I was born in a hole. Not a metaphor. A real pit, dug on the edge of the Lower Quarter, where rain never falls straight and beasts die before the children.
I don't have a name. Not a real one. The others call me "the Spark" or "Zero," depending on their mood. A nickname to remind me I'm useless. That even the light inside me is too weak to burn a twig. And it's true. For as long as I can remember, all I've been able to do is make the air vibrate a little when I clench my teeth. A little dry snap between my fingers, as if my nerves were screaming without being able to strike.
My skill, I received it at birth. Like everyone else. Some inherit the Gift of Healing — their hands close open wounds in a breath. Others have the Gift of Sight, of Weight, of Strength, of Summoning… or even of Cooking. Yeah. There's one, in a camp further south, who cooks so well his dishes give endurance bonuses. They call him the Blessed Chef. And me?
Me, I've got "Electric Discharge."
You think it's funny? There's never been a storm of lightning in my life. Just that unpleasant sensation rising in my arms when I'm angry, or scared. I clench my fists. I feel my muscles vibrate, my heart pounding. Sometimes there's a spark. A little crack. That's it. Nothing burns. Nothing falls. Even a fly keeps flying.
"Did you do your little ass-flame again, Zero?"That was Vark, one of the guys from yesterday's group. He'd seen me get annoyed during the break. He snickered, spitting on the ground, not even waiting for an answer.
I didn't say anything. Just tightened the harness on my shoulders a bit more.
So no. I'm not an adventurer. I'm not a mage. I'm not even a useful man. I'm a porter.
I walk behind those who can kill.
Every morning, I go out with a different squad. Small groups of explorers, monster hunters, well-dressed thugs. They hire me to carry their bags, hold torches, clean boots when it gets too dirty. I walk behind, I listen, I stay quiet. And at the end of the day, if I'm not too beat up, they toss me a coin. Sometimes two. Enough for a lukewarm soup and a straw mat. Less than what a trained dog is worth.
But it's that or die in the Lower Quarter. And I'd rather be insulted in the Dungeon tunnels than end up gutted in a gutter.
The Erassil Dungeon is the biggest in the region. The old folks say it emerged from the bowels of the earth one hundred and thirty-two years ago, the day the sky shook without a single cloud moving. Since then, humans have explored only seven floors. Seven. That's nothing. Not even the beast's knees. We're talking monsters in there. Things made of bone, stone, animated earth. Silent golems, eyeless skeletons watching you, creatures with skin rough like hardened ash.
And guess what? Electricity does nothing to stone.
It slips off rocks. It bounces off bones. I know. I tried. From behind. In secret. One day a skeleton was eyeing me weird, I snapped my fingers. Just once.
Result? Nothing. Not even a flicker of fear in its empty sockets. Just more laughter from the others.
"Trying to scare him, little spark-ass?"
"He's gonna tickle him to death!"
They think I'm weak. Harmless. Trash. And they're right.
But I still breathe. And as long as I breathe… I carry. I bow my head. And I wait.
Because in this world of magic, swords, and monsters, there's one thing no skill gives you: the rage to survive when you own nothing. Me, that rage, I've had it in my veins. Always.
The Dungeon reeks of stale stone and ancient mold. Each floor has its own rhythm, its underground breath, its smell of slow death. That morning, the group had decided to go down to the sixth. "Cleared zone," they said. A stroll to bash two or three bone bags and brag about it afterward.
Me, I walked behind. Always behind.
Back loaded with gear, shoulders sliced by the straps, mouth too dry to complain. I was the silent pack animal. The human torch holding the bags, the canteens, the healing potions. The one who carried the food but only ate once the others were full.
Vark and Rojenn led the way. Two fat-faced brothers with quick hands, always laughing to avoid thinking. One liked to carve dicks on the walls with his axe tip, the other threw stones at me "to test my reflexes."
— Think Zero understands what we're saying?
— Just enough not to piss in the boots.
Snickers. Always the same. Even when it's not funny. Especially when it's not funny.
I let them talk. It comforted them. And spared me the silence. Because here, when silence falls, it settles like a wolf trap. You barely feel it before the jaws are in your neck.
Then there was Liss.
Liss was the exception. Not a mage. Not a tank. A scout. Small, wiry, supple. Legs like vines under a short tunic, a dagger tucked in the small of her back, a red scarf tied around her neck. She moved like the Dungeon was just a playground for her ankles. She didn't say much, but she didn't spit either when she looked at me. And that was already worth gold.
That day, she turned around during the break. The others were tossing rocks at a cracked skull to pass the time. She, she walked up to me.
— You still standing? she asked in a neutral tone, without sarcasm.
I shrugged, muscles too tight to answer otherwise.
A line crossed her mouth, half-smile, half-sympathy.
She placed her hand on my harness, adjusted a badly strapped buckle. Her arm brushed my collarbone. Her breasts touched my shoulder, barely, but I felt it all the way to my gut. Her scent — musky, sharp, sweat-damp — hit me hard. And I got turned on, like an idiot. Just from feeling her there, against me.
— Don't be stupid, she whispered as she stepped back. If you drop before we're out, I lose my rations.
She turned on her heels. Her hip swayed under the flickering torchlight, slow and feline.
Her tunic was too short. On purpose. The fabric clung to her skin, damp with sweat, stretched across her lower back like a second skin. And underneath…
Her panties showed. A tiny strip of red fabric, wedged between her ass cheeks with every step. I could see the full curve of her butt — firm, full, defiant. Every move made her bare ass cheeks bounce at the edge of the fabric. Just one breath and it would all vanish.
She knew. She knew exactly what she was showing. And I watched. I wasn't a hero, not a saint. Just a starving mutt, lost between the legs of a girl who owed me nothing.
And I wanted her like a man who never had the luxury of kindness — or a woman.
I should've not cared. But it kept me awake the whole descent.
Rojenn saw everything. Of course he did.
— You saw that, little spark? She touched you. Better thank her when you're sleeping outside.
— Yeah, Vark murmured. It's always the nice ones who die first.
They cracked up. Even she let out a chuckle. Light. Distant. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was playing a game I didn't know. But in a world where no one looked at me, she had seen me. Just a bit. I wanted to believe in it. Like a fool.
The air changed before the ground rumbled.
A rancid smell slipped under our hoods. Something mineral, older than the walls themselves. Vark's torch started to shake in his hand, with no wind, no current. Just a fine, sinister vibration. Like the Dungeon itself was holding its breath.
— There's nothing, Rojenn growled. Just a fucking void.
But his voice had half a tone too much. The kind you use when you know you're gonna die but still want to sound tough.
We emerged onto an old bridge. An arch of black stone, suspended above a void no torch could light to the bottom. Rubble to the left, a collapsed column to the right. And in front…
In front, a Guardian.
There's no other word. Not a monster. Not a beast. A fucking rock titan, two floors tall, with a chest engraved in dead runes and a jaw carved from a single block. It wasn't moving. Not yet. But its eyes… its eyes glowed with a dirty red. Like coals too old to die.
No one spoke. Even Vark shut up.
Liss moved first. She turned to us, stepping back.
— We're not going through. We need to go around. That thing's not for us.
But Rojenn was already raising his hand. Too late. A spell shot from his palm, a raw arc of light, poorly channeled, poorly aimed.
It hit the wall behind the Guardian, then, everything exploded.
The monster raised its arms. The ground roared. A shockwave swept the bridge, lifting dust and bodies. I was thrown to the floor, eardrums screaming. When I opened my eyes again, the world tilted.
Rojenn was yelling. Vark was gone. And Liss…
Liss was on her knees, a few meters away, at the edge of the void. I saw her slip on a cracked slab, her hands scraped on stone. I ran. No thinking. Dropped my bag, reached out my hand.
— Take it!
She looked up at me. No panic. No gratitude either. Just that steady gaze, calm, as if she were counting something. Seconds. Meters. Survival chances.
She grabbed me.
Her hand caught mine. Her face inches away. Her lips parted. A drop of sweat slid down her neck, to the curve of her breasts, tight under the dirty leather of her tunic. For a quarter of a second, I thought… I hoped. That she'd kiss me. That she'd save me. Like an idiot.
Then she spoke.
"Forgive me."
I didn't have time to ask why.
She pulled me just enough to lock eyes. Then slid her foot under my chest, and shoved me hard.
My breath stopped.
— It takes time, she whispered. I'm sorry.
My hand grabbed only air. My body tilted into the abyss. And a second explosion shook the bridge. A spell cast behind me. Or a trap triggered by my fall. The bridge cracked, gave way.
I fell.They had a few seconds more.
I didn't scream.
The wind slapped me. The light retracted. My heart pounded like a drum. I still heard their steps. Their escape. The silence of the one I had just helped.
She had seen me as a man. She had used me as an offering. And in my throat, only one thing remained.
Hatred.
I fell.
Not all at once. Not cleanly. Not like falling in a dream. More like crashing slowly into a truth you always wanted to avoid.
The void stretched around me like an open mouth, immense, alive. My arms pinned to my ribs, breath held, heart wrecked. Up there, everything was gone: torchlight, screams, bodies, lies. Even her face was already fading from my memory.
Only the act remained. The gesture. Her foot on my chest. And that sentence, spat half-voiced, without hatred, without mercy: "It takes time."
I don't know how long I fell. A minute? An hour? Maybe the Dungeon itself had no end. Maybe it wasn't a Dungeon, but a world. A pit dug in the belly of a dead god, where they throw those who never earned their place.
When the impact came, I wasn't ready. My body hit a soft surface, black, heavy like tar. No crash. No broken bones. Just a thick pressure that sucked me down. I kicked. Scratched with my nails at nothing. The water — if it was water — crept into my throat, my ears, every fold of my skull. I thought I'd die choked by silence. I thought I'd melt, literally, dissolve in filth and humiliation.
But something rejected me. A pulse in the darkness. A dull rhythm, like a heart buried in stone. My body tore free from the mass. My fingers grabbed the bank, rough, warm, sticky. I crawled out of the puddle like a drowned rat, and puked everything from my guts. Air came back all at once. Dirty, damp, metallic. I drank it like poison, without thinking.
I stayed there for a long time, belly down, soaked to the bone, half-conscious. My muscles didn't respond. My mouth trembled. My eyelids flickered on their own. But I wasn't dead. Not yet.
I thought of her.
Her gaze. That calm smile. That hand reaching out… to push me.
She had used me. And I, like a dog, had run to her. I'd wanted to believe, even for a second, that someone saw me differently. That a single look, a single touch, could be sincere. What bullshit. What rotten naivety.
I felt something stir under my skin. A heat. A burn. Slow. First in my neck, then in my chest. My heart beat faster. My fingers tingled. My skull vibrated. Not a sharp pain. No. A kind of inner fever. A storm building up. Like something deep inside was waking up.
I said nothing. There was no one to hear it.
But in my mind, one thought formed. Simple. Sharp. Burning.
If I survive… I'll come back. I'll hunt you. I'll break you. I'll make you scream until your voices rip. When nothing remains, I'll dance on your corpses. Not one will still breathe when I'm done. Not one.