Life is not fair.
The world doesn't hand out mercy. It picks favorites
Some are born into comfort—silver spoons and golden cradles, futures handed to them before they even speak. Others? They claw through dirt and blood, only to realize the world never planned to let them rise.
Nathaniel "Nate" Veran had always known which side he belonged to.
At sixteen, he was thin—bordering on fragile. His skin clung to bone, and hunger was a familiar ache gnawing at his belly. He wasn't special. Not in strength. Not in skill. Just another face in the crowd. But there were two things that stood out. Two things the world hadn't taken yet.
His hair, white as frost under moonlight.
And his eyes—ocean-blue, deep and endless. Eyes that didn't just look. They remembered. Like they held echoes of a life he hadn't lived yet.
But in this world, beauty meant nothing.
Power did.
He lived on the city's edge, where the sky seemed grayer and the streets colder. Their home was barely more than four crumbling walls and a leaking roof. His father ran a modest herb shop, tucked between rusted vendors and shouting merchants. It earned enough to keep them alive—barely. His mother stayed home, caring for Nate and his baby sister, Elara. One year old, soft-cheeked, and always smiling, as if unaware of the weight pressing down on their lives,as debt choked their family like an iron chain.
They didn't have much.
But they had each other.
And for Nate, that was enough.
Until today.
It started with a cough.
Not a storm. Not a scream. Just a cough.
Quiet. Fragile. Dismissed with a smile.
"Just a little tired," his mother had said, brushing it off like it was nothing.
Hours later, she collapsed.
One moment she was humming lullabies. The next, she was gasping for air, her body trembling, eyes wide in silent panic. Her chest heaved, each breath more difficult than the last.
Elara cried, her tiny fists beating the air like she could punch away whatever unseen force was stealing her mother's life.
Panic surged through Nate's veins like fire. His thoughts scattered.
"Go get your father!"
He ran—barefoot, wind tearing at his face, legs burning.Fast. Wild. Desperate.
His heart thundered as he pushed through the market, dodging carts and curses. When he reached the shop, he barely had breath.
His father looked up from a pile of dried leaves, puzzled. Then he saw Nate's face. Pale. Terrified. Words stumbled from Nate's mouth, and that was all it took.
They ran.
Minutes later, they burst into the healer's clinic.
The place reeked of incense and age. A man with graying hair and a lined face stepped forward. He took one look at the woman in his father's arms and frowned.
He examined her. Silent. Stern.
Then he spoke.
"She needs an advanced potion."
The words hung heavy.
A moment passed.
Then his father asked, voice hoarse, "How much?"
The number came like a blade. Nate didn't understand the amount, but he didn't need to. The way his father's shoulders sagged—the way his face drained of color—told him everything.
"…I don't have that kind of money," he whispered, shame thick in his throat.
The healer looked away. "I'm sorry. I really am. But without payment…"
Sympathy doesn't heal. Pity doesn't cure.
They returned home in silence.
Each step felt heavier than the last. The city, once loud and full of movement, now felt distant. Like it had turned its back.
His mother lay in bed, her breaths shallow whispers of life. Elara had cried herself to sleep beside her. The house felt colder. Smaller.
His father sat at the table, unmoving. His eyes stared into the distance—hollow, defeated. The weight of a man who'd spent his life fighting, only to lose everything when it mattered most.
Nate stared at him. His heart twisted.
Nate had never seen him like that.
This wasn't fair.
His family—kind, loving, undeserving of this fate—was falling apart.
He tried to think. Borrow money? They were already drowning in debt. Ask for help? No one cared. Plead with the healer? He was a businessman first.
There was no one left to turn to.
His gaze shifted to the old news clippings on the wall. Dusty, yellowed pages talking about the Dungeons.
Mysterious realms—doorways between worlds that appeared without warning. Within them, monsters roamed and ancient treasures lay hidden. Danger beyond comprehension. Glory beyond imagination.
And the Nightmares.
Rare individuals chosen by fate—or cursed by it. People who survived trials no one else could. Those who conquered their Nightmares and returned became more than human.
They became legends.
Most feared the Dungeons. Others worshipped them. But Nate?
He had nothing left to lose.
"What's there to fear," he whispered, "when you've already lost everything?"
His fists clenched so tight his nails dug into flesh. But he didn't feel the pain. He felt purpose.
"I can either watch my family fall apart... or I can fight."
His mother, fading with every breath.
His father, broken and silent.
His sister, too young to understand—but one day she would ask what he did to save them.
He couldn't stay.
He wouldn't.
And so, for the first time in his life, Nate made a choice.
Not because he was brave.
Not because he was strong.And certainly not because he wanted to be a hero.
But because this world had left him no other choice.
Tomorrow, he would enter the Dungeon.
No matter the cost.
And either return with hope—
Or not at all.