Crimson Quarry yawned before us like a fresh wound in the earth—its walls streaked with rust and ochre, the jagged cliffs spiraling into a sun-baked pit where heat shimmered in wavering waves.
Dormant currents of mana pulsed beneath scoured stone, and veins of phosphorescent crystal traced lunarsilver lines across the canyon face.
Around us fanned out natural bridges of fractured rock and platforms hewn by ancient collapse, each span an invitation and a gauntlet.
This was no narrow, claustrophobic dungeon—it was a limitless arena. No player cap. Dozens of parties clustered by the entrance: banners fluttered in the dry wind, blades glinting, staffs humming, minds sharpened by ambition.
Some laughed, voices tinkling like metal on metal. Others stood motionless, eyes narrowed. A few calculated angles of approach, hands poised above spells.
My own party formed a quiet constellation at the mouth of the pit.
Jareth, our leader, was lean as a drawn bowstring, pale eyes bright with calculated fire, twin short blades strapped across his back like restless serpents.
Lyra stood to his right, hair drifting as she spun a slender staff crowned with floating motes of wind—her specialty was control and graceful repositioning.
Behind them, Dain's hulking frame bristled with riveted armor etched in glowing mana channels; the reliable bulwark against any assault.
Mira and Solen flanked us—alchemists of flame and storm, their robes aflutter, hands already crackling with elemental fervor.
And I—Cain—held to the rear, ready to shape stone and support with careful precision.
We exchanged a series of curt nods. Jareth's voice cut the charged air, calm but inexorable: "Stick tight. We rotate engagement. Cain, you support. If it spirals, fall back to Dain."
The quarry's atmosphere felt viscous from the first step. Not oppressive, but weighty—each breath a small effort.
The ground trembled beneath distant roars. Then the first wave erupted from shadowed ledges: Razorhorn Hounds—lean, sinewy beasts plated in crimson mineral that gleamed like wet blood.
Dain advanced and took the lead, armor flaring as claws raked sparks from reinforced steel. His roar echoed off canyon walls.
Lyra lifted her staff and a vortex of wind roared outward, staggering two flankers into tumbling retreats.
I thrust a palm forward. "Rock Formation." From the scarred earth, jagged columns sprang up in a ring, cleaving the pack into manageable clusters.
Next, "Magic Missile." Three crystalline bolts hissed through the air—one pierced a hound's eye, another fractured a spine, the third buried itself deep in a flank.
Solen's lightning forked overhead, impaling the final beast in a scorching arc.
We advanced deeper, boots stirring red dust. Crystal Burrowers burst from fissures, their bodies sheathed in glittering quartz, mandibles snapping for legs.
Dain anchored one in place; I layered stone plates beneath us to seal shifting ground. Mira's blue-white flames licked through crystalline plating like acid, and Jareth danced between apertures, blades tracing silver arcs through vulnerable joints.
Coordination flowed—too pristine. And then a mist slithered in.
It began as a thin haze, coiling along the canyon floor.
The air's hum crescendoed; mana readings spiked. My HUD chimed urgently:
[Dungeon State Altered]
[Warning: Fallen Dungeon Detected]
The mist thickened into a carcinous fog.
The walls pulsed with corrupted light.
Fallen beasts reassembled from shattered remains: Hounds doubled in size, spines bulging; Burrowers reemerged encrusted in obsidian armor. Their eyes glowed with feral sentience.
"Fall back!" Jareth snarled.
But waves crashed upon us like tides. Dain grunted as three titanic hounds lunged at once, plate-sundered claws gouging steel.
I vaulted atop a shattered rock and raised twin walls of stone—but each barrier splintered under brute force.
"Forest's Embrace," I gasped, summoning thick vines that coiled at my feet and launched me toward Mira's side—too late. A massive hound snapped its jaws around her throat; her scream ceased in a wet, final gasp.
Solen followed soon after, dragged into a widening chasm by a burrower's crystalline tentacle.
Dain's armor splintered under a horned hound's charge; he crumpled without a final roar.
Lyra blasted gusts to shield us but the Fallen aura warped every breeze into shards.
Jareth and Lyra fell back down a narrowing ridge; I trailed with them. "We can't hold!" Lyra's whisper was thin as dust. Jareth's eyes flared. "We push for the boss." They charged—and died within heartbeats, blades and wind splintered by corrupted strength.
Silence swallowed the canyon. I stood alone amid ruin. We hadn't even reached the core.
I ran—methodically. Jagged barriers of my creation rose behind me, buying scant seconds. Magic missiles spat not to kill but to stagger pursuers.
I collapsed overhangs onto packs, used every fracture in the rock as a trap. Mana drained alarmingly:
Mana 0.9 / 3.1… 0.6 / 3.1.
At last I found a narrow recess carved into the wall. I sealed its mouth with layered stone, plunging myself into silence.
Darkness pressed in. Forest's Embrace vines curled around bruised ribs and cracked flesh. My breath came ragged, each inhale tasting of dust and iron.
Is it worth it? The thought slithered in.
Everyone was dead. I could accept defeat here—let the dungeon claim me.
The Empire would record another casualty; the world would march on.
I closed my eyes. Then I clenched my jaw.
No.
I didn't awaken for this.
Power ruled here, and I would not be prey.
I opened my eyes. "I will grow stronger than anyone," I whispered, voice rough as gravel.
"Strong enough to protect myself. Strong enough to protect any soul I choose." Mana inched upward. I stood, dismissed the wall, and stepped back into the quarry's blazing light.
The boss chamber yawned at the canyon's heart—a circular pit rimmed by serrated crimson pillars that dripped dust.
At its center pulsed a colossal figure of molten rock and crystal, veins of corrupted mana spiraling across its obsidian flesh: the Fallen Quarry Tyrant.
Its gaze, a burning inferno, swept over me. With a thunderous bellow, it unleashed a sweeping arm the size of a fallen tree. I rolled aside; the impact shattered stone beneath me.
I raised my hand. "Magic Missile." Three bolts scythed forward, barely nicking its plating.
I shook my head—wasting time. I danced back, every sinew alive. Rock pillars I'd summoned earlier crumbled as shields.
A shockwave slammed me into a pillar; ribs cracked. Forest's Embrace vines flared, knitting flesh even as they drained mana. (Mana 1.1 / 3.1.)
Realizing raw power would not suffice, I shut out pain and focused. Magic Missile—no—compressed, refined, distilled into a single point of blinding potential.
The structure trembled. Then it snapped into coherence. A beam of searing light erupted from my palm, lancing through the Tyrant's shoulder, splintering crystal like glass.
The beast reeled.
Another beam. Then another—each more stable, more lethal.
Mana plummeted as the Tyrant staggered, its roar shaking the pillars. It charged. I dove aside; Forest's Embrace held me upright.
I raised my hand once more: "Magic Blast." A final, concentrated beam tore through the core, shattering it into shards of dying light.
Silence fell.
I sank to my knees and laughed—a raw, triumphant wail that echoed off red stone. "I'm alive," I rasped, head tilted to the empty sky. "I will grow stronger than anyone. Stronger than this world. Stronger than fate." My HUD blinked with new messages:
[You have accomplished an impossible feat]
[Magic Missile (E) evolved to Magic Blast (C+) through sheer grit]
[Absolute Sage title honored; Absolute Sage has evolved]
[Passive Unlocked: Infinity—All MP costs now fixed at half your maximum]
I let the news wash over me, then laughed again—louder, bolder.
"Half," I whispered, eyes gleaming. "No spell can drain me dry." Around me, the Fallen Dungeon began to dissolve slowly into drifting dust and fading echoes.