Nate woke to cold stone pressing against his back, and the faint tremor of something moving deep beneath the cavern floor.
For a moment, he didn't move. His muscles ached like they'd been beaten with clubs. Every breath tugged at sore ribs. His leg throbbed from where the rat's claws had raked through flesh the night before.
He sat up slowly, groaning. The cavern still glowed faintly from the bioluminescent moss and mushrooms, but everything beyond a few feet faded into heavy, swallowing darkness.
"Still alive…" he muttered, though it didn't feel like much of a victory.
He pulled out a crumpled piece of dried meat from his satchel—tough, nearly flavorless, but it was something. As he chewed, he studied the crystal core he'd pulled from the rat yesterday. It pulsed faintly in his palm like a heart remembering how to beat.
What are you, really? he wondered. There was a strange warmth to it, almost soothing—until he blinked, and thought he saw the faintest flicker of something… watching him from within.
He tucked it away quickly.
---
The dungeon beckoned.
He didn't know why, but something about it kept pushing him forward. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was madness. Or maybe it was the part of him that had waited too long to be someone other than the scared boy with a rusted sword.
He tightened the grip on that very sword and stepped deeper into the cavern.
The tunnels forked—left, right, and forward. He paused, inspecting the stone walls. Strange markings had been carved into them. Not letters. Symbols. Circular. Some spiraling. Some jagged. His fingers brushed one, and for a second, he heard something—like breathing.
He yanked his hand back. "Not touching that again."
Bioluminescent vines curled along the ceilings. He ducked beneath them, careful not to touch anything too vibrant. He'd already learned the hard way that glowing things here usually meant danger. His caution paid off—a patch of fungi ahead began to quiver as he approached, swelling slightly.
He stopped.
Trap?
A soft puff of air—then an explosion of spores burst outward. Thick and shimmering like dust in sunlight. He scrambled back, pulling his cloak over his face. The cloud hung for a while before drifting down.
That would've killed me, he thought grimly.
But the dungeon wasn't done.
He didn't hear them at first—just felt a sudden drop in temperature. A flicker of movement. Then the soft, synchronized scritch-scratch of claws.
Rats.
Three of them.
Bigger than yesterday's. Not just aimless beasts—moving in formation.
"Shit."
They came from the shadows, fanning out. One on the left. One to the right. One in front. Their eyes glowed dim yellow, reflecting the light like sick lanterns.
Nate backed up slowly.
His grip on the sword tightened, palms slick. His heart pounded.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's try this again…"
The middle rat lunged first—fast.
Nate swung instinctively, but the rat ducked and swiped at his knee. Pain lanced up his leg as it tore through cloth and skin. He stumbled, barely avoiding the second rat that came from the side.
Blood splattered across the stone.
He rolled, gasping. "Too fast…"
The third rat circled behind him.
He spun—too slow.
A sharp bite sank into his shoulder. He screamed, elbowed it hard, and kicked it away.
Panic clawed at him. They weren't giving him a chance to breathe. Just like wolves—testing his reactions, waiting for an opening.
"Think—damn it, think!"
His eyes darted across the cavern.
There—off to the left, a narrow crevice between two large stones.
He ran.
One rat gave chase.
He dove into the gap, back scraping against jagged rock. The rat lunged after him, but the space was too tight. Its head fit. The body didn't.
Nate drove his sword downward.
The rat shrieked, trapped.
"Not this time!" he roared, stabbing again and again.
Blood sprayed against the walls. The rat went still.
He pulled himself free, panting. One down.
The second rat came at him immediately. Nate stumbled back, nearly slipping on moss. He grabbed a nearby rock and hurled it—it missed, but it forced the creature to hesitate.
He looked up.
A loose boulder, half-supported by a jutting root.
If I can lead it there…
"Come on!" he yelled, waving his arms.
The rat snarled and charged.
Nate ducked at the last moment, rolled, and slashed at the root.
The boulder teetered.
Another strike—
CRACK.
The root snapped.
THOOM.
Stone crushed fur and bone in a wet, final thud.
The rat's twitching tail curled once. Then stilled.
"Two…" Nate whispered, falling to his knees. "One left."
The final rat had paused—sizing him up. Blood dripped from its maw. It was smarter than the others.
They stared at each other, both breathing heavily.
Then it ran.
Nate blinked. "Wha—?"
It disappeared into the darkness.
He didn't chase it.
Instead, he sank to the ground, sword across his lap, chest heaving. Pain surged from his wounds—shoulder, leg, side.
He tore strips from his already-ruined shirt, hissing as he wrapped the makeshift bandages tight.
Every drop of blood he'd spilled felt earned.
Every breath he took felt stolen.
He reached into his pouch, pulling out two more cores—both faintly glowing. They pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He clutched them tightly.
"I'm not strong," he whispered. "But I'm not dying here."
He kept walking.
Dragging his feet, limping, sword dragging slightly as exhaustion weighed down his limbs.
Then he saw it—a slumped form in the corner of a narrow alcove. Cloaked in black, unmoving. The skeletal hand curled around something.
Nate approached slowly, cautiously.
Dead.
The man—or woman, he couldn't tell—had been there a long time. Dried blood still stained the cloak. Ribs protruded from a collapsed chest. Eyes long gone. Bones chewed in places.
He crouched beside the corpse, unease gnawing at him. Not fear—guilt.
This had been someone once. Someone who probably walked into this dungeon full of hope… like him.
Now they were just bones and faded cloth.
"…Sorry," Nate muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "You didn't deserve this."
He swallowed hard and looked around, then started gathering rocks with trembling hands. It took time, and more effort than he had to give, but he managed to form a small cairn over the remains. His arms burned with every motion. His breath was ragged.
When he finished, he knelt beside it.
"I don't know your name," he said quietly, staring at the stone pile. "But I hope... wherever you are now, it's better than this place."
He closed his eyes.
Please, he thought. Let them find peace.
There was no grand ceremony. No holy words. Just silence.
But somehow, it felt sacred.
As he stood again, he felt something shift inside him.
Not power. Not strength.
Perspective.
This dungeon wasn't just stone and monsters. It was filled with stories. Dreams. Lives ended too early.
And if he wasn't careful—his would be one of them.
He took the cloak, it was intact, mostly. Better than his own tattered rags. It smelled of dust and old rot, but it was warm. He pocketed the herbs, folded the broken map. The broken map has half the floor sketched out—paths, markings, danger signs. It was crude, but a start
He pulled the cloak over his shoulders, adjusted the satchel, and tucked the broken map into his belt. The herbs went into his pouch—withered but maybe still useful.
Scavenging, he realized, is just as important as fighting.
He took one last look at the cairn.
Then turned away and walked on—wounds aching, heart a little heavier, but eyes sharper than before.
He wasn't just trying to survive anymore.
He was learning what life was worth.