The silver line on the floor was a ghostly thing. A breadcrumb trail left by a long-dead predecessor. His only guide in the oppressive, inky blackness.
He followed it with a single-minded devotion. It was more than a path. It was a promise. A promise of answers.
The journey was exhausting and unsafe. The silver line did not lead him down the safest paths. It deliberately guided him through the dungeon's most treacherous territories. As if the path itself were a final, brutal series of tests.
He navigated a chamber of crushing, shifting walls. A deadly, three-dimensional puzzle. A single misstep meant being turned into a paste of bone and flesh.
His enhanced Dexterity and the precognitive whispers of his dagger were the only things that saw him through. A frantic, desperate dance of inches and seconds.
He traversed a vast, subterranean chasm. Leaping between crumbling pillars. A thousand-foot drop into a lightless abyss yawned below.
