The orphanage was still.
Only the faintest sounds drifted in from the streets outside—boots on cobblestone, laughter spilling from taverns, the clink of coin as the Dungeon's bounty made its final stop for the night.
But inside Blake, there was no stillness.
His mind was a storm—raging, circling, refusing to settle.
His eyes didn't drift to the familiar knots in the ceiling—but to a single plank on the floor beside his desk. One end was raised just slightly. Imperceptibly. But he knew it was there.
Time passed. Hours maybe. Or something less concrete. He stared until stillness finally settled—not around him, but in him.
Then he rose, barefoot and careful. His feet found the floor like they had before—tentative, but practiced. His deft fingers prying the studied board up to reveal a small hidden cubby. Inside lay a tattered satchel filled with all the provisions he would need. Or rather, the little he could find.
He lifted it from its resting place and swung it over his shoulder. He felt its weight, it was comforting. The comfort didn't stop his shaking hand as he rested it against the thin cloth.
He paused, listening one final time. The quiet greeted him—still and solemn, like a silent call to arms.
He slipped through the orphanage without notice, his footsteps practiced and precise. A faint, fleeting smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he stepped into the night, walking toward the Dungeon.
Blake had always liked it when his father talked about the Dungeon.
Back then, it sounded like a magical place—where anything could happen.
A place where brave men fought monsters.
A place where boys became heroes.
A place you could become a man.
He once told his father that he wanted to go there—to be an adventurer, just like him.
He remembered the way his father paused.
The way his eyes went quiet, distant, sad.
"You don't go into the Dungeon because you want to," he said. "You do it because you have to. And I pray you never have to."
Blake hugged the stone pillar tightly as he peered at the looming Tower of Babel. It seemed to grow until it disappeared into the night sky. He envied the tower, to grow so high that no one could touch you.
He wondered what it would feel like—to rise above the city, above the gods, above the Dungeon. To be unreachable. Unburdened.
But he wasn't made of stone. He was made of scars and breath and memories.
And now, it was time to go below. He had to go below.
He slipped through the night, darting from shadow to shadow. Practiced and deliberate.
He counted in his mind, moving exactly when he needed. Eventually he crept silently next to Babel's towering wall and peered around the corner to the loading bay entrance.
There were two guards, there always were. They had the same tired eyes and board expressions. It had been a long day for them. Still an hour before the last shift replaced them.
The one with a beard and a barely disguised drinking habit yawned, extending his jaw like a silent yell. He'd seen the same yawn a dozen times.
The guard turned to the other saying something Blake couldn't hear, but its meaning was known. Soon, they'd head for the bottle stashed in the bushes—just within eyeshot.
Something to keep their edge, Blake imagined them joking.
He stuck to the shadows as they retreated from their post, it wasn't long. But it was just long enough for him to slip in the open loading gate. Blake gripped the bag with white knuckles as he tried to slow his shallow breaths.
A dozen crates lay scattered in what he assumed was a storage area—probably for the countless shops stacked through the heights of the tower.
He crouched behind one, trying to silence the deafening thump in his ears.
Listening.
Nothing.
Just the soft hum of the tower above him.
Slowly, carefully, he began to move—slipping through the ground floor of Babel, hugging the shadows where the magic lamps thinned and faded.
Voices echoed from one of the branching halls.
He froze.
No thoughts.
Just breath.
Just the present.
He knew what would happen if he were caught. He didn't want to entertain that possibility, he couldn't. That's how you make mistakes.
He kept focused on his steps, each one landing deftly to the stone below.
Until he was there.
The chamber opened before him like a mouth.
He froze.
Voices echoed faintly from the depths below.
But they didn't own this moment.
It belonged to him.
Anxiousness, excitement, fear—they were all knotted tight in his stomach.
He stepped forward, inching toward the massive staircase.
His foot hovered above the stone. Just a moment.
Just long enough to hear something inside him scream.
Go back.
Back to the orphanage. Back to his comfortless bed. Back to safety, however false.
But something deeper rose to meet it.
Not a voice.
A roar.
Not want.
A Need.
He needed to continue.
The anger. The rage. The emptiness.
It all needed this. His rough hands—his calloused fingers—they ached to remember.
His body needed to remember.
His father. Himself.
Something.
Anything but the kid alone with a shit sword and dented armor.
His foot hit the first step with a crack—loud in the vast silence. The echo rolled through the chamber, but Blake didn't care.
His feet moved again.
And again. With each step, his smile grew.
The voice in his chest didn't whisper. It roared.
And the fear? The fear was silent.
He practically sprinted down the stairs, shadows racing with him along the walls. When he reached the landing—the threshold to the first floor—he stopped.
He knew this place.
Facts and floor plans burned in his mind, studied in secret, memorized like scripture. The monsters that roamed here. The layout of the tunnels. The best places to run if things went wrong. He silently retrieved the kitchen knife from his bag. Its wooden handle fit his hand well, almost warm to the touch.
The corridor ahead was narrow, shaped by uneven stone.
Damp air clung to the walls. The glow of the magic stones embedded in the ceiling flickered—faint and sickly.
Each breath Blake took felt louder than it should have.
He moved slow. Controlled. The maps hadn't lied—at least not yet. The first chamber was close. He held a bated breath; it seemed like the dungeon did too. It felt too quiet, like he was being watched. Studied.
Then—
He heard it. A rasping snort. Nails scratching stone.
His fingers tightened around the knife.
The goblin stepped into view. Small. Twisted. Eyes gleaming like glowering embers in the dark.
It sniffed the air.
Then it saw him.
Blake always thought his first fight would feel like a story.
He pictured a measured approach, tension building like a drawn bowstring before releasing with a decisive strike—clean, purposeful, victorious.
That's not what happened.
The goblin came at him without hesitation, its limbs flailing with wild purpose, red eyes gleaming with something feral. Its teeth, needle-sharp and yellowed, parted in a manic grin as it charged.
Blake barely had time to lift the knife. His body moved out of instinct more than training, his feet stumbling into a shaky stance as the creature slammed into him. The impact jarred through his arms and knocked the air from his lungs.
The goblin clawed at him with frantic energy, its dirty nails scraping across his forearm and catching the fabric of his shirt. He grunted, the burn of pain already blooming in his skin as he twisted to the side, trying to get the blade between them.
The knife plunged forward—he didn't aim, he barely felt it—but something gave way beneath the point. There was a sickening resistance followed by warmth, and the goblin let out a choking wheeze as it collapsed forward, twitching against him.
Blake stumbled back, his breath ragged and shallow. His hands trembled. The knife was still in his grip, slick now, the handle pressing harder into his palm than he remembered.
The goblin lay still.
There was no victory.
Just silence—and the hollow sound of his own breathing as the weight of what he had done began to settle into his bones.
He knelt beside the goblin's body, his limbs trembling with leftover adrenaline.
The blood was still warm, sticky against his fingers as he fumbled with the creature's chest. He had read how to do it—knew where the crystal was supposed to be—but nothing had prepared him for the smell, the texture, or the heat.
His breath caught in his throat as he pushed deeper, until his fingers scraped something smooth amid the ruin.
With a sharp pull, he yanked it free.
The mana crystal glistened faintly, slick with gore.
He stared at it in his blood-stained hand, his fingers shaking uncontrollably.
This was what adventurers did.
This was what victory looked like.
It didn't feel like he thought it would.
He didn't feel stronger. There was no surge of magical power rushing through his veins—just the shallow rasp of his breath and the sting of his bleeding arm, alone in the Dungeon.