Morning arrived in silence.
The golden light of dawn slipped through the cracks in the warped wooden walls, painting narrow shafts of warmth across the cold room. Dust floated in the beams like lazy fireflies, drifting without purpose. Nate hadn't slept. His bones ached from the floor's cruel embrace, but the true exhaustion came from within—his mind having chased the same thought over and over again until it had carved itself into something unbreakable.
There was no other way.
He had to enter the Dungeon.
His mother's breathing—faint, uneven—scratched against the silence like wind through brittle leaves. Her face had lost its color days ago, and now each breath seemed to be taken through sheer force of will. His sister, Elara, stirred beside her, murmuring something in her sleep, a soft protest against dreams she couldn't understand. And his father… hadn't moved.
Still slouched over the table. His back hunched, his head low. A statue made of regret and helplessness.
Nate sat up slowly, mindful not to wake Elara. Her small hand still clung to their mother's sleeve, her lips slightly parted. She was far too young to understand the weight of hunger, the taste of desperation—but she'd felt it all the same.
The birds had begun to sing outside. The city was waking. Vendors setting up carts, children running between stone alleys, guards changing shifts, merchants shouting prices. The rhythm of life carried on.
But inside this home, time had stopped.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his father spoke—his voice dry, roughened like a knife against stone.
"You're really going, aren't you?"
Nate didn't hesitate. "I am."
A deep breath escaped the older man's chest, more like a sigh exhaled from a cracked vessel than a living human. He rubbed his face with both hands, fingers trembling. Not with age. Not with fear. But with fatigue that had long turned into something else—resignation.
"You think you're strong enough?" he asked, eyes still downcast.
"No," Nate admitted. "But I don't have a choice."
His father gave a bitter chuckle, sharp and dry.
"There's always a choice, Nate. You could run. You could wait. You could hope for a miracle."
"We don't have time for miracles."
Silence. A heavy, suffocating one.
"You know what happens in there, don't you?" his father said, finally lifting his head. His face looked older than it had yesterday. The lines beneath his eyes were deep, etched by grief and time. "The Dungeon doesn't care who you are. It doesn't pity the brave or spare the desperate."
"I know."
"You know what happens to the ones who go in unprepared?" he muttered. "They get chewed up. And if the Dungeon doesn't kill them, what they come back as… isn't them anymore."
"I know."
"You go in weak, you die. You go in scared, you die. You go in thinking you can just 'push through'—you die."
Nate clenched his fists. "And if I stay here, Mom dies."
His father stared at him. For a second, Nate saw something flash in those tired eyes. Anger? Pride? Pain? He couldn't tell.
"Then why?"
"I'm not going because I think I can win," Nate continued. "I'm going because no one else will."
"Because I can't just sit here and do nothing."
His father leaned back in his chair, letting the silence wrap around them again like a blanket too thin to offer comfort.
"You're just a kid," he whispered.
"No," Nate said softly. "Not anymore."
The words tasted like ash. But they were true.
His father gave a bitter laugh, sharp and quiet. "You sound like me.That's what I said too… Once.Long ago..."
Nate blinked. Something in those words struck deeper than he expected.
He tilted his head. "You went into the Dungeon?"
A pause.
Then, slowly, his father reached under the table. There was a soft rustle of cloth and the dull thud of something being placed on the wood.
Nate's eyes widened.
Wrapped in a faded, dust-stained cloth lay a weapon. His father peeled back the layers with slow, deliberate care.
A katana.
Its sheath was scratched and weather-worn, the leather grip torn in places. When the blade was half-drawn, Nate could see the rust creeping along its edge like decay.
"This was mine," his father said, voice low, almost reverent. He ran his fingers along the hilt as though touching a ghost. "Back when I still believed in changing the world."
Nate stared. His father had never spoken of the past—never mentioned he'd fought, never said a word about the Dungeon.
"You… you went in?"
His father didn't look at him. Just nodded.
"I went in. Once. I thought I could be a hero."
Nate's breath caught.
"You never told me.What happened?"
His father hesitated.
Then, with trembling fingers, he pushed the weapon across the table. "Does it matter?"
Nate didn't respond.
Because it did matter—but not in the way he thought.
This katana wasn't just a blade.
It was a memory. A failure. A burden passed down not out of hope… but out of necessity.
"There's a lot I've never told you," he replied, voice bitter. "You grow up thinking the Dungeon's full of treasure, glory, and monsters to slay. Then you go in, and you realize it's a place that feeds on the worst in you. Fear. Doubt. Guilt."
He paused.A heavy silence followed.
"It changes you," he added. "Even if you survive."
Nate swallowed hard. "Then why are you giving this to me?"
His father looked at him.
Not as a boy.
But as something else.
"Because you've already made your choice," he said. "And because if you're going to face hell, I want you to have at least something of me with you."
He pushed the blade across the table."It's nothing special," his father said. "Not anymore. But it's better than going empty handed."
Nate reached out, hesitating for just a moment before wrapping his fingers around the grip. The leather was cold. It felt heavier than it should've.
Not because of the metal.
But because of the memories it carried.
Like a promise.
"Thank you," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
His father stood. Walked over. For a second, Nate thought he might try to stop him.
But instead, the man placed a rough hand on his shoulder.
"I don't have the right to ask you to stay," he said. "But… promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't die for nothing. If you go in, come back with something that matters. A cure. A truth. Or even just your damn pride. But don't come back empty."
Nate nodded slowly.
"I'll try."
His father's lips curled into a sad, almost-smile. Then he turned away.
Nate stepped toward the door.
One step. Then two.
He remembered the way his mother used to hum while stirring soup, the tune always slightly off-key, but comforting. That sound hadn't returned since the sickness took hold.
He paused with his hand on the handle, feeling the morning breeze whisper through the cracks.For a breath, just one, he wondered if he should wait one more day. But then his mother coughed again—and the thought shattered.
"I'll come back," he said.
His father didn't turn. "I hope so."
And then Nate opened the door.
The sunlight was blinding.
The street was already alive—children playing with sticks, merchants shouting prices, the clatter of hooves and wheels. But it all felt distant, like he was looking at the world through glass.
He stepped outside, the katana slung across his back, his heart beating louder than any noise around him.
Behind him was a home barely holding together.
Ahead of him was the Dungeon.
And deep within it, something waited.
Whether it was hope or death… he would find out soon enough.
He felt desperate.
But sometimes, that was enough.
Because while the world may have forgotten them—Nate wouldn't.
Not until his hands bled. Not until his bones broke. Not until the Dungeon itself remembered his name.
And so, Nate stepped outside, carrying his father's past with him.