There were three things I deeply hated: overly optimistic people, sewer stench in enclosed spaces, and... rune traps disguised as puzzles.
And guess where I was? Surrounded by the last two, and reminded of the first every time that damned goblin up ahead laughed like a child who just discovered he could fart with his armpit.
I stared at the floor for a while.
The chamber had a pattern. Stone tiles. Crack lines. Some were a different color, like they'd been stepped on recently — or bled on by someone unluckier than me.
"Okay, Dante… you're ugly, but not stupid. There's logic here. There has to be."
I took a step back. Picked up a loose rock from the ground — small, about the size of a regret — and tossed it with surgical precision at the most suspicious tile in the set.
CLIC.
CLANK-CLANK-SHUNK!
Spears shot out again. This time from the ceiling.
"Oh, fantastic. They're varied. How polite."
I grabbed another rock, tossed it into a different crack. Nothing.
Next one. Another trigger. A slab slammed down and spat out a cloud of gas so foul, even time seemed to want to leave the room.
I stumbled back, coughing, eyes burning.
"Alright. You wanna play magical murder Simon Says? Fine. I'm game."
I pulled out my piece of charcoal — the one only useful for scribbling insults and drawing terribly inaccurate maps — and started marking the floor for the safe tiles. Or at least the ones that hadn't tried to kill me yet.
I pointed at one and muttered:
"You, sweetheart, haven't done anything. I like you. Maybe we'll have dinner later."
Another rock. Another attempt.
More gas. More spears. One tile dropped open for half a second — and revealed something moving underneath.
I decided not to think about what it was.
"This," I murmured, "is just like a relationship. You have to step carefully, test the limits, take note of where it hurts… and pretend you understand what's going on."
While I played frustrated scientist, the goblin at the far end was still watching. Swinging the damn wax-sealed paper like it was an invitation to a party I wasn't cool enough to attend.
"Come get it!" he yelled this time.
"Only if you come pick my shoe outta your ass, Brelgrik!"
He laughed like an idiot.
I turned my attention back to the floor.
I had mapped about six safe tiles — or at least non-lethal ones. Used gravel to mark the deadlier zones. There was a pattern. A rhythm. Like a board game.
And the more I studied it... the more it made sense. The traps responded to weight. Movement. Timing.
Maybe if I mimicked the pattern...
But there was a problem. My body was a combination of burned, exhausted, and just a pinch of "will probably explode on the next try."
The ideal condition for making excellent decisions.
I looked down the hallway. I looked at my pickaxe.
"If I were a handsome protagonist, this would be the moment I'd leap heroically and everything would work out."
I sighed.
"But I'm Dante. So let's take it slow."
I threw another rock.
Nothing.
One more.
CLIC.
SHUNK.
A spear shot out not two palms from where I would have been... if I'd taken that step.
"Ohhh... close one. You guys are good," I muttered, gesturing at the stones. "But I'm the guy who survived a flaming spider, so you'll have to try harder."
Two more tosses. More markings.
Then I crouched down. Laid almost flat on the ground, like I was listening for whispers in the stone. I touched the floor with my fingers and closed my eyes.
"Alright, cursed floor. Tell me where I can step without becoming barbecue."
And, surprisingly, it answered.
A breeze coming from one side — airflow through a ventilated crack. Heat patterns on some tiles. Dampness on others. Faded runes slightly misaligned. It was subtle. But it was a map. A moldy, murderous map… but a map nonetheless.
I took the first step.
Safe tile. Solid ground. No spears in my stomach. A complete success.
Deep breath. Second step.
Another victory.
"Okay, okay... the universe is giving me a break. Weird. Suspicious. Clearly setting me up for something worse."
Third step.
CLIC.
"No, wait—"
SHHHHH-KRRAAAK.
The ceiling cracked. Something fell. A cage? A block? No — an old suit of armor, activated by some kind of arcane mechanism. It crashed in front of me and, to my horror, stood up.
"Oh great!"
The thing — or what was left of it — raised a rusted axe the size of my self-esteem and lunged forward with a metallic I'm-about-to-break-you sound.
And I, standing in the middle of a deadly grid where one wrong step would skewer me like a kabob, could not run.
"Fantastic!"
I pulled out my pickaxe with the grace of a desperate bricklayer and raised my arms. The armor came at me full force.
I dodged the first swing by inches, twisting my body and almost stepping on the wrong tile. I tossed a rock to the side — CLIC.Spear trap. It fired just past my waist and hit the armor's arm, knocking it off balance.
That's when I started using the field against it. Every stone on my belt became ammo. I triggered traps with comical precision, praying they'd miss me and hit it instead.
Two tiles ahead — a low fire burst. The armor partially melted at the shoulder.
But then... of course. Because nothing can be simple.
CLANK.
Another armor dropped. From the opposite end. I was now between two.
"Seriously?! I haven't even leveled up yet!"
The first raised its axe again. The second started moving around the board like a murderous chess piece.
I thought fast.
Dug into my bag. I had three useful items: a nub of charcoal, a mana-saturated slag stone, and... a crust of dry bread Lina had given me "for later."
And that's when the stupid idea hit me.
I crushed the bread and threw it on the ground like it meant something. While the second armor was (for whatever reason — maybe it was a baker in a past life) distracted for a second, I threw the charcoal at a known unstable tile that had hissed steam earlier.
CLIC.
SSHHHH-BRAAAAAM!
Old Dourm gas exploded. Not lethal, but loud. Dust, smoke, bits of stone. The armor stumbled.
This was my chance.
I jumped two tiles — one safe, one untested.
"If I die, let it be with flair."
The floor creaked but didn't kill me. I rolled, scrambled up, and leapt across the final tile in a move that was more ugly than heroic, but it worked.
Behind me, the sound of the armors getting shredded by their own traps — snapping, spears, fire.
And then, silence.
I was on the other side.
I dropped to my knees, sweaty, bruised, covered in soot and the smell of toasted bread.
I looked up.
Brelgrik was still there.
But now… he wasn't laughing anymore.
When I stepped off the last plate, my whole body was still vibrating with that post-death tension only someone who's survived a trap with its own personality truly understands. But there he was. Brelgrik.
The goblin waited for me at the end of the chamber, perched on a crooked stone altar, legs crossed, still holding that stupid sealed paper like the whole ordeal had been a stage play just to amuse me. Smoke still rose behind me, and the stench of rust and magical gunpowder clung to the back of my throat. I didn't have time for drama.
I moved toward him all at once.
He didn't flinch. Just stared at me with that crooked smile — the kind that says "I know too much and will tell you absolutely nothing." Like he was three punchlines ahead of reality.
"Gonna attack me now?" he asked, wiggling the wax-sealed page like a fake offering. "Gonna break the bond between us just 'cause I survived longer than your ego expected?"
"I'm not gonna attack you, Brelgrik. Not yet." I stopped just a few steps from him, breathing hard. "But I will rip that damn paper from your hand and jam it down your throat if you don't stop playing."
He didn't answer right away. Just tilted his head to the side, eyes drifting like he was watching something only he could see.
"It's 'cause of what I know, then?" he murmured, more to himself than me. "You figured it out… that I'm more than I look? That I was once… a king?"
I stood in silence for two seconds. Long enough to watch the theatrical gleam in his eye grow brighter. And then I sighed — loud and aggressively irritated.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, and honestly? I don't care. You could've been a king, an emperor, or the goddamn Pope of Goblins. I'm following you because you look like you know the way out of this hole. That's it. Nothing more. I just want out, and you're the only one who doesn't look lost or dead."
His smile vanished for a second. Just one. Like the phrase "get out" triggered something even he didn't expect. His head tilted again, neck trembling now, and his fingers twitched like they were dancing to a song only he could hear.
"Surface…" he whispered. "Light… the fake sky that smells like wind. Hah. That's what you want? That's what you think is up there?"
"I want out of this hell, Brelgrik. Not to kill you. Just to breathe something that doesn't smell like goblin piss and spider venom. If you know the way, then show me. That's it. Just show me."
For a brief, stupid moment, I thought he might actually say yes.
But of course not.
Brelgrik burst into a high-pitched laugh, the kind of laugh that sounds like it physically hurts. He tossed the paper into the air, snatched it mid-fall, spun on his heels, and — like a puff of smoke and bad intentions — launched himself backward through a narrow gap between two stone pillars. I barely had time to react.
"CATCH ME IF YOU CAN, UGLY!" he shrieked as he vanished down another one of the dungeon's hidden corridors.
I ran to where he'd slipped through, but all I found was darkness and a faint trail of dust settling, like the stone itself had swallowed him whole. No sound. No clue.
I cursed quietly. Then loudly. Then in languages I forgot I even knew.
Brelgrik was something — and I still didn't know what. But one thing was clear: if anyone in this cursed world knew how to get out of this place, it was him.
Oh, I'd see him again. And when I did, I'd have to find a way to keep myself from strangling the little bastard.
"BRELGRIK, YOU SON OF A BI—!"