The morning was peaceful.
Anvil woke from his slumber, stretching his arms and legs with a yawn. He glanced around the empty room before standing.
His body moved on instinct as he walked into the only other room in his small home.
The toilet.
He relieved himself and splashed water on his face. There was no time to brush his teeth.
Anvil didn't need to check the time. He always woke up at the same hour. Never earlier, never later—always right on time.
It was a habit: wake up, go to the toilet, relieve himself, wash his hands and face, then head straight to the dungeon.
There was no time to spare. Even breakfast had to wait.
Once, he'd considered buying an alarm clock so he could wake early enough to eat. But money was tight, and an alarm clock wasn't something he was willing to spend on.
Skipping breakfast didn't bother him. He was used to it by now.
He stepped outside, dressed in ragged, brown clothes. They were enough to keep him warm and covered, but they looked awful.
Anvil didn't mind. Having something to wear at all was already a blessing.
The dirt path outside was still muddy from last night's rain. Puddles dotted the ground, and he had to watch his step to avoid sinking into them and soiling his clothes.
Washing clothes more than once a week was a luxury he couldn't afford.
He glanced back at his house. It was made of flimsy metal that barely held together. It could withstand rain and storms—but an earthquake would definitely bring it down.
The house was so small it barely counted as one. The toilet took up almost no space; it was just a pit connected to a larger tank, a makeshift septic system.
Calling it a "house" was generous. It was more of a shack.
Anvil shook his head and continued walking toward the thick, metal gate in the distance.
People like him—thin, dressed in rags—were heading through the gate as well.
Armed soldiers stood guard, keeping order among the slum dwellers. They would settle any conflicts among the slum dwellers, albeit with force. They wore full-body suits and carried modern weapons: mana guns.
Deadly weapons that everyone feared.
Mana guns fired mana bullets—faster, more destructive, and far superior to regular firearms.
Fortunately, these weapons weren't meant for people. They were used on monsters inside the dungeons.
Dungeons.
Strange structures that had begun erupting from the ground ten years ago. They came in all shapes and sizes: towers, forests, deserts, caves.
The one Anvil was headed into was cave-type—a low-ranking dungeon, home to monsters only slightly stronger than wild animals.
Weak enough that mana guns could take them down with ease.
But not all monsters were that simple.
Many had armor or skin so tough no weapon could pierce it. Even nuclear strikes had little effect—good for wiping out the weak, but the strong ones remained unharmed.
Some monsters even grew stronger from radiation, turning humanity's efforts against them.
Half the global population had been wiped out during those first years. Even now, thousands of people die every day.
Soldiers explore the dungeon to kill all monsters in the dungeon hence clearing the dungeon.
However no dungeon was ever truly "cleared."
There were always monsters lurking deeper in the dark avoiding the massacre.
Miners like Anvil sometimes ran into them, and when they did, there were always casualties.
"Don't daydream. Move faster!" a soldier barked.
Anvil flinched. The shout was meant for him. He realized he hadn't moved and that no one was standing ahead of him, which must have irritated the guards.
'Have some patience, man,' he muttered internally. He wouldn't dare say it out loud.
He never understood why the soldiers were always so toxic, and angry.
He picked up his pace and made his way toward the cave entrance. Before entering, he stopped at a nearby shed.
He grabbed a pickaxe.
Electronics didn't work inside the dungeon—something about the place made all tech useless. That meant mining had to be done the old-fashioned way, with simple tools.
Anvil glanced around. Some miners chatted in groups. Others walked in alone, like him. A few even had the leisure to stroll to nearby shops for tea.
There weren't many rules here. As long as there were no conflicts and the miners met their daily ore quotas, they were free to do what they wanted.
Anvil preferred to work alone. He didn't like wasting time.
He was strong, his body shaped by hard labor, but he lacked the energy and endurance others had. If he didn't work harder, he wouldn't meet his quota.
And failure meant punishment.
Sometimes wages were cut. Sometimes, worse—no medicine.
The mines weren't just physically exhausting. They were dangerous. Not just because of the gas, but because of something else entirely: [Mana].
[Mana]—a strange energy that poisoned the air. It could harm the body, cause diseases, cloud the mind, drive people insane… or worse, kill them.
A horrible kind of death. Painful, drawn-out, and unforgettable.
Anyone who had witnessed it once would never want to experience it themselves.
Anvil pushed forward, reaching the dungeon entrance.
It was massive. Ten elephants stacked vertically might just scrape the top. It was so wide that hundreds of people could walk through side by side without feeling crowded.
He had brought a wheel cart with him. There were rail carts available, but they were smaller.
A wheel cart was harder to push, needing more strength and energy—but to Anvil, a single trip with it was worth two or three with a rail cart.
Anvil pushed the cart into the dungeon.
Surprisingly, the cave floor was smooth. No bumps. No loose rocks. No obstacles.
That made it much easier to push the cart through the tunnel's dark interior.
The dungeon wasn't anything amazing. It was just rocky, with thick cold walls, a high ceiling, and a smooth stone floor.
Monotone and repetitive. For a first-timer, it might feel mysterious or even exciting. But for someone who had entered the dungeon hundreds of times, it was simply boring.
It was dangerous too, but Anvil had long stopped caring. He didn't want to live on edge all the time.
"Either I die or live to see the next day." He wanted to live—but didn't have the energy to care if he died.
Life was hard. Boring. Monotonous.
He sometimes wished a monster would show up and end his life. But he didn't have the courage to take his own life, let alone face death head-on.
The sound of the wheel cart rolling along the rocky floor echoed in a dull rhythm. But to Anvil, it felt like music—familiar and comforting in a strange way.
He reached his usual destination. It was deeper inside the dungeon, where fewer miners dared to go, afraid a monster might appear.
"Dungeons are fantastic," Anvil muttered to himself. He genuinely thought they were magical.
Every day, not only did they spawn monsters, but the ores also regenerated.
Anvil had been mining this same spot for a year. He felt lucky to have found it—a place so quiet, so empty, so undisturbed.
No conversations. No interruptions. No competition for space.
It was peaceful.
He picked up his pickaxe and began his day like always.
Mining.
Clink! Clank! Clink!
The sound of metal striking stone echoed through the tunnels. Similar noises rang out from different directions. Loud. Repetitive. Annoying—but the miners were used to it.
Anvil's hands moved rhythmically. His muscle memory took over while his mind wandered elsewhere. His body worked on autopilot.
He couldn't focus at all.
If sleeping while working were a skill, he'd have mastered it by now. But he didn't have that talent—so instead, he daydreamed while his arms swung the pickaxe.
He worked in cycles: mine for several minutes, rest for two, then mine again.
He was used to the soreness in his muscles. He didn't overexert himself. He took the rest he needed.
"This day will be gone like any other," Anvil thought.
There was no entertainment in the slums.
Just work, food, and sleep.
He had no friends. No lover. He didn't even know if he'd ever get married.
And he lived in the slums. Electricity was barely enough to light a bulb. He envied those who lived in the cities.
He has heard the soldiers speaking of cities. From their conversation he have found how wonderful the cities were—so many facilities, so much comfort.
Anvil remembered the world before the apocalypse. It had been fun.
But now… he had no idea what the world looked like. He'd lived in this slum for five years.
Before that, he had parents. They lived in a different part of the slums, but that area was attacked by monsters. Many people died—including his parents.
He'd migrated here with other survivors, only to face more suffering.
He had to work hard, fail quotas, endure pain, starve, and go through more hardship than he could count.
But now, things have settled. He could live decently. He didn't have to support anyone so he could save more money than people with family can.
He wished he could join the military. But from what he'd heard, you needed connections, skills, and education.
Anvil had none of those. So, he couldn't join.
He envied the soldiers and their easier lives.
Truthfully, he envied a lot of people.
"Once there was a miner who was weak and frail~" Anvil began to sing.
It was a song known among miners.
The story of a frail miner who struggled with his daily quota, but one day turned his fate around.
A song of hope. A song that gave courage.
Anvil believed in it too.
Squeak! Squeak!
Suddenly, a squeaking sound echoed through the tunnel.
"Huh?" His hands froze. The pile of debris near his feet trembled.
"Shit!" Anvil jumped back instinctively.
He slammed against the wall and fell hard. But what he saw next made his skin crawl.
A massive claw burst from the ground—sharp enough to slice through stone.
No sound came, but the debris scattered. Rocks flew in every direction as a large hole opened.
And from that hole… emerged a mouse.
Not a normal one.
It was enormous—tall enough to reach Anvil's chest. And Anvil was six feet tall.
Its body was massive.
How much food would it take to keep something that size alive? Anvil wondered, stunned.
Then his eyes widened in horror.
In its mouth was a human hand which was still bleeding.
The mouse flung the hand aside as it spotted Anvil. Drool dripped from its huge, open jaws.
It lunged.
Anvil's instincts kicked in—he dove and rolled to the side.
The floor was cold and hard. His back ached from the impact.
But he managed to get away.
Then came the real problem.
The giant mouse stood between him and the exit. Its bloodshot eyes stared directly at him.
He could only run deeper into the dungeon.
Which was far more dangerous.
This wasn't even a monster.
Anvil had seen animals like this before—giant, unnatural. Mutated by [Mana].
Humans didn't mutate. But animals did.
Mutations gave them greater strength, speed, and size. It made them aggressive—wild—ready to attack any living thing on sight.
Anvil's heart pounded as he turned and ran. The mouse didn't chase right away.
It calmly wiped blood from its mouth with one claw. Then, it picked up the severed hand and bit down, staring at Anvil as he fled.
It didn't rush. It was confident.
Its prey was slow. It was fast.
Crunch.
The sound of bones breaking reached Anvil's ears. His heart tightened.
He ran faster. As fast as his body would allow. His breathing ragged, sweat pouring down his face, every muscle on fire.
Then—he heard it.
Thud. Thud. THUD.
The mouse was coming.
And it was fast.
In seconds, it had almost reached him.
Anvil screamed inside his head. Please—God—help me!
He prayed. Desperately. He saw a flash in his mind—his parents waiting for him with warm smiles at the other side.
But then—he spotted it.
A small hole in the wall.
Without thinking, without hesitation, he dove into it.
His body slid perfectly inside. A loud crash echoed behind him—the mouse's claws slammed into the wall.
"Haa... huu... haa... huu... haa…"
Anvil gasped for breath, his back pressed against the wall.
He didn't care about anything else. He sat, wiped the sweat from his forehead, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
He needed to rest.
But he wasn't alone.
He felt something.
A gaze.
Anvil's eyes snapped open—and his heart froze.
"Oh my God! Just fuck me! Shit! Aaaahhhhhhhhh!"
Anvil's screams echoed into the quiet room.