The Dungeon was a yawning maw, a labyrinth swallowing up the foolish and the bold alike, its endless floors alive with beasts that clawed and tore at the desperate adventurers who dared seek fortune within. Among them was a kid, Bell Cranel—eyes bright, a grin wide, and fantasies clinging to him like the sweat of nerves. When he signed his name at the guild, he imagined himself a hero, sword gleaming, maidens swooning.
He saw himself standing over fallen monsters, bloodied but victorious, the thrill of the fight coursing through him as he basked in the adoring gazes of beautiful women. Cute shop girls, elven maidens, and Amazon warriors—all vying for his attention, captivated by his bravery and charm. In his head, every fight ended with him grinning like an idiot while blushing damsels clung to his arm.
It was the kind of naïve nonsense only a kid with his head buried in hero stories would dream up. And hell, maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world to hope for a little adventure, maybe even a harem along the way. But life had a habit of sucker-punching people like Bell, and the Dungeon wasn't some fairy tale waiting for a hero. It was a pit that chewed up the hopeful and spat out the hopeless.
"Wuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
Bell's scream ripped through the corridors, the stone walls tossing it back at him, mocking him as he sprinted for his life. Behind him, the ground shuddered with each thunderous step of the Minotaur. The beast was a nightmare—a mountain of muscle and rage, a bull's head and a man's body fused into one massive, murderous silhouette. Its roars filled the air, a savage bellow that clawed at his nerves and made his legs feel like jelly.
He had tried to fight it—well, tried. A Level 1 adventurer against that hulking monstrosity? His strikes had been about as effective as tapping a wall with a toothpick. Now, he was sprinting down a dead-end corridor, the weight of his own stupidity bearing down on him.
When his back hit the cold stone wall, the tremors of each of the Minotaur's steps vibrated through him, and reality smacked him upside the head. He was going to die. All those stupid fantasies—gone, torn apart by the claws of something that didn't give a damn about his heroic delusions. He'd give anything to go back and slap some sense into himself before he signed up at the guild.
The tears came without warning, hot and stinging as he stared up at the monster, its breath like a furnace, rancid and overwhelming. It loomed over him, easily twice his size, its muscles coiled and ready to tear him apart.
He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the end—
—but then there was a blur of silver and a bone-crushing thud. The air filled with the sound of flesh slamming into flesh, the Minotaur's roar morphing into a bellow of agony.
Bell's eyes shot open. Where the beast had stood, there was now a heap of fur and flesh, crumpled like a broken toy. Over it, standing with a cold, predatory air, was a figure even a newbie like him knew—Bete Loga, the Loki Familia's resident werewolf and level 5 adventurer.
Bete's silver hair glinted even in the dim light, his lupine eyes narrowed with disgust as he surveyed his handiwork. Blood dripped from his fist, still clenched from the strike that had crushed the Minotaur's skull like a melon. His gaze shifted to Bell, sharp and unyielding, and Bell felt himself shrink, his legs giving out as he slumped against the wall.
For a moment, Bete's eyes softened, a flicker of concern passing through. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a look that made Bell feel like a cockroach. Weak. Pathetic.
"Tch." Bete flicked the blood off his hand with a dismissive gesture. His voice was rough, irritated. "You don't belong here, kid. Weaklings like you get eaten alive in this place." The words were blunt, and they stung, but Bell knew there was no malice in them. Just the brutal, unfiltered truth.
Bell's mouth moved, but nothing came out. He wanted to say something—anything—to justify himself, to prove he wasn't just some sniveling kid playing hero. But he had nothing.
Bete's nose wrinkled, whether from the Minotaur's blood or Bell's pathetic state, it didn't matter. "The Dungeon doesn't give a damn about your fantasies. It'll grind you up and leave nothing behind." His voice was a low growl, the words laced with a kind of vicious wisdom.
With that, Bete turned, his silhouette fading into the shadows as he disappeared, leaving Bell alone with the cooling corpse of the beast and the shattered pieces of his delusions.
Bell's legs shook as he pushed himself up, his hands trembling as he steadied himself against the wall. Every step felt like trudging through mud. His dreams of heroism seemed childish, laughable even, in the face of the Dungeon's brutality.
But despite everything, there was a flicker of something in his chest—small, fragile, but there. He had survived. Somehow, against all odds, he had faced a Minotaur and lived. Sure, he didn't win, and maybe he looked pathetic doing it, but he was still standing.
He had a long way to go, but it was a start.
.
.
.
Fate's pond rippled, a single stone thrown into its depths causing waves that spread far beyond their point of impact. On the tenth floor, where the air grew heavy with the scent of stone and blood, Ais Wallenstein stood, her golden eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before her. Her breath was calm, measured, but her heart thrummed with a quiet intensity. The adventurer she watched moved like a shadow-back masked, identity hidden-yet something about his presence, his movements, felt familiar, like a whisper from a half-forgotten dream.
The adventurer danced through the chaos, sidestepping the vicious claws of one Minotaur while twisting to deliver a precise strike to another. His footwork was fluid, his strikes calculated, every step a testament to experience and precision. Ais watched as he dismantled the first beast, his sword carving through its flesh with brutal efficiency. The second Minotaur charged, only to be met with a devastating counterattack that split its skull open, a spray of blood marking the end of its charge. There was a rhythm to his fighting-a controlled madness she somehow recognized.
Could this be...the Man with the Scarred Back?