Most people went into dungeons for the glory. Some went for the gold. A few of the mentally unhinged ones went for the exercise.
Silas Vane? He was here because he was broke.
And because his landlord, a woman built like a brick wall with a fondness for throwing pottery, had threatened to turn his intestines into a decorative scarf if he didn't pay rent by Friday.
"Focus, Silas," he muttered to himself, dodging a glob of acidic green slime that hissed against the stone floor where his foot had been a second ago. "Glory doesn't pay the bills. Gold does. And hopefully, this ugly little blob drops something shiny."
He spun, his worn leather boots gripping the damp moss of the dungeon floor. With a flourish that was entirely unnecessary and overly dramatic, he thrust his short sword forward. The blade, a chipped thing he'd named 'The Last Resort,' pierced the gelatinous body of the dungeon rat.
The rat squeaked—a sound like a wet balloon rubbing against glass—and burst into pixelated light.
Silas wiped a speck of imaginary dust from his shoulder and sheathed his sword. He struck a pose for an audience of zero.
"Another victory for the dashing hero," he announced to the empty corridor. "Truly, the bards will weep trying to capture my elegance. Maybe I should charge an admission fee for the next monster to witness this face."
He ran a hand through his midnight-black hair, pushing his bangs out of his emerald eyes. It was a nervous habit, but Silas had cultivated it into an art form. He knew he was handsome. In fact, it was the only piece of equipment he owned that was S-rank. It had gotten him free drinks in taverns and out of trouble with city guards more times than he could count.
Unfortunately, it didn't do much against level 15 dungeon vermin.
He sighed, the bravado fading as he looked at the loot. A single, glistening tooth.
"One copper piece," he groaned, picking it up with two fingers. "I risked my beautiful complexion for one copper piece? That won't even buy me a stale loaf of bread. This economy is rigged."
The dungeon was called The Whispering Oubliette, a D-rank labyrinth located a few miles from the bustling city of Oakhaven. It was a beginner's dungeon, usually packed with fledgling adventurers hoping to make a name for themselves. But Silas had delved deeper than the usual crowd.
Why? Because he was desperate. And because he had stolen—acquired, he corrected himself—an old map from a drunk adventurer in a tavern back in the city.
The map pointed to a hidden room on the third sub-level. A room that wasn't supposed to exist.
Silas checked the crumpled parchment in his hand. The ink was fading, but the markings were clear. Third level, behind the statue of the Weeping King.
He moved deeper into the gloom. The air grew colder, the torchlight flickering against the walls. The usual sounds of the dungeon—the skittering of beetles, the distant drip of water—faded into an oppressive silence.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
"I hate this," Silas whispered, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. "In the stories, this is exactly when the giant spider drops down. Or a skeleton with an identity crisis. Or, worst of all, a dramatic monologue villain."
He reached the end of the corridor. There, standing in a pool of stagnant water, was a statue. It was a grotesque thing, a king carved from obsidian, his hands covering his face as if weeping.
"The Weeping King," Silas murmured. "Cheerful fellow. Probably didn't pay his rent either."
According to the map, the entrance wasn't at the statue. It was under it.
Silas waded into the cold water, shivering. "If I catch a cold, I'm suing the cartographer," he grumbled. He felt along the base of the statue until his fingers brushed a jagged indentation. A button.
He pressed it.
Click.
The ground didn't rumble. The statue didn't explode. Instead, a section of the wall behind him slid open with the smooth, silent hiss of ancient mechanics.
"That's... surprisingly well-maintained for a ruin," Silas noted, raising an eyebrow. "Usually there's more crumbling involved."
He stepped into the hidden passage. The air inside was different—dry, ancient, and smelling faintly of ozone and old paper.
The room was small, circular, and devoid of the usual dungeon filth. In the center, atop a simple stone pedestal, sat an object that made Silas forget about his rent, his landlord, and the cold water soaking his boots.
It wasn't a chest. There was no pile of gold.
It was a book.
But calling it a book felt like an insult. The cover was bound in a material that seemed to shift between deep purple and absolute black. It had no title on the spine. It seemed to absorb the light from Silas's torch, drinking it in.
"A book?" Silas scoffed, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "I risked my life for a library book? I was hoping for a legendary sword. Or at least a diamond the size of my fist."
He approached it cautiously. Trap check, his instincts screamed. He looked at the floor, the ceiling, the pedestal. Nothing. No pressure plates. No magic glyphs.
Just the book.
"Okay," he said, talking to the object as if it were a person. "I'm going to pick you up. If you curse me, I'm going to be very upset. I have a strict 'no curses on weekdays' policy."
He reached out.
The moment his skin brushed the cover, a shockwave of cold rushed up his arm. It didn't hurt; it felt like plunging into a glacial lake. The room vanished. The torchlight vanished.
Silas stood in absolute nothingness.
He wasn't standing on the dungeon floor anymore. He was floating in a void of infinite darkness.
"Oh, great," he said, his voice echoing into eternity. "I've been isekai'd. Or I'm dead. Or I finally hallucinated from hunger. I'm betting on the hunger thing."
A voice spoke. It didn't come from anywhere specific; it vibrated inside his skull, deep and resonant, sounding like the grinding of tectonic plates.
"THE CODEX OF THE VOID ACKNOWLEDGES A SOUL OF CHAOS."
Silas blinked. "Chaos? I prefer the term 'spontaneous'. 'Chaos' sounds like I leave my laundry on the floor. Which I do, but still."
"SILENCE, VESSEL."
A screen appeared before him—not a floating blue box like the standard System interfaces everyone used, but a cascading waterfall of purple runes that reorganized themselves into Common script.
[System Notification: Unique Artifact Detected]
[Analyzing Soul Compatibility...]
[Compatibility: 100%]
[Warning: This Path is Lonely. This Path is Absolute. Do you accept the Burden of the Void?]
Silas stared at the text. Most people would be terrified. Most people would run. But Silas was a gambler, and right now, he was holding a royal flush in a game he hadn't even known he was playing.
"Burden?" Silas smirked, crossing his arms. "Usually, pop-ups like this offer a class. Are you telling me I can be a Void Mage? Or a Shadow Assassin? Because I have to say, I look great in black."
The voice rumbled again, sounding almost amused.
"NOT A MAGE. NOT AN ASSASSIN. YOU SHALL BE THE END AND THE BEGINNING."
The text shifted.
[Class Acquired: Void Sovereign]
[Initiating Integration...]
Pain erupted. Not a physical pain, but a remolding of his very existence. It felt like his DNA was being rewritten by a drunk architect with a grudge. Silas fell to his knees—or what he thought were his knees—in the endless void.
"Argh! Warning... next time... ask for consent!" he gritted out through clenched teeth.
[Skill Gained: Void Step (Legendary Grade)]
[Skill Gained: Sovereign's Gaze (Passive)]
[Title Gained: The One Who Walks Unseen]
As quickly as it began, the void shattered. Silas gasped, stumbling backward. He was back in the small room. The book on the pedestal had vanished, or rather, it had dissolved into motes of black light that were currently sinking into his skin.
He looked at his hands. They looked the same—slender, calloused from sword work—but he could feel it. A hum. A reservoir of power sitting just behind his navel.
He brought up his status screen, a mental command he had done a thousand times.
Name: Silas Vane
Level: 26
Class: Void Sovereign (Unique)
Strength: 28
Agility: 36
Intelligence: 41
Charm: 65 (User's vanity has been noted by the System)
Silas grinned. "Hey! My Charm is legitimate stats!"
He focused on the new Class. Usually, classes had descriptions like 'Fire Mage: Specializes in ranged destruction.'
He willed the description of Void Sovereign to appear.
Class Description:He who commands the space between stars. He whose authority is absolute over the nothingness. You are not a wielder of magic; you are the hole in the world. The Void does not serve you; it respects you.
Silas read it twice.
"Hole in the world?" he chuckled dryly. "That's a bit rude. I prefer 'Cosmic Anomaly with Great Hair'."
He took a deep breath. The dungeon felt different now. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch toward him, greeting him like an old friend. He could see the faint lines of mana in the air, but they were brittle. He knew, with an instinct he didn't have five minutes ago, that he could snap those lines with a thought.
He tried his new skill. [Sovereign's Gaze].
The world shifted into grayscale. He could see the heat signatures of rats behind the walls. He could see the flow of mana in the dungeon's structure. And he could see... a hidden compartment behind the pedestal where the book had been.
The vision faded. Silas blinked, shaking off the dizziness.
"Neat," he whispered.
He walked over to the wall the Gaze had highlighted. He pushed a stone, and a small alcove opened. Inside wasn't a legendary weapon, but a small pouch of heavy gold coins and a note.
He opened the note. The handwriting was jagged and frantic.
To whoever finds this: The Codex is a trap. It is not power. It is a cage. If you read this, I am already dead. Do not use the—
The note ended abruptly, torn at the edge.
Silas looked at the gold, then at his hand where the black motes had sunk in. He weighed the pouch. It was heavy. Enough to pay the landlord for three months. Enough to buy a better sword.
He tucked the gold into his bag and looked at the torn note.
"A trap, huh?" Silas smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He crumpled the note and tossed it over his shoulder. "Well, little note-writer, you clearly didn't know one thing."
He turned and began walking back toward the exit, his silhouette blending seamlessly with the dungeon shadows.
"I have terrible luck with traps. I usually trigger them. But this one..."
He patted his chest, feeling the cold thrum of the Void.
"I think this one triggered me."
Silas Vane, the broke adventurer with the pretty face, walked out of the hidden room. He was broke no longer, but he was certainly no longer just an adventurer.
He was a Sovereign. And he had a feeling his life was about to get very, very complicated.
"Right then," he said, stepping over a sleeping goblin without waking it, thanks to his new silence. "First order of business: Rent. Second order of business: Find out what the hell a 'Void Sovereign' actually eats for breakfast. I'm starving."