Not another Dungeon Story
It did not matter who you were. A noble’s blood, a scholar’s wisdom, a merchant’s wealth—none of it meant a damn thing inside the dungeons.
Once you stepped beyond those gates, past the threshold where light faded and the unknown swallowed all, there was only one truth that mattered.
The strong ruled. The weak perished.
It did not matter if you were a prince or a beggar, a decorated warrior or a nameless fool. The dungeon did not care. It did not discriminate. It only tested, again and again, until your bones lay among the countless others who had thought themselves worthy.
For most, dungeon diving was not a choice—it was survival. In this city of towering walls and endless ambition, men and women bled for the chance to carve their names into history. They fought for coin, for glory, for the slim chance of rising above their station. They fought because, in Dragnir, power was the only thing that truly mattered.
Some dove for wealth, their eyes glimmering with the promise of fortune buried in the depths. Others sought fame, desperate for their names to be whispered in awe, their deeds recorded in legend. And then there were those who fought for power—not for riches, not for glory, but for strength itself.
Because in the end, power was the only thing that meant anything.
And so, they fought. Again and again, against monsters that never died, in dungeons that never emptied. They struggled, they endured, they bled, and still, the dungeons called for more.
For some, the call was a curse. For others, a promise.
But no matter the reason, no matter their fate—once they stepped inside, they belonged to the dungeon.
And the dungeons… never let go. Right Dungeons, because it's not only one but Three of them with different kinds of hell to offer, will you dive?.
