The Dungeon doesn't give you time to panic.
It just gives you the space to regret.
I found a corner where the walls sloped inward, narrowing to a choke point. One way in. One way out. Not ideal. But it would do.
I sat. Back to the wall. Blade across my lap.
Blood dried against my sleeve, caked into the threads of my stolen shoulder guard. My lungs were still adjusting. Like they hadn't realized we were safe yet.
I thought about what just happened.
Not the goblins.
Not the hit.
The space between the swing and the miss.
That blankness.
That pause in existence.
I wasn't dreaming. I wasn't imagining.
I phased. Out. Then back in.
Not far. Not for long.
But real.
I clenched the hilt of the dagger, tighter than I needed to. Just to feel something solid.
Phasing wasn't flashy. It didn't come with lights or ripples or cool sound effects. It was just... gone.
Like slipping between frames of reality.
And it scared the hell out of me.
Because I hadn't decided to do it.
It had decided for me.
So I breathed.
Not to calm down. But to think.
I closed my eyes and replayed the feeling in my head. Not the moment I disappeared, but the moment before.
When time stretched. When I knew I was about to die.
It wasn't instinct. It was pressure. A kind of mental click.
Like something watching from far away gave me permission to cheat death.
For now.
What are the rules?
I can phase.
Not at will.
It needs a trigger.
What's the cost?
My body ached. Mana pulled tight under my skin like stretched paper.
It wasn't free.
But it was there.
That meant I could use it.
Eventually.
I stayed there for maybe twenty minutes. Listening. Feeling.
No footsteps. No snarls. No Dungeon breathing down my neck.
I was alone.
Finally.
When I stood, the blade in my hand felt heavier.
Not in weight. In meaning.
I'd survived. Barely.
But surviving once meant I had the blueprint for next time.
I stretched. Adjusted my cloak. Checked the blade.
And then I smiled.
Small. Crooked.
The kind of smile you wear when you're no longer afraid of dying.
Just afraid of what you'll become if you keep living.
-------------------------------
I don't believe in gifts.
Not the divine kind. Not the magical kind.
Everything has a price. Even if it's not listed on the tag.
The next room was wide.
Wider than I liked. Too open. Too much air.
But it had what I needed: nothing in it.
That was rare.
So I stayed.
And I tried.
Phasing wasn't like breathing. It didn't come naturally.
It was like trying to remember the shape of a dream while you're still waking up. That half-thought, half-feeling tangle you get when you know you forgot something important.
I paced the room. Back and forth.
Thought about that moment. That crack in time. The silence between my body and the blow.
I tried to replay it.
Tried to force it.
Nothing happened.
Okay. Maybe emotion?
I thought about fear. About that goblin with the stone. The weight of it against my shoulder. The way my brain froze.
Still nothing.
So I did something stupid.
I found a rock.
And I threw it straight at my own head.
Not hard. But hard enough.
The world blurred.
Not vanished. Not shifted.
But there was a flicker.
Like a TV screen switching inputs for a split second.
And then it was gone.
Progress.
Stupid, reckless progress.
But I'd take it.
I sat again. Drank some water. Ate half a ration bar that tasted like chalk dipped in regret.
Tried to put the pieces together.
It wants something.
Not mana. Not emotion.
Intent?
Maybe.
A split-second decision to escape. Not passive. Not panic. More like a trigger being pulled.
Which meant, if I could build that moment...
I could use it.
Eventually.
An hour passed.
I kept throwing stones at myself.
By the fourth hit, I could feel the flicker coming.
Like the world holding its breath.
But I couldn't stay there. Not yet.
So I packed up. Moved on.
Floor 2 wasn't done with me.
And I wasn't done with it
The next few corridors were uneventful.
No ambushes. No movement. Just echoes of my own footsteps.
A part of me hoped something would jump out.
Because quiet meant space to think. And too much thinking meant doubt.
And doubt, in a place like this, was louder than any scream.
So I kept walking.
Not toward anything. Just forward.
Because forward meant I hadn't stopped.
Eventually I found blood.
Not mine. Not monster.
Old blood. Dried. Human.
It trailed along the wall. Dragged.
And I followed it. Because I'm either smart or reckless. Maybe both.
Eventually it led to a body.
Not fresh. Not decayed either.
She was young. Brown cloak, torn sleeve, a snapped dagger still in her hand. Her eyes were closed. Peaceful, almost.
But she wasn't breathing.
I crouched beside her.
No Guild tag. No Familia emblem.
She wasn't important.
But she had a pouch.
I opened it. Slowly. Respectfully.
Inside: a half-used potion. Some bread. And a note.
Unreadable. Bloodstained.
I folded it. Kept it.
Because even strangers deserve to be remembered.
Even here.
Especially here.
I moved on.
More careful.
More quiet.
Like the Dungeon had just reminded me how easy it is to lose your place in the story.
.