Silence.
That was the first thing Altheron heard when he woke — not the kind of silence that brings peace, but one that pressed on his chest, thick and heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath.
He opened his eyes slowly. Faint motes of dust drifted in the air, shimmering in the dim orange glow of dying embers scattered across the ground. The smell of burnt roots and scorched metal filled his lungs. His head throbbed; something warm trickled down his temple — blood, maybe.
He lay still for a moment, trying to remember.
The battle… the tremors… Kaelmourn's voice shouting "Move!" and then — the fall.
He jolted upright, his hand reaching instinctively for his sword. The blade was still there, half-buried beside him, its edge chipped but glowing faintly with residual mana.
"Emi…?" His voice cracked.
Only echoes answered.
He pushed himself up, the stone beneath him uneven and slick with moisture. The chamber around him was unfamiliar — the architecture felt wrong. The walls curved and bent like ribs of some enormous creature, and faint veins of pale light pulsed through the surface as if the dungeon itself were breathing.
The ceiling had partially collapsed, letting in a faint trickle of soil and roots from above. Fragments of armor, broken weapons, and torn banners lay scattered — remnants of the battle that had been swallowed by the earth.
He knelt beside a shattered shield, fingers brushing over the crest — the Sentinels' insignia.
Kaelmourn's men.
A cold realization settled in his chest.
How deep had they fallen?
His breathing grew uneven. He needed to find the others.
He reached into his pack, retrieving a lightstone and snapping it open. The faint, white glow spilled across the cavern, driving back the shadows just enough for him to see the path ahead — a narrow tunnel that seemed to descend even further.
"Great," he muttered bitterly. "Down, again."
As he took a step, the ground trembled slightly beneath him — not enough to knock him off balance, but enough to remind him that the dungeon was still alive.
A whisper brushed past his ear, so faint he almost dismissed it as the wind.
"Altheron…"
He froze.
That voice — soft, melodic, trembling.
Emi.
He spun around, lightstone raised.
Nothing. Only the flickering shadows and the rhythmic pulse in the walls.
"Emi! Where are you?"
His voice echoed endlessly, swallowed by the distance.
The only answer was a low, resonant hum from deep below — as if something ancient had stirred in response.
Altheron gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the sword. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from something deeper — that same pull he'd felt before. The pulse beneath the ground. The whisper in the dark.
It was calling again.
He took a slow breath, steadying himself.
If Emi's alive, I'll find her.
He glanced once more at the ruins around him, then started walking down the tunnel — each step echoing in the hollow silence like a heartbeat.
The tunnel stretched endlessly before him, a jagged wound carved through the dungeon's flesh. Every few steps, Altheron's boots crunched over debris — shattered armor, splintered weapons, and something that looked disturbingly like petrified roots twisted around bones.
The air was thick, humid, and heavy with decay. The faint glow from his lightstone caught tiny spores floating in the air — soft golden motes that shimmered like dust but pulsed faintly, almost as if alive.
He touched one by instinct.
It burned cold.
He flinched back, watching the mote dissolve into thin mist. The dungeon wasn't dead — it was changing.
No wonder Kaelmourn warned me. This thing isn't stone anymore. It's growing.
As he moved deeper, the tunnel opened into a broader passage. Faint footprints in the dust caught his eye — boot marks, fresh, scattered. Someone else had survived.
His pulse quickened.
"Emi…? Guildmaster?" he called softly.
For a moment, silence — then a faint clang echoed from ahead.
Steel against stone.
He rushed toward it, his footsteps quick and uneven. The tunnel bent sharply, and beyond the curve he saw it — a broken lantern, its flame guttering beside a collapsed wall. And there, lying motionless beside it, was a body in Sentinel armor.
He knelt beside the man, checking for breath. Nothing. The soldier's chestplate was cracked open, as if something had burst from within.
But then he noticed the roots — thin, pale tendrils creeping through the cracks in the armor, weaving into the man's skin like veins. The body twitched slightly.
Altheron recoiled, sword half-drawn.
"...No."
The soldier's eyes snapped open — white, empty, glowing faintly with the same pulse that ran through the walls. The corpse lurched forward, fingers clawing toward him.
Instinct took over. Altheron swung, his blade slicing cleanly through the man's neck. The body fell limp, the glow fading instantly.
For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard.
That wasn't an undead. It was worse.
The dungeon was consuming them — fusing its corruption with the fallen.
He looked down the corridor again. The air shimmered faintly, and in the distance, whispers floated — dozens of voices, layered, echoing.
"Help… help us…"
"It hurts…"
"Altheron…"
He took a shaky step back. The voices were familiar. Too familiar.
"Stop it," he muttered through gritted teeth. "You're not real."
But the whispers persisted — weaving in and out of his thoughts like silk threads, tugging at his sanity.
A flicker of light ahead broke the illusion. A figure was slumped against the far wall, alive, breathing — one of the adventurers. Altheron hurried over.
It was a young woman, her robes torn and face streaked with dirt. She stirred weakly as he approached.
"Hey—hey, easy," he said, crouching beside her. "You're safe now. Can you move?"
Her eyes fluttered open — glazed, unfocused. "...They're gone," she whispered. "The others—taken by the roots. The walls—they're whispering—"
"Don't talk," he urged, giving her a sip of water. "I'll get you out."
But even as he said it, he saw the truth.
Her veins — blackened, branching like cracks beneath her skin. The corruption was already spreading.
She met his gaze, tears pooling in her eyes.
"End it," she pleaded. "Before it takes me."
Altheron froze. His grip on the sword trembled.
He'd slain monsters, mercenaries, and beasts — but this…
"Please," she whispered again.
He closed his eyes, exhaled softly, and nodded once.
A single swing. Quick, clean, merciful.
When it was over, he knelt there for a long moment, the weight of silence pressing down again.
The dungeon pulsed faintly — thump… thump… thump — like a heartbeat mocking his mercy.
He rose, wiping the blade clean on his sleeve.
"Whatever you are," he murmured to the walls, "you won't have them. You won't have her."
He continued forward, the tunnel narrowing once more.
The air grew colder now, sharper — carrying a faint hum of power. The path ahead was beginning to glow faintly with pale green light.
Something was waiting.
Something ancient.