An average person might not pay it any mind, but for Dylas—a man who had spent a thousand years hearing nothing but absolute silence—sound was a revelation. You can never truly appreciate the sheer luck and wonder of motion, noise, or even a faint echo until you have sat for a millennium where even the wind refuses to blow.
Instantly, Dylas leaped to his six feet, his gaze snapping toward the direction of that tiny, sharp sound. A part of him wondered if he was merely dreaming, a hallucination born of a crumbling mind. Yet, he had to know. He began to step forward cautiously, stalking toward the source of the noise. His eyes scanned left and right through the void.
One thing Dylas had come to understand was that this obsidian darkness was infinite. One could walk forever and find neither a beginning nor an end. But luck was on his side; the sound had originated nearby, and he was able to home in on its precise location. He moved slowly, peering into the gloom that had been his only companion. There was nothing in this darkness except for Dylas's own crushing loneliness. It was a vacuum of "nothingness," where even the concept of "nothing" seemed to be missing.
Dylas let out a roar, a habitual curse of condemnation.
"I curse you again! Every one of you who cast me into this place through that dream—I curse you by every name of every religion that has ever existed! You hide me away for a thousand years, and now you have the nerve to taunt me?"
How could he not lash out? But when he reached the spot where the 'click' sound had echoed, he found nothing. Only the darkness remained, indifferent and vast. With a heavy heart, Dylas felt his way back to his usual spot, folded his legs, and prepared to sink back into meditation. What else was there to do?
But the taunting did not end there.
Shortly after sitting down, he heard it again—another sharp 'click'. Before he could even turn to investigate, a deafening crack erupted. This wasn't a dream; the force of the sound was so physical that it practically shoved him from his spot. Shocked and bewildered, he struggled to comprehend what was happening, when suddenly, a glowing status window flickered before his eyes—a message that would alter his existence forever.
He stood tall on his six legs, watching as the darkness that had imprisoned him for a millennium began to shatter. Dylas never imagined he would find such joy in seeing light destroy shadow. The darkness he thought was eternal was now crumbling, cracking, and falling away like broken glass.
The silence was being replaced by a cacophony of shattering reality. For a man who had heard nothing for ten centuries, even a tiny vibration could overwhelm the heart, yet Dylas stood his ground. He watched as the darkness—which had ignored his cries, his prayers, his insults, and his curses—was finally obliterated. If this was the death of his prison, then he would feast on the sight of its demise.
Dylas felt a surge of pure, unadulterated bliss. Perhaps he had forgotten how to smile, but on this day, his spirit beamed. He would have been happy to see the entire world explode if it meant his captors were defeated. When the dust finally settled, he saw that the infinite void had been replaced by a massive, ancient wall. This wall was a gateway, gargantuan in scale and masterfully crafted.
A new message appeared before him:
Seeing this, a cold sweat broke across Dylas's brow. He was like a man who had once been bitten by a snake and now trembled at the sight of a mere piece of string. After being trapped for so long, the idea of entering somewhere he might not be able to leave sent a shiver of terror through him.
He knew what it meant when a dungeon said there was no exit: you could not leave until you conquered the challenge within. Despite his age and strength, Dylas felt a wave of inadequacy. This wasn't just any dungeon; it was the fusion of one hundred dungeons. Unless his mind had truly rotted into madness, how could he believe he could conquer such a place alone?
The immortal dais screen updated with further instructions:
"Four hours? A party of three? What do you want from me?!" Dylas screamed into the emptiness. "If you want to kill me, just do it! Show yourselves! I just want to get out of here, you lunatics! Just let me out!"
He hadn't asked to be here. He hadn't sought this fate. If it were up to him, his only goal would be to find the people who stole his life, his family, and his youth, and exact a bloody revenge. But the only answer he received was the cold, shimmering light of the new gateway.
Before long, Dylas began to hear something he hadn't heard in a thousand years: the sound of voices from the outside. He turned, looking toward the entrance, unable to see them yet, but he knew...
He knew those shouts belonged to adventurers—those who make a living by plundering the blessings of the dungeons. But he also knew that where there were adventurers, there were thieves, fame-seekers, thugs, and even royalty, all coming to strip his dungeon of its treasures.
A sudden, fierce possessiveness surging through him. After all the suffering he had endured, this dungeon had to be his. It was the only thing that could ever compensate him for his loss. He had lost a thousand years; this place was his prize.
Of course, Dylas knew rationally that the dungeon wasn't technically his. It had manifested from somewhere else, and surely there were owners to the hundred dungeons that had been merged—owners from the world he had left behind. But he was the first one here. Wasn't there a rule about "first come, first served"? Even if there wasn't, what about the man who waited a thousand years? The people shouting outside probably weren't even born, nor were their grandfathers, when he first opened this gate. This was his territory.
He made a choice. If he couldn't leave, he would ensure this dungeon belonged to him.
Outside the entrance, the first to arrive were a party of three adventurers. They had been passing by when the dungeon manifested and, seeing the brilliant light, decided to enter immediately to claim the "first-clear" rewards before the crowds arrived. Behind them stood a young woman, hesitating, calculating whether or not to risk the shadows.
Meanwhile, Edard stood approximately forty meters from the entrance. He had arrived.
He studied the gateway with a piercing gaze. The portal was constructed of smooth, blood-red stones at the base of a massive mountain. It was nearly seventy meters wide and towered between two hundred and three hundred meters high. Looking into the entrance, there were no iron bars or wooden doors—only a frame of red stone surrounding a yawning abyss of absolute, light-devouring darkness. Deep within that gloom, one could just barely make out a second, smaller door.
Edard watched as the party of three disappeared into the dark, and then his eyes settled on the woman who remained outside, lost in thought. He could have waited until the area was clear, but he knew more people would be arriving soon. He decided that this woman was his best source of information. He needed answers about this world, and he wasn't going to let this chance slip away.
He activated his Status Key to analyze her:
Edard paused. A Level 8 healer? The risk seemed minimal. Her classification was focused entirely on recovery; she likely lacked any high-tier offensive skills that could threaten him.
Sinta was not a combat-oriented warrior. She relied on her healing arts to earn her place in high-ranking adventuring parties. Recently, she had lost her entire team during a lucrative but deadly mission. This was why she was hesitant to enter the dungeon alone; she was waiting for a new group to join.
In this world, a skilled healer is usually welcomed with open arms. Dungeon diving is a lethal business, and anyone with the "Healer" classification is highly sought after.
She didn't seem worried about finding a group, but the first person to approach her was a young man carrying a woman's body on his back. She looked at his clothes, and her eyes widened in shock. Her first question wasn't about the corpse, but about his attire.
"Why are you wearing those?" Sinta asked, her mouth agape.
She stared at Edard's dark denim jeans and his blue T-shirt. To her, a seasoned adventurer who had traveled the world, these garments were more alien than the dead body he carried. She had seen many cultures, but nothing like this.
Edard looked down at his clothes and felt a pang of realization. He didn't need a world traveler to tell him he stuck out like a sore thumb.
"Are these... not in style anymore?" he asked.
"Style? People will think you're just begging for attention," she replied. "But whatever, forget the clothes. Are you... cursed?"
Sinta was a talker. Her classification required her to work with strangers constantly, so she was used to being forward. She treated Edard not as a threat, but as someone who was likely about to beg her to join a party so they could enter the dungeon together.
Edard looked at her, his mind weighing his options. Maybe I should just use Intimidation to scare the truth out of her, he thought. It would be faster to get the information he needed before the place became crowded. To him, she wasn't a person so much as a walking bag of data—the only source of information he had found since arriving in this strange land.