Under the scarlet glow of the Cursed Blood Moon, a child was born in a church that no longer bore a name.
It stood on the edge of the outer city, its stones cracked and unmarked, its symbols long since scraped away, as though devotion itself had been deemed contagious. The moon's light bled through the clouds in dull, bright crimson ribbons, staining the snow and stone alike as Edrin Halveth stood at the dungeon's edge, staring down into the abyss.
This dungeon was among the first ever created - a vast wound in the earth, jagged and deep, as if the gods themselves had reached down and torn a piece of the world free. Cold air rose from within, heavy with damp stone and something older, fouler. Edrin's breath fogged in the night as his hands clenched so tightly they ached, his jaw set as though resolve alone could carry him through what he refused to name as sin.
Maelis Halveth did not look at him.
She cradled the infant close to her chest, wrapped in a thin linen cloth already stiffening in the cold. The child was quiet, too quiet, her small body warm against Maelis's shaking arms. Her lips moved in a prayer learned by heart, whispered so many times it had worn smooth, though she no longer believed it would save anyone. Not the child. Not herself.
No name was spoken.
No blessing was given.
When the dungeon gate groaned open, iron screaming against stone, the stench of moisture and rot rolled out to meet them. Maelis faltered then — just for a breath, just long enough for the child's tiny fingers to curl instinctively around her own. Her grip tightened, tears blurring her vision. Then Edrin turned to her, his face hard and merciless, and snatched the infant from her arms. With a cruel jerk, he tossed her into the abyss.
Unbeknownst to them, they had been watched from the moment they arrived. From deep below, a pair of glowing eyes followed every motion, steady and unblinking. The figure was almost skeletal, draped in a tattered cloak, its presence so unnatural that even the monsters of the lower dungeon scattered in fear. Slimes slipped into cracks, claws retreated, and growls fell silent. Nothing dared touch the child.
As she fell, the skeletal hand rose, pale and impossibly thin, and the child seemed to float midair, suspended just beyond the humans' sight. Too far to be seen from above, but near enough for the figure to draw her closer. It studied her, tilting its head with curious intent, as though questioning the cruelty of the humans who would cast a defenseless, newborn life into the black heart of a long-forgotten dungeon.
The skeletal figure, an A-rank undead overlord, long forgotten in the inner depths of the dungeon, paused as he studied the newborn. Her aura was… unusual, almost familiar, echoing the faint pulse of his own presence. The red glow from above, seeping through cracks and gaps, seemed to gather around her, highlighting her tiny form in crimson light.
When her eyes opened, the color startled him: a deep, glimmering red, untainted by the shadows around them. Something clicked within him. This child… he realized, I cannot leave her to die. And yet, what to do with a human in a place like this? He did not know.
With a cautious, measured step, he descended further into the dungeon, the newborn cradled carefully in his skeletal grasp. His gait was peculiar, even by his standards, and he wondered how the other denizens of this place might react. Beyond the fiftieth level of this yawning abyss, where the dungeon's most formidable A- and S-rank monsters lurked creatures humanity had long since forgotten, he could already sense their curiosity and suspicion.
Some of them had not seen a human in centuries, much less one so young and yet brimming with a strange, dangerous energy. He tightened his hold, aware that for the first time in decades, this child might change everything about how the lower dungeon had lived in secret.
The skeletal figure descended further, moving with a deliberate, unnatural grace as the newborn cradled carefully in his bony hands. Around him, the dungeon stirred. F-rank goblins skittered into the shadows, small skeleton guards crouched in the corners, and even the ubiquitous slimes slipped into cracks and crevices as if the very walls demanded caution.
Higher up, B-rank harpies shrieked in curiosity, circling above, while A-rank minotaurs stamped their massive hooves, eyes narrowing in suspicion. A hydra shifted its many heads, tongues flicking, sniffing the red glow spilling from above. Yet all movement ceased the moment the skeletal overlord entered their midst. Even the kelpie- his noble steed, S-rank and loyal beyond reason- lowered its skeletal head in respect, clattering hooves echoing across stone.
At the far edge of the inner sanctum, a faint rumble pulsed from a shadowed nest: the dragon, hatched centuries ago from a forgotten egg, its scales dulled from neglect but eyes still sharp, observed the tiny figure in the overlord's grasp. The aura surrounding the child, faint yet undeniable, made even this legendary creature pause. Whispers of centuries-old magic stirred, and for the first time in ages, the dungeon — all of its monstrous hierarchy, from the lowliest slime to the oldest dragon — seemed to sense that something new, dangerous, and extraordinary had arrived.
Tharion's hollow footsteps echoed across the inner sanctum, yet not a single creature dared move as he set the newborn gently on the stone floor. His voice, dry and rasping like wind through tombs, carried effortlessly.
"Listen well," he commanded, bones clacking as he gestured toward the assembled monsters. "This child… is under my protection. No harm may come to her. She belongs to no one, and yet, she belongs to all of you to guard."
The minotaurs grunted, harpies shrieked, and even the hydra's many heads bowed in acknowledgement. Slimes bubbled in uneasy deference, and the F-rank skeletons shuffled nervously in the shadows.
From the far nest, a low rumble vibrated through the stone. Golden eyes gleamed from the darkness, scales glimmering black beneath the crimson light spilling from the dungeon's entrance.
"Interesting," a deep, resonant voice spoke directly into Tharion's mind, not aloud. Telepathy, ancient and commanding, cutting through centuries of silence. "Her aura… is potent. Rare, even for one abandoned by gods."
Tharion inclined his skull slightly, acknowledging the dragon without fear. "She will live. That is all that matters. I trust you, Obsidryx, to observe and, if necessary, intervene."
The dragon's eyes narrowed, golden slits reflecting the Cursed Blood Moon. "So be it. Watch closely, little guardian. This one may reshape all that has been forgotten."
Silence returned, heavy and electric. Every creature, from the lowliest slime to the ancient dragon, understood: the child was no ordinary human, and the dungeon itself had shifted in her presence.
Tharion watched as the child, now given her first true name, Sylvara toddled across the stone floor, her small feet cautious but determined. Around her, monsters of every rank moved silently, protective and attentive, as though she were the axis on which this ancient, forgotten dungeon turned.
"You are in Eldraxis," Tharion said, voice hollow and steady. The dungeon itself seemed alive, faintly glowing with the lingering red light of the Cursed Blood Moon, seeping through cracks in stone and casting a perpetual crimson tint over the walls. At the very center stood the ruined temple of Virella, broken and defiled by centuries of neglect, yet its presence radiated power that pulsed faintly through the dungeon. "This is its true name, long before humans forgot us. Speak it, remember it, for it is yours as much as it is mine."
Even at two years old, Sylvara repeated the syllables, clumsy on her tongue but persistent. The F-rank goblins scuttled nearby, ever-watchful. Small slimes oozed in curious loops, observing her movements.
As she grew, the higher-ranked monsters began her training under Tharion and Obsidryx's watchful eyes. Minotaurs guided her in balance and strength, lifting her over jagged stones and teaching her to navigate the uneven floors. Harpies circled overhead, squawking instructions she could not yet understand but eventually learned to interpret through gestures and tone. The hydra would test her patience, presenting challenges with its many heads, forcing her to adapt to multiple sources of attention simultaneously. Even Obsidryx observed from the shadows, golden eyes gleaming, occasionally whispering telepathic hints that nudged her understanding.
By her fifth year, subtle signs of magic began to appear. A slime trying to block her path would slide aside as though compelled by unseen hands. A skeleton guard froze mid-step, bones creaking unnaturally as if answering her unspoken command. Tharion's hollow skull tilted, observing with the faintest hint of approval.
"Interesting," he murmured. "The Blood Moon's influence is stronger than I anticipated. Sylvara is not merely surviving… she is awakening."
From the shadows, Obsidryx's deep rumble echoed, telepathic and resonant. "Then watch closely, little one. Eldraxis itself bends around you. The world above knows nothing… but what grows here will surpass it."
Sylvara looked up at the towering figures who had become her guardians, the faint crimson glow bathing her in the echo of the cursed moon. In that moment, she was no longer just a newborn abandoned to darkness; she was Sylvara of Eldraxis, and even the monsters of this ancient, hidden world knew that everything had changed.
Ten years had passed since Sylvara's appeared in Eldraxis, and the dungeon had shifted with her. The faint crimson glow of the Cursed Blood Moon now pulsed faintly through every level, its light stirring the long-dormant creatures. Monsters that had not stirred for centuries now moved with purpose. Even the lowest F-rank goblins and slimes explored corners of the dungeon they had long ignored, scavenging forgotten human gear, tattered books, and relics left by adventurers long dead. These relics were collected, curated, and presented to Sylvara, her teachers instructing her in ways that even human mentors could not match.
Tharion watched from above, skeletal fingers resting on the edge of a cliff. Obsidryx coiled among the shadows of the ruined temple of Virella, golden eyes gleaming as the young girl moved with surprising grace, dodging traps and leaping over jagged stone.
Her first real challenge was set: a gauntlet of creatures and obstacles in the lower levels that had become unusually aggressive. The dungeon itself seemed to test her, alive and reactive, spawning monsters faster and more cunningly than before. A pack of F-rank goblins darted from the shadows, accompanied by slimes that oozed in unpredictable patterns. From above, harpies cawed, circling as if scouting her movements.
Sylvara's crimson eyes glimmered as she concentrated, instinct and training guiding her. Small objects moved at her will, a falling rock shifted to block a slime, a loose plank rose to trip a charging goblin. The monsters hesitated, sensing her power, yet they pressed forward, relentless.
The hydra tested her patience, presenting multiple simultaneous threats, each head snapping in different directions, while minotaurs pushed her endurance and agility to the limit. Even the kelpie, Tharion's noble steed, darted through the chaos to support her, balancing her over precarious ledges.
From the shadows, Obsidryx's deep, resonant voice echoed, telepathic and commanding. "You are ready, Sylvara. Tharion and your teachers have guided you… but Eldraxis itself watches now. Learn from it, bend it, survive… and remember that every challenge here is a shadow of what awaits above."
When she finally stood victorious over the gauntlet, chest heaving and crimson eyes glowing faintly, even the monsters paused in reverent silence. Eldraxis had acknowledged her — not as a visitor, not as a child, but as a force that would shape the dungeon, its creatures, and perhaps the world itself.
And as Eldraxis shifted around her, it sent ripples far above. In the deepest archives of the adventurer guild, long-forgotten scrolls and reports were being dusted off. Rumors of a deep, ancient dungeon — a place long thought dormant — began to resurface. Magical readings, subtle at first, began to flicker in the records, hinting at an energy unlike anything the guild had sensed for centuries. Whispers of Eldraxis, the dungeon whose name had been almost entirely erased from history, began to creep back into maps and journals.
From the shadows of the ruined temple, Obsidryx's deep voice spoke once more to Sylvara, telepathic and calm. "The world above stirs. When the first arrive, you must be ready. Eldraxis grows because of you, Sylvara, but remember — what awakens here will not remain contained."
Crimson light pulsed faintly across the dungeon's walls, reflecting in Sylvara's eyes. Somewhere above, the Blood Moon's glow bled across the horizon, as though the world itself was beginning to take notice.