The passage led the hero to a wide arch, beyond which a view opened up that made him stop and stare in disbelief.
A city.
An entire city sprawled before him in a vast cavern—no, not a cave, the space was too vast for that. The ceiling was lost in the darkness high above, but the walls were visible—distant, curved, stretching to the horizon.
And the entire city, every building, every street, every bridge—everything was built of bones.
Not just decorated with bones. Built with them.
The houses were composed of rib cages folded into arches and domes. Skulls served as windows, empty eye sockets looking out onto the streets. Long bones—tibias, humeri—were beams and columns. Vertebrae arranged in intricate patterns, creating walls and fences. The streets were paved with small bones—fingers, ribs, skull fragments—fitted tightly together, creating a relatively flat surface.
Bridges over canals—yes, there were canals here, filled with something dark and slow-flowing—were woven from spines and limbs, curving gracefully over the water.
Everything was made of bone. White, yellowish, darkened in places by time.
And skeletons walked through this city.
Hundreds of them. Thousands. They walked the streets as if they were living people. They talked to each other—their jaws moved, making clicking sounds that formed speech. They traded in markets—the hero saw a square where skeletons stood behind bone counters, offering their wares to other skeletons.
Some carried loads. Others sat at the entrances of houses, as if resting. Skeleton children—small, with disproportionately large skulls—ran among the adults, playing games.
The ordinariness of what was happening was both absurd and terrifying. This was a city. A functioning, living city—in its own way—a city of the dead.
The hero slowly descended the steps from the arch, stepping onto the bone pavement. The bones beneath his feet were hard, smooth from countless footsteps.
The nearest skeleton passed by—tall, in tattered clothing that had once been precious. The skull turned, its empty eye sockets gliding over the hero.
It stopped.
"Alive?" The voice was dry, creaking, like the friction of bones. "Alive here?"
The other skeletons began to turn. Their jaws clicked, discussing. The fingers of the bones pointed at the hero. "Meat..." "Flesh..." "Wealth walks on two legs..." The hero took a step back. The skeletons began to approach, slowly but inexorably. They formed a semicircle around him.
"How much?" one asked, turning to another. "A living hand—a thousand? Two?"
"Eyes are more expensive," the other replied. "Fresh eyes are rare."
The hero turned and ran.
The skeletons didn't chase—they simply stared after him, snapping their jaws. But the hero heard one shout:
"Guard! A living man in the city!"
Somewhere in the distance, a ringing sound answered—a bell, metallic, sharp.
The hero turned into a narrow alley between bone buildings, weaving, trying to escape. The streets were tangled, identical—bones, bones, bones everywhere. It was easy to get lost.
He dove into the passage between two houses, pressing himself against the wall of ribs, breathing heavily. The hero listened.
Footsteps. Many footsteps—the clatter of bones on bone pavement. Approaching.
Guards.
The hero peered out from his hiding place. Skeletons in armor—also bone, woven from larger, stronger bones—were walking down the street. They held weapons—swords, spears, clubs, all made of sharpened bone. Their skulls were adorned with crests and spikes denoting rank.
They were hunting. Searching for the living.
The hero retreated deeper into the alley, bumped into something with his back. He turned and saw the door to one of the houses slightly open.
He entered silently.
The room was empty—just a room with bone walls, unfurnished. Scraps of fabric and some kind of trash lay in the corner. It smelled musty and dusty.
The hero looked around. He needed to hide. Disguise himself. But how?
His gaze fell on the scraps of fabric. Old clothes, almost rotted away. And something else—a mask. No, not a mask. A skull.
A human skull, separated from its skeleton, lay in a corner, covered in dust.
A mad, desperate idea struck him.
The hero picked up the skull and examined it. It was large enough to fit on his head. The inside was hollow, smooth.
He put the skull on.
The world darkened, visibility limited to the narrow slits of the eye sockets. The smell of old bone filled his nostrils. The skull sat uncomfortably, pressing on his shoulders, but held.
The hero took some scraps of clothing and wrapped them around his body, concealing the flesh. He hid his hands under the cloth. His legs, too.
He looked at himself. In the dim light of the room, he could pass for a skeleton. Maybe. If you didn't look too closely.
The sound of footsteps outside grew louder. The guards were approaching.
The hero left the house, moving slowly, trying to imitate the skeleton's gait—stiff, angular, without the fluidity of living flesh. Two guards walked down the street, looking around. One turned his head toward the hero.
He stopped.
"You," the skeleton called. "Have you seen a living person?"
The hero froze. He tried to answer, but his voice caught in his throat. How should he speak? What did a skeleton sound like?
He clicked his jaw—or rather, tried to make a clicking sound. It came out unconvincing.
"N-no," he managed, trying to make his voice drier, raspier.
The guard tilted his head, studying him. He came closer.
"You speak strangely," he remarked. "And your clothes... why are you so bundled up?"
"Cold," the hero answered, the first thing that came to mind.
The guard stopped. The other one, standing behind him, also stared.
"Cold?" the first repeated. "We don't feel the cold, fool. We have no flesh."
Silence. "You..." the guard stepped closer, his skeletal hand reaching for the hero's skull. "You're not one of us."
The hero jerked back, but it was too late. Fingers grabbed the skull and tore it from his head.
The hero's living face was revealed to the skeletons.
"ALIVE!" the guard yelled, his voice like the grinding of bones. "HERE! HE'S HERE!"
The hero struck the guard in the chest, bones cracking, and the skeleton flying back. The second one rushed forward, his bone spear aimed at his chest.
The hero dodged, and the spear missed, grazing his side. He grabbed the shaft, yanking it toward him. The skeleton didn't expect it and flew forward. The hero slammed it against the wall, bones shattering, and the skull rolled across the pavement.
The first guard was getting up. The hero didn't wait—he ran.
Through the streets, weaving, not knowing where. Behind him, he heard screams, the ringing of bells, and the clatter of countless skeletal feet. The entire city guard seemed to have given chase.
The hero turned into an alley, then another. He ran out into the square—the very same market square where the skeletons were trading.
Everyone in the square stopped and stared at him.
"A living man in the square!" someone shouted.
A crowd of skeletons began to converge on him. Not aggressively, but inexorably. As if he were a rare commodity to be examined and assessed.
"How much for an arm?"
"I'll buy a leg!"
"I'll have the liver, if it's fresh!"
The hero backed away, but the crowd surrounded him from all sides. Bone hands reached for him, fingers clinging to his clothes.
He broke free and ran to the edge of the square. He saw a bridge over a canal and rushed toward it.
Halfway across the bridge, they caught up with him.
Bone hands grabbed his shoulders and arms, pulling him back. The hero twitched, trying to break free, but there were too many of them.
"Hold him!"
"Don't let him fall! The meat will spoil!"
One of the skeletons—a large one, in the remains of armor—raised a bone club, aiming for his head.
Strike. Pain exploded in his skull. His vision blacked out, his legs buckled. His arms weakened, and the hero fell backward, over the bridge railing.
The fall into the canal was short. The water—if it was water—was cold, viscous, and smelled of rot. The hero sank, the liquid filling his mouth, nose, lungs.
Drowning. Again. Darkness enveloped him, the cold seeping into his bones.
Consciousness faded.
Inhale.
The hero woke up on the bank of the canal, washed up somewhere downstream. Viscous liquid dripped from his clothes and hair. His head split from the phantom pain of the club blow.
He lay there, coughing, spitting out the remnants of the canal's filth. Resurrection in a new place. At least some success.
He looked around. A quiet part of town, few skeletons. Narrow streets, old houses made of bones, covered in cracks and mold.
He needed to be smarter. Disguise had failed. Escape hadn't worked. What then?
The hero stood up and looked around. A light was burning in one of the houses—weak, flickering, like a candle.
He approached and peered into the eye-socket window.
Inside sat a skeleton. Alone. An old one—its bones were darkened, cracked in places. It sat at a table made of ribs, writing something on parchment with a bone quill.
The hero knocked on the door. Carefully.
The skeleton raised its head, its jaw hanging open in surprise.
"Who's there?"
"A traveler," the hero replied. "Lost."
The door opened. The skeleton peered out, its empty eye sockets staring at the hero. A long pause.
"Alive," the skeleton stated calmly. No shouting, no panic. Just a fact. "A rarity."
"Don't shout," the hero asked. "Please."
The skeleton bowed his head, as if considering. Then he stepped back, opening the door wider.
"Come in. Quickly, before you're seen."
The hero stepped inside. The door closed behind him.
The room was simple—a table, a chair, a shelf with books (leather spines, bone covers), a candle on the table. It smelled of dust and something like incense.
"Sit," the skeleton pointed to a chair. "Would you like some tea?" A pause. "No, that's a stupid question. I only have bone broth; it won't do for you."
The hero sat down, wary. The skeleton returned to the table and continued writing.
"Aren't you going to call the guards?" the hero asked.
"Why?" the skeleton didn't raise its head. "I'm a scholar, not an informer. Being alive in the city—that's... interesting." A rare phenomenon. The last time I saw one was a hundred years ago. Maybe two hundred. My memory isn't what it used to be.
He put down his pen and turned to the hero:
"How did you end up here? Through the dungeon?"
The hero nodded:
"Coming up. From the lower floors."
"Ah," the skeleton nodded, as if that explained everything. "Cursed. Or blessed. It's a fine line." He stood up, walked over to the shelf, and pulled out a book. "The City of Bones—floor 999,994. Inhabited by those who cannot leave their remains. Bound to their bones, you understand? Personality, memories—all in the bones, not the flesh. We live as we once did. We trade, we work, we argue." He returned, placing the book on the table. "There's only one problem—meat is valuable. Flesh is currency. A living person here... you are wealth on your feet, my friend."
"I understand," the hero muttered. "They've already tried to sell me piece by piece."
The skeleton chuckled—a dry sound, like a rattle.
"I have no doubt. But don't be afraid. I'm not interested in your flesh. Knowledge is more important." He tapped his finger on his skull. "Tell me." How did you manage to get so far? Which floors did you climb?
The hero hesitated, but something about the skeleton inspired confidence. Maybe it was just fatigue. Maybe despair.
He told him. About the stomach. About bridges and titans. About the seraphim village. About the undead cathedral. About Lilith's brothel. About the reapers.
The skeleton listened without interrupting. When the hero finished, the scholar leaned back in his chair, thoughtful.
"Immortality... not a bad gift. And a curse at the same time. The pain remains, you say?" He nodded. "Yes, the soul remembers. The body is restored, but your essence bears the scars. Interesting... very interesting."
He stood, walked to the shelf, and pulled out a scroll.
"A map. Part of the city. Not complete, but it will help you." He unrolled it on the table. "See? You are here now, in the Old Quarter. The exit from the city is right here." — A bony finger pointed to a spot at the very edge of the map. — The northern gate. There are guards there, but far fewer than at the other exits. If you go at night… — he glanced out the window, — although it's practically always night here… But there is a time when the skeletons are less active. It'll be here soon. The so-called hour of rest.
— Why are you helping? — the hero asked.
The skeleton shrugged his bony shoulders.
— Because I can. Because it's interesting. Because… — he fell silent, staring into space. — …I was alive once. I remember that feeling. I don't want it to fade away completely. By helping you, I remind myself what it means to be human.
He rolled up the map and handed it to the hero.
— Go. The hour of rest has already begun. You have time.
The hero took the map, standing.
— Thank you.
— Don't thank me, — the skeleton returned to the table. — Just go. "And if you make it to the top..." he raised his head. "...remember us. Those caught between life and death. We, too, were once human."
The streets were quieter. The skeletons moved more slowly, many sitting or even lying against the walls, as if sleeping. An hour of peace.
The hero walked across the map, weaving between the bone buildings. No one paid him any attention—he moved quickly, keeping to the shadows.
The northern gate appeared ahead—a huge arch of intertwined skulls and long bones. Two guards stood at either side, but they, too, were inactive, leaning on their spears, almost motionless.
The hero crept past, pressing himself against the wall. One of the guards twitched, the skull turned, but the hero was already behind the arch, running along the passage leading upward.
A cry from behind:
"Stop!"
But it was too late. The hero disappeared into the passageway, the steps carrying him upward, away from the City of Bones.
999,993 floors.
Another one up.
The hero stopped on the landing, breathing heavily. The skeletal scientist's map was clutched in his hand. He looked at it, then carefully folded it, and tucked it into his belt.
A memory. A reminder that even here, in the dungeon, among the monsters and the dead, a drop of humanity remained.
He continued on, up the steps, to the next floor.
The dungeon awaited.