What Lies Beneath
I moved through the lower bends of Floor 2 like a side-scrolling game—same angle, same tile pattern, just enough shadows to hide a surprise encounter.
No music. No dramatic cutscene. Just me, steel, and the occasional goblin who thought I looked squishy.
They weren't wrong.
But I was meaner than I looked.
A goblin lunged. I sidestepped, drove my dagger through its chest, and twisted. It died before it realized it had made a mistake.
"This is getting repetitive," I muttered. More to myself than anything.
If this were a video game, I'd have unlocked a better weapon by now. Or at least a skill tree. But the Dungeon didn't care about pacing.
It was more Soulsborne than Zelda.
And the only checkpoints were the ones you made with blood.
I checked the room. A few stones. A broken bone or two. One long drag mark that looked like something had been pulled backward—away from here.
That was enough to get me moving.
I followed the drag until I found the remnants of a fight.
Three goblins—dead. One adventurer—missing.
There were signs of heavy movement. Too chaotic for goblins.
I crouched, tracing the lines in the dirt.
Clawed marks. Too wide for goblin hands.
"Kobold," I muttered.
Stronger. Smarter.
If a goblin was a schoolyard bully, a kobold was the gym teacher who drank before lunch.
I crept down the corridor. Not because I was scared. Because I was interested.
If I was going to get stronger, I needed to know what came next.
And kobolds were definitely next.
The room it led to wasn't wide. But it was deep. A vertical drop, half-hidden behind some rockfall.
I leaned forward.
Far below, something moved.
I couldn't see it clearly, but I heard it breathing.
Ragged. Low. Heavy.
Not goblin. Not kobold.
Something worse.
And if I had an ounce of sense, I'd walk the other way.
But curiosity kills more than cats.
It gets adventurers too.
And I was already halfway down the incline before I realized it.
The air changed when I hit the lower ledge.
Thicker. Warmer. Like something was cooking just out of sight.
I crouched. Checked my dagger. Still sharp enough to matter. Barely.
I heard movement. Heavy. Pacing.
And then I saw it.
A lizardman.
Tall, broad, with scaled arms and teeth meant for tearing, not chewing.
It wasn't supposed to be here.
Lizardmen didn't spawn on Floor 2.
But here it was. Breathing like a chainsaw and gripping a club big enough to turn ribs into breadcrumbs.
I exhaled.
"Of course it's a mini-boss."
I ducked behind a pillar of stone, heart speeding up but not panicking.
I needed a plan.
Then I remembered: I didn't have one.
So I made one up.
I grabbed a loose rock, waited for the lizardman to face the other way, then threw it full-force at its head.
It turned, roared, and charged.
Perfect.
I ran. Not away. Around.
Classic bait-and-switch. Pull aggro, then pivot hard.
It wasn't fast, but it was heavy.
Every step shook the floor like it owed him money.
I dove to the left, rolled up behind it, and sliced the back of its leg.
The blade cut, but not deep. Not enough.
It backhanded me like I was a cutscene NPC.
I flew into the wall. Everything went static for a second.
Then I got up.
Barely.
"Alright," I muttered. "Round two."
It charged again. I didn't move.
Waited.
Waited.
Then flickered.
Phased.
The hit passed through me like a glitch.
And when I reappeared, I was behind it.
I drove the dagger into the back of its neck.
Hard.
It fell forward.
Didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't get back up.
I stood there, panting.
Then collapsed beside it.
"I hate this game," I muttered.
But I was smiling.
Because I was still playing.
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Dark mist exploded outward like a dying breath—hot, choking, but weightless. The body was just gone, scattered like ash in an updraft. Where the thing used to be, only two things remained:
A faintly glowing monster crystal.
And, just beside it, a hooked, off-yellow fragment: a kobold claw.
Lucky drop.
I exhaled and knelt, brushing the claw with a gloved finger before picking up both. The crystal pulsed faintly in my palm—warm and rhythmically alive, like it was storing the creature's heartbeat. The Dungeon's currency. Its blood money.
I pocketed them both.
The hallway was quiet again.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence that felt like something was listening.
I turned and walked—slowly—away from the site of the kill. Eyes up. Blade still loose in my grip. Just because the monster was dead didn't mean the Dungeon was done.
Because that's the thing nobody tells you about Orario's Dungeon.
It's not just a cave.
It's not even a system.
It's a nervous system.
And you don't kill things in it.
You poke it.
And sometimes, it twitches back.
I ducked behind a jagged outcropping of crystal-laced stone and crouched low, fingers gripping the warm monster stone through the fabric of my pocket.
That was three kills today.
Three good ones.
Two with no drops.
One with a claw.
All clean.
And I was starting to get a feel for the rhythm.
But I didn't like it.
Because it wasn't really rhythm.
It was… waiting.
Like something was watching me pace back and forth across its tongue, debating whether to chew.
I took a breath.
Slid the dagger back into its belt loop. The leather still smelled like the forge I haggled it out of—hot metal and cheap whiskey.
I pulled the claw back out, held it up to the light.
Rough. Dense. Primitive.
Like it had grown out of necessity, not evolution.
A kobold's last weapon.
Or its first.
I twirled it once between my fingers.
Could probably sell it.
Could probably keep it.
Hell, I could even fashion it into something if I had a place to work.
But the bigger question was:
Where do I go now?
Back up?
Turn in the crystal, get some coin, play the part of the rookie adventurer trying to scrape by?
Or…
Go deeper.
Not much.
Just a few more turns.
A few more kills.
Test how far this rhythm stretches before it breaks.
The Dungeon doesn't reset like a video game. It adapts.
I knew that much from the show.
But feeling it in real time?
Feeling it breathe around me like an animal unsure whether I was prey or predator?
That was different.
That was real.
I stood.
Tucked the claw into the satchel.
And said quietly, to no one and everything:"Alright. Let's see if you blink first."
Then I started walking.
And the Dungeon—shifted.
-------------------------------------
The Dungeon didn't change all at once.
It crept.
Stone by stone. Corridor by corridor.
The light dimmed, but not in a way that made you stop walking. The paths narrowed—not enough to turn you back, but just enough to make your shoulders tense when your blade arm brushed the wall.
It was all so… gradual.
Like being boiled in fog.
I liked it better when the danger shouted.
The goblins here weren't like the first ones.
These ones didn't chatter.
They watched.
Eyes low, knees bent, arms wound back like slingshots made of meat and scars. I counted three in the next room. One had a bone knife. One had a chipped club. One had nothing—but stood at the center like it didn't need anything.
And that?
That was new.
I adjusted my grip on the dagger. It was holding up better than expected, but it wasn't made for this. Not for drawn-out engagements. Not for whatever the hell that thing in the middle was.
I exhaled through my nose.
The air was thick.
Metallic.
Almost humid.
I flicked my fingers once—sharp, fast—and felt the low buzz echo up my wrist.
Reinforce.
Not a word.
Not a chant.
Just the intention.
The theory I remembered from a show I watched half-dead on my couch back on Earth, half-asleep and dreaming of better lives.
Now it was muscle memory.
Almost.
The dagger glowed faintly—not visibly, not to them—but I felt it. Like a ripple in the pressure of the grip, a smoothness in the motion. It was going to wear off in seconds.
I stepped forward anyway.
First goblin lunged—club raised.
I met it with a clean parry, kicked its leg out, and drove the reinforced blade under its jaw.
Mist.
The other two didn't charge.
They waited.
No coordination.
Just instinct.
Pack behavior.
My favorite.
I broke the distance fast—closed the gap on the bone-knife goblin before it could realize I wasn't going to hold the same formation. It slashed.
I ducked.
Slid under its guard.
Then let the blade bury in its ribs.
The edge held.
Barely.
More mist.
I twisted before the third could flank me, but I wasn't fast enough.
It caught my shoulder—claws, not steel.
Pain bloomed. Ripping, hot.
I staggered back.
Gritted my teeth.
"Too cocky," I muttered. "Again."
It came for me.
I stepped forward instead—into the swing.
Let it connect.
Rolled with it.
Brought my dagger around in a low arc and punched it through its chest, twisting hard until the crack of rib gave way to another burst of—
Mist.
I dropped to one knee.
Breathing heavy.
My arm burned from the gash.
Not deep, but it'd slow me down.
Still.
I won.
The crystals shimmered faintly on the floor. Three of them. No drops.
Figures.
I pocketed them anyway.
Stood.
The wound throbbed.
I focused again—on the dagger in my grip.
Called the theory back.
Pushed Reinforce into it again.
Sloppier this time.
I didn't have the focus.
The glow flickered.
Wavered.
Then held—just long enough to give me a chance.
Long enough to keep practicing.
It wasn't elegant.
It wasn't smooth.
But it was working.
One spell at a time.
One kill at a time.
The deeper I went, the more the Dungeon asked questions I didn't have words for.
But I was getting closer.
Closer to speaking the answer with my blade