"I dare you to eat this," said a nameless face that I vaguely remember, one of the few concrete memories that I have of my previous life. If I had known what it was that I placed in my mouth, if I had been sober enough to decline something so stupid, if I had been with people who would have checked on me—rather than believing I was passed out in a drunken stupor—then I might not have died. I might sound bitter now, but back then I wasn't.
The transition from life to death for me was uneventful, except for the expiration part of it, of course. I was inebriated on account of binge drinking, placed the flower in my mouth, a white oleander—if I can recall correctly—chewed and chewed then swallowed, laughed with everyone because we thought it was so funny, and then I drifted off to sleep never to wake again in the world to which I was born.
Awakening in this new world I was still feeling intoxicated, a light headedness that would not allow me to think clearly, remembered there was a blue screen in front of me that said: status, master of the dungeon, level 1, and a lot of other things I had no interest in, then chuckling to myself, believing that I got drunk while playing a video game, and in this belief of mine: I played on.
The game was a simple one: defend your dungeon. The questions: from whom? or what? why was it being besieged? what are they after? how do I win? and other basic but essential queries were never asked, in my simple mind the scenario was generic, like a plethora of other games and stories floating around out there in the world, this is just one more role playing game, and instructions weren't needed or wanted.
I excavated deeply into this world, making tunnels designed to sap ones endurance, designing labyrinths and mazes to test patience, creating rooms to elicit feelings of despair, scattering traps through out in order to hinder progress, and populating each descending floors with increased numbers of creatures: some were magical, while others were not; few that were strong, most were not; a majority preyed on weak flesh, the minority preyed on weak minds; all of them deadly.
The dungeon that was brought forth—through the conception of my malicious thoughts—was not a happy place. The inhabitants, both foreign and domestic, never knew who was hunter and who was prey, all killed if they could, all tried at the first opportunity or perceived indications of weakness. Even the adventurers would not hesitate to commit fratricide, laying down a comrade upon the altar of time as a sacrifice to save themselves, abandoning others like trash if they could not continue forward, and just like litter: the bones, rotting flesh, and equipment piled up over time, creating mounds that added to the myriads of obstacles they faced.
It was a strange environment filled with dichotomy—fear of the unknown kept people away; while dreams of wealth with prospects of a better life lured the most adventurous, foolish, or desperate people to enter this carnivorous world. The adventures would come alone, they would come in pairs, and they would come in parties, like a monsoon: a drip here, a drop there, and then the deluge would start and never stop, even when the dungeon is flooded and drowning in a lake of blood: they always kept coming. Unlike rain however, the adventurers were able to learn: with each step they gained fortitude, with each maze or labyrinth they created maps, with each puzzle they grew in knowledge, with each injury they learned caution, with each death they discovered resolve.
The traps were simple but effective on the whole when combined together over time, some were well hidden and only discovered when it sprang, some were easily located and dismantled before it can do it's job, some were intended to be easily located so it can be used as bait for the hidden traps to spring—all of them relied on chance and luck to kill, being cheap to make and easy to set: I stacked the odds in my favor.
With a jeweled body (known as a heart), created without flesh, unable to feel the bountiful sensations I once took for granted, without limbs to aid in movement; I slowly journeyed ever deeper underground, all the while making the floors wider and more elaborate in order to conceal my path from those who seek me.
As I continued to play, minutes turned into hours, hours into days, as the years passed by my consciousness slowly returned to me, but only some of my memories came back. Now I can understand the true horrors of what has befallen me, can assess my situation with an unfettered mind, can weigh experiences gleaned over time, and can see through jaded glasses, to what I have become: afraid. I have concluded that: secluded away in my cavern, constructing thick walls, creating traps, building pathways to lead others anywhere but to me, setting guards in order to protect myself from the world outside, I have become a hermit. In my fear I have erected a barrier that has isolated me from the world, far more effective than any prison cell, a dungeon of my own making: how ironic.
All these years I have lived in this new world yet know of nothing beyond the damp moldy walls of this cavern. What I do know however, is that I hate living like this; the life of a murder—if not through my direct actions, then by enabling the instruments and mechanics of death. My heart tells me that in my previous life I was not a violent man, but in this hell I can make the most horrendous serial killer envious of this massacre. The high accumulation of Dungeon Points bear witness to my current crimes, while the Experience Points gleaned through out this life offer a condemning testimony for my damned existence as an executioner for those who commit the misdemeanor of trespass. This is something that I'm not proud of, rather I am appalled with it.
If there is someone who would argue that I simply kill to sustain my own life, then I must rebut them, "Is this truly life?" Thinking about it I don't have cells, can't breath, and how in the hell do I reproduce? Do I bump against a rock until a core pops out? Perhaps I can find another core and roll up to it saying, "Hey darling, do you come here often? You're a female core right?"
With a heavy heart and a weary mind, I say softly to this world, "To whom it may concern, I quit!" With that I choose to end this madness.
---
Throughout the annals of history, the dungeon known as the, "Red Oleander," has always existed. It was well establish when it was first discovered over one million years ago, however no one knows how old it truly is or how long it can remain free of subjugation. They may never no because on this historic day adventures inside the dungeon heard from all direction a soft, "ting," like a fragile crystal being cracked; which had them all on guard straining to locate the source, after all it was not a sound produced in nature. Despite their vigilance, no threat could be found and the origins of the sound was lost.
Rumors regarding the events of that day started to spread, slowly tales of how monsters are slower in spawning within the dungeon began to circulate through out the many worlds that played host to one or more of it's entrances. These gossips solicited fear, happiness, and stimulated discussions both far and wide.
Many believed the dungeon was marshaling it's forces for a large-scale attack on the adventures: a mere calm before the storm. In matters concerning life and death, a change in the status quo is very disconcerting. Therefore, the more timid choose to explore the lower levels in the hopes of a quick exit out; biding their time waiting for the tempest to show and pass them by. Their reasoning was sound, "There's no future in death, opportunity comes to the living."
Others were elated, given the smallest window of opportunity they would jump head first for an advantage over others, after all great rewards come with equal risk. So with a determined heart they began to push further into the dungeon hoping to be the first to exploit its resources. For a few their gamble worked, and they became heroes for the next generation, pioneers of a new glorious future, and saviors of their world.
All the while, influential leaders, inebriated tavern patrons, and families held discussions at gatherings varying from large to small. Offering their views on the event, some people argued that it was a good thing, because it allowed them to gather more resources that are desperately needed. This argument was very persuasive considering some kingdoms and villages are dependent on the dungeon for daily necessity such as food and water. For those organizations who rely on the dungeon for their survival, their leaders push forward the expansion of the exploration project.
On the other hand a minority recommended caution and restraint, not because they lack courage, rather they were concerned about the future of their descendants. If for argument sake, the dungeon was truly dead, then the resources might not renew at all; so they can't be wasteful until they have secured a new supply or at least figure out whether or not the dungeon is dormant or dead.
As time moved on, people were still not sure if the dungeon has been conquered, or if it had been subjugated, but what they firmly believe was at the dungeon had gone dormant. Whether their speculations were true or not the adventures continued to travel ever deeper underground, starting settlements and villages along the way to make it more convenient to trade.
Year after year they continue to progress further, sporadic celebrations were abundant, because the further down they went more resources and treasures of higher quality would be found.
78 years later the adventures from the kingdom of Adele on the planet Adele finally reached the 49th floor from the 16th floor, they believe they were getting ever closer to the Core of the dungeon, not knowing that they have barely scratched the surface of this massive structure spanning not just beneath their feet but connecting other planets and mythical realms.
While the kingdom plan to celebrate it's first steps into the 49th floor a young clan master hopes to celebrate the birth of his fourth child. He impatiently paces back and forth waiting for good news when he hears a child crying. His relatives joyfully congratulated him as he walked towards the birth chamber, blissfully unaware that when his child took his first breath, the dungeon began to awaken in earnest.