I glance over at the others. We've been pushing our luck in this dungeon far longer than usual, and I can feel the tension in the air, a kind of gut-wrenching unease that usually signals trouble. We've gathered more materials than I expected—chunks of glistening scales, vials of venom from those damn frog creatures, and other body parts the alchemists back at the fortress will pay handsomely for. But there's a fine line between profit and suicide, and I'm pretty sure we've danced right up to that edge.
Kirelle's eyes meet mine, and I see the weariness mirrored there, the same look of "maybe it's time to go." And if she, of all people, is ready to head out, then I know I'm not the only one feeling it. Korin's wiping sweat from his brow, his arrows dangerously low, and Tristan, though still bolstered by that strange green glow from his necklace, has a faint wobble in his stance. We all know what it means when we're at the end of our rope in a dungeon like this.
"Let's go." I murmur, keeping my voice low but firm.
They nod, and I reach into my bag, fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface of the escape crystal. It hums softly in my hand, almost like it's alive, ready to pull us back to safety. Normally, we'd have to be desperate to use one of these—escape crystals aren't cheap. But this isn't just about us anymore; it's about everything we've gathered, everything we've survived for. And something about that faint, ominous rumble in the air tells me we're about to cross paths with something much, much worse than those frog creatures if we don't leave now.
I raise the crystal, catching the others' eyes one last time, then activate it. A bright light fills my vision, and for a second, it's like I'm floating—weightless, warm, safe. When the light fades, the damp, decaying walls of the dungeon are gone, replaced by the familiar, muddy ground outside. The fortress walls loom in the distance, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
We make our way to the truck, joining the others who managed to make it out alive. I take a quick headcount of familiar faces, but as usual, some of the people who went in with us aren't here now. It's a reality of dungeon runs—half of us never make it back, and it's a grim reminder of just how close we came to adding ourselves to that list.
The truck is packed, crammed with battered bodies and weary faces, and the air is thick with sweat and the faint smell of blood. I slide into my seat, squeezing in between Kirelle and Korin, who are both slumped and breathing heavily. Tristan takes his spot next to me, his face a mix of exhaustion and relief, the green glow around his necklace finally dimming.
As the truck starts up, rumbling over the rough terrain back toward the fortress, I lean my head against the cold metal frame, letting my eyes close just for a moment. The tension slowly drains from my shoulders, and I finally feel the weariness settle in, a bone-deep ache that tells me just how close we came to pushing ourselves too far.
I glance at the younger kids in the truck—scrawny, wide-eyed, clutching onto whatever scraps they managed to salvage, they look traumatized but we all are in sector Z, on the bright side some are alive.
The truck lurches as it rolls over a pothole, snapping me out of my thoughts. Outside, the wasteland stretches as far as I can see, a bleak, empty stretch of land that separates us from the fortress walls. Sector Z isn't like the inner districts; out here, we barely survive, scraping by on what little we can gather from these dangerous dungeon runs.
But I don't plan on staying at the bottom forever. This trip has only made that resolve stronger.
We eventually reach the fortress gates, and the guards wave us in, barely glancing at us. We're the regulars, the ones they see week after week, bruised and bloodied but always coming back. The truck pulls into the loading area, and we stumble out, stretching sore muscles and rolling shoulders, taking inventory of everything we managed to bring back.
Tristan is already busy sorting through the materials we collected, carefully packing them into his bag with a precision born from countless trips like this. He pauses, though, when he catches my eye, giving me a rare grin. "Looks like we'll be making a good haul this time," he says, his voice soft but carrying a note of pride.
"Yeah," I reply, a faint smile tugging at
the corners of my mouth.