Darkness.
The air changed the moment Nate crossed the threshold.
The air grew heavier, thick with an unnatural stillness, pressing against his chest like unseen hands.
The warm light of the outside world disappeared behind him, replaced by a dim, cold glow emanating from jagged rocks embedded in the cavern walls. Their eerie light barely illuminated the vast tunnel stretching before him.
Just five steps in, and it felt like the surface belonged to another world entirely. The bustling village, the worn streets,all the people —they felt like memories from a dream.
He swallowed hard.
The air was different here. It carried a strange weight—damp, metallic, and wrong. Like blood soaked into stone.
No wind.
No sound.
No warmth.
Just a damp silence pressing in from all sides.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.
Then he looked around.
And realized—
He was alone.
His breath quickened.
Where was everyone? The other newcomers? The veterans?
Hadn't they all entered together?
No. No, that wasn't right. He had stepped in with others. He had seen them.
So where—
His stomach twisted.
The entrance was gone. Or rather, it was still there—but dim, distant, already swallowed by shadow, as if the entrance had never existed.
A trap?
No.
His grip tightened around the hilt of his rusted sword. His father's sword. It felt large in his hand, and yet too small to protect him.
Still, it was all he had.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
His legs trembled.
The silence… it was unbearable.
It wasn't just silence. It was a different kind of quiet—the kind that clung to your skin and settled in your chest.
Not a single sound. No wind. No distant voices. No echo of his own breathing.
Just… nothing.
A void.
He had never felt fear like this before. It coiled around his ribs, dug into his lungs. The oppressive weight of the Dungeon crushed him, making it feel as if the stone walls themselves were closing in, as if they would swallow him whole.
He didn't want to admit it—but he was scared. For a single, horrifying second, his thoughts spiraled—
What if this is it?
What if I'm already dead?
What if I never see the sky again?
He almost ran. His instincts screamed at him to flee, to find something—anything—that proved this wasn't a grave.
But there was nowhere to run.
He had to calm down.
He clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe, to steady his heartbeat.
"Get a grip," he muttered under his breath. "You're still alive."
Still alive.
Still breathing.
And he was going to survive.
The weight of that realization settled on him like a suffocating shroud. Something ancient lurked beyond sight. His fingers trembled. The world around him felt wrong, like an abyss that would swallow him whole if he let it.
He forced himself to inhale. Steady. Focus. Think.
He moved carefully. Step by step, the sound of his boot scraping against the stone floor unnaturally loud. The ground was uneven, slick with something damp. The dim glow of strange, mineral-like veins running along the cavern walls barely illuminated his surroundings.
The corridor ahead was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The walls were rough, jagged in places where the stone had collapsed or been clawed away. It was darker here.
He clenched his jaw, listening.
There was a faint sound ahead. A dripping noise, slow and steady, like water falling from a stalactite into a pool. It was comforting, in a way. Proof that this place had life, even if it wasn't friendly.
He turned a corner, eyes scanning.
Nothing.
Just more tunnel. Worn stones. Cracks in the floor.
He crouched down at one point, brushing his fingers over something faint on the wall. Scratches. Long, deep grooves. Three of them, uneven. Left by claws, maybe. Not fresh. But recent enough to keep his muscles tense as he moved on.
He was scared.
There was no shame in that. He was seventeen. Just a boy with a rusted sword. No armor. No party. No skills. But what scared him more than monsters or shadows was the thought of failing. Of going home empty-handed.
That fear kept his legs moving.
Minutes passed—or maybe hours. Time was strange down here.
He passed a collapsed pillar, crumbling stone covering part of the passage. It looked ancient. The dungeon wasn't just a hole in the ground—it was built, once. By who? He didn't know. No one really did. The old adventurers had stories, but none of them agreed on the details.
He found a flat stone near the wall and sat down, letting his legs rest and his breathing slow. His hand didn't leave the sword.
The walls opened slightly, revealing a broader area with broken stone benches and a mossy fountain that no longer flowed.
He hadn't seen anyone else. No adventurers. No recruits. Just empty tunnels, strange markings, and silence.
His hand was trembling.This is just the first floor .
He hadn't done anything yet—hadn't fought, hadn't bled—but the pressure was real. The expectation. This wasn't training. There were no wooden dummies to swing at. If a monster appeared, he'd have one chance. Maybe none.
But this was the path he chose. Or maybe the only path he had.
This was how it started. Not with a grand battle or a near-death encounter. Just slow steps, quiet fear, and moments like this—alone with your thoughts, asking yourself why you came here in the first place.
He reached into his pouch, pulling out a dry piece of bread and chewing slowly, his eyes never leaving the shadows.
He wasn't here to be a hero. He was here because he didn't have a choice.
The fear was still there—but so was something else.
He wasn't ready for battle. Not yet. But he was ready to take the next step.
And sometimes, that was all that mattered.
He stood again,but the moment he moved, the silence shifted.
A gust of wind rushed past him—fast, unnatural, carrying the scent of damp feathers and something metallic.
He barely had time to react.
A shadow streaked above him.
A blur—dark, massive, and swift.
His breath caught in his throat. His instincts screamed at him to move, to run, to hide—but his body refused to obey. He stood frozen, every muscle locked in place as his eyes darted upward.
The creature was gone.
No sound of wings. No lingering trace of movement.
But he had seen it.
Something was up there.
His hands gripped his katana tighter, the leather hilt slick with sweat. If something that fast and that big decided to attack… would he even have time to react?
The fear was real now. It wasn't just the unnatural stillness, the oppressive darkness, or the missing recruits. This place was alive. And it was already hunting him.
His knees locked. Muscles refused to listen. Every survival instinct screamed—but where could he run?
He exhaled, forcing his muscles to relax. Panic would get him killed.
His mother's frail smile flashed in his mind—her voice soft as she whispered to the him.
His father's hands, worn from years of working in the shop, patting his shoulder with quiet encouragement before he left.
His baby sister, only a year old, reaching out toward him with tiny hands, whimpering.
They were waiting for him.
Waiting for him to return.
He had to do this. He didn't come here to die.
He forced himself forward.
He wasn't sure what was waiting deeper in.
But he was going to find out.
One slow step at a time.