The air below the second threshold was not mechanical.
It was sacred.
Almair's boots touched ancient stone as he descended the final stretch of the shaft. The blue shard in his hand still glowed, but its light no longer felt cold or artificial. It flickered like witchfire — steady, aware.
He landed lightly and untied the rope from his waist.
The chamber before him was vast and cathedral-like, carved not in harsh angles but in sweeping curves like the interior of a buried temple. Pillars shaped like entwined serpents rose to support a vaulted ceiling etched with constellations long erased from the night sky.
The dungeon was old.
Older than Rios.
Older than kingdoms.
At the center of the chamber stood something impossible.
A tree.
Not wood.
Crystal.
Its trunk was thick and spiraled upward, branches spreading wide like a frozen explosion of glass. Light flowed inside it — pale silver, deep blue, and faint threads of green like sap made of magic.
But it was not empty.
Embedded within its crystalline trunk were relics.
Weapons.
Armor fragments.
Amulets.
Broken staves.
A dwarven axe with runes along its blade.
An elven circlet of woven silver leaves.
A rusted greatsword far too large for any human.
And bones.
Some human.
Some not.
Almair stepped closer.
He recognized one skull immediately — elongated, with delicate ridges along the brow.
Elf.
Another skeleton was broader, heavier.
Dwarf.
And near the base of the tree, partially encased in crystal, lay something that made his stomach tighten.
A beastman's clawed gauntlet, still attached to a skeletal arm.
This was not a shrine.
It was a collection.
The dungeon did not merely defend itself.
It absorbed.
The shard in his hand pulsed stronger as he approached the trunk. The veins of light inside the tree brightened in response.
Then the chamber shifted.
The crystal tree emitted a low hum, like a distant choir.
One of the embedded relics trembled.
A sword.
Simple in shape, its blade narrow and slightly curved. No jewels. No ornamentation. But its metal shimmered faintly as if forged under starlight.
It slid free from the crystal trunk without breaking it.
And fell.
Almair reacted instinctively, catching it before it struck the floor.
The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, the world bent.
He stood in a battlefield.
Smoke rolled across torn earth. Banners burned. The sky above was crimson.
Around him fought warriors of every race — humans in steel mail, elves with glowing bows, dwarves in layered plate, towering horned warriors wielding hammers of stone.
And before them—
A rift in the world.
Darkness poured from it like liquid shadow.
From that rift emerged creatures made of bone and smoke, eyes burning violet.
A voice echoed across the battlefield.
"Seal the gate!"
A knight — human, armored in silver etched with ancient sigils — raised the very sword Almair now held.
He drove it into the ground.
Light erupted outward in a wave that pushed the darkness back.
But not fully.
The rift shrank.
It did not close.
The knight fell to one knee.
And the battlefield vanished.
Almair gasped and staggered backward into the crystal chamber once more.
The sword remained in his hand.
But now faint runes shimmered along its blade.
He understood.
Not fully.
But enough.
This was a Relic of Binding.
A weapon made to resist corruption.
Made to endure.
The tree was not storing treasure.
It was safeguarding remnants of an ancient war.
The shard in his other hand pulsed again — brighter this time — and the crystal tree responded.
A whisper filled the chamber.
Not a voice in his mind like before.
A presence.
Old.
Measured.
"You bear the Key."
Almair swallowed.
"I didn't ask for it."
"The dungeon does not grant what is asked. It grants what remains."
The light inside the tree shifted, revealing deeper layers within the trunk — sealed compartments containing more relics.
Armor infused with warding magic.
Rings pulsing with stored spells.
Scrolls preserved in suspended stasis.
And something darker.
Deep in the roots of the tree, sealed behind thick crystal, lay a heart of black stone.
It pulsed faintly.
Slow.
Hungry.
"That," Almair whispered, "is what they were fighting."
"The Shattered Gate remains incomplete."
The presence grew heavier.
"The Keys were scattered. The bearers died. The seal weakens."
Almair tightened his grip on the sword.
"So you chose me?"
"No. You reached."
The distinction mattered.
Almair had entered.
He had taken.
He had descended willingly.
The dungeon had responded.
He looked down at his bruised shoulder. The white thread of magic he had chosen earlier pulsed faintly beneath his skin, knitting his body stronger, steadier.
"What happens if the seal breaks?" he asked quietly.
The black heart beneath the roots thudded once.
The chamber dimmed.
And for a moment, Almair saw it—
Rios.
The canals running black not with filth but with shadow.
Creatures climbing from beneath bridges.
The upper city burning.
Screams echoing through flooded streets.
Then the vision faded.
"Containment fails."
Silence returned.
Almair stood there, sword in hand, breathing slowly.
He had come for gold.
He had expected traps, monsters, maybe enchanted trinkets.
Not responsibility.
He laughed once under his breath.
"I can't even afford proper boots," he muttered. "And you're talking about sealing ancient gates."
The crystal tree shimmered softly.
"Growth begins small."
The shard in his hand dimmed slightly, as if in agreement.
Almair looked around the chamber once more.
There were objects here worth kingdoms.
But none simply lay free.
Each relic seemed bound to a trial.
To memory.
To worthiness.
The dungeon was not a vault.
It was a proving ground.
And he had barely begun.
A grinding sound echoed from the passage behind him.
Footsteps.
Not stone this time.
Boots.
Voices followed.
Low.
Cautious.
"…light ahead."
"…told you someone triggered it…"
"…move quietly."
Almair's heart tightened.
Other adventurers.
They had followed the awakening.
And if they saw this chamber—
If word spread—
The Guild would descend in force.
The relic tree would be stripped.
The seal might be broken in greed.
Almair made a decision.
Quick.
Instinctive.
He stepped toward the crystal trunk and pressed his palm against it.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he whispered, "but hide this."
The shard flared.
The white magic inside him responded.
The tree shimmered violently.
The chamber walls rippled like disturbed water.
By the time the first armored figure stepped into view from the corridor, the vast cathedral-like chamber was gone.
In its place stood a modest stone hall with nothing but broken pillars and dust.
Almair stood alone at its center, sword sheathed at his side — now appearing dull and ordinary.
The shard's glow had faded to a faint glimmer.
Three adventurers entered fully.
A tall beastman with curved horns and a greataxe.
A human woman in leather armor with twin daggers.
And an elf archer with pale hair tied back tightly.
They stared at Almair.
Then at the empty chamber.
"You triggered something," the beastman growled.
Almair shrugged lightly.
"Just a guardian," he said. "Nothing left worth taking."
The elf narrowed her eyes.
"You're lying."
Almair met her gaze steadily.
He had been poor all his life.
He knew how to lie when survival demanded it.
"Search if you want," he said calmly.
The three adventurers spread out, checking corners, tapping walls, scanning the floor.
They found nothing.
Because the dungeon had chosen concealment.
After several tense minutes, the human woman clicked her tongue.
"Waste of time," she muttered.
The trio left.
Their footsteps faded.
The moment they were gone, the illusion flickered slightly — just enough for Almair to glimpse the true chamber beneath.
The relic tree pulsed softly in acknowledgment.
"You are not rich yet," the presence murmured faintly.
Almair looked at the ordinary-looking sword at his side.
He could feel its weight.
Its purpose.
"No," he said quietly.
He adjusted his satchel and turned toward a newly forming corridor descending deeper still.
"But I'm not poor anymore either."
And as he stepped forward, the dungeon of Rios no longer felt like a tomb of treasure.
It felt like a war unfinished.
And Almair — slum-born, under-equipped, and underestimated — had just become part of it.