The days blurred together in Redcrest, broken only by the steady rhythm of descent into the sewers. Arin had begun to mark time not by sunrise or sunset but by the dripping cadence of water against stone and the familiar scurrying of vermin in the dark. What had first been a repulsive chore—the stink, the filth, the oppressive damp—was gradually becoming a training ground he knew by heart. His boots splashed across the same walkways. His spear rose and fell in the same practiced arcs. Each hunt left him stronger, more certain, more in tune with his own body.
And yet, there was always the whisper in the back of his mind: You're holding yourself back.
For weeks now, he had kept three precious stat points unspent. At first, it had been caution. He didn't want to throw them into the wrong place, didn't want to waste what little leverage he had in a world measured so starkly in numbers. But the sewer rats were growing easier, their hides splitting too quickly beneath his thrusts. Even the stronger variants, hulking things with patchy fur and yellowed fangs, no longer drove him into the same panic they once had.
Still, the fights dragged him down, left him panting and slick with sweat after every run. His arms burned with the weight of his spear. He could kill them, yes, but it was always a grind—too long, too sloppy.
One evening, knee-deep in muck after finishing off a nest of sewer rats, Arin leaned against the curved brick of a tunnel wall. His breath steamed in the lantern light, uneven, sharp. His muscles trembled with exhaustion. It was then that he called the window forth.
The faint, translucent glow hung in the air before him. Level 8. Three points unallocated. The reminder mocked him, cold and clinical.
"Enough stalling," he muttered, his voice echoing off the damp stone. "If I'm going to keep surviving down here, I need the strength now—not later."
His hand moved almost of its own accord. Two points flowed into Strength. The third, with a pause of hesitation, went into Endurance.
The change was immediate. Not a violent transformation, not the overwhelming rush of leveling up, but something subtler, deeper. Heat spread through his chest and into his limbs, settling into his muscles like coals banked in a forge. His grip on the spear steadied, fingers curling around the shaft with new confidence. His breathing eased, as if his lungs had grown to pull in more air.
Arin exhaled slowly, testing the newfound balance in his stance. A practice thrust cut through the damp air, sharper and faster than before. He allowed himself the faintest smile.
"This… this feels right."
From that moment onward, his routine shifted. The sewer rats fell faster beneath his spear, his strikes biting deeper into fur and flesh. He could keep moving longer, recover quicker between skirmishes. The same hunts that had left him staggering back to the surface now ended with him walking upright, still alert.
He didn't fool himself into thinking the sewer was safe. Danger was still there, lurking in the corners, waiting in every nest. But for the first time, he felt a margin of control—a sliver of confidence earned not just by practice, but by raw growth.
Yet with it came an unsettling awareness. The stats filled him with strength, yes, but strength alone was dangerous. Adventurers too often mistook numbers for invincibility, and the guild halls had no shortage of quiet tales of those who'd rushed headlong into their own deaths. Arin tightened his grip on his spear, grounding himself in the lesson he'd already learned: survival was never about reckless charges. It was about balance, patience, and knowing exactly when to strike.
And down here in the dark, with the stink of blood and sewage in his nose, he vowed not to forget it.
Still, he wasn't alone in the sewers anymore. Some days, the glow of lanterns flickered in distant tunnels where other F-rank adventurers hunted the same vermin. Their laughter, their curses, and the clash of steel on stone carried faintly through the labyrinth. It was a reminder that while the sewers had become his proving ground, it was also theirs—a shared crucible, where paths would soon cross.
The days that followed found Arin slipping into a rhythm. He rose early, trained when he could, and took extermination contracts from the guild. Redcrest's markets became as much his battleground as the sewer tunnels. Where the stink of mold and rats taught him endurance, the crowded lanes of merchants and adventurers taught him how the city truly breathed.
The market sprawled like a living thing—stalls pressed shoulder to shoulder, colorful awnings fluttering in the breeze, the air thick with smells both inviting and repulsive. Roasting meat on skewers, hot bread, tanned leather, sweat, smoke, iron. Hawkers raised their voices above the din:
"Finest steel nails! No rust, no bend!"
"Salves fresh from the apothecary! Heal a cut in a day, a bruise in half!"
"Spices from the southern coast—taste warmth on your tongue!"
Adventurers were everywhere, easy to spot in patched cloaks, travel-stained boots, and armor that bore more scars than polish. They haggled like veterans of war, arguing over the price of arrows or sharpening stones with the same intensity they might show an enemy.
Arin drifted among them, his coin purse never far from his thoughts. Each copper weighed on him differently now. Money wasn't just comfort—it was survival. Every purchase was a choice: another day with a blade that wouldn't snap, another chance to block a blow that might otherwise kill him. His fingers tightened around the pouch as he thought of the coins spilling out, one by one, to pay for his life.
He came at last to a smithy near the market's edge, drawn by the steady clang of hammer on metal. The armorer's stall was crowded, not with goods but with people. Adventurers leaned on crates, swapping stories as they waited for their turn. Some spoke of goblin nests in the hills, others of wolves driven south by hunger. One man described in gory detail the way a boar had gored his companion—yet all laughed, as though it were a tale told at a tavern, not the edge of death.
Arin listened quietly, lingering at the stall until the smith barked, "Next!"
The man was broad-shouldered, beard matted with soot, hands blackened by his trade. He brought out a shield when Arin asked, and laid it across the counter with surprising gentleness.
It was iron, not wood. The weight of it settled into Arin's arms like a promise—heavy, solid, dependable. The edge was lined with shallow engravings, not decorative so much as utilitarian, markings to reinforce the rim against strikes. The grip was wrapped in leather, coarse under his fingers, yet it anchored firmly. This was not a shield meant to splinter like kindling.
Arin's mind drifted back, unbidden, to his broken wooden shield. He remembered the moment it had cracked beneath him, how splinters had bitten into his palm, how naked and exposed he had felt in the seconds that followed. He had lived through it by chance—or by sheer stubbornness—but he would not trust his life to wood again.
The iron shield cost more than he wished to part with. As he counted out the silver, his throat tightened. Each clink was a reminder of how thin his survival margin was. Yet when he strapped it to his arm, feeling its balance, its sturdiness, something shifted inside him. He was not just buying protection—he was buying time. Time to fight, time to learn, time to live.
When he left the stall, the market noise seemed sharper, the world a little brighter. The shield's weight pressed against his arm, not a burden but a constant reminder: he was not the same boy who had walked into the sewers with a wooden plank and hope.
The days that followed found Arin slipping into a rhythm. He rose early, trained when he could, and took extermination contracts from the guild. Redcrest's markets became as much his battleground as the sewer tunnels. Where the stink of mold and rats taught him endurance, the crowded lanes of merchants and adventurers taught him how the city truly breathed.
The market sprawled like a living thing—stalls pressed shoulder to shoulder, colorful awnings fluttering in the breeze, the air thick with smells both inviting and repulsive. Roasting meat on skewers, hot bread, tanned leather, sweat, smoke, iron. Hawkers raised their voices above the din:
"Finest steel nails! No rust, no bend!"
"Salves fresh from the apothecary! Heal a cut in a day, a bruise in half!"
"Spices from the southern coast—taste warmth on your tongue!"
Adventurers were everywhere, easy to spot in patched cloaks, travel-stained boots, and armor that bore more scars than polish. They haggled like veterans of war, arguing over the price of arrows or sharpening stones with the same intensity they might show an enemy.
Arin drifted among them, his coin purse never far from his thoughts. Each copper weighed on him differently now. Money wasn't just comfort—it was survival. Every purchase was a choice: another day with a blade that wouldn't snap, another chance to block a blow that might otherwise kill him. His fingers tightened around the pouch as he thought of the coins spilling out, one by one, to pay for his life.
He came at last to a smithy near the market's edge, drawn by the steady clang of hammer on metal. The armorer's stall was crowded, not with goods but with people. Adventurers leaned on crates, swapping stories as they waited for their turn. Some spoke of goblin nests in the hills, others of wolves driven south by hunger. One man described in gory detail the way a boar had gored his companion—yet all laughed, as though it were a tale told at a tavern, not the edge of death.
Arin listened quietly, lingering at the stall until the smith barked, "Next!"
The man was broad-shouldered, beard matted with soot, hands blackened by his trade. He brought out a shield when Arin asked, and laid it across the counter with surprising gentleness.
It was iron, not wood. The weight of it settled into Arin's arms like a promise—heavy, solid, dependable. The edge was lined with shallow engravings, not decorative so much as utilitarian, markings to reinforce the rim against strikes. The grip was wrapped in leather, coarse under his fingers, yet it anchored firmly. This was not a shield meant to splinter like kindling.
Arin's mind drifted back, unbidden, to his broken wooden shield. He remembered the moment it had cracked beneath him, how splinters had bitten into his palm, how naked and exposed he had felt in the seconds that followed. He had lived through it by chance—or by sheer stubbornness—but he would not trust his life to wood again.
The iron shield cost more than he wished to part with. As he counted out the silver, his throat tightened. Each clink was a reminder of how thin his survival margin was. Yet when he strapped it to his arm, feeling its balance, its sturdiness, something shifted inside him. He was not just buying protection—he was buying time. Time to fight, time to learn, time to live.
When he left the stall, the market noise seemed sharper, the world a little brighter. The shield's weight pressed against his arm, not a burden but a constant reminder: he was not the same boy who had walked into the sewers with a wooden plank and hope.
Chapter 12
Section 3 — Rhythm and Edge
The sewers stopped being a gauntlet and began to feel like a clockwork of threats. Where terror had once lurked in every shadow, Arin now found patterns—timing in the scuttle of feet, the way a litter of young rats hesitated before a parent darted out, how water pooled where the larger things liked to lie. He moved through that world as if reading a slow, stubborn script: spot the nesting scent, circle wide to cut off escape routes, push forward and take advantage of the narrow angles so only one enemy could reach him at a time.
Hunt after hunt, the work accelerated into something practised. He no longer surprised himself with frantic, wasted lunges. Instead his spear found the cracks in hide and bone with a calm he scarcely admired in the mirror. A rat would launch like a pale missile—eyes catching the torchlight—and Arin's feet would already have him angled to meet it. He met the rush, braced on his back leg, and let the spear do its work. Where once the wounds had required a finishing stroke with the knife, now the iron-tipped point bit deep enough that the blade was only for clean-up.
> [Sewer Rat — Level 2–3]
[Sewer Rat — Level 3]
He began to catalogue their behaviours as if noting entries in a ledger. The young packs skittered in nervous spirals, predictable and easy to funnel. The older, scarred rats—those that had lived near the wider channels—kept to the water's edge and lunged low, trying to tear at ankles. When he found nests tucked in collapsed bricks, he approached from the side opposite the current; the rats would flee toward the flow, straight into the spear's arc. It was not calculation so much as muscle remembering the geometry of fight.
Everyday scenes became experiments. He tried a shield-bash one morning on a narrow causeway when three rats clustered for a charge. The iron shield thudded into one, the impact ringing up his arm and across bone, but the creature tumbled into the water. The second took the shove in the chest and crumpled against the wall. The third leapt, and a practiced twist of the spear drove it sideways into the arch. Shield-bash, spear-thrust, knife-finish—three motions threaded together until each moved into the next like gears.
He practiced feints, learning how a shoulder twitch could sell a low strike and open a rib. He learned how to use the shield not merely as a block but as a wedge—catch, shove, create openings. The broad-bladed knife at his hip, Bren's oldgift, became a quiet companion for the last, ugly moments of a fight: a clean slide across a throat, a precise cut to strip a tail for proof. Hadrik's whetstone lessons—"let the weight carry through"—kept his strokes clean where they might have been clumsy.
The mini-boss variants still tested him. They were smaller than the beast that had nearly torn his shield apart that first time, more compact but thick-skinned and clever. They would roll through the water with a hiss, scales clinking, and strike with a lurch that tried to take his knees from under him. He met one in a widened culvert where the torchlight brought out the sheen on its back.
> [Sewer Brute — Level 4–5]
It charged with more intelligence than a rat, using the channel to slide along and launch sideways. Arin stepped in, baited it with a wobble, then moved as the brute committed—spear bite to flank, shield-rim into shoulder, then a spinning knife stroke to sever a tendon exposed in the confusion. The fight left him winded; his lungs burned and his arms trembled afterward in a way older fights hadn't. But he walked out with the brute's hide slung over his shoulder and a small, feral pride in the straight set of his shoulders.
These victories were not always clean. There were days when he misread a pattern—when a cluster of rats piled upon him in a squeeze point or when a brute found the leverage to flip his footing—and he learned, bruised and angry, to respect the unpredictability again. Repetition bred skill, yes, but repetition could also breed a subtle arrogance. He felt the tug of it in his chest sometimes: the little, warming thought that numbers and practice together made him better than most. That the next fight would be no different.
Those were the moments he forced himself quiet and small. Confidence was a tool, not an identity. The guild's memorial stones—that thin, sharp memory Kaelen had mentioned—sat at the back of his mind like a tap to cool his vanity. He practiced worst-case scenarios, rehearsed a fall and how to recover from it. He reminded himself that the blade found practice could still be outmatched by the right oblique of luck.
Practically, his techniques spread wider. He used shield bashes to unbalance, then followed with a spear's sidelong thrust while angling away from the retaliatory swing; he let the brute overcommit and darted the knife into exposed joints. He learned to keep the light to one side so the rats' eyes caught the glare and he could see their shadows before they struck. He developed an economy of motion: fewer wasted lunges, less thrashing; his breaths measured, conserving oxygen for moments that mattered.
On a particular morning when the water ran higher and colder, he found three smaller brutes clustered around a half-submerged arch. They were quick, sliding sideways with hungry motions. He set the torch across the arch to cast long, stretched shadows, funneling the biggest into the channel. The first ran straight into his spear like he'd walked into a wall. The second took a shield-bash and slammed into the rock, dazed long enough for Arin's knife to find its throat. The third rolled forward in fury and, catching Arin's ankle with a scraping strike, almost dragged him down. He countered the pull with a planted foot, pushed the shield like a hinge, and drove the spear again—clean through a flank.
When the dust settled and the water stilled around him, he heard his own breath as though he were outside his body, and with it a clarity: this was skill, not accident. He had earned a margin. Yet the same clarity warned him that margins were fragile, and there would be fights that demanded more than margins.
The sewer work sharpened other things too: patience in the dark, the discipline to wait for the right strike, the habit of watching for shifts in behavior rather than relying on brute force. It bred a new kind of caution—an awareness that the next ambush might not be rats, that the water itself could hide teeth. Still, there were moments he allowed himself a small, private satisfaction: an extra rat tail tucked into the pouch, a notch carved on the haft of his spear, a burly adventurer nodding once when they crossed paths and saw the clean work on his hands.
Sometimes the other F-rank hunters flanked him in silence, sharing the tunnels without speaking more than a nod. Other times they brawled and boasted at the surface, their voices a rough chorus that reminded him he was not alone in this grind. Those encounters kept his ego from flattening into arrogance. They also supplied small lessons—one man's trick with a shield strap, another's way of spotting nests behind loose mortar—that slid into his routine and improved his timings by degrees.
The sewer rhythm tightened around him until it felt less like survival and more like craft. And with craft came choices—to stay grinding the same tunnels, to hoard coins and build strength, or to seek more dangerous things that promised faster growth and greater rewards. He found himself thinking the thought more often now, the dangerous one: what if I pushed beyond this? What if the next gate aboveground was one he could step through?
It was a thought that tasted like coin and iron, of possibility and fracture. He kept it where it belonged, folded into his planning rather than worn on his sleeve. For now there were rats to thin, brutes to outwit, the knife to keep sharp and the spear point keen. Each kill bought him another day, and each day bought him small increments toward whatever the next test would be.
When sunlight finally crept down into one of the shallow shafts on a late afternoon, Arin felt the day's work settle into his bones. He cleaned the knife on a scrap of cloth, pressed fresh oil into the spear's tip, and tucked a rat tail into the pouch. The grind had changed him; the boy who had once flinched at every echo was quieter now, his movements economical and exact. He shouldered into the tunnel mouth and walked back to the city with mud on his boots and a steady heart—stronger, yes, but still very much wary of the next unknown that lurked down a dark passage.
For days now, a quiet worry had gnawed at Arin, sharper than rat teeth. No matter how many vermin nests he cleared, no matter how many of the hulking brutes he skewered, his strength plateaued. The steady rhythm of growth he had felt before—those bursts of vitality with each level—was gone. He just couldn't tell for certain, but the truth pressed against him all the same: killing weaker monsters no longer yielded him much experience, if any at all.
And so, though his spear struck true and his shield warded off claws and teeth, each fight left him with the same number on his Status Window. It was routine now, efficient, almost mechanical. Where once there had been terror, there was now only familiarity—and with it, a dangerous boredom.
The latest nest had been no different. Sewer rats, a dozen of them, their yellow eyes gleaming in the lantern light. They lunged, hissed, clawed, bit. He parried, thrust, slammed one against the wall with his shield, swept another's legs with the haft of his spear. One by one they fell, their screeches fading into the steady drip of sewer water. By the end his breathing was even, his muscles humming with exertion but not strain.
"Another day, another nest," he muttered, flicking blood from his blade. Victory no longer thrilled him—it felt hollow, like repeating the same lesson long after it had been mastered.
Then the air shifted.
At first it was subtle: a low hum vibrating through the stones under his boots. The lantern flame guttered as if pressed by unseen wind. Arin straightened, frowning, his knuckles whitening around the spear shaft. The rats' corpses lay at his feet, and yet the tunnel seemed alive, as though something behind the walls was stirring, pushing outward.
The tremor grew. Mortar dust trickled from the ceiling. A sharp crack of sound split the silence—and before his eyes, reality warped.
It was like watching water boil in the air itself. A ripple shimmered into being, distorting the tunnel ahead. Colors bled and twisted, forming a haze that grew denser, brighter, until it solidified into a shape: an arch, a gate of searing light and shadow that didn't belong in stone or earth. The stench of rot was drowned out by an acrid tang, like ozone, like blood, like something foreign forcing itself into existence.
Arin's heart slammed against his ribs. He staggered a step back, raising his shield instinctively. "No… this can't be—"
The gate pulsed. Threads of violet light stretched across it like veins, and in its center, darkness beckoned. His instincts screamed to run, to turn, to flee back toward the surface. But before his body could obey, the pull struck him.
It wasn't hands. It wasn't claws. It was gravity turned traitor. The air collapsed inward, dragging, clutching. His spear rattled in his grip as the tunnel bent toward the impossible arch. He dug his boots against the slimy stone, but his footing slipped.
"No—!"
The word tore from his throat as the portal seized him whole. The last he saw of Redcrest's sewers was the lantern toppling, its flame snuffed out in the dark.
Then the gate closed around him, and the world was gone.
The first thing Arin felt was the floor beneath him—cold, damp, unnaturally smooth. He staggered upright, spear raised, his shield half-lifted. The air was heavy with moisture, tinged with a faint, metallic tang. Torchlight flickered along the walls, but these weren't Redcrest's sconces. The flames burned with a steady, pale green hue, casting shadows that clung like oil.
And then the grim realization struck him.
This wasn't the sewer anymore. This was a dungeon.
The walls were stone, not brick, etched with symbols he couldn't read. The air carried no sound of city above, no echo of rushing water—only the hollow stillness of a place cut off from the world. There was no gate behind him, no shimmer of escape. He was inside, whether he wanted to be or not.
Arin swallowed, his mouth dry despite the damp air. He had heard the stories—once drawn inside a dungeon, the only way out was through. He steadied his grip on the spear and moved forward, every step measured, his heartbeat thunderous in his ears.
It didn't take long before he saw movement.
A patrol of figures emerged from the far bend of the tunnel. At first he thought them men—until the light touched their faces. Green scales glistened under the torch glow, ridged snouts snarling above jagged teeth. Their eyes burned gold, slit like knives. They carried crude iron blades and spears of bone, their hides mottled with scars.
Lizardmen (Lv. 7–10).
There were four of them, their tails dragging as they walked in tight formation. One barked something guttural, and the others shifted, spears angled outward. Their movements weren't chaotic like the rats—they were coordinated, cautious, ready to flank. Predators with minds.
Arin froze, forcing himself to watch, to study. He saw how they kept their spacing, how their heads turned in unison, how their weapons weren't brandished wildly but positioned with purpose. This was no mindless swarm. This was a hunting party.
And then, farther down the tunnel, he glimpsed something worse.
The patrol passed an open chamber—and in its center loomed a figure that dwarfed them all. Twice their height, its muscles corded and plated with thicker scales, its spear thicker than a tree trunk. A bone crest crowned its head, and the torchlight glinted along its jagged armor. Even at a distance, Arin felt the weight of its presence.
Lizardman Chieftain (Lv. 12).
His breath caught.
Dread pressed down on him, heavier than his shield. The sewer rats, the nests, the brute variants—none of that had prepared him for this. He had fought vermin in darkness, yes, but these were no vermin. These were soldiers. Hunters. And their leader was a monster beyond anything he had faced.
For the first time in days, fear dug its claws back into him.
The hissing never stopped.
Arin pressed his back to the slick stone, his iron-tipped spear trembling in his grip. His breath rasped in his ears, too loud, too quick. He pressed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth to quiet it. Somewhere ahead, claws scraped on rock—slow, deliberate. Hunting steps.
When the limping lizardman came into view, Arin exploded from hiding. His spear darted forward, aimed low, driving beneath the creature's scaled arm. The tip sank deep. The lizardman shrieked, thrashing. Arin ripped the spear free, twisting his body to avoid a desperate claw swipe. Hot blood splattered across his leather cuirass. The beast collapsed with a hiss and a twitch.
He didn't linger. He dragged the corpse into the shadows, crouched low, spear poised, waiting for the echo of its fall to fade.
Minutes stretched. Then another sound: two sets of claws.
Arin's grip tightened. He pulled back into a narrow bend of the tunnel. The first lizardman rounded the corner, yellow eyes catching the faint glimmer of his weapon. Arin lunged, spear thrusting straight for the chest—but the beast twisted, deflecting with its crude iron blade. Sparks spat where metal met metal.
The second rushed him from the flank. Arin jerked his shield around just in time. The impact thundered through his arm, nearly wrenching the shield free. His shoulder screamed from the strain. He shoved forward, smashing the iron rim into the snout of the first beast. Bone cracked, and it staggered backward.
The second pressed in, snarling, claws slashing wild. One raked across his leather cuirass, shallow but close enough to bite. Arin dropped low, sweeping his spear up and under, the point carving through its throat. Blood sprayed hot, drenching his hand. The creature gurgled, collapsed, clawing weakly at the shaft as it died.
The first hissed in rage and came at him again. Claws screeched against his shield, sparks leaping. Arin leaned his whole weight into it, shoving, pinning the beast against the wall. The stone groaned under the strain. He slammed once. Twice. The third time, the lizardman's struggles weakened, breath rasping in its throat. Arin rammed the spear through its chest, ending it cleanly.
He ripped his weapon free and stumbled back, chest heaving. His arms trembled with effort. Every muscle in his body ached already, and yet he could not stop. The dungeon wasn't done with him.
Torchlight flickered down the tunnel. Arin froze. Not one. Not two. Three shadows.
He pressed his back to the wall, shield raised, spear angled low.
The first lizardman came charging. Its crude spear thrust forward, aimed for his heart. Arin twisted, shield catching the blow. Wood and iron shrieked in protest, the tip sliding wide. He counter-thrust instantly, his spear darting under the guard. It pierced deep into the thigh. The creature roared and toppled, blood gushing.
The second was on him before he could recover. Its blade slashed wide, carving a line across his forearm. Pain flared. Arin snarled, teeth bared, and shoved forward. His shield caught the beast square in the ribs, staggering it. Before it could regain footing, Arin's spear lashed out, point slipping between scales. It punched into the chest cavity, tearing through lung. The beast gasped, wheezed, and fell.
The third closed the distance in a heartbeat. Too close for the spear. Its jaws snapped inches from his throat, fetid breath washing over his face. Arin dropped the spear, ripped his knife free, and braced his shield against its gaping maw. The beast pushed, muscles straining, forcing him back step by step. His boots scraped stone.
Arin roared, driving his knife up. Once. Twice. The blade sank between scales, hot blood flowing down his arm. A third thrust, harder, deeper. The lizardman jerked violently, then collapsed against him, heavy and lifeless.
He shoved it aside, stumbling, knife dripping crimson. His shield was dented, gouged with claw marks. His arms felt leaden, but he bent to retrieve his spear.
Then, the glow.
A translucent window shimmered into view.
Level Up.
Relief coursed through him. Strength seeped into weary muscles, a cool wave washing away some of the fire in his limbs. Breath came steadier. His stance firmed.
But the hissing had not stopped. It had grown louder.
The dungeon was stirring. He had killed too many. Their kin would not let him go.
Arin forced himself into the shadows once more, pressing his back flat to the stone. The hiss of torches drew near again, light crawling over the walls, painting them in flickering orange. He held his breath, heart hammering.
Three shadows stretched long, their guttural voices echoing low, searching.
Arin's lungs screamed for air. He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The torchlight slid across him—so close it washed over his boots.
Then, mercifully, it passed. The patrol continued down the corridor, claws scraping away into the dark.
Arin sagged against the wall, chest heaving in silence, every part of him trembling from strain and fear. He had survived—for now. But the dungeon had not finished its hunt.
---
Arin's Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 9
HP: 34 / 34
MP: 13/ 13
Strength: 17 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 16 (Max: 83)
Agility: 12 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 3
Ability: Level Perception
Current Equipment
Armor: Worn Leather Cuirass
Shield: Iron Shield (scratched, dented)
Weapon: Iron-Tipped Spear
Other: None