When we finally left Flinchville, I expected to travel to a nice field. Maybe some meadows. Possibly a hot spring where I could cry quietly and re-evaluate my life.
Instead, I was led into a dark hole in the ground called the Dungeon of Mandatory Therapy—an underground facility built during the Age of Emotional Reckoning by monks who believed monsters just needed to talk about their feelings. Spoiler: the monsters ate the monks. And their feelings.
Sir Galrik clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Behold, brave Cecil! The first test of our destiny awaits!"
"The first test already gave me rabies and a tax debuff. I'm failing this semester."
Mister Fog floated ahead, rotating upside-down. "This place has excellent acoustics for inner screaming."
Lilith didn't say anything. She just stared at the dungeon's entrance, which was carved in the shape of a giant frowning face, above which the words "PLEASE CONFRONT YOUR TRAUMA RESPONSIBLY" were etched.
I looked at the sign, then at the others. "Do we have to go in?"
"Absolutely," Galrik said. "It's tradition!"
"Tradition to do what? Develop chronic anxiety?"
He drew his sword. It glowed heroically. "To conquer it!"
We descended into the first floor. The torches lit automatically with blue flame.
You have entered: Floor 1 – Denial.
Mood Debuff Applied: Emotional Avoidance.
All damage reduced by 50% if you say, "I'm fine."
"I hate this place," I whispered.
The first room was full of mirrors. Each one showed me in increasingly worse scenarios: me failing at sword school, me getting dumped by a dryad, me being replaced in the party by a more attractive intern.
I stared. "...Okay, that last one was personal."
A mirror shimmered and a copy of me stepped out. Same face. Same pathetic posture. But this one smiled.
"Hey, champ," it said. "Maybe we're not useless. Maybe we're just misunderstood."
"I think you're the tutorial boss," I said.
Lilith stepped in and smashed the mirror with the hilt of her scythe.
"Therapy complete," she said, deadpan.
Mirror Cecil has been obliterated. +10 Self-Awareness
Next was the Room of Bottled Emotions. Glass jars lined the shelves, each labeled: "Childhood Shame", "Unprocessed Grief", "That Thing You Said in Fourth Grade".
One jar pulsed red and began to shake violently.
"Oh no," I whispered. "I think that one's mine."
It exploded.
Out came a ten-foot manifestation of my 14-year-old self, wearing fingerless gloves and yelling about how no one understood his poetry.
Sir Galrik stepped forward. "I'll handle this."
"NO!" I cried. "He'll just get stronger if you validate him!"
Mister Fog threw a bottle labeled "Disassociative Humor" at it. It burst into laughter, then collapsed into glitter.
You have defeated: Angsty Version of You.
Reward: +1 Resilience. New Status: Emotionally Bruised.
At this point, Lilith turned to the group. "There are six more floors."
"No," I said, already lying on the ground. "Nope. I am emotionally out of mana."
Galrik carried me like a bride. "Onward, to Bargaining!"
I screamed the whole way down the stairs.
You have entered: Floor 2 – Bargaining.
Mood Debuff Applied: Desperate Reasoning.
Passive Effect: All failed persuasion checks now result in unwanted bartering.
We stepped into a circular room lined with shimmering doors. Each door had a plaque with things like "What If I Was Taller?", "Maybe If I Apologized to Everyone I've Ever Met?", and "Please Just Give Me One More Chance."
"Let me guess," I said. "We have to pick a door and beg for mercy from our past choices?"
"No," Mister Fog replied. "You have to. We're just here for the loot."
Lilith opened a sack and pulled out three enchanted coupons labeled '1 Free Emotional Outburst – Expires Soon.'
I picked the door that read "Maybe If I Trained Harder…" and stepped inside.
It led to a boxing ring where a shredded version of me stood, flexing aggressively.
"Hello, Weak Me," said Buff Me. "You skipped leg day."
"I don't have leg days!" I screamed.
Buff Me rushed me with the speed of crushed dreams. I threw a punch—it bounced off his abs like a Nerf ball.
Sir Galrik called from the doorway, "Believe in yourself!"
I got suplexed.
Lilith peeked in. "Try crying. That's technically water magic."
So I did. I ugly-cried so hard the emotional moisture turned into a critical hit. Buff Me slipped on my tears, hit the ropes, and knocked himself out.
Victory! You have unlocked: Crying as a Combat Mechanic
When I limped out, the rest of the group had already cleared two treasure chests and were roasting marshmallows over a fire Mister Fog made out of regret.
We descended to Floor 3.
You have entered: Floor 3 – Depression.
Warning: Movement speed reduced by 40%.
Party morale decreasing...
The walls were made of unpaid bills and slowly melting motivational posters. A sad piano played in the background, looping endlessly.
"Gods, I feel like a Tumblr account," I whispered.
We passed shadowy figures curled up on couches, watching old sitcoms and muttering, "Just one more episode…"
"Do not engage," said Lilith. "They'll ask you to hold their drinks, then never come back."
I stepped on something.
"Oh, sorry," said a floor tile. "Didn't mean to be in your way. It's fine. I'm used to being ignored."
The entire floor was sentient and had abandonment issues.
"I think the dungeon is trying to relate to me," I muttered.
By the time we reached the floor boss—The Ennui Wraith—I was ready to lie down and accept the void. Luckily, Lilith just stabbed it in the eye.
It turned into a beanbag chair.
Boss Defeated! Floor 3 Cleared.
Sir Galrik hoisted me up again like I was a sack of therapy potatoes. "We're halfway there!"
"Halfway to what?" I asked.
Mister Fog looked at the next staircase. "Floor Four. Acceptance."
Lilith cracked her knuckles. "Time to accept you're still our meat shield."
I screamed again. For once, it echoed perfectly.