The streets were louder than usual. Not with celebration—but with dread.
The city awoke not in cheer or light, but in tension. The sun rose over rusted rooftops, casting long shadows across silent alleyways, but no one paused to admire the morning. Even the light felt wary—brushing the earth like it didn't want to be noticed.
Nate walked alone.
The cobbled road beneath his feet was familiar, but it felt like a path he'd never taken before. There was something in the air—dense, invisible, but suffocating. Not magic. Not wind. Something older. Something deeper.
Everyone felt it.
A current pulling people toward the same inevitable end.
The Dungeon.
He hadn't even left the outer district when he noticed it—how people avoided eye contact, how conversations died mid-sentence. It was Lottery day. Another batch of fresh souls thrown into the maw.
He passed a group of veterans playing cards on an overturned crate. One of them, with a scar splitting his brow and an eye half milky-white, gave Nate a glance and shook his head.
"Too clean," he muttered. "Soft grip. That one's not coming back."
Another man grunted. "First-timer. You can smell it."
Laughter. A few murmurs of agreement. They placed bets with copper coins and scraps of meat—wagers on who among the fresh faces would survive the descent.
Nate kept walking, but those words clung to him.
He turned a corner and nearly stumbled into a crowd forming near a checkpoint. Two young men were already screaming at each other, shoving and swearing.
"You stole my token!"
"You don't even have a real party, leech!"
A punch. A flash of steel. Blood on the stones. Guards rushed in—not to help, but to restore order. They didn't care who was right. Only that the line kept moving.
No one intervened to help. Everyone just watched. A few even placed bets.
The Dungeon hadn't even opened, and already, the fighting had begun.
Nate said nothing. Just kept walking.
The dungeon is an ancient structure located beneath the outskirts of the eastern sector of the capital palaces. Jagged stone teeth lined its edges, with a single bridge spanning the chasm. No statues. No flags. No heroes. It operates more like a tower in reverse—each descent leads to a different biome, ecosystem, and difficulty tier. No one truly knows how deep it goes.
Runes were etched along the stone, shifting subtly, never settling. They didn't look written. They looked grown.
Some said they were remnants of old magic.
Others claimed the Dungeon itself was still alive.
Standing there, Nate almost believed it.
The crowd thickened around the clearing.
There was no order, no registration. Just chaos disguised as ceremony.
Merchants swarmed the edge of the clearing, pushing talismans and trinkets into trembling hands. "Blessed by the Light," they claimed. "Ward off the beasts," they promised. Most of it was rusted metal and dyed cloth.
Others trailed bread, or "holy oil" poured from cracked bottles. Some peddled fake maps. One man tried to sell "genuine demon teeth"—probably from a dog.
Rusted knives passed for weapons. Bottles of fake healing potions changed hands. Someone sold meat on sticks, claiming it came from "dungeon boar." It smelled like rat.
None of it mattered.
Nate's eyes swept past the noise to the ones who didn't speak—the veterans.
The veterans were different.
They stood or sat in silence, watching. Waiting. Their armor was mismatched, dented, stained,pieces strapped together with leather cords or chains. Some leaned against crutches. Others didn't have full limbs to lean on at all.
And then there were the newcomers.
Not adventurers. Not warriors. Just people with nowhere else to go. They clutched weapons too tightly—cheap, makeshift, and wrong. One boy held a kitchen knife wrapped in cloth. Another gripped a farming sickle like it was a holy relic. A girl wore armor made from scavenged pots, strapped together with twine. And one—barefoot, shaking—had only a rope and a prayer.
The desperation in the air was thicker than the mist.
Arguments broke out.
"I was here first!"
"You'll die alone, idiot! Join a team or stay out of the way!"
"I just need one kill. One core. That's enough for my family."
Hope. Rage. Fear. All tangled.
Nate paused near a man sitting on a cracked barrel,with a crooked blade resting across his knees-his armor ancient, layered over with patchwork repairs. The man's face was weathered—creased by more than just age.But his eyes?
Sharp. Cold. Alive.
"First time?" he asked without looking, voice quiet but sharp.
Nate nodded.
"You're going in alone?"
Nate nodded once again.
"You got a death wish?"
"No."
The man leaned in slightly. "Then don't be stupid. The Dungeon's not just any place you can go alone."
He didn't sound angry. He sounded tired.
"I don't have a choice," Nate said quietly.
The man looked at him. Then away. "Yeah," he murmured. "That's what we all said."
Nate swallowed.
"Thanks."
The man snorted. "Don't thank me. Just don't scream when it's your turn."
Then, softly:
"It attracts things."
Someone screamed nearby.
A man staggered into the clearing, clutching at his face. His clothes were torn, stained with things that shouldn't exist above ground. His eyes were bloodshot, mouth foaming., reeking of rot and sweat. His eyes were milk-white, lips cracked and trembling.
He seized Nate's arm, nails digging in.
"Don't let it pull you under, boy… the runes… they burn into your soul… I saw the sky tear open down there...."
He collapsed, twitching.
People stepped around him like he was filth.
Guards dragged him away like garbage.
Another failure. Another survivor who didn't survive right.
One muttered:
"Poor bastard. Came back from a Nightmare run. Mind snapped."
The word hung in Nate's head—Nightmare.
He didn't know what it meant.
But it mattered.
No one spoke. Everyone just adjusted their grips on whatever weapons they held.
Then he felt it—low and deep, like a heartbeat under stone. A pulse that shook the soles of his feet.
A horn blasted.
The runes across the arch flared red. Mist began to seep upward from the chasm—thin at first, then thick and wet, curling around boots and ankles. It stank of iron, of wet leaves, and blood long dried.
The air turned cold.
Veterans rose, checking weapons and murmuring final warnings.
Newcomers hesitated. Some cried. Some prayed. Some stared blankly ahead.
Nate didn't do either.
A girl beside him whispered a name and kissed a necklace. Her hands were shaking too hard to hold her dagger right.
Nate didn't speak. He didn't comfort.
He couldn't.
A boy to his right threw up. Then tried to laugh. Then cried instead.
Another tried to run. No one stopped him.A few laughed.
Nate didn't move.
His body was trembling, but his feet were still. His katana hung on his back like dead weight.
Nate watched, frozen.
He wanted to reach out…
But his hand didn't move.
"What could I even say? I'm just as scared."
His thoughts turned inward.
If I turn back now… what then? Mom's still dying.
He Stepped Forward.
There was no other path.
If he turned back now, nothing would change.
His mother would still suffer.
And he would still be useless.
No prayers. No magic. No power.
Just one step.
Then another.
He stepped forward.
And the Dungeon swallowed him whole.