Few years passed, the world could no longer ignore the presence hidden deep within the forest.
What was once dismissed as rumor slowly turned into certainty. Adventurers spoke of paths that twisted back on themselves, of forests that confused the travelers, of a pressure in the air that made even veterans uneasy. Maps were redrawn. Warnings were issued. And eventually, the place gained a name whispered with caution.
The Dungeon of Zortheus.
From the moment it was officially acknowledged, it was labeled S-Class. Not because of a confirmed massacre, nor because cities had fallen, but because no one truly understood it. The dungeon did not behave like others. It did not lure with treasure, nor did it flood the world with monsters. It simply existed, vast and silent, like something watching.
That mystery attracted many.
Some came seeking fame.
Some came seeking power.
And some came seeking themselves.
Among them was a demon named Abyssian Vrakor.
At that time, Abyssian was young, young in spirit, if not in age. He had strength, skill, and confidence sharpened by victory. He had already conquered four dungeons, each one ending with a fallen core and a defeated ruler. Each win fed his belief that he was meant for greater things.
To him, the Dungeon of Zortheus was not a warning.
It was a challenge.
He entered the forest alone, blade at his side, mind filled with certainty. The forest resisted him, but he forced his way through. The deeper he went, the heavier the air became. Magic pressed against his skin. Silence followed his steps. Yet Abyssian did not turn back.
When he finally reached the dungeon, what greeted him was not chaos, but stillness.
There were monsters, yes, but they did not rush him mindlessly. They moved with intent. Some attacked. Some watched. Some retreated. It was as if the dungeon itself was testing him, measuring him.
He fought his way forward regardless.
And then, he met Zortheus.
There was no dramatic roar. No declaration of dominance. Zortheus stood there, calm and unmoving, his presence heavy with something Abyssian could not name. Power radiated from him, but it was not sharp or violent. It was deep, like an ocean that did not need to prove its depth.
Abyssian attacked without hesitation.
Their first battle ended quickly.
He was defeated.
Not crushed, not humiliated, but overwhelmed. Every strike he made was blocked, redirected, or ignored. Zortheus did not chase him when he retreated. He did not mock him. He simply turned away.
Abyssian returned.
Again, he challenged Zortheus. Again, he lost.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
Each battle ended the same way. Abyssian grew stronger, sharper, more desperate. Zortheus remained unchanged. He did not fight to win. He fought only to endure.
Frustration ate away at Abyssian's pride.
He began to believe that honor was useless against such a being. That strength alone was not enough. And so, in one final attempt, he abandoned the rules he had lived by.
He waited.
When Zortheus's guard lowered, not out of carelessness, but indifference, Abyssian struck. His blade pierced straight through Zortheus's body, driven by all the rage and desperation he carried.
For a brief moment, Abyssian believed he had succeeded.
Then Zortheus reached up, grabbed the blade, and pulled it from his own chest.
There was no scream. No fury. Not even surprise.
He continued standing, as if nothing had happened.
That moment shattered Abyssian completely.
He realized then that Zortheus had never been fighting him seriously. Not because he could not, but because he did not care to fight. Victory meant nothing to him.
Zortheus did not strike Abyssian down.
He simply looked at him.
And in that silence, Abyssian felt smaller than he ever had before.
Confused, shaken, and drowning in shame, Abyssian demanded to know why he was still alive. Why someone so powerful would allow an enemy who had attacked from behind to live.
Zortheus's answer was simple.
The dungeon was not built for conquest.
It was not a place meant to feed pride or glory.
It existed for reasons Abyssian could not yet understand.
That was when despair replaced anger.
Believing he had stained himself beyond redemption, Abyssian prepared to end his own life. To him, death felt like the only answer left.
But before he could act, someone stopped him.
Grog.
The goblin did not speak with authority. He did not threaten or command. He simply spoke, of the dungeon, of Zortheus, of the sorrow that shaped every wall and corridor. Of loss so deep that even time could not dull it.
Abyssian listened.
And for the first time, he truly saw the dungeon.
Not as a battlefield.
Not as a challenge.
But as a wound that had never healed.
Shame weighed heavily on him then, not the shallow shame of defeat, but something deeper. He realized that he had raised his blade against grief itself. Against a being who did not seek war, but endured it.
That was the moment Abyssian changed.
He did not ask for forgiveness.
He did not beg for mercy.
He knelt.
From that day on, Abyssian remained in the dungeon, not as an invader, but as a guardian. His fire did not vanish, but it was tempered. Where once he sought battle, now he sought purpose.
He spoke little. He trained endlessly. His blade became an extension of his soul, shaped not by rage, but by resolve. The dungeon accepted him slowly, cautiously, until even its monsters recognized him as one of their own.
He became Zortheus's second commander, not because he was the strongest, but because he understood what strength truly meant.
To stand without hatred.
To fight without hunger.
To protect without needing praise.
And so, as the dungeon grew, so did Abyssian Vrakor.
Not as a conqueror.
But as the blade that stood silently beside an uncrowned king.