Into the Dungeon

Age: 10

Level: 1

Location: A village in Fenward

Valen smiled at everyone he passed that morning.

Not too wide — just enough. The kind of smile that said “I’m fine” without needing words.

“Morning, Ms. Liora,” he said as he passed the apothecary stall, where the aging alchemist was already sorting dried herbs into neat glass jars. Her clouded eyes flicked toward him, lips twitching upward.

“Off somewhere early, dear?” she asked gently.

Valen shrugged. “Just clearing my head.”

She nodded. “Don’t cut yourself with that blade.”

“Just going to get some herbs.”

He continued on with the sword his father made.

“Hey, Valen!” called Tomas, one of the junior adventurers-in-training lounging outside the guild hall with his feet up. “Heard you got your class! You joining the rotation soon?”

Valen laughed softly. “Still figuring things out.”

“Right, right,” Tomas grinned. “You’ll show us up before long, huh?”

Valen waved and moved on without answering.

At the little stone shrine by the crossroads, he paused long enough to bow his head. The village priest — an old man with a crooked spine and robes too big for his frame — gave him a tired smile.

“Peace be with you, young one.”

“And with you, Father,” Valen replied.

A few children waved to him as he walked past the bakery. A merchant called out something about needing help hauling crates next week. An old woman offered him a baked bread.

He accepted it with a thank-you and a grin.

It was all so normal. So warm.

So utterly false.

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He’d built this image carefully over the years. The polite boy. The quiet son. The one who always helped, who never raised his voice outside his own walls. The one who had to fit in.

And it had worked.

No one wanted to hurt him No one felt the need to watch him closely.

Not like last time.

He remembered the noose.

Surrounded by laughter.

He remembered the crowd that he had once called friends before they turned on him

Not again.

This time, he would not give them a reason to do that.

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This time, he would be nothing but a kind smile and a quiet voice — to fit in and live peacefully

Some villagers — the sharper ones — had noticed. They saw how his eyes never quite matched his smile. How his gaze lingered just a little too long on locked doors and loaded carts. But they never cared enough to pry.

Maybe he was trying to be polite.

Maybe they understood.

Or maybe he was just an outlier trying to fit in

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By the time he reached the edge of the village, the morning sun had begun to crest the mountain ridge. It loomed above him — ancient looking, jagged, and wrapped in a faint ring of mist and a slightly disturbing aura.

Its side bore the mark of old violence: a wide fissure halfway up the slope, framed by stone and slowly swallowing light. The Dungeon Gate was waiting

Many went in side for money ,fame ,release anger or to learn

Valen walked toward it alone.

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They said no one entered the dungeon without a party.

The plain dugeon.

carved into the mountainside like a scar — the stone around it darkened with old magic, the air cold even in summer.

For the newly Awakened, the proper way was clear:

Hire help. Travel in numbers. Bring people who could cover your blind spots and cast barrier spells.

Valen clenched his fists as he ascended the last bend in the trail.

He remembered why he didn’t trust people.

It wasn’t vague. It wasn’t a child’s fear.

It was memory.

His past life had come in pieces at first. Murky shapes, glimpses of rope, voices behind him. But now it was sharper.

He remembered — not all of it but most of the pain.

He remembered the moment of triumph. The laughter. The cheers.

And he remembered the rope that chocked him

The betrayal hadn’t come from a monster.by who no less his best friends

It came from the ones he’d worked beside.

Never again.

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The Dungeon Gate stood in front of him now — a wide black archway with faint blue runes etched along its edges. They pulsed softly as he stepped near, responding to the presence of someone newly Awakened.

Valen hesitated only once, then crossed the threshold.

The air changed instantly.

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Darkness swallowed him.

The temperature dropped. Moisture clung to the walls and ceiling. Cracks lined the floor, carved from centuries of magical warping. Bioluminescent moss flickered faintly along the edges of the corridor, casting pale green light over jagged stone.

Valen unsheathed his sword.

It was still just a training blade — dull at the edge, slightly chipped. But in his hand, it felt heavier than it ever had before.

Not in weight. In purpose.

His steps slowed. His breath became shallow, controlled.

Heightened Intuition: Passive

He moved silently.

Every sound — the drip of water, the distant scuttle of something unseen — reached him with uncanny clarity. His instincts sharpened like drawn wire.

He wasn’t just walking anymore. He was hunting.

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A low snarl echoed ahead.

Valen halted.

From the gloom ahead, something stepped into the light.

Silver wolf.

Level 3.

Feral. Fast. Unpredictable.

It looked like a child’s nightmare — long limbs, silver coloured fur, and a jaw filled with needle-like teeth. Its eyes locked on him and narrowed.

It crouched.

Tensed.

Leapt—

Quickdraw — Activated.

The blade flashed before Valen even knew he had moved.

Quickdraw successful. Critical strike!

Precision Slash triggered. Weak point hit!

The wolf let out a choking shriek as blood sprayed from its neck. It crashed into the wall and flailed, stunned.

Valen didn’t wait.

He stepped in, slashing twice more — controlled strikes, following his intuition. Muscles remembered what training had only hinted at.

The creature slumped, twitching once, then went still.

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Silence returned.

Valen stood over the body, breathing hard — not in panic, but exhilaration.

He’d done it.

Alone.

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EXP gained: +18

Level Up!

Valen – Level 2

+1 Strength

+1 Dexterity

+1 Endurance

Skill Progression: Precision Slash → Level 2

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He wiped the blade on his cloak.

No cheers. No healers. No watching party to carry him home.

Just stone, blood, and breath.

He stepped deeper into the tunnel.

Every inch forward was a choice. A statement.

He didn’t need anyone.

He would never again kneel to trust.

And as the dungeon swallowed him, Valen smiled — not the fake smile he gave the village.

But something darker.

Something true.