Chapter 2: An SSS+ Dungeon Appeared (1)
The corridors of the Pentagon were long, sterile, and suffocatingly white. To Damien, they always felt less like a center of defense and more like a mausoleum for the living. The fluorescent lights buzzed with a low-frequency hum that grated against his nerves, a stark contrast to the heavy, rhythmic thud of his military boots hitting the polished linoleum.
Beside him walked Ricky, his steps matching Damien's but lacking the aggressive cadence. Ricky kept shooting sideways glances at his Captain, his face a mask of apprehension. The earlier camaraderie in the car had evaporated, replaced by the crushing weight of the summons they had received.
Damien stopped abruptly in front of a vending machine, staring at his reflection in the glass without really seeing it. He adjusted his tie, the fabric feeling like a noose.
"Hey, brother," Damien said, his voice low and devoid of warmth. "Why did that old man call us? And don't give me the 'urgent meeting' crap. You know something."
Ricky flinched slightly. He stopped walking and leaned against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked miserable. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, were cast down, staring at the scuff marks on the floor.
"You don't wanna hear this, Damien," Ricky muttered, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "Seriously. Let's just go in and get it over with."
Damien's jaw tightened. The anger that had been simmering since the graveyard—since five years ago, really—flared up again. It was a volatile beast, always scratching at the door of his composure.
"Don't test my patience, Ricky," Damien growled, turning to face his friend. "If that urgent meeting's reason for calling me here is not that important... if it's another PR stunt or a photo op with some rising star Hunter... I'm gonna lose it. I swear to God, I'll tear this place down."
Ricky looked up, seeing the genuine danger in Damien's eyes. He knew Damien wasn't bluffing. The man was a walking powder keg.
"Alright, alright! Geez, calm down with that short-tempered personality of yours!" Ricky raised his hands in surrender, checking the hallway to ensure no one was listening. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Commander McArthur called us because... an SSS+ Dungeon appeared."
The world seemed to stop for a second. The buzzing of the lights faded into a high-pitched ring in Damien's ears.
"What?!" Damien shouted, the word echoing down the empty corridor.
Shock washed over him first, cold and paralyzing. SSS+. The classification was a nightmare scenario. S-Rank dungeons were calamities. SS-Rank dungeons were national threats. But SSS+? That was an extinction-level event. It was the classification given to the dungeon that had taken half of Europe a decade ago.
Then, the shock boiled away, replaced by a fury so intense it made his vision blur.
Ricky grabbed Damien's arm, trying to ground him. "Calm down! Keep your voice down. I know this is ridiculous, but the Hunter Association and the other Hunter Guilds confirmed it. The energy readings are off the charts."
"Where?" Damien demanded.
"Nevada," Ricky whispered. "But listen... that's not the worst part."
Damien laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Not the worst part? A world-ending dungeon appears and that's not the worst part?"
Ricky looked at Damien with a face full of worry, his expression twisting in sympathy. He took a deep breath, preparing for the explosion. "The Hunter Association... they petitioned the Government, the UN, and the Allied Countries. They ordered—yes, ordered—the military to send their soldiers to help the Hunters."
Damien narrowed his eyes. "Help them? Since when do the Golden Boys need help from us 'grunts'?"
"Because they are only sending ten SSS Class Hunters this time," Ricky explained hurriedly. "They learned from their wrongdoings and shortcomings five years ago. They know they can't just throw numbers at it. They need a vanguard. They need support. And it includes our squad, Damien. The American Hunter Association explicitly requested the Wombat Squad to be—"
"To be cannon fodders?" Damien cut him off, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. "Cannon fodders. That's the word you're looking for, right?!"
Ricky opened his mouth to argue but closed it. He couldn't deny it.
"You know already, Ricky," Damien hissed, pulling his arm away from Ricky's grip. "You knew that because of them, Melissa died! My girlfriend died! Our Captain died! They used us as bait! They used us to trigger the traps so they could save their precious mana for the boss! And now? Now they have the nerve to order us around to be cannon fodders again?!"
Damien began to pace, his hands clenching and unclenching.
"Hah! You know I swore already to not work with them!" Damien spat on the pristine floor. "You know what I'm gonna get out of here. I'm resigning. Right now. I'm not leading my squad into a meat grinder for the sake of some livestreaming glory hounds."
He turned on his heel to storm away, away from the briefing room, away from the duty that had cost him everything.
"Wait, Damien! Brother!" Ricky lunged forward, grabbing Damien by the shoulders and slamming him back against the wall—not aggressively, but with desperate force.
"Let go of me, Ricky!"
"No! Listen to me!" Ricky shouted back, his own eyes tearing up. "Look, brother, I know they're the reason why most of our comrades and buddies died! I know they were the reason Melissa died just as surely as that monster did! But that doesn't mean we should not help them!"
Damien struggled, but Ricky held firm.
"The whole of Humanity is at risk right now, Damien!" Ricky pleaded. "This isn't just about a dungeon break. An SSS+ Dungeon means a global catastrophe if the break happens. If we do nothing, or at least don't help the Hunters to raid that dungeon to buy them time, then we will all perish. Everyone."
Ricky shook Damien slightly. "Do you want Melissa's parents to perish too? Prime Minister Thompson and his wife? Do you want the civilians, the kids, the innocent people to die because the Pentagon is too proud to send soldiers? I know... God, I know how much you hate them. But brother, this is our job as soldiers. We may be cannon fodders to them, but to the people behind us? We are the shield. It's our job to die in the dark so the whole of Humanity can live in the light."
Damien stopped struggling. He stared at Ricky, his chest heaving. The mention of Melissa's parents struck a chord, a painful, dissonant note in his heart.
"Did Humanity care for our comrades' deaths?" Damien asked, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Did they at least care, or even say thank you for Melissa? For the limbs our friends lost? No! They didn't, right?"
He pushed Ricky's hands off his shoulders. "Because they don't care. All they care about are those Hunters. Because they are badass. Because they are cool. Because they look like saviors in their shiny armor, even when they are not! So you're telling me now why i should sacrifice myself for what, huh?! For what?!"
Damien poked a finger into Ricky's chest. "Tell me, Ricky. Why should I waste my life—why should I waste your life—to be a cannon fodder for those Hunters who didn't even mourn our comrades? Who didn't even attend her funeral?"
Ricky bowed his head. He couldn't meet Damien's gaze. He couldn't refute it. Damien was right. The injustice of their world was a bitter pill they swallowed every day. The Hunters got the sponsorships, the fame, and the magic. The soldiers got the PTSD, the funerals, and the orders to hold the line until the 'real' heroes arrived.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, Damien let out a long, ragged sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the neat style he had forced earlier.
"Fine," Damien whispered.
Ricky looked up, hope flickering in his eyes.
"But I will go alone," Damien stated flatly. "The whole squad will not accompany me. I will be the only one to accompany those Hunters from each country and the SSS Class Hunter from this country."
Ricky's eyes widened. "What?! But if the Commander—"
"I will speak to the Commander after this meeting," Damien interrupted, his voice steel. "And after that..."
Damien looked at Ricky, a strange softness entering his eyes, a look of finality. "I will say my final goodbyes to our brothers and sisters."
Ricky stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch Damien. He wanted to drag him away. But he couldn't. He realized, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that Damien wasn't doing this just to be a hero.
Damien saw this as a ticket out.
'He finally decided not to let one of the squad die today,' Ricky thought, his heart breaking. 'Because he sees this as a chance. A chance to finally join Melissa. Or at least, to take as many of those monsters down with him as he can.'
Ricky nodded slowly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He couldn't deny his brother's request. It was the only way to honor the promise Damien had made to Melissa's grave only hours ago.
Damien turned away, needing a moment to steel himself. He focused his mind, whispering a command that only he could hear.
'Status.'
The air in front of him shimmered. A translucent blue screen, invisible to Ricky and everyone else, materialized in the air. It was the secret Damien had carried since the day he survived the dungeon that killed Melissa—the day he stared into the abyss, and the abyss gave him a System.
System Notification[Ding! System Status Window Opened]
+-------------------------------+
[Name: Damien V. Leone]
+-------------------------------+
[Class: Soldier]
+-------------------------------+
[Rank: A]
+-------------------------------+
Damien scanned the familiar interface. To the world, he was an A-Rank Soldier. A high achiever, sure, but nothing compared to the S-Rank Hunters. But the System knew better.
Stats:
Strength: S (Measures physical power and ability to wield heavy weapons or engage in melee combat effectively.)
Agility: S (Governs speed, reflexes, and dexterity for dodging, aiming, and quick movements.)
Mana: A (Represents magical energy reserves and affinity for mana-based abilities or enhancements.)
Power: B (Overall combat output, combining raw force with weapon efficiency.)
Endurance: A (Determines stamina, resistance to fatigue, and ability to withstand injuries.)
Intelligence: B (Affects strategic thinking, problem-solving, and learning new skills quickly.)
Luck: C (Influences critical hits, evasion of traps, and rare event outcomes.)
Mana Status: 2000/2000
His eyes drifted down to the section that scared him the most. The reason he was still alive, and the reason he was dying.
Traits:
Black Death (L): You are the best sniper of all time, on the same level as Simo Häyhä. This trait requires sacrificing your lifespan to buff your eyesight and firepower. It can kill a ???? rank and even a God.
Skills:
Gunslinger Master (S): Mastery over handguns and pistols, enabling lightning-fast draws, dual-wielding without accuracy loss, and enhanced bullet penetration against armored foes. Passive: Increases firing speed by 50% and critical hit chance by 30%.
Rifle Expert (A): Expertise in long-range rifles and sniper weapons, allowing precise shots from extreme distances with minimal recoil. Passive: Boosts accuracy by 40% at ranges over 500 meters and ignores minor environmental factors like wind.
Knife Master (SS): Supreme proficiency in knife combat, turning blades into extensions of your body for lethal close-quarters strikes, disarms, and stealth kills. Passive: Enhances slashing speed by 60% and grants a 25% chance to inflict bleeding status on enemies.
Medical Expert (A): Advanced knowledge of field medicine, enabling rapid treatment of wounds, poison neutralization, and makeshift surgeries. Passive: Reduces healing time by 30% and increases resistance to status ailments like bleeding or infection.
Stealth Specialist (A): Skill in silent movement, camouflage, and evasion, perfect for infiltration or ambushes. Passive: Lowers detection chance by 40% in low-light or crowded environments.
Tactical Commander (B): Ability to analyze battlefields, coordinate allies, and devise strategies on the fly. Passive: Improves team accuracy by 20% when leading and reveals enemy weak points during combat.
Explosives Handler (C): Basic proficiency in handling grenades, mines, and improvised explosives without self-harm. Passive: Increases blast radius by 15% and reduces setup time.
Survival Instinct (B): Heightened awareness for detecting traps, ambushes, and environmental hazards. Passive: Grants a 25% dodge bonus against surprise attacks.
[End of Status Window]
Damien sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. He didn't know if even these stats would be enough to kill an SSS+ Rank Monster. The 'Black Death' trait was a double-edged sword; he had used it once before, desperately trying to save Melissa. It had taken five years off his life in a single shot, and yet... he had missed the vital point by an inch.
'At this point, at least this could put me in survival mode,' Damien thought bitterly. 'But I don't even know if I can use the Black Death trait again. It requires sacrificing my lifespan. I used it before, when Melissa was still alive, and yet that damn trait didn't even save her. At the very least, it feels fucking useless.'
He looked at the skills. Knife Master (SS). He was better with a blade than most Hunters were with their magic swords. But what good was a knife against a creature the size of a skyscraper?
'Whatever,' he decided. 'If I burn my life away, so be it.'
'Close,' Damien ordered the system mentally.
[Ding! Affirmative]
The status window dissipated into pixels and vanished.
"Hey, Ricky," Damien said, his voice flat again. "Let's go before that stingy Commander scolds you. After all, you are his favorite punching bag to vent his anger on."
Ricky wiped his face, forcing a weak smirk. "Whatever, dude. And also... you sure about this? You going alone?"
"Yes," Damien answered without a second thought, nor any hesitation.
"At the very least, I could be the only one to die, not you or our squad," Damien continued, straightening his jacket. "After all, I promised Mel that I wouldn't let any member of our squad die or at least let them get hurt. I failed her once. I won't fail her legacy."
"Well, you're the boss," Ricky mumbled. "But the Commander will—"
"Fuck him," Damien said casually. "Fuck him and the Hunter Associations. At the very least, this is the only way for him to restore his honor as a fucking Commander of our Battalion. He sends one man to do the job of a hundred? He saves the budget. He saves the lives. He's a hero."
"Fine. I agree with you, brother," Ricky sighed. "But you know the squad will not agree to this."
"As I said before, I will explain why. And just tell them not to try and change my mind because..."
Damien stopped in front of the heavy oak doors of the briefing room. He turned to Ricky, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"This is the only way for me not to make decisions that I could regret," Damien said softly. "And also... Death is my chance to get peace anyway."
Ricky just nodded. He couldn't trust his voice.
'Are you seeing this, Captain?' Ricky spoke to his thoughts, looking up at the ceiling. 'It seems your boyfriend is already eager to meet you in the afterlife because he wants to sacrifice himself rather than see another member of our squad lose their life. God dammit.'
Ricky sighed, resigned to the inevitable. He couldn't do anything to change his brother's decision. This was the only way Damien could live with himself—by dying.
'I just hope I chose the right decision to support Damien, Captain.'
---
Damien pushed the doors open.
The Briefing Room was a theater of tension. A large holographic map of the Nevada desert dominated the center table, pulsing with angry red light. Around it sat the remnants of the Wombat Squad—men and women who looked more like tired survivors than elite soldiers. At the head of the table sat Commander McArthur. He looked aged, his grey hair thinning, deep bags under his eyes.
The room fell silent as Damien and Ricky entered.
"You are late, Lieutenant Commander Leone. And you too, Sergeant Rogers," McArthur barked, though his voice lacked its usual bite.
Damien and Ricky snapped to attention, their salutes crisp and practiced.
"Sir! Good afternoon, Sir! Sir, we're sorry for being late, Sir!" they chanted in unison.
Commander McArthur waved a hand dismissively. "At ease."
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. "I bet Sergeant Ricky already told you why this meeting is urgent."
Damien lowered his hand, his posture relaxing but his eyes remaining sharp. "Sir, yes, Sir. Sergeant Ricky already briefed me about the nature of this meeting. But..."
"But what, Lieutenant Commander?" McArthur raised an eyebrow.
Damien took a step forward, isolating himself from Ricky and the rest of the squad.
"I want to be the only one sent on this raid."
The silence that followed lasted for a heartbeat, and then the room exploded.
"WHAT?!"
"CAPTAIN?!"
"NO WAY!"
Chairs scraped against the floor as the members of the Wombat Squad stood up in varying states of shock and outrage.
"Are you insane, Captain?!" screamed Jane, the squad's communication specialist. Her face was flushed with anger and genuine concern. "You know how dangerous this operation is! We can't afford to lose you! At least let us accompany you!"
Jane's hands were shaking. She, like the rest of them, had made a silent promise to Melissa's memory to keep Damien alive. To let him walk into a death trap alone was a violation of that oath.
Another member, Master Sergeant Katelain, slammed his fist on the table. He turned his glare onto Ricky. "And you, Ricky! Are you letting Captain let himself die while saving those useless Hunters again?!"
Ricky flinched but stood his ground, jaw clenched.
"Enough, Master Sergeant Katelain!" Damien's voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack. "This is my decision. Sergeant Ricky already agreed to my decision. And..."
Damien turned his gaze back to Commander McArthur, who was watching the scene with a mix of exhaustion and pity.
"Sir, please consider my proposal, Sir," Damien said, his voice lowering to a respectful but unyielding tone. "Accept my decision. After all, I could not afford a single member of my squad to die in front of me again. I won't survive it a second time."
Commander McArthur sighed, rubbing his temples. He knew how hard-headed Damien was. He knew the file on Lieutenant Commander Leone better than anyone—the trauma, the psychological evaluations, the brilliance in combat that bordered on a death wish.
"Lieutenant Commander Leone," McArthur said slowly. "It's an SSS+ Dungeon. You know how dangerous it is. It's our job to die as soldiers, Lieutenant Commander, I agree. But are you even certain of this?! It's already ridiculous if I send one soldier. And worse, an A-Rank Captain."
McArthur stood up, walking over to the window that overlooked the rainy courtyard. "I know what drives you, son. I know about the Operation Blackwater. I know about Melissa. But this... this is suicide."
He turned back to face the squad, seeing the fear in their eyes. Fear not for themselves, but for their leader. McArthur knew how absurd the order from the UN was. To send soldiers to assist SSS-Rank monsters... it was a political sacrifice.
"I disagree on this, Lieutenant," McArthur said firmly. "At the very least, the US Government will be angered by this, and also the American Hunter Association. They asked for a squad. They asked for a meat shield. If I give them one man, they will say we are mocking them. Please reconsider your choice and sit down, Lieutenant. Sigh, let's continue, this will be—"
"No," Damien interrupted.
The room gasped. Interrupting a Commander was a court-martial offense.
Damien stood tall, his silhouette imposing against the light of the hologram. "I will not sacrifice my comrades nor the members of my squad to become Cannon Fodders, Sir."
"Lieutenant!" McArthur shouted, his face reddening. "This is an order!"
"Even if you disagree, I'll just use my connections for the government to agree, Sir," Damien said calmly.
McArthur froze. The room went deadly quiet. Everyone knew what—or rather, who—Damien was talking about.
Melissa's father. Prime Minister Michael Thompson.
Since Melissa's death, the Prime Minister had been on a warpath against the military budget, blaming the incompetence of the Pentagon for his daughter's demise. But he had a soft spot for Damien. He viewed Damien as the son he never got to have. If Damien called the Prime Minister and said, "I want to do this to honor Melissa," the Prime Minister would override the Pentagon in a heartbeat. He would ground the entire squad if Damien asked him to.
McArthur slumped his shoulders. He was checkmated.
'Sigh.'
"Fine," McArthur whispered, sounding infinitely old. "I will allow your proposal to do a Solo Mission. I will be the one who will be responsible for the backlash from the American Hunter Association and the US Government. But... inform the Prime Minister about this. If I'm going to get fired, I want it to be on his orders."
McArthur looked at Damien with eyes full of concern and worry. He walked over and placed a hand on Damien's shoulder.
"Good luck on this operation, Captain of the Wombat Squad. Bring hell to them."
Damien saluted, snapping his heels together. "Sir, thank you, Sir."
But the Wombat Squad was not silenced so easily.
"SIR, PLEASE RECONSIDER!"
"CAPTAIN, PLEASE RECONSIDER THIS!"
"DAMIEN, DON'T DO THIS!"
Damien ignored the cries of his family. He turned on his heel and walked towards Ricky. The squad moved to intercept him, but Damien's glare stopped them in their tracks.
He stopped in front of Ricky.
"Please look after them," Damien whispered. "And no matter what..."
Damien looked at his squad—Jane, Katelain, the rookies—and then at Commander McArthur one last time.
"Don't let them accompany me on this mission. Lock them in the barracks if you have to."
Ricky nodded, tears finally spilling over. He saluted, his hand trembling. "Sir... yes, Sir!"
Damien turned and walked out the door. The heavy wood clicked shut behind him, muting the sounds of the squad's protests.
He stood alone in the hallway. The silence returned, heavy and oppressive.
'This is the only way to save them,' Damien said to his thoughts, his hands balling into fists until his nails dug into his palms. 'Right, Mel? I'm coming.'