back, letting out a deep breath.

"Well, if you do kick it out there, make sure you haunt the bastards who shoot you. Maybe I’ll finally get some actual luck in this fucked-up army."

Spencer smirked.

"Noted."

A loud siren blared, cutting through the chatter of the barracks.

A deep, robotic voice boomed over the intercom.

"All soldiers, report to transport stations immediately. Deployment for Operation Abyss is now commencing. I repeat, all soldiers report for immediate deployment."

Spencer closed his notebook.

Cole sighed.

"Here we fucking go."

The inside of the VTOL dropship was claustrophobic, packed with dozens of soldiers, their rifles clutched tightly in white-knuckled grips.

The air reeked of sweat, oil, and nerves.

Everyone knew where they were going.

Pacific Cave.

An S-Rank Dungeon in contested territory.

The Dragonlands’ 107th Battalion vs. Canterlot’s 203rd Forward Strike Battalion.

A battle for control of one of the rarest Manacite deposits in the world.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom.

"Approaching the drop zone. Two minutes until deployment."

Spencer adjusted his helmet, feeling the weight of his standard-issue rifle in his hands.

Cole let out a low whistle, nudging Spencer with his elbow.

"Heard this place is a fucking nightmare," he muttered. "Last time we sent a recon team, they got shredded."

Spencer glanced at him.

"By Canterlot’s troops?"

"Nah," Cole shook his head. "By the dungeon."

Spencer stiffened.

He had been so focused on the war, on the battle, on surviving against other soldiers, that he had almost forgotten the real threat.

Dungeons weren’t just battlegrounds.

They were alive.

And they didn’t care who won the war.

The red light flashed inside the cabin.

One minute.

The sergeant at the front of the dropship stood up, gripping the side rail as the aircraft shook from turbulence.

His voice boomed over the roaring engines.

"Alright, listen up, you sorry bastards!"

His cybernetic eye gleamed under the dim lighting as he scanned the soldiers.

"This is a forward assault mission. We’re hitting the eastern ridge, where Canterlot’s forces have set up defensive turrets and anti-aircraft artillery."

He paused, letting the gravity of that sink in.

"That means the second you touch the ground, you are already in the kill zone. You will move fast, you will push forward, and you will not stop until the objective is secured."

His gaze narrowed.

"And if any of you so much as hesitate? You’ll be dead before you hit the fucking dirt."

The dropship doors slid open.

Wind screamed inside, carrying the scent of burning earth and gunpowder.

Explosions lit up the horizon.

Tracer rounds streaked across the sky, slamming into the metal hull of nearby aircraft, sending them spiraling into the mountains below.

The entire battlefield was on fire.

Spencer’s stomach twisted, his heart pounding like a war drum inside his chest.

"DROP! DROP! DROP!"

The soldiers in front of him leaped out of the aircraft, their parachutes deploying as they descended into hell.

Cole smacked Spencer on the back.

"See you on the ground, Greenie."

Then he jumped.

Spencer took a deep breath.

And then he stepped into the abyss.

The sky was on fire.

Flashes of orange and red lit up the horizon, the booming thunder of artillery shaking the air like an endless earthquake. Tracer rounds sliced through the darkness, red and green streaks dancing through the clouds like a deadly light show.

The ground came up fast as Spencer plummeted toward the battlefield. His parachute ripped open with a violent jolt, slowing his descent just enough for him to take in the war zone below.

The 203rd Forward Strike Battalion had already turned the eastern ridge into a slaughterhouse.

Tanks lined the rocky hills, their barrels glowing white-hot as they fired into the advancing Dragonlands infantry, tearing through soldiers and metal alike. A dozen attack helicopters hovered above, their rotors chopping through the smoke-choked air, releasing hellfire missiles that carved deep craters into the mountainside.

Pamela Patterson's infamous tank battalion was holding the line.

And above them, moving like predatory falcons, were the 4th Wonderbolt Brigade—Canterlot’s elite aerial unit.

Spencer squinted through the smoke, spotting the distinctive blue and gold armor of the Wonderbolts, their high-speed fighter jets and combat exosuits weaving between anti-air fire like ghosts.

They were fast, almost too fast for the human eye to track.

But the real monsters of the battlefield?

They were the three men standing at the front lines.

Gareth “Garble” Dracona.
Flint “Fume” Marquez.
Cassius “Clump” Lugen.

S-Rank soldiers. Dragonlands’ finest.

And Spencer’s personal tormentors from boot camp.

They stood atop the smoking ruins of a Canterlot outpost, their bodies barely covered in scratches, their armor painted in the blood of their enemies.

Garble, the tallest, rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck as he grinned at the chaos unfolding around him.

"This is taking too long," he muttered, tapping the massive serrated combat knife strapped to his thigh. "I thought the 203rd was supposed to be elite."

Fume, smaller and leaner, snorted, wiping the blood off his knuckles.

"They're putting up a fight, at least," he admitted, his voice lazy, almost bored. "Gotta respect that."

Clump, the broadest of the three, adjusted his gauntlets, the metal plates glowing faintly from the heat of battle.

“Let ‘em come,” he rumbled. “More bodies for the pile.”

They weren’t worried. They never were.

Because they didn’t lose.

And now, the 107th Battalion was dropping right into this death trap.

Spencer hit the ground hard, his boots slamming into the dirt, knees bending to absorb the impact. The moment his feet touched the battlefield, his ears were assaulted by the sounds of war—the screams of dying men, the roar of engines, the relentless barrage of gunfire.

"FUCK, WE'RE IN THE OPEN!"

Cole’s voice rang out beside him, raw with panic.

Spencer didn’t have time to think. He sprinted, throwing himself behind a chunk of concrete, barely avoiding the spray of bullets that tore through the air where he had been a second ago.

The battlefield was worse than he imagined.

The Dragonlands had technically taken control of Pacific Cave in an earlier raid, thanks to Garble, Fume, and Clump. But they hadn’t been able to hold it.

Canterlot had returned with everything they had.

Now, the 107th Battalion was trying to retake ground that had already been lost.

And they were getting fucking massacred.

Spencer pushed his back against the rubble, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His rifle felt heavier than ever, his fingers clenching around the grip until his knuckles turned white.

"Where the fuck is command?!" Cole shouted over the gunfire, his voice hoarse.

"Dead!" someone else screamed. "The command post got hit by a missile ten minutes ago! We’re on our own!"

Spencer forced himself to think.

They were in a kill zone.

The high ground was covered in enemy armor, and the Wonderbolts controlled the airspace.

If they stayed here, they were all dead.

"We need to move!" Spencer barked, his voice stronger than he expected.

Cole whipped his head around, eyes wide.

"Move where? You see a fucking exit sign, genius?"

Spencer’s mind raced. He looked around, taking in every detail, every opening, every possible escape route.

And then he saw it.

A narrow trench, half-buried under twisted metal and debris, running along the edge of the battlefield. It led toward the cave entrance.

The same entrance Garble and the others had taken when they captured the dungeon.

He turned to Cole.

"The trench," he said, pointing. "If we can make it there, we might have a chance."

Cole followed his gaze, his face twisting in disbelief.

"You’re fucking insane."

"Probably." Spencer checked his ammo, then looked back at him.

"You coming or not?"

Cole stared at him for a long second. Then he let out a bitter laugh.

"Fuck it. If I’m gonna die, might as well die running."

Spencer took a deep breath.

Then he moved.

Gunfire erupted the second he left cover, bullets kicking up dirt and rock as he sprinted toward the trench.

He didn’t look back.

He just ran.

The world was a blur of fire and metal, his heartbeat a hammer against his ribs. He felt the air shift as a missile screamed overhead, slamming into a bunker somewhere behind him.

The shockwave threw him forward, his body hitting the ground hard, rolling.

His vision spun, the sky and earth switching places.

Then hands grabbed him, yanking him into the trench just before another explosion ripped through the air.

"Jesus fuck, you’re lucky," Cole wheezed, panting beside him. "I thought you were dead for sure."

Spencer blinked, disoriented.

And then he realized—

They made it.

But they weren’t alone.

A group of Dragonlands soldiers were already in the trench, wounded but alive.

One of them looked up, his face half-covered in blood, and froze when he saw Spencer.

"You," he rasped. "You’re that conscript, aren’t you?"

Spencer stared at him.

Then the soldier grinned, his teeth red.

"Guess you’re not as worthless as they said."

Hell had no mercy tonight.

The trenches were choked with smoke and fire, the screams of dying soldiers blending with the relentless thunder of artillery. The ground trembled beneath Spencer’s feet, dirt and shrapnel raining down from above as explosions ripped through the battlefield.

The 203rd’s counterattack had begun in full force, and it was nothing short of annihilation.

“FALL BACK!”

Garble’s voice boomed through the radio channels, thick with frustration.

“We got the order—HQ wants us out!”

“What?! Now?!” Clump bellowed. “We’re still holding them!”

“Not anymore,” Fume muttered, eyes fixed on the horizon where dozens of Canterlot tanks were barreling toward the trenches. “This just became a graveyard.”

Their orders were clear.

Pull back to the extraction zone. Leave the grunts behind.

The three S-Ranks exchanged glances, then turned and left.

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Because soldiers were expendable.

And conscripts?

Even more so.

The moment the S-Ranks retreated, Pamela Patterson’s tank division opened fire.

The first artillery barrage hit the northernmost trench with devastating force, reducing it to nothing but craters and smoke.

No survivors.

Spencer ducked instinctively, the shockwave nearly throwing him off his feet. He heard Cole cursing beside him, his voice barely audible over the deafening roar of explosions.

And then—

BOOM!

Something slammed into the dirt right between them.

Spencer turned, his heart stopping.

A soldier, barely recognizable under the blood and mud, had leaped up from cover, a rocket launcher balanced on his shoulder.

He was aiming right at the incoming tanks.

For a brief moment, Spencer thought—

Maybe we actually have a chance.

And then—

CRACK!

A sniper’s bullet tore through the soldier’s skull, his body collapsing lifelessly into the trench.

The rocket launcher clattered to the ground, landing right between Spencer and Cole.

They stared at it.

Then at each other.

Cole’s hands twitched, but Spencer moved first.

His fingers wrapped around the grip, his legs burning with adrenaline as he hauled it up, resting it against the edge of the trench.

The second-closest tank was lining up its next shot.

He fired first.

The rocket streaked through the night, a trail of fire cutting across the darkness before slamming directly into the tank’s turret.

BOOM!

The armored behemoth erupted in flames, its ammunition detonating in a chain reaction.

But the real chaos?

Came from what happened next.

The tank had already loaded a shell.

When the explosion ripped through it, the shell shot upward, spiraling wildly into the sky.

A Wonderbolt fighter jet was passing overhead.

The shell clipped its wing.

The aircraft lurched violently, smoke pouring from its engine.

“MAYDAY! MAYDAY!” the pilot’s voice screamed over the comms before ejecting, his parachute deploying somewhere in the distance.

The moment of shock gave the other two trenches just enough time to retreat.

But Spencer’s trench?

They weren’t fast enough.

Before they could move—

The tanks recovered.

And this time, they weren’t holding back.

The barrage came all at once.

Five shells, each the size of a man, tore through Spencer’s trench with the force of an earthquake.

Dirt. Blood. Metal. Bone.

Everything was obliterated.

The ground was leveled, the trenches flattened into nothing.

Spencer hit the dirt hard, his helmet cracking against the stone. His ears rang. His vision blurred.

He could barely move.

But he could see.

And Cole was already running.

"FUCK THIS, I’M OUT!"

The bastard didn’t even look back.

Spencer tried to push himself up, but his body wouldn’t listen.

Not yet.

Then he saw them.

The bags.

The fallen soldiers' backpacks.

They were supposed to be carrying C4 charges.

But when Spencer crawled toward them, his fingers shaking as he searched through the pouches, his heart sank.

Empty.

They had planned to blow the cave entrance.

But they never got the chance.

Except…

One of them had a live detonator.

And suddenly, Spencer understood.

His body moved before his mind caught up.

His fingers wrapped around his rifle.

He leaped out of cover.

And he started firing.

The enemy saw flashes of movement, heard screams echoing from the trenches.

Gunfire erupted, bursts of suppressing fire forcing them to halt their advance.

It was chaos.

It was madness.

Because to them, it sounded like an entire platoon was still holding the line.

Not just one man.

Spencer sprinted through the smoke, his rifle kicking against his shoulder as he emptied every last bullet he had.

Bodies dropped.

Chaos spread.

And then he saw it—

The Mini-Gun, half-buried in the rubble.

He dived for it, his hands wrapping around the massive weapon as he hauled it up.

His arms burned, his muscles screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Because if he stopped, it was over.

So he pressed the trigger.

And hell was unleashed.

The Mini-Gun roared, a solid stream of death and fire cutting through the battlefield.

Enemies collapsed in waves.

Armor was ripped apart.

The ground was soaked in blood.

And for the first time—

The 203rd hesitated.

Because this wasn’t a normal soldier.

This wasn’t tactics or strategy.

This was a fucking demon.

Then—

Click.

The gun ran dry.

And in the deafening silence that followed, they all realized the truth.

It had only been one man.

One man had done all of this.

And now?

Now, they were going to rip him apart.

A hundred rifles turned on him at once.

A thousand boots charged forward.

And Spencer?

He ran.

Straight into Pacific Cave.

Right where he wanted them.

Because this wasn’t over yet.

Not by a long shot.

The air inside Pacific Cave was thick with dust and gunpowder, the echoes of war still ringing against the jagged stone walls.

Spencer ran deeper into the cave, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His rifle was empty. His body was failing.

And behind him?

The entire Canterlot force was charging after him.

“THERE HE IS!”

A soldier, his boots slamming against the stone, pointed straight at Spencer.

“IT’S JUST ONE GUY! GET HIM!”

A hundred or more soldiers followed the order, storming into the cave, their weapons drawn, ready to tear one single man apart.

But Spencer?

He wasn’t done yet.

His foot hit something hard and metal, and his fingers wrapped around the live detonator he had taken from the fallen soldier.

His eyes flicked upward, taking in the jagged ceiling, the unstable rock formations, the ancient dungeon infrastructure barely holding itself together.

It was all he needed.

Spencer grinned, his face streaked with dirt and blood.

Then, in a loud, clear voice, he called out—

“Say goodnight, assholes.”

And he pressed the button.

The explosion tore through the cave system with the force of a thousand cannons, shaking the very earth beneath their feet.

Massive boulders cracked and fell.
Pillars of stone crumbled like dust.
The dungeon ceiling gave way.

And in an instant—

Everything collapsed.

Pamela Patterson watched from her tank as the entrance to the dungeon collapses killing everyone inside, her arms crossed, a deep scowl on her face.

One second, her forces were moving in to secure the cave, tanks lined up, artillery primed, and then—

BOOM.

The entire goddamn mountain came crashing down.

The impact was so violent that her tank rocked backwards, dust and debris blasting into the sky like a volcanic eruption.

Her radio crackled with confused voices from her subordinates.

“Command! Command! What the hell just happened?!”

Pamela’s eyes narrowed, gripping the radio.

“Somebody better give me a fucking answer, right now.”

Above her, high in the sky, Riley Dougal was circling in her Wonderbolt fighter, trying to get a better view.

But all she could see was smoke. Fire. Dust.

The entire battlefield had gone silent.

“What the hell was that?” she muttered to herself, gripping the controls tightly.

No one answered.

Because no one knew.

3 DAYS LATER - The Dragonlands Military HQ

Inside the Dragonlands High Command War Room, tension hung thick in the air.

A massive holographic map of Pacific Cave flickered on the central display, its once-clear terrain now completely unreadable—nothing but a jumbled mess of collapsed rock and dead soldiers.

The top brass of the Dragonlands military sat around the table, their expressions ranging from furious to dumbfounded.

“What the hell is this?” General Balthazar growled, pointing at the casualty report displayed in front of them. “We lost an S-Rank Dungeon?! And over two hundred soldiers?!”

Another general, his face pale, shook his head.

“Worse. We lost the 107th Battalion almost entirely. The entire Northern Trench was wiped out, and the last two trenches fell shortly after.”

Murmurs rippled through the room.

The battle was a complete disaster.

The Dragonlands didn’t just lose the dungeon.

They had been humiliated.

A chair scraped loudly against the floor as Garble leaned back, arms crossed, his expression bored.

“Pfft. What’s the big deal?” he muttered. “It’s just some shitty cave. We’ll take another one.”

Fume snorted, shaking his head.

“Yeah. And honestly? The real disgrace is that this whole mess started because of some dumbass conscript.”

Clump grinned, tilting his head toward the holoscreen.

“Yeah, who even was that guy?” He leaned in, pointing at the blurry figure from the recovered drone footage. “Look—you can still see the uniform.”

A pause.

Then Garble laughed.

“Oh my fucking god.” He slapped the table. “That’s a conscript uniform. You’re telling me some nameless foot soldier caused all this chaos? That’s fucking pathetic.”

Fume chuckled.

Clump grinned.

But then—

“Shut the fuck up.”

The room fell silent.

Garble’s smirk vanished.

Because Ember Valkyria was staring at them.

And she was furious.

Her piercing cobalt eyes burned with a fire so intense it felt like the temperature in the room had dropped.

She leaned forward, her voice dangerously quiet.

“Let me get this straight.” She tapped the table, her fingers drumming in slow, deliberate motions.

“We just lost an S-Rank Dungeon. Over two hundred soldiers are dead. The entire battle was a fucking disaster.”

She tilted her head.

“And your first thought… is to mock the one soldier who actually did something?”

Garble opened his mouth to argue, but Ember’s fist slammed against the table, rattling the monitors.

“Shut. Up.” Her voice was low and deadly, each syllable sharp enough to cut glass.

Her gaze locked onto the three of them, her expression filled with pure disgust.

“I watched you three retreat while soldiers fought for their lives,” she continued, her voice growing colder.

“You got your orders, sure. But what did you do after that? Did you try to hold the line a little longer? No. Did you even warn them what was coming? No.”

She leaned in, her words dripping with venom.

“You ran.”

A slow smirk curled on her lips.

“And then you have the fucking nerve to call someone else pathetic?”

Garble gritted his teeth, his face red with embarrassment.

Fume looked away.

Clump’s fists tightened, but he said nothing.

Because Ember was right.

And they knew it.

Far beneath the collapsed ruins of Pacific Cave, where no light could reach, something stirred.

A faint blue glow flickered in the darkness.

The remnants of the dungeon’s ancient machinery hummed back to life, screens flickering as coded symbols danced across them.

A robotic voice echoed through the empty chamber.

“Objective Completed.”

And then, silence.

Until—

“GASP!”

Spencer breathed in.

Chapter 2 – Awakening in the Abyss

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.

Chapter 3 - "Surviving the dungeon"

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.

Chapter 4 - "The boss"

The corpse of the Alpha lay sprawled across the chamber floor, its grotesque, twisted limbs motionless, its glowing eyes now nothing but dim, lifeless husks.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the dungeon was silent.

Spencer exhaled slowly, his vision still swimming from the pain that coursed through his ribs. He pressed a hand against his side, fingers brushing over the deep bruise already forming beneath his uniform.

That thing had hit him like a goddamn train.

Nearby, Royal Pin was coughing, rubbing at his throat where the Alpha had nearly crushed his windpipe.

Woodrow sat against the wall, his face pale, cradling his badly broken arm.

Chiba was still hunched over his makeshift workstation, his hands shaking from the adrenaline crash.

Mr. Cakes, of all people, was the first to move.

He let out a deep sigh, wiped the sweat from his face, and flopped down onto the nearest flat rock. “If anyone tells me we have to fight another one of those things tonight, I’m just gonna let it eat me.”

Spencer gave him a dry look. “Noted.”

Mr. Cakes grinned, though there was no humor behind it.

Chiba wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, his breathing still uneven. “We got lucky,” he muttered. “That thing was… different.”

“Smarter,” Spencer agreed, still watching the Alpha’s body carefully.

Royal Pin scoffed, rolling his sore neck. “Yeah, no shit.”

Woodrow let out a low grunt, adjusting himself against the stone. “Thing was watching us the whole damn fight. That wasn’t a mindless monster—it was a damn predator.”

Spencer nodded. “And predators don’t hunt alone.”

Silence.

The weight of that realization settled over the group like a suffocating blanket.

If there was one Alpha…

There could be more.

“We need to keep moving,” Spencer finally said, ignoring the way his entire body protested.

Mr. Cakes let out a groan but pushed himself up. “Yeah, yeah. But first, let’s see if this big bastard left us anything useful.”

They turned their attention to the Alpha’s corpse.

Royal Pin retrieved his knife, slicing through the thick, black-veined skin of the monster’s arm. The flesh peeled back with a wet squelch, revealing twisted muscle and something else—something unnatural.

Beneath the surface, embedded within its ribcage, was a chunk of pulsating green crystal.

It glowed softly, its energy flickering like a dying ember.

Chiba’s eyes widened. “That’s… dungeon energy.”

Royal Pin frowned. “Meaning?”

Chiba reached forward, carefully prying the crystal from the Alpha’s chest. It was warm—too warm—and the moment he held it, he flinched slightly, as if the very essence of the dungeon itself was pulsing through his veins.

“It means this thing wasn’t just living in the dungeon,” Chiba said slowly. “It was part of it.”

Spencer frowned. That… wasn’t normal.

Dungeons spawned monsters, sure. But the creatures inside them weren’t supposed to be fused with the dungeon itself.

Something was wrong here.

And he had a bad feeling that they hadn’t seen the worst of it yet.

As the others examined the crystal, Spencer’s gaze wandered toward the far wall.

Something was off.

The usual eerie blue glow of the dungeon veins pulsed faintly across the walls, casting jagged shadows across the chamber. But just beyond the Alpha’s corpse, nestled within a deep indentation in the rock, there was something else.

A different light.

Green.

Unlike the crystal Chiba was holding, this one wasn’t buried within a corpse—it was embedded directly into the dungeon wall itself.

Spencer moved before he fully understood why.

His steps were slow, cautious, his instincts screaming at him.

Something about this light felt different.

Felt… wrong.

But he still reached out.

And touched it.

Pain.

Spencer’s entire body seized violently, a white-hot fire burning through his veins. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before—not the pain of an injury, not the dull ache of exhaustion.

This was something deeper.

Something primal.

His knees buckled before he even realized he was falling.

The world blurred, twisting into jagged flashes of green and black, his vision filled with images that weren’t his own.

A towering structure, crumbling beneath the weight of time.

A figure, standing at the edge of a vast, empty abyss.

A voice, whispering something in a language he didn’t understand.

Then—

Nothing.

“SPENCER!”

He gasped, his body jerking violently as he came back to himself.

He was on the ground, his body drenched in sweat, his limbs trembling as if he had just walked through hell itself.

Above him, the others stood tense and alarmed, their weapons half-drawn, their eyes wide with concern.

Mr. Cakes was crouched beside him, gripping his shoulder. “The hell just happened?”

Spencer sucked in a sharp breath, his chest heaving. His skin felt raw, like it had been scorched from the inside out, but when he looked down—

There was nothing.

No burns. No injuries.

But he had felt it.

Every. Single. Second.

Chiba hesitated, glancing between Spencer and the now-dim green light embedded in the wall. “That’s… That’s not normal,” he muttered.

Woodrow snorted. “No shit.”

Spencer sat up slowly, his muscles still twitching, his head pounding. He didn’t have any explanation for what had just happened.

He just knew one thing.

That light wasn’t natural.

And the dungeon had just shown him something.

Something it didn’t want him to see.

After a long moment, Spencer pushed himself to his feet, exhaling slowly. “We keep moving,” he said, his voice rough.

Royal Pin narrowed his eyes. “You good?”

No.

Not even close.

But Spencer just nodded.

“We don’t have time for anything else.”

The others exchanged uncertain glances, but no one argued.

Because deep down, they all knew.

Something was waiting for them deeper inside this dungeon.

And whatever it was—

It wasn’t done with them yet.

The air grew thicker as they ventured deeper.

The further they walked, the more the dungeon's walls changed. The smooth stone of the tunnels gave way to something older, something crafted, as though this place had once been designed for a purpose long forgotten.

The blue veins of energy that had once lit their path had begun to fade, swallowed by tendrils of green light that pulsed in eerie synchronization, mirroring the unnatural glow Spencer had seen in the chamber before.

Something was waiting for them.

Something was watching.

Spencer led the way, machete held tightly in his grip, his mind still replaying the agonizing vision from before. He could still feel the fire beneath his skin, the way it had consumed him, the way his body had twisted and burned despite the complete lack of wounds.

The others were quiet behind him.

They all felt it.

Something was wrong.

The tunnel suddenly widened into a vast, open space.

At first, Spencer thought they had reached another cavern, but as the dim glow of the dungeon’s veins pulsed overhead, he realized the walls were not natural.

They were built.

Large stone pillars lined the circular chamber, carved from the same blackened stone as the dungeon itself. The floor was uneven, littered with rubble, but Spencer could still make out symbols carved into the stone.

Strange, spiraling glyphs, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, filling the entire space like an ancient record.

And at the very center of the room—

A door.

It was massive.

Easily twenty feet tall, made of a dark metal, etched with intricate patterns that glowed dim green, the same sickly hue that had nearly burned Spencer alive earlier.

It was sealed shut.

Chained in place by thick black roots that pulsed faintly, almost as if they were alive.

A barrier.

A warning.

This door was never meant to be opened.

“Holy shit,” Chiba muttered, stepping forward cautiously. “This… this isn’t part of a normal dungeon.”

“No kidding,” Royal Pin said, his tone sharper than usual. “This place looks ancient.”

Spencer didn’t respond.

His gaze was locked onto the symbol at the very center of the door.

Because he had seen it before.

In his vision.

It was the same spiral, the same eerie markings, the same twisting lines that had appeared when the dungeon had forced itself into his mind.

This wasn’t just a door.

It was a cage.

Woodrow let out a low breath, eyes scanning the room. “You think this leads to another level?”

Chiba frowned, kneeling down near the base of the door, brushing away the centuries-old dust that had settled over the markings. “No… I don’t think this was built to lead anywhere.”

Spencer understood instantly.

This wasn’t an entrance.

It was a prison.

Chiba’s fingers traced over the glyphs, his expression darkening. “These symbols… they’re some kind of containment script.”

Royal Pin’s frown deepened. “For what?”

Chiba swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Spencer knew one thing for certain.

Whatever was behind this door—was never meant to be found.

A sudden pulse of energy shuddered through the chamber.

The dungeon reacted violently, the green veins along the walls flaring brightly, bathing the room in a sickly, pulsating glow.

Then, with a deep, earth-shaking groan—

The entrance collapsed behind them.

Spencer barely had time to react.

One second, the tunnel they had just come from was clear—the next, a wave of stone and debris came crashing down, sealing off the only exit.

Chiba jumped back, cursing.

Royal Pin spun around, eyes wide. “What the hell—?!”

Mr. Cakes’ expression darkened. “This is bad.”

Spencer exhaled sharply, scanning the chamber, searching for any other exits.

There were none.

They were trapped.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then, Woodrow’s voice broke the silence.

“…We weren’t supposed to see this.”

Spencer didn’t look at him.

Because he already knew that was true.

This wasn’t just a dungeon.

This was something else entirely.

Something that had been buried here on purpose.

And now, they were locked inside with it.

The green glow of the massive door pulsed again.

And then—

A sound came from the other side.

Low.

Rumbling.

A deep, slow exhale.

Like something waking up.

Something that had been waiting.

A deep, rumbling exhale echoed from beyond the sealed door.

The air grew heavier, thick with something ancient, something wrong. The green glow pulsing from the door flared brighter, illuminating the massive chains wrapped around its surface—chains that had held for centuries.

Until now.

Cracks splintered along the blackened metal, spreading outward like fractured glass, the ancient bindings groaning under an unseen force. The strange, black roots that had wrapped around the structure withered, curling inward as if recoiling from something far worse than itself.

Then, with a slow, grinding groan, the door shifted.

Something was waking up.

And it wasn’t happy.

Spencer’s grip on his machete tightened, his body tense, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap.

They all felt it.

A presence.

Something was on the other side of that door—watching them, feeling them.

Mr. Cakes exhaled sharply, his expression grim. “So, uh… we all agree that opening this thing is the worst idea imaginable, right?”

“It’s already opening,” Chiba muttered.

Royal Pin gritted his teeth, checking his pistol. “Great. So what do we do when it comes out?”

Woodrow rolled his injured shoulder, his knife ready in his good hand. “We kill it.”

Spencer wasn’t so sure that was possible.

Then, the door shattered.

BOOM!

A violent shockwave erupted outward, the force so powerful that it sent Spencer and the others flying.

Spencer’s back slammed against the stone floor, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Dust and debris filled the chamber, a massive gust of wind rushing past them like the very breath of the dungeon itself.

Then—silence.

The dust settled.

And the thing stepped out.

At first, all Spencer could see was a tall silhouette, standing amidst the ruins of the broken door, its form unnaturally slender and elongated.

Then, the glow of the dungeon’s veins flickered, casting just enough light for Spencer to see its face.

A grinning mask, painted in deep crimson, its surface cracked and worn with age.

Its body was wrapped in a twisted mockery of a jester’s garb, the fabric torn and tattered, adorned with bells that didn’t ring. Its arms were too long, its fingers ending in razor-sharp claws, twitching as though eager to carve through flesh.

And then—

It tilted its head.

Not like a person.

Like a puppet being controlled by invisible strings.

Something was wrong with its movements.

Too fluid. Too unnatural.

Like it wasn’t meant to exist.

Spencer’s breathing was shallow.

His instincts were screaming.

This thing wasn’t like the Alpha.

This was something else entirely.

Something older.

Something hungry.

Then, without a sound—

It moved.

It was fast.

Too fast.

One second, it was standing amidst the ruins of the door—the next, it was on top of them.

Spencer barely had time to roll to the side before the creature’s claws ripped through the space he had just occupied.

SCCRREEEEEEEEEECH!

The sound it made wasn’t a roar.

It was laughter.

Warped, distorted, like something that had never heard what real laughter sounded like and was only mimicking it.

And then—it attacked again.

Royal Pin fired first.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots.

Each one aimed dead center at its head.

The bullets hit—but instead of tearing through flesh, they simply passed through, like the thing wasn’t even fully solid.

Then, it turned to Royal Pin.

And smiled.

“MOVE!” Spencer roared.

Too late.

The creature lunged, covering the distance in the blink of an eye. Its clawed hand snapped forward, grabbing Royal Pin by the throat—

And lifted him off the ground.

Royal Pin gasped, struggling, his legs kicking wildly as the thing held him effortlessly in the air.

Then, in a single, horrifying motion—

It tossed him.

Hard.

Royal Pin’s body slammed into the far wall, the impact cracking the stone. He collapsed onto the floor in a motionless heap.

Chiba and Woodrow rushed forward, trying to flank the creature from both sides.

Woodrow went low, aiming his knife for its legs, while Chiba leapt toward its back, a sharpened steel spike in his hands.

The thing simply tilted its head again.

Then—it vanished.

Spencer’s eyes widened.

Where—?!

A whisper of movement.

Then—it was behind them.

Chiba barely had time to turn before the creature’s clawed fingers wrapped around his forearm.

Then—it snapped his wrist backward.

Chiba screamed, the steel spike falling from his grip, clattering to the floor.

Woodrow tried to strike, but the creature simply backhanded him, sending him sprawling across the floor.

Mr. Cakes lunged forward with his machete, slashing wildly—

But the creature caught the blade mid-swing.

Then, slowly—it pulled the machete from his grip.

Like it was taking a toy away from a child.

Mr. Cakes took a step back, his face pale. “Oh, we are so—”

The creature slashed.

A deep gash ripped across his chest, blood spraying onto the dungeon floor.

Mr. Cakes staggered, gasping.

And the creature just laughed.

Spencer moved.

He surged forward, machete flashing upward, aiming for its mask.

The creature didn’t dodge.

It let him hit it.

The blade carved into the mask’s surface, splitting it down the center.

And for the first time—

The creature stopped moving.

Spencer stepped back, panting.

The others were groaning, injured but alive.

The creature just stood there.

Its head tilted downward, looking at the crack running through its mask.

Then—

It laughed again.

Spencer’s stomach twisted.

This time, the laugh was different.

Not mocking.

Not cruel.

Excited.

Like it was having fun.

Like the real fight hadn’t even started yet.

Then, the air around them shifted.

The dungeon’s green glow flared violently, pulsing in time with the creature’s jagged breathing.

Then—

It moved again.

Faster than before.

Stronger.

Angrier.

Spencer barely had time to shout a warning before it attacked.

The dungeon pulsed.

The walls trembled with an unnatural rhythm, the sickly green veins that ran through the stone pulsing faster, mirroring the creature’s erratic, frenzied breathing.

It wasn’t just fighting anymore.

It was enjoyingthis.

Spencer gritted his teeth, rolling his aching shoulders as he tightened his grip on the machete. His body screamed in protest, every muscle on the verge of collapse, but he didn’t let himself think about the pain.

Because he was the only one left standing.

Mr. Cakes lay face-down in a pool of his own blood, his breathing ragged, the wound across his chest still leaking.

Royal Pin was sprawled against the far wall, his body limp, his pistol shattered beside him.

Chiba’s wrist was bent at a sickening angle, his usually sharp eyes now glazed with pain.

Woodrow was out cold, his knife lying uselessly beside him, his body barely moving.

Spencer was alone.

And the Jester knew it.

The creature tilted its head, its mask now cracked in two, revealing glimpses of something shifting underneath.

A grin that was too wide.

Teeth that were too sharp.

It lifted its arms, its razor-sharp claws twitching, its bell-covered sleeves swaying silently, despite the movement.

Then—

It lunged.

Spencer barely had time to react.

He threw himself to the side, dodging the first deadly swipe, but the Jester was already moving again.

It was faster now.

More aggressive.

Each movement was erratic, almost like it was glitching, its body twisting at unnatural angles, attacking from directions that made no sense.

Spencer blocked a strike with his machete, but the force behind it sent him skidding backward, his boots dragging across the stone.

He needed a plan.

Because if he kept this up—he was going to die.

The Jester didn’t give him time to think.

It vanished.

Then—

SLASH!

Pain erupted across Spencer’s back as something sharp tore through his uniform, blood splattering onto the floor.

He grunted, barely keeping his balance—but the Jester was already behind him again.

Another slash.

Then another.

It was playing with him.

Toying with him.

And laughing.

Spencer’s breath came in ragged gasps.

His arms were heavy.

His legs felt like lead.

But he refused to fall.

Because if he fell—they all died.

The Jester twisted through the air again, its mask flashing in the dim green glow, its claws raised for the killing blow.

Spencer moved on instinct.

He ducked low, letting the creature sail over him, then spun on his heel, swinging his machete as hard as he could.

CLANG!

The blade slammed into the Jester’s side, slicing through its fabric-like flesh, a deep black mist spraying from the wound.

The creature jerked violently, but instead of screaming—

It laughed.

Even as its blood hit the floor.

Spencer didn’t hesitate.

He charged.

His machete flashed in the darkness, each strike aimed with precision, each movement fueled by pure survival instinct.

The Jester countered, its claws clashing against his blade, but Spencer didn’t stop.

Didn’t let up.

He swung again.

And again.

Until finally—

The Jester staggered.

It was only for a moment.

A single, brief hesitation.

But Spencer saw it.

And took it.

With a furious cry, he surged forward, gripping the machete with both hands—

And drove it into the Jester’s chest.

For the first time—

The laughter stopped.

The creature’s body jerked violently, its hands clawing at the blade embedded deep in its torso.

The black mist poured from the wound, its glowing green veins flickering erratically, its form twitching as if its entire being was coming apart at the seams.

It let out a single, shuddering breath—

Then—

It collapsed.

Spencer stood frozen, his breathing heavy, his body trembling.

The Jester’s lifeless form twitched one last time—

Then went still.

For a long, agonizing moment, Spencer didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then—

He let go of the machete.

And the dungeon fell silent.

The Jester’s body twitched one final time, its grotesque, elongated form still shuddering as its strength faded. The black mist that had once poured from its wounds began to thin, its unnatural green glow flickering erratically like a dying flame.

Then, the descent began.

Its body started to crumble, not into dust, but into fragments of pure energy, breaking apart like shattered glass, dissolving into the dungeon floor. The air around them shifted, the dungeon’s once-violent hum growing calm, as though it, too, had just exhaled in relief.

Spencer’s legs finally gave out.

He collapsed onto the stone, his vision swimming, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, but no matter how much he fought it—

Darkness overtook him.

And then—

He awoke somewhere else.

The first thing Spencer noticed was the silence.

Not the kind that came from being deep underground or the stillness of an empty battlefield—this was something else entirely.

A void.

A place where sound didn’t just disappear—it had never existed.

He stood on what felt like solid ground, yet when he looked down, there was nothing beneath him. Just an endless expanse of shadow and light, shifting like a massive, unseen ocean.

And then—

A voice.

“You have done well, Spencer Dracowski.”

Spencer’s breath hitched.

He knew that voice.

It was the same one he had heard after killing the Alpha.

And then—it appeared.

A silhouette, standing before him, taller than any human, its form flickering between solid and formless, its body humanoid but utterly featureless.

Then, it spoke again.

“I am the Admin of this dungeon.”

Spencer swallowed hard, gripping his aching arm. “The Admin?”

The being nodded. “Yes. A long time ago, this dungeon was created for a singular purpose. Over the centuries, it has changed hands, but none have ever claimed it for themselves. Until now.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “And the Jester?”

The Admin paused. Then, with a voice as hollow as the void around them, it answered:

“That was an ancient demon known as Harlequin.”

Spencer’s blood ran cold.

A demon.

This wasn’t just another dungeon boss or some high-level monster.

This thing had a name.

A history.

And it had been trapped here.

For who knows how long.

Spencer’s fingers twitched slightly. “So what happens now?”

The Admin’s voice remained calm.

“You have killed the Jester and freed the dungeon from its taint.” It raised a single glowing hand, and suddenly, golden energy swirled around Spencer. “As such, I now grant you its Ownership.”

Spencer’s mind froze.

“Wait. What?”

“The dungeon is now yours,” the Admin repeated. “All resources within it—be it minerals, mana, or artifacts—belong to you.”

Spencer’s pulse quickened.

He had just won a goddamn dungeon.

A resource so valuable that entire nations had gone to war just to control one.

And now he had it.

The Admin continued, its voice unchanging.

“Should any nation, company, or guild wish to mine, extract, or explore its depths, they will have to request your permission—and pay accordingly.”

Spencer exhaled sharply. “Well… damn.”

This was huge.

Not just for him—but for the world outside.

If word got out about this, powerful people would come for him.

And right now, he was still too weak.

Spencer clenched his fists. “That’s great and all,” he said slowly, “but I’m not strong enough to defend this.”

The Admin studied him, its form flickering slightly.

“I understand,” it said. “Then I shall reward you accordingly.”

A sudden weightless sensation filled Spencer’s chest.

Then—

His status screen appeared before him.

[REWARD: Skill Points Received – Enough to MAX OUT 3 ABILITIES]

Spencer’s breath caught.

He could max out three abilities.

Not just increase them—completely maximize them.

This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

He had to choose wisely.

“I’ll max out Intelligence first,” Spencer said.

Immediately, a surge of power coursed through him. His mind expanded, thoughts becoming sharper, faster, clearer.

Then—

“Stealth,” he added.

His body felt lighter, his presence quieter, as if the world itself had just stopped noticing him.

But before he could decide on the third, the Admin spoke first.

“I recommend you max out Magic.”

Spencer hesitated. “Magic?”

“Yes.” The Admin’s voice was firm. “It is your greatest untapped potential.”

Spencer frowned. He had never been able to use magic.

His magic stat had been zero since birth.

But now…

He had a choice.

And so, after a moment, he nodded.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

The second he agreed, a wave of raw energy flooded through him.

It was unlike anything he had ever felt.

His veins burned with raw power, his mind filling with knowledge of spells, runes, incantations—

But it was overwhelming.

He staggered, barely staying on his feet.

The Admin raised a hand, stabilizing him.

“You have gained magic,” it said. “But remember—your abilities are maxed, but your skills must still be learned.”

Spencer took a shaky breath. “Yeah. That’s why I maxed Intelligence—it increases my learning speed fivefold.”

The Admin was silent for a moment.

Then—

It laughed.

“Your foresight is admirable,” the Admin said. “You will master your skills far faster than others.”

Spencer exhaled, nodding. “So… what now?”

The Admin gestured outward, and Spencer felt another shift.

“You will awaken soon,” it said. “But before you do, I shall grant you access to the Skill Tree.”

Spencer’s eyes widened.

“The Skill Tree?”

“Yes. Only priests may view it. But now, you shall as well. It will show you the requirements for unlocking new abilities.”

Spencer smirked. “That’s gonna be useful.”

The Admin nodded.

“Then awaken, Dungeon Master. Your journey has just begun.”

With a final pulse of energy—

The world faded to black.

And then—

Spencer woke up.

Chapter 5 - Razor's edge

A deep breath.

A slow, steady inhale.

The first thing Spencer noticed as consciousness drifted back to him was the stillness—a quiet, almost unnatural calm that settled over his body. For the first time in his life, he felt… whole.

Not just stronger.

Not just smarter.

But different.

He cracked his eyes open, blinking against the dim green glow of the dungeon's remaining veins. His vision was sharper, more refined, the details of the stone walls and lingering dungeon energy far clearer than before. The air felt lighter, yet his body felt weightless, as though movement itself had become second nature to him.

And yet—

He clenched his fist, letting his newfound power settle into his core.

He was still weak.

His status screen flickered to life before him, and his eyes narrowed.

[STATUS UPDATE]

Name: Spencer Dracowski
Level: 37
Rank: C+
Attributes:

Strength: 23 → 90

Speed: 30 → 150

Endurance: 42 → 130

Intelligence: 10 → MAX (1,000,000)

Fighting Skill: 15 → 80

Magic: 0 → MAX (1,000,000)

Cyber Acumen: 2 → 20

Perception: 18 → 200

Stealth: 22 → MAX (1,000,000)

Leadership: 5 → 50

Luck: ???

Spencer exhaled sharply, closing the screen with a flick of his wrist.

C+.

Even after maxing out three abilities, even after all the bloodshed and survival, his ranking was still low.

It wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

A groan echoed from nearby.

Spencer turned his head, seeing the others slowly coming to.

Royal Pin was the first to stir, pressing a hand to his head with a groggy grunt. “Ugh… I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

Chiba pushed himself upright, cradling his still-injured wrist, his expression weary. “More like a bus.”

Mr. Cakes let out a painful chuckle, still laying flat on his back. “Try a tank.”

Woodrow grunted but said nothing, simply adjusting himself against the dungeon wall, his eyes scanning the room with sharp awareness.

None of them noticed the change in Spencer.

His body looked the same. His height hadn’t changed. His frame was still lean.

But everything had changed.

Spencer rolled his shoulders, testing his movement.

It was subtle.

But his steps were quieter now. His breathing controlled. His vision sharper than it had ever been.

His intelligence surged with new knowledge—spell formations, battle strategies, stealth maneuvers, all ingrained in his mind as if he had spent years mastering them.

And yet—

He would say nothing.

The truth of the dungeon belonged to him.

The ownership.

The power.

The rewards.

And if anyone found out, if word got out too soon, then every greedy politician, guild, and nation would be on his throat before he had a chance to prepare.

So he wouldn’t tell them.

Not yet.

He had a plan.

And it started with getting stronger.

The group found the teleporter at the far end of the boss room—a circular stone platform, inscribed with glowing runes, humming faintly as if waiting to be activated.

Chiba stepped forward, placing his good hand on the central glyph. “This should take us back to the surface,” he muttered.

Spencer nodded. “Then let’s get out of here.”

The moment they stepped onto the platform, the runes flared brightly, filling the room with a flash of white light.

And in an instant—

They were gone.

The teleportation stone spat them out into the crisp, cold air of the Dragonlands’ northern forests.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, Royal Pin exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the early morning air. “I… never want to go into a dungeon again.”

Mr. Cakes laughed, despite the pain in his ribs. “Gotta admit… I’d rather be baking right now.”

Woodrow stretched his aching muscles, rolling his shoulder with a grunt. “We lived. That’s enough.”

Chiba sighed. “Barely.”

Spencer simply stood still, looking out over the vast horizon.

He could see it now—the path forward.

He wasn’t ready to return to the capital.

He wasn’t ready to deal with the politics, the war, or the scheming nobility.

Not yet.

He needed time.

And there was only one place that could give it to him.

“I’m heading to Razor’s Edge,” Spencer finally said.

The others turned to him, surprised.

Chiba frowned. “Razor’s Edge? That’s a mountain town. Why would you—?”

“To train.”

The word hung in the air.

Mr. Cakes nodded slowly, his expression understanding. “So this is where we part ways.”

Spencer gave a small nod. “For now.”

Royal Pin clicked his tongue. “I should’ve known you’d be the crazy type.”

Woodrow snorted. “Hmph. Better than being weak.”

Chiba hesitated before reaching into his belt pouch, pulling out a small, silver coin.

“Here,” he said, tossing it to Spencer.

Spencer caught it instinctively, his sharp eyes scanning the strange insignia on its surface.

Chiba smirked. “It’s an engineer’s guild token. Show it to any blacksmith or craftsman, and they’ll give you a discount on weapons or repairs.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “And you’re just… giving this to me?”

Chiba shrugged. “Let’s just say I have a feeling I’ll see you again.”

Mr. Cakes stepped forward, extending a hand.

Spencer took it.

“You saved our asses,” Cakes said, his usual humor softened. “Don’t die before I can return the favor.”

Spencer gave a faint smirk. “No promises.”

Royal Pin simply gave a two-fingered salute, smirking.

Woodrow nodded, his gaze sharp, unreadable. “Make yourself useful. Next time we meet, I expect you to be stronger.”

Spencer smirked. “I will be.”

Then—

With nothing left to say, he turned.

And walked toward the mountains.

Unbeknownst to Spencer, the world outside had already started to shift.

The Dragonlands’ capital was in turmoil.

News of the failed war effort and the collapse of the S-rank dungeon had spread like wildfire.

And many A-rank and B-rank adventurers—along with military officials—had begun to question the Dragonlord himself.

He was too cautious.

Too hesitant.

And in a world where power ruled, a ruler who hesitated was seen as weak.

In the shadows of the palace, whispers grew louder.

There were those who plotted.

Those who schemed.

And some who were already sharpening their blades.

Because for the first time in centuries, the Dragonlands’ throne was vulnerable.

And hungry wolves were circling.

A FEW DAYS LATER

The train rumbled beneath Spencer’s feet, the rhythmic clatter of the rails a steady heartbeat against the silence of his thoughts.

He sat by the window, arms crossed, watching the landscape shift from the war-torn plains of the Dragonlands to the towering mountains in the distance. The air outside had already turned colder, thin wisps of snow trailing over the sharp cliffs and rugged valleys below.

Razor’s Edge.

A remote mountain town, tucked away in the frozen north, nestled between massive cliffs and endless forests. It was a place where adventurers came to train, fight, and survive.

A place where weakness was beaten out of you.

And a place where monsters were endless.

Spencer leaned back against the seat, exhaling slowly as the train pushed further up the mountains.

The town itself was infamous for one reason—its dungeons.

Unlike the war-torn southern regions where dungeons were fought over like pieces on a chessboard, Razor’s Edge had so many that no single guild or kingdom could control them all.

Most of them were ranked E and D, not worth the effort for powerful guilds or nations to monopolize. But that meant that rookie adventurers, mercenaries, and those who just wanted to fight had free rein to do whatever they pleased.

And more importantly—

The monsters never stopped coming.

Spencer smirked slightly, his fingers tapping against the hilt of his machete.

For most, Razor’s Edge was a harsh, unforgiving hellscape.

For him?

It was perfect.

The ideal place to master Bloodlust.

His dormant skill had yet to activate, but he knew how it worked. He needed to kill humanoid creatures, to spill enough blood in battle to awaken its true power.

This town would give him endless opportunities.

And by the time he was done?

He would be unrecognizable.

The train let out a long, sharp whistle as it pulled into the station.

Spencer grabbed his duffel bag, stepping onto the icy platform, his boots crunching against the frozen wooden planks as a gust of frigid wind slapped him across the face.

Immediately, he shivered.

“Holy shit, it’s cold.”

It wasn’t just cold—it was freezing.

The air was thin, and the wind cut through his jacket like a blade. The entire town was buried in layers of snow, steam rising from chimneys as thick plumes of white drifted across the streets.

Most of the buildings were made of sturdy stone and reinforced wood, their rooftops weighed down by massive layers of ice.

Everywhere he looked, adventurers moved through the streets, their weapons strapped to their backs, their expressions grim and focused.

And the monsters?

Spencer could already hear them.

Howls echoed from the cliffs above, distant roars and screeches drifting through the air.

He smirked.

“Welcome to the Freezer.”

Spencer had barely made it five steps into town before someone nearly ran him over.

WHAM.

A short, muscular woman collided with his side, nearly knocking him into the snow, her body rigid with frustration.

“MOVE IT, JACKASS!” she snapped, shoving past him.

Spencer blinked. “Excuse me?”

She stopped mid-stride, turning sharply.

And for the first time, Spencer got a good look at her.

She was shorter than him, maybe 5’5, but her presence made up for it.

Her fiery orange-red hair was tied up in a tight ponytail, streaks of gold running through the strands. She wore a black adventurer’s coat, reinforced armor plating on her arms and legs, and a massive greatsword strapped across her back.

Her golden-yellow eyes narrowed at him.

“Something funny, Slenderman?”

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “You always start fights before introductions?”

She snorted. “This town ain’t about pleasantries. If you’re standing in my way, you’re a problem.”

Spencer crossed his arms. “Alright. So what’s your problem?”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “I was heading to the training grounds before some twig got in my way.”

Spencer smirked. “You mean me?”

She smirked back. “You catch on fast, Greenie.”

Greenie.

Spencer immediately knew who she was.

Samantha “Smolder” Dracona.

Younger sister of Garble Dracona, the same S-rank prick who made his life hell in boot camp.

Unlike her brother, she wasn’t in the main army—yet.

She had been sent up here to train, to get her anger under control before she was allowed anywhere near the frontlines.

From what he had heard?

It wasn’t working.

Spencer exhaled through his nose. “You said you were going to the training grounds?”

Smolder’s glare softened slightly. “Yeah. You interested?”

Spencer shrugged. “I need a place to test my skills.”

She smirked. “Then let’s see if you’re worth a damn.”

And with that, she turned on her heel, leading him toward the fighting pits.

As Spencer followed Smolder toward the training grounds, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

The streets were crowded, filled with adventurers, blacksmiths, and merchants, but amidst the movement, he caught a glimpse of something.

A man in a black coat, standing in the distance, his eyes locked on Spencer.

He wasn’t threatening.

Wasn’t overtly menacing.

But something about him felt off.

Like he was studying Spencer.

Calculating.

Waiting.

Then, as quickly as he appeared—

He vanished into the crowd.

Spencer’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t know who that was.

But something told him that he would find out soon enough.

And he had a feeling—

It wouldn’t be pleasant.

The training grounds weren’t what Spencer had expected.

Rather than an organized military facility or even a structured combat arena, the place was a brutal, makeshift battlefield.

Large wooden logs were impaled into the snow, crude training dummies hacked to pieces, and the entire space reeked of sweat, blood, and frost.

Groups of adventurers and soldiers clashed in sparring matches, the sounds of swords clashing, fists colliding, and curses flying filling the air.

There were no referees.

No formal rules.

Just fighting.

And the only way to win was to stay standing.

Spencer cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders.

Smolder stretched her arms, loosening up, her smirk growing wider as she looked at him. “Alright, Slenderman. Let’s see if you’re as fast as you look.”

Spencer arched an eyebrow. “What, no warm-up?”

“This is the warm-up.”

Then—

She attacked.

CLANG!

The force of her greatsword crashing down against Spencer’s machete sent shockwaves up his arms.

She was fast—faster than someone wielding a blade that big had any right to be.

Her swings were wild but precise, each one carrying incredible power, forcing Spencer to stay on the defensive.

He ducked under a horizontal slash, twisted on his heel, and moved to counter—

Only for Smolder to pivot mid-strike, slamming the hilt of her sword into his gut.

WHAM!

Spencer staggered back, a rush of air escaping his lungs.

Smolder laughed. “That all you got?”

Spencer smirked, wiping his mouth.

“No,” he said simply.

Then, he vanished.

His Stealth mastery kicked in instantly.

To the average person, it would have looked like Spencer had blinked out of existence.

But Smolder’s golden eyes widened, her instincts flaring.

Her sword swung upward—

But Spencer was already behind her.

His machete lashed out, the blade slicing through a few strands of her hair, stopping just inches from her throat.

She froze.

Then—

She grinned.

“Well, damn,” she said, letting out a breath. “Looks like I underestimated you.”

Spencer lowered his weapon, rolling his shoulders. “Not the first time someone’s done that.”

Smolder sheathed her sword, cracking her neck. “Alright, Greenie. I’ll admit it—you’re fast. Really fast. But speed doesn’t mean shit in a dungeon.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “No?”

She smirked. “Not unless you’re willing to kill.”

The entrance to the dungeon loomed before them—a jagged, dark opening carved into the side of a frozen cliff.

The guards stationed nearby barely gave them a second glance, their breaths visible in the freezing air as they huddled around small mana-powered heaters.

For them, this wasn’t unusual.

For Spencer, it was an opportunity.

Smolder rested her sword on her shoulder. “You ever kill a humanoid before, Greenie?”

Spencer’s grip tightened around his machete. “No.”

Smolder nodded. “Good. Then this’ll be fun.”

The dungeon interior was just as cold as the outside, but the deeper they went, the more the temperature evened out, replaced by the unnatural warmth of dungeon energy.

Torches lined the walls, their blue flames flickering eerily, casting long shadows across the cracked stone.

Then, in the distance—

A sound.

A low, guttural growl.

Spencer grinned.

They came into view seconds later.

A group of creatures, standing just beyond the next corridor.

They were humanoid in shape, but their skin was ashen and cracked, their fingers elongated and tipped with jagged claws. Their hollow, glowing red eyes locked onto them, their movements jerky, twisted—like puppets missing their strings.

D-Rank Dungeon Monsters – Frost Revenants.

Smolder smirked. “Think you can handle this, Greenie?”

Spencer stepped forward, adjusting his grip on his machete.

“I’ll be fine.”

Then—

The monsters charged.

The first one lunged, its clawed hand reaching for his throat.

Spencer sidestepped, twisting his body just enough to let the attack pass by him.

Then, with one fluid motion—

He sliced the creature’s head clean off.

The monster collapsed, its blood spraying against the walls in dark streaks of blue and black.

Then—

Something inside Spencer clicked.

A chilling sensation ran down his spine, crawling through his veins like liquid fire.

His vision sharpened.

His pulse slowed.

And then—

His status screen flashed.

[BLOODLUST: ACTIVATED]

Gained +50 points to Strength.
Gained +75 points to Speed.
Gained +60 points to Fighting Skill.

Spencer’s breathing hitched.

The power rushed into his body, his muscles tightening, strengthening, his mind suddenly clearer.

The other Frost Revenants hesitated.

Smolder stared. “What the hell was that?”

Spencer smiled.

He was only getting started.

Spencer moved like a ghost.

His body blurred between the charging Frost Revenants, his machete flashing in wide arcs, slicing through their decayed flesh and brittle bones as if they were nothing more than paper.

Each kill sent another rush of power surging through his body.

Each drop of blood spilled sharpened his mind, made him faster, stronger, more precise.

[BLOODLUST: ACTIVE]

Gained +40 to Strength.

Gained +60 to Speed.

Gained +50 to Fighting Skill.

Spencer twisted his body, dodging another clawed swipe, before bringing his machete upward in a brutal arc, severing a Frost Revenant’s arm from its socket.

It screeched—but not for long.

A single, well-placed strike sent its head flying across the dungeon floor.

The last monster tried to flee—

But Spencer was faster.

He dashed forward, gripping his machete in reverse, and drove the blade straight through the creature’s skull.

Silence.

Then—

His status screen flickered again.

[BLOODLUST THRESHOLD MET: ABILITY UPGRADED]

You have slain 20 humanoid creatures.
BLOODLUST LEVEL 2: Now absorbs 75% of slain enemy’s highest stat.

Spencer exhaled slowly, letting the rush of combat settle in his veins.

His body felt light, his mind razor-sharp.

And he had just gotten stronger.

Smolder stared at him.

Her golden eyes flickered with a mix of curiosity and caution.

“That was…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Way too efficient.”

Spencer wiped the blood off his machete. “Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Most people struggle against Frost Revenants, especially rookies. You moved like you’ve been killing for years.”

Spencer smirked. “Maybe I have.”

Smolder narrowed her eyes.

For a moment, it looked like she was going to press the issue.

Then—

She just shook her head. “Whatever. Not my problem.”

Spencer relaxed.

The less she questioned, the better.

They left the dungeon shortly after, stepping into the cold air of Razor’s Edge once more.

The sky had darkened, the sun setting behind the jagged mountain peaks, casting long, eerie shadows over the frozen town.

Smolder stretched, rolling her shoulders. “I’m hitting the tavern. You?”

Spencer adjusted his grip on his duffel bag.

“I’ll check out the Adventurer’s Guild first. Get my license sorted.”

She gave him a lazy wave. “Suit yourself, Greenie. Try not to get yourself killed.”

With that, she disappeared into the snowy streets, leaving Spencer alone.

For the first time since arriving—he was on his own.

And he liked it that way.

The Adventurer’s Guild in Razor’s Edge was nothing like the ones in the cities.

No grand hall.

No ornate decorations.

Just a simple, reinforced building, its walls scarred from past fights, its interior filled with rough-looking warriors nursing drinks, sharpening weapons, or counting their latest loot.

Spencer stepped inside, shaking off the cold.

As he moved toward the front desk, he felt it again—

That sensation of being watched.

He turned his head slightly—

And met the gaze of a stranger.

The man sat alone at a table, nursing a glass of something dark.

He was unassuming—medium height, lean but not muscular, with neatly combed brown hair and sharp, intelligent eyes.

His expression was calm, friendly even.

But Spencer’s instincts screamed at him.

This man was dangerous.

The stranger tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a casual smile.

“You’re new,” he said simply.

Spencer didn’t answer immediately.

He weighed his options, then finally nodded.

“Yeah.”

The man took a slow sip of his drink, setting it down with a soft clink.

“Came from the south, didn’t you?”

Spencer tensed just slightly. “What makes you say that?”

The stranger chuckled.

“Only people from the south move that fast.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. This guy had been watching him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The man smiled again, pleasant, unthreatening.

“Name’s Lusk.”

Then, he gestured to the empty chair across from him.

“Have a seat.”

Spencer hesitated.

Something about this man was off.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a way that screamed threat.

But in a way that made his instincts itch.

And yet—

Spencer slid into the chair.

Lusk smirked, swirling his drink.

“So, what’s a guy like you doing in a frozen wasteland like this?”

Spencer shrugged. “Training.”

Lusk raised an eyebrow. “Training?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said. “I need to get stronger.”

Lusk chuckled. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Razor’s Edge is perfect for that.”

There was something in his tone—a knowingness, a familiarity.

Spencer stayed silent, studying him.

Lusk tapped his fingers against the table.

“I like guys like you,” he said after a moment.

Spencer blinked. “Oh?”

Lusk nodded.

“Yeah. You’re not loud. You don’t try to act tough, but I can tell you’re dangerous.”

Spencer didn’t answer.

Lusk grinned. “Let me guess. You’re not planning on joining the war?”

Spencer’s fingers tensed slightly against his machete.

“I don’t fight for free.”

Lusk let out a short laugh.

“Good answer.”

For a brief moment, Spencer felt the air change.

Not physically.

But something about the way Lusk smiled, the way he spoke—

It reminded him of someone who had seen too much death.

And enjoyed it.

Lusk stood up, finishing the last of his drink.

“Well, Spencer,” he said smoothly. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

He placed a few coins on the table, then turned toward the door.

Then, just before stepping out into the cold—

He glanced over his shoulder.

“Try not to die too fast, yeah?”

And with that—he was gone.

Spencer exhaled slowly, his mind racing.

Lusk was different.

Not openly hostile.

Not threatening.

But still…

He wasn’t normal.

And something told Spencer—

That wasn’t the last time they’d meet.

Not by a long shot.