Arrogance. The downfall of powerful beings. Throughout history, it has toppled kings and felled gods. It is a silent predator, feeding on strength and bloating it into hubris. For Michael, this concept had once been a distant idea—something he'd read about in the stories of ancient mythologies and epic tales. But now, in the echoing silence of the dungeon, it was becoming a palpable, creeping reality. Power, as intoxicating as it was, came with an unspoken burden. This burden wasn't the noble responsibility of protecting others, nor the romanticized duty of safeguarding the world. No, for Michael, the real responsibility was simpler and far more dangerous: controlling his own power, ensuring it did not spiral out of control.
The next three floors of the dungeon passed by in a blur, almost like a dream. Or perhaps, a nightmare. Michael moved through them with a lethality that bordered on mechanical, his steps purposeful but devoid of any real engagement with his surroundings. The monsters that dared to cross his path—goblins with wicked grins, kobolds with large claws, skeletal abominations with hollow eyes—were reduced to nothing more than fodder for his insatiable appetite for destruction. They crumbled under the weight of his strength, their lives snuffed out like candles in a storm.
It wasn't a battle; it was a massacre.
Michael found himself moving on autopilot, his body executing each movement with the precision of a well-oiled machine. A pulse of magic vaporized enemies before they could even register their impending doom. There was no need for tactics anymore, no need for strategy or caution. His power was overwhelming, and the creatures of the dungeon were little more than insects crushed beneath his heel.
As he walked through the corridors, his thoughts drifted, only vaguely aware of the carnage he was leaving behind. Each spell felt increasingly hollow. The thrill of the fight, the rush of adrenaline that had once fueled him, was now nothing more than a distant memory. The monsters that had once seemed formidable were now pathetic, their attempts to stop him almost laughable. They were beneath him—mere nuisances, unworthy of his full attention.
With a quick activation of his mana, he dispatched a group of goblins, their bodies disintegrating into bloody mist before they could even cry out. He barely registered the Beast Cores that materialized in their place, automatically storing them in his inventory without a second thought. The items from the chests scattered around the floors received the same treatment, tossed into his storage with careless indifference. What had once been treasures now felt like trinkets, worthless in the face of the power he wielded.
In these small, claustrophobic floors, Michael acted like a dragon of the abyss, hoarding riches not for their value, but because it was expected. He killed and plundered out of habit, not out of necessity or desire. The dungeon was a pit, and he was the beast lurking within it, a predator at the top of the food chain with no worthy prey in sight.
Yet, as the hours passed and the bodies piled up, a gnawing unease began to creep into the corners of his mind. The thrill he had once felt—the exhilaration of battle, the satisfaction of overcoming a powerful foe—was gone, replaced by a dull, pervasive boredom. The monsters, these so-called "challenges," were nothing more than obstacles to be swept aside. There was no joy in it, no satisfaction. He was crushing them, yes, but with every victory, he felt a piece of himself withering away.
The dungeon itself seemed to mock him, presenting wave after wave of weaklings that fell before his might without so much as scratching him. The walls closed in around him, oppressive and suffocating, as if the very structure of the dungeon was squeezing the life out of him. The power that had once invigorated him now felt like a burden, a heavy weight that pressed down on his soul with each swing of his weapon, with every spell he cast.
Michael paused in the middle of yet another empty corridor, pulling up his status screen. The familiar display flashed before his eyes:
—
Michael Elliott
Nickname: Azrael
Level: 16 (5462/16000)
Race: Fallen Seraph
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Class: Death Angel
Subclass: Runesmith
Health: 246/250
Mana Capacity: 251/1500
Strength: 40
Agility: 200
Defense: 15
Magic Defense: 80
Luck: 400
Unused Stat Points: 80
Titles: Overlord of Death, Rule Breaker, One Watched By The Gods
—
The numbers were monstrous, almost absurdly so. His stats had skyrocketed, each level-up pushing him further beyond the limits of what he had once believed possible.
What good is all this power if there's nothing to challenge me? The thought gnawed at him, digging deep into his mind like a parasite. What was the point of all this strength, this terrifying power, if it couldn't be tested? If every enemy he faced was destined to fall before him with such ease, then what was he really accomplishing?
With a deep breath, Michael let the status screen fade, the familiar glow of the numbers disappearing into the darkness. The silence in the dungeon was oppressive, a heavy blanket that smothered him as he approached the next door. His hand rested on the cold, worn handle, the metal cool against his skin. For a moment, just a moment, he hesitated.
"Is this all there is?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, a whisper barely audible in the crushing silence. But once spoken, they hung in the air, a dark cloud that refused to dissipate.
The weight of his transformation pressed down on him like a mountain, and for the first time, he questioned the path he was walking. The arrogance he had carried so proudly began to crack, and behind it, Michael felt a creeping sense of emptiness. He had craved power, and now he had it in seeming abundance. But the deeper he delved into the dungeon, the more hollow it felt.
But there was no turning back. With a deep breath, Michael pushed the door open, the hinges creaking under the strain. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it as he always had—head-on, with no hesitation. But as he descended deeper into the dungeon, the darkness closing in around him, a lingering thought remained, festering in the back of his mind.
Would there ever be a foe worthy of his power, or would the dungeon ultimately consume him—not through battle, but by crushing him under the weight of his own arrogance?
Michael stepped into the next chamber, the cold, suffocating air clinging to his skin as the darkness swallowed him whole. The floor beneath his feet was rough, uneven, the stone worn down by countless battles fought and lost. The air was thick with the stench of blood and decay, a grim reminder of the countless lives that had been snuffed out in this place.
The silence was deafening, a heavy, oppressive weight that pressed down on him from all sides. The walls seemed to close in, the shadows twisting and contorting into grotesque shapes that danced at the edge of his vision. He could feel the dungeon watching him, its malevolent gaze following his every move, waiting for him to slip, to falter.
But he would not give it the satisfaction. Michael's hand tightened, his eyes scanned the darkness, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of the next challenge that awaited him.
And yet, as he moved deeper into the chamber, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The air was too still, too quiet, the silence almost unnatural. It was as if the dungeon itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Michael's heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm matching the pulse of mana that thrummed through his veins. He could feel the power coiled within him, ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice. But as the minutes ticked by, and the chamber remained empty, a sense of unease began to settle over him.
Where are they? he wondered, his mind racing as he continued to scan the darkness. The monsters, the traps, the challenges that had plagued him on every floor before this one—where had they gone? Was this some kind of trick, a ploy to lure him into a false sense of security?
Or was it something else entirely?
The thought sent a chill down his spine, a cold, unrelenting fear that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. The dungeon had never been empty before. It had never given him a moment of peace, a chance to catch his breath. So why now? Why here?
His hand tightened again, blood coming out of his balled fists. He could feel the weight of his power, the overwhelming force that had once been a source of pride, now hanging over him like a guillotine. The silence was maddening, each second that passed without incident only serving to heighten his anxiety.
And then, just as he was about to move forward again, the silence was shattered. A low, rumbling growl echoed through the chamber, reverberating off the walls like the roar of some ancient beast. The sound sent a shockwave through Michael, his heart skipping a beat as he whipped around, his eyes scanning the darkness for the source.
But there was nothing there. No movement, no sign of life—just the oppressive darkness that surrounded him on all sides. The growl came again, louder this time, closer, the sound vibrating through his very bones. It was a primal, feral sound, filled with a rage and hunger that sent a shiver down Michael's spine.
He raised his hand, ethereal light shined as he called up on his magic. The growl intensified, growing into a roar that shook the very foundations of the dungeon. The ground beneath his feet trembled, cracks spider webbing across the stone as the air grew thick with the stench of sulfur and decay.
And then, out of the darkness, it emerged.
A hulking, monstrous figure, its form shrouded in shadow, stepped into the dim light. Its eyes glowed a sickly yellow, filled with a malice that made Michael's blood run cold. The creature was massive, its body covered in jagged, obsidian-like scales that reflected the faint light. Its mouth was filled with razor-sharp teeth, each one glistening with the blood of its past victims.
Michael's breath caught in his throat as the creature advanced, its movements slow and deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey. The air around it crackled with dark energy, the very essence of the dungeon seeping into its form, fueling its power.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Michael felt a flicker of fear. This was no ordinary monster, no mindless beast to be disintegrated with a single spell. This was something different, something far more dangerous.
A true challenge.
The creature let out another roar, the sound shaking the walls and sending a cascade of dust and debris raining down from above. Its eyes locked onto Michael, filled with a burning hatred that sent a shiver down his spine. This was what he had been waiting for—a foe worthy of his power, a battle that would push him to his very limits.
Michael's lips curled into a feral grin, the anticipation of the fight igniting a fire in his chest. The boredom, the unease, all of it melted away as the thrill of battle took hold once more. He had been craving a challenge, and now, it had finally found him.
With a shout, Michael jumped back, his magic blazing with ethereal light as he unleashed his power. The creature charged at him, its claws flashing in the dim light as it lunged for his throat. The battle that followed was nothing short of cataclysmic, the dungeon trembling with the force of their blows.
For the first time in a long time, Michael felt alive.
But as the battle raged on, the darkness of the dungeon whispered to him, reminding him of the price of arrogance. The creature he faced was powerful, yes, but it was also a reflection of his own growing power, a manifestation of the dungeon's will to challenge him.
And in the back of his mind, a lingering thought remained, gnawing at him with every spell cast.
Would there ever be a foe worthy of his power, or would the dungeon ultimately consume him—not through battle, but by crushing him under the weight of his own arrogance?
Michael's heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought with everything he had. The creature roared, its claws raking across his armor, but Michael didn't falter. He couldn't. Not now.
This was the battle he had been waiting for—the one that would define him.
And he would not lose.
The darkness pressed in from all sides, but Michael pushed it back, his spells blazing like a beacon of light in the depths of the abyss. The creature snarled, its eyes burning with hatred, but Michael met its gaze with a steely resolve.
The dungeon would not break him. He would emerge victorious.
Or die trying.