A thunderous roar shook the air of the upper floors.
The ground beneath their feet cracked, dust spiraled into the air.
Before a horde of Minotaurs, the sound of heavy breaths and beastly howls filled the cavern. But contrary to what one would expect, only a single cry of pain echoed—a roar of agony from the demi-human beast whose muscular arm had been torn from its body.
Through the mist of blood, the figure of a young man emerged.
An adventurer, his hands drenched in red blood, steam rising faintly from his skin.
In a single motion, he leapt—
and with a strike from behind, broke half the skull of the massive bull.
A thick, dark liquid splattered across the stone floor.
The Minotaur groaned, fell to its knees, and just before its body dissolved into a cloud of dust, a silent scream left its mouth.
The boy exhaled heavily, his breath beneath the mask burning against the cold air. His eyes fixed on the remaining herd—Level 3 monsters slithering out from the darkness.
An aura of silent rage surrounded him; heavy, suffocating, relentless.
The Minotaurs growled and stepped back until their broad backs met the wall.
His left eye gleamed.
In the next instant, he roared—
and the storm began.
His fists crashed into flesh.
With his tomahawk, he crushed skulls, tore arms from their sockets, and stomped the lifeless bodies into the earth again and again...
and again... and again... and again—
"GRRRRHHHAAAAAAA—!!"
Then, silence returned.
The glittery veins on his arm and the left side of his face slowly dimmed, the faint light beneath his skin fading away.
He pulled out a potion, drank deeply, and let out a breath of relief—
until he suddenly felt it.
A presence.
He turned his head.
Before him stood a woman—beautiful, motionless, sword in hand, staring at him in shock.
Her golden hair cascaded down her back like silk, shimmering faintly in the cold glow of the dungeon. Her eyes, the same golden hue, burned like trembling flames within the shadows.
The boy said nothing.
He merely began collecting the magic stones, one by one, slipping them into his pack, and without a word, walked away.
The woman stood still, her eyes fixed on where he had gone.
Her hand trembled, cold and uncontrollable.
"Ais!"
A voice called from behind.
A dark-skinned woman wearing a red chest wrap and a straw skirt appeared, alongside her flatter-chested twin sister. Both widened their eyes at the sight before them—the ground drenched in blood, the walls cracked, and the thick stench of death in the air.
The first asked, "What was that loud noise?"
The second whispered,
"Where are the Minotaurs?"
Ais dropped her sword... The blade clanged against the stone floor.
She pointed toward the direction the stranger had vanished, her expression lost between awe and fear.
Her lips trembled, and with a faint, shaking voice, she whispered only one word.
"A Monster."
.
In the depths of the earth—where darkness wove itself into stone like endless roots—the lairs of monsters took form: a living maze, infinite and hungry.
From within its walls, creatures breathed and were born, as if the earth itself screamed in the agony of childbirth.
Here lay the Dungeon—a realm for adventurers, a trial for the brave, and a nightmare for the weak.
Beneath the vast city it stretched, a civilization that had endured countless rises and falls through blood and stone—
the very heart of the continent, and of the world itself.
Here, warriors flaunted their strength, and adventurers, in pursuit of glory and a name, stepped willingly into the jaws of darkness.
But this was no land of opportunity—
it was a realm of balance between brilliance and ruin.
Where every light cast a shadow.
If you weren't strong enough, the Dungeon would devour you, leaving not even your name to be remembered.
In Orario, either your talent lifts you to the heavens... or your weakness drags you into the dust of oblivion.
And this truth—they had known since childhood.
But let us move past that—
for here begins the birth of a new legend.
A tale steeped in heroism and darkness, in betrayal and thrill...
and in a bitter truth that forever lingers in its depths: in this world, there is always something left to lose.
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The setting sun cast its light upon the Babel tower—that colossal structure of the gods, stretching skyward,
its vast shadow cutting across the city like a blade of stone and light.
A city that housed countless races and tribes from every corner of the world.
Amid the bustling markets, alive with trade and chatter,
suddenly, the world seemed to halt as a bloodstained figure appeared.
A young adventurer, clad in a hooded cloak and a mask,
walked through the people in silence.
At his back hung a shield-like device, a crossbow, and a hatchet strapped to his pack—
and from him rose the heavy stench of death and monster's blood.
It wasn't always this way, but the sight of someone dressed like that
carried only one meaning: a Wanderer.
Just seeing one was enough to make people frown or step aside.
The bolder ones sometimes hurled stones their way.
But this time... they had chosen the wrong person.
A stone flew from the crowd, striking the back of his head with a dull thud.
The boy stopped dead in his tracks.
A killing aura—thick, suffocating, and sharp—spread from him,
making it hard for anyone nearby to even breathe.
He placed a hand over his left eye and turned toward the one who had thrown the stone.
That single glance was enough to make many tremble in terror.
What followed was the sharp, wet sound of flesh being torn,
and then—the heavy drop of a severed wrist
landing upon the damp stones of the marketplace.
The man screamed—
but before his cry could even end,
a crushing punch smashed into his face,
knocking him unconscious to the ground.
People froze.
No one dared to move.
All eyes were fixed on the blood running down his hand,
dripping slowly onto the stone below.
A child began to cry,
and a woman, trembling, covered her mouth with shaking hands,
her sobs fading into the heavy silence.
With a quiet sigh, he sheathed his tomahawk,
cast a warning glance around,
and without a word,
walked away—
as the crowd parted before him in fearful silence.
.
As he entered the Guild hall, every face turned toward him for a brief, silent moment.
Whispers died down across the crowd, leaving only the echo of his boots on the wooden floor.
He walked straight ahead, passing between rows of adventurers who instinctively stepped aside,
never once meeting their eyes.
At the exchange counter, he stopped and dropped a leather pouch onto the counter—
a heavy sound rang out as magic stones and the broken horns of minotaurs spilled within it.
The weight of the bag alone drew every gaze in the room;
no one could believe that such a haul could belong to someone unaffiliated with any Familia.
In truth, everyone knew him—the wanderer who never descended beyond the lower floors of the Dungeon.
But today, whether by accident or fate,
he had stumbled into a den of mid-floor minotaurs...
and the result was a fortune in pure magic crystals that now gleamed before the Guild clerk's eyes.
The clerk, a gray-haired man with trembling hands, peered into the pouch in disbelief.
Doubt flickered across his face—but umpire was not his duty, only counting.
He adjusted the scales, weighed the stones, and after several tense moments of calculation,
set down 89,000 valis upon the counter.
Before the wanderer could reach for the money—
"Stop—!"
A sharp voice, laced with authority.
He turned his head slightly and saw two armed men approaching—
one wielding a spear, the other a drawn sword.
An elephant crest gleamed on their collars: members of Ganesha Familia, enforcers of Orario.
He didn't need an explanation to understand why they want to Arrest him.
One stepped forward. "You're coming with us!"
The other reached to grab him—
but in a single motion, the man's wrist was caught in the wanderer's grip.
"Hey—let go—!"
The crack of bone echoed through the hall.
A scream tore through the air as the guard's arm twisted, hanging limp at an unnatural angle.
His partner swung the sword—
but before he could even draw breath, the blade bent,
break—just like its wielder's courage.
A deathly silence consumed the Guild hall.
Then, from the wanderer, a dark, crushing aura surged outward—
a pressure so heavy it made hearts quiver in their chests.
Some adventurers collapsed, fainting where they stood; the stronger ones barely remained upright, trembling.
He moved forward—slow, heavy, silent.
His hand rose, gripped the man's collar...
And from his lips came only one word:
"Piss off."
The two men bolted like frightened animals,
their terrified screams echoing behind them,
swords forgotten on the floor.
No one dared to breathe.
Scenes like this were nothing new to the Guild—
whenever a Wanderer entered, silence and fear always followed.
But this one was different.
Because among all the Wanderers,
he bore a name whispered even in the depths of darkness—
Nightrunner.
As his fury faded, the air eased.
He took his money, tied the pouch, and left without a word.
Only his footprints remained...
and the cold scent of fear that lingered in the hall for hours.
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The Wanderers—
They were born from the ashes at the end of Orario's Dark Age—
a time when the city still gleamed in golden splendor under the rule of two great Familias: Zeus and Hera.
Back then, Orario was the beating heart of the world; home to countless races and tribes from across the lands—elves, dwarves, chienthropes with feline eyes, and others like cats, Pallums...
It was an age of dreams... until greed took the throne from ideal.
The two great Familias united to challenge the impossible—
three legendary quests that no Adventurer could complete.
The greatest among them: the hunt for the One-Eyed Black Dragon.
But their might was nothing before that boundless creature.
In a single, crushing moment, their pride shattered, and their Familias collapsed.
Then came the vultures.
Greed took root in the hearts of gods and adventurers alike, and the two divine houses were cast out of Orario.
And in that chaos, they appeared—
a dark gathering of gods who called themselves Demons,
followed by merciless disciples thirsting endlessly for blood.
For ten long years, the city lived beneath their shadow: streets empty, voices silent, the corpses of adventurers scattered through the alleys.
No one dared spend a night outside—
not even for a loaf of bread.
During that era, the Familia Evilus ruled Orario with an cruel fist.
Against them rose the few who still clung to justice.
Among those brave souls, one name burned brighter than the rest: Astraea Familia—the Womens of Justice.
But even they... fell. One by one, they were silenced.
The people despaired, believing the curse upon their city would never end—
until...
A name whispered through the night: Gale Wind.
Showed no mercy.
One by one, hunted them down—with poison, with fire, with daggers, and bare hands.
Familia after Familia fell.
Houses burned, screams vanished into the wind,
and all that remained was the stench of blood and smoke.
Even Evilus crumbled.
The other Familias rose again, and with time, the Age of Darkness came to an end.
The city breathed once more.
But they say people gaze only at the light—so they can forget the shadow that stands behind them.
For among the followers of Evilus were those who served not out of malice,
but out of desperation—
the poor, the starving, families with no other way to survive.
And Gale showed no mercy to them either.
They too were claimed by his blade.
Their children—abandoned, cursed, and orphaned—grew up in the alleys of Daedalus.
No Familia took them in—neither out of pity, nor out of fear.
The people called them stains.
In the rotting corners of the city, children starved to death, or vanished in the hands of slavers.
But one day... a little boy rose from among them.
He was no noble, no hero, no god's chosen.
Just a human orphan—with one eye that refused to fade.
He gathered the children around him—
the hungry, the homeless, the forgotten—
and from that pit of poverty, a new brotherhood was born: The Wanderers.
They wore long, hooded coats.
Their faces were hidden.
Their voices—silent.
They stayed apart from the laws of the city, not in rebellion, but in survival.
Their creed was simple—
heavier than any god's oath: "The orphan protects the orphan."
Years passed.
Some left Orario,
some joined small Familias,
and a few remained—independent, unseen, alive in the exurbia.
But among them was one... stronger than all the rest.
The one who kept them alive through the darkest days.
The one who still walks the Dungeon alone—without a Falna.
And this—
is his story.
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To be continued...