"But... what if..."
"What if he can't find this place...?"
Princess Charlotte's voice echoed, fragile as a thread dangling over an abyss, trembling in the pitch-black silence of the dungeon's depths. Each word slipped from her chest like fragments of despair, heavy and slow, sinking into the void.
Her eyes drifted across the rows of unmoving stone statues—soulless guardians carved in the forms of children. They stood still, cold and unfeeling, as if mocking the last fragile hope clinging to the imprisoned.
Charlotte lowered her head. Her long lashes trembled faintly as her voice dropped to a confession: "...I'm not so sure anymore..."
In the cell beside her, a middle-aged man named Fay kept his eyes closed. He said nothing—no rebuke, no words of comfort.
Only silence.
His face, once weathered by battle and wind, now bore an eerie calmness tinged with sorrow. It was the silence of someone who knew too well—that some hopes exist only to keep others from falling apart.
Amar, vice-captain of the royal guard, also said nothing. For the first time since their imprisonment in this wretched place, he remained wordless.
His hands clenched so tightly they turned pale.
The words—"Lord Aaron will surely come"—had always been a desperate encouragement, a beautiful lie. But now, as Charlotte whispered her doubt, it pierced him like a slender blade.
Does Aaron even know where they are?
Will he really come?
A small crack began to form in Amar's once-unshakable belief.
Then...
A voice rang out from a nearby cell—clear, unwavering, clinging to the final glimmer of light in the darkness.
"Vice-Captain Amar is right! I believe Lord Aaron is coming to rescue us!"
The speaker was Garlan, a middle-aged knight with a long scar running down his left cheek—a member of the princess's escort. To him, Aaron was the embodiment of an indomitable warrior: a man who always survived, always returned, and always found his comrades, even in hell.
"He's right, Your Highness!" another voice followed—Dren, a small and quiet knight who once served as a royal messenger. Though his voice was hoarse from days of imprisonment, it still carried strength.
"If anyone could find this place, it's him."
"Lord Aaron will come!" said Reina, a gaunt female knight with dark circles under her eyes from exhaustion, yet her gaze was steady. Not one of the royal guard, she was a training knight from the western camp assigned to escort duty by chance. She had only met Aaron a few times, but always saw him as a symbol of unbreakable resolve—a central figure in the Empire's warrior doctrine.
All of them had been victims of a sudden spatial shift—dragged into the Dungeon before they could understand what was happening, overwhelmed by the power of the Stone Men, and imprisoned like sacrificial offerings.
But even in chains, starving, and fading into despair, they held onto one thing: faith.
That Aaron would come.
Because that was the kind of man he was.
"He once escaped the eighth level of the Crimson Rift alone..." Garlan murmured, like reciting a legend.
"...And survived four days in the western magical fields—where no one dares to step."
Amar closed his eyes—not to hide emotion, but to imprint their voices into memory. These people—though not bound by blood or oath to the throne—had shared the darkness, endured the cruelty of the Stone Men, and hoped together.
"...Let us hope..."
Charlotte whispered, a prayer cast into the void.
Her long lashes drooped like petals trembling in the wind. Amid the stone walls and suffocating dark, she resembled a lone flower lost in the fog—fragile, proud, and fearful.
---
[Stone Man – Level 33]
Gen narrowed his eyes at the floating information before him.
A hulking figure nearly two meters tall stood ahead—its body a patchwork of jagged stone slabs. No distinct face, only hollow eye sockets and a cracked line resembling a mouth.
He didn't raise his weapon.
No need.
These things didn't attack. They didn't growl or charge like the monsters from upper levels.
They simply moved—slowly, silently—each step dragging the solemnity of this place behind it.
Even when approached, they merely stepped aside and continued their heavy tread on the stone floor. Like strangers brushing past in a crowd: indifferent, silent, and thoughtless.
This third floor... was strange. But interesting.
Gen walked forward slowly, scanning the shambling figures around him. A few Stone Men walked in the opposite direction, but none looked at him. They moved as if driven by some unknown rhythm.
He didn't attack.
Not out of mercy or caution.
But because the experience they offered wasn't even worth a bite.
Unlike the eerie, child-shaped Stone Men of the Hidden Dungeon—creepy, haunting things like newborn souls forced into battle—these ones were crude and careless.
No detail. Arms and legs slapped together from mismatched slabs, like hastily built mannequins sculpted by someone who had lost all emotion.
Same material. Entirely different intent.
Another hour passed.
Gen halted.
Before him lay a massive, irregularly shaped boulder nestled among others.
He stared at it, raising an eyebrow.
[Notice: Black Dungeon Entrance Detected] [Requirement: Level 150] [Activate?]
[Yes] / [No]
"Level 150...? You've got to be kidding me."
His voice dropped low, brows furrowed at the hovering message.
"This game's starting to get annoying."
After a beat, he shrugged. "Well... guess it's a little detour. Could be fun."
Then he glanced back into the nothingness behind him. A grin formed—thin as a blade, full of mischief.
"That guy's still tailing me? Persistent little pest... Leaving him out would be rude."
He turned, steps slow but purposeful, retracing his path.
Though he pretended not to notice, the info box floating above the stalker's head was clear.
Just seconds before passing him, Gen stopped.
He spun suddenly—facing the invisible figure.
The assassin flinched and stepped back.
"I warned you last time..." Gen said coldly.
"If you like following me so much—why not come along?"
Without warning, he reached forward into the empty air.
The assassin recoiled—too late.
[Stop Time]
An invisible force gripped the assassin's throat. The stealth skill shattered as contact was made, revealing a man dangling midair—limp and helpless.
"Wh-why...?" the man gasped, eyes wide with panic.
"How... how did you detect me?"
"Interesting question," Gen replied with a faint smile.
The assassin flailed, but it was useless. Gen held him like a child—weightless and pathetic.
"I-I'm Level 53!"
"So?" Gen replied casually.
The assassin—Mo Gang—had infiltrated the adventuring group. After witnessing Dolly obliterate four Dead Trees, he'd decided to follow and steal their gear. He hadn't expected to fall into the hands of a monster.
Still desperate, Mo Gang reached for a hidden dagger...
"Mo Gang?" Gen suddenly called his name. The man froze.
"Get lost!" he shouted, stabbing toward Gen's gut.
CLANG!
The dagger snapped in two.
Gen looked at him, half amused, half bored. "That armor? Dropped from a Level 100 beast."
Mo Gang was speechless.
His prized dagger—designed for stealth kills, smuggled from the capital—was supposed to be quick, light, and deadly.
Instead, it shattered like cheap glass.
It was never made for real combat—more like a toy from a Level 10 mob.
And Mo Gang knew that.
He'd always longed for a real weapon. Something that wouldn't snap on the first strike.
But for assassins, proper weapons were rare and often banned. He scoured black markets endlessly, hoping to find something worthy.
If he ever found one, his first stop would be the secret forge in the southern outskirts—armed with stolen enhancement stones, he'd finally raise a weapon's stats with his own hands.
But dreams...
Dreams shatter.
Just like that dagger.
"Sigh..."
He exhaled.
All his plans and ambitions felt hollow. Now, only fear remained.
Would he survive this?
Before he could think further, space twisted around him. Air distorted like swirling water.
Light blurred. Reality wavered.
And he was gone—dragged into another dimension.
---
Gen and Mo Gang materialized in a dark prison chamber, dimly lit by old mana crystals.
Rusty cells lined both sides—some containing crooked bones, frozen in silent screams from a forgotten era.
They had entered the Black Dungeon.
"W-where... is this?" Mo Gang stammered, voice trembling.
BOOM!
The towering stone statues—once still—turned their heads in unison.
Their eyes glowed like dying embers. Each footstep echoed like funeral drums, shaking the ground, as if the Dungeon itself stirred.
The weight of their steps thundered into the hearts of the weak.
"If you can beat them, I'll let you go," Gen said casually, not even looking at the quaking assassin.
For a second, Mo Gang's eyes lit up. He gritted his teeth, chugged a medium MP potion from his storage ring, and prepared for battle.
But Gen stopped him.
"Hold on. Got any more MP pots? Give me a few."
His tone wasn't a request.
Mo Gang hesitated, scowling. But eventually, he pulled out a few medium MP potions and handed them over like giving away his soul.
His spatial ring—stolen from some backwater noble—looked fancy but was bottom-tier. Just one cubic meter of space. Enough for a few potions, spare clothes, and some trinkets. Barely usable.
Completely unlike Dolly.
Her storage obeyed no physical laws—no gravity, no time, no limits. Everything she swallowed disappeared into a hidden dimension.
She didn't need to understand how it worked.
She was the vault.
Gen lifted his helmet's mouthpiece—a foldable design meant for eating or speaking without removing the whole helmet. A dry click echoed.
He raised a potion and drank without hesitation. The liquid slid down his throat—glowing pale blue, tinged with obsidian darkness.
Power spread through his chest, replenishing the mana burned by Regeneration and Fireball.
By the fifth potion, Mo Gang stared at him like he wasn't human.
"Any more?"
"I-I'm out of mediums... just a few small ones. D-do you want them too?"
"...Nah. I'm good."
It was a casual reply, but Mo Gang exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for days.
He gripped his spare dagger tightly and shouted:
"[Variable Speed]!" "[Muscle Strength]!" "[Invisible]!"
Three skills activated in tandem. He vanished, light as a feather, blade raised high—aiming at the Stone Man's head.
CLANG!!
But it wasn't the sound of stone breaking.
It was the dagger.
Shattered.
The stealth broke instantly. Mo Gang reappeared—and a stone hand grabbed his throat.
He was hurled into a cell.
SLAM!
Stone walls trembled. Blood spilled from his mouth. Pain flared through every fiber of his body.
The iron gate slammed shut with a final click, leaving his wide, horrified eyes behind.
Second broken blade of the day.
Gen's laughter echoed through the Black Dungeon:
"Hahahahaha!"
Pure, shameless laughter—as if everything had gone exactly as planned.
And it had.
He'd known from the start that Mo Gang stood no chance.
What he hadn't expected... was that the Stone Men would show mercy and leave the intruder alive.