Creativity had been the dream once. I’d wanted to write, or maybe sketch, or build something that made people pause and think, Wow, someone put their soul into this. But dreams were heavy things. My parents had insisted on something practical. The neighbors’ son was going into computer science, they’d said. It was a smart field, they’d said. And so, in the face of expectations I hadn’t been brave enough to challenge, I traded my sketchbooks and notebooks for coding textbooks and late-night debugging sessions.
I was good at it, too. Algorithms clicked, data structures made sense, and I could write a sorting function in my sleep. But I hated every second of it. The endless grind, the corporate kiss-assing with performative enthusiasm for “hustling,” and the gnawing realization that I didn’t care about the problems I was solving. I cared even less about the people I was solving them for.
I lasted three years before burning out. Not a dramatic burnout, no fiery exits or main character energy. Just a quiet unraveling, like a shirt losing its last button.
I retreated to the relative anonymity of remote call center work, trading debugging for customer complaints. It wasn’t a glamorous career move, but it paid the bills and let me stay in my apartment, where the only person I had to impress was myself.
I couldn’t count the number of times I’d answered the phone with, “Hi, my name’s Ed with insert tech company here, how can I help you?” The words came out automatically, a script burned so deep into my brain that I probably could’ve recited it under anesthesia.
“Man, your life must really suck,” one caller had said after I’d patiently walked him through the soul-crushingly mundane process of unplugging his router and plugging it back in.
He wasn’t wrong.
And now here I was, walking down the second floor of a dungeon, an undead goblin at my side.
The smooth walls around me glowed faintly with the light of hundreds of crystals placed so neatly it was hard not to picture some unseen dungeon decorator painstakingly arranging them for maximum ambiance. Everything here was deliberate, crafted, in stark contrast to the chaos of the first floor.
The floor was laid out in clean, deliberate angles that were almost surgical. Even the puddles, though still inexplicably present, gave the impression they had been placed there by someone who thought “damp” was an essential part of a well-balanced dungeon.
Grib was squatting over one of those puddles, his expression a peculiar mix of fascination and hunger. In his hands was a small, gelatinous blob—a slime, wobbling faintly as if to say, “Excuse me, but could you not?”
“Boss!” Grib called out, holding the blob aloft like some kind of slimy trophy. “Look! Tiny slime!”
“That’s... great, Grib,” I said, already bracing for whatever nonsense was about to follow.
“Grib think slime has potential,” he announced, squinting at the creature like it might reveal its secrets if stared at hard enough. “Maybe fight? Maybe friend? Maybe... snack?”
“No,” I said firmly, pointing at the puddle. “Put it back.”
Grib frowned, his ears drooping in disappointment.
For a moment, it looked like he might comply. Then, with the solemnity of someone making a Very Important Decision, he tucked the slime into his tunic. The blob gave a faint, wet squelch as it settled in, and Grib patted it with a satisfied grin. “Grib keep slime. Slime good for morale.”
I opened my mouth to argue, realized immediately that it was a lost cause, and sighed. “Fine. Just don’t let it eat anything important.”
Grib saluted, his chest puffed out proudly. “Grib won’t! Grib is responsible slime owner!”
The slime, apparently content with its new accommodations, jiggled faintly in agreement.
“Alright,” I muttered, surveying the room. “What else is down here? Anything useful?”
“Not much,” Grib admitted, poking at the puddle with a stick. “Second floor kinda boring. Grib think third floor better. Maybe lava?”
“I’ll settle for something functional,” I said. “Let’s just figure out what we’re dealing with.”
Grib tilted his head, his expression turning thoughtful. And thoughtful-Grib was not on my list of his favorite expressions. “Boss... why no spells?”
I blinked at him. “Spells?”
“Yes!” He bounced slightly on his heels. “Boss big, strong Bone King! But no magic? Goblins think Bone King have big magic!”
“I... uh...” The question threw me off balance. “Good point. Let me check something.”
I pulled up the UI. Which, now that I wasn’t suffering an existential crisis and more of a logistical one, wasn’t much of a UI. There was the boss overview. My innate abilities. A rank—one, of course. And my inventory. And that’s about it.
I flicked a hand towards the inventory. Not much in there. A book, a jar, and a staff. I’d ignored them earlier, but this time, I actually selected the staff.
A pulse of cold air rippled through my fingers as it materialized in my grip.
A long, twisted length of dark metal, gnarled like petrified wood. Strange, jagged etchings ran along its surface, shifting slightly when I tried to focus on them. The top curled into a skeletal claw, clutching a dull, fractured gemstone that pulsed like a dying ember.
The system chimed cheerfully:
Staff of the Forgotten Arcanist identified. Mage affinity confirmed. Mana unlocked.
“What?” I stared at the text. “Mana? I have mana?”
Grib’s ears perked up, his eyes shining with glee. “Boss have mana! Boss is magic! Grib knew it!”
“Right,” I said, already regretting how much energy this revelation was going to unleash. “Let’s see what else is in here.”
I selected the book and it manifested in my hands with a weight that felt almost... wrong.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Its cover was worn, blackened leather, scarred with deep fissures that pulsed faintly, as if something beneath was trying to escape. Jagged runes slithered across the surface, never settling, shifting like ink bleeding through old parchment. The spine had no title, just a single, thin crack that ran straight through the leather, as if the book itself had been fractured.
I hesitated, then flipped it open.
The pages were dry, rough, unnervingly brittle. Like old skin stretched too thin. And yet, the text inscribed within was sharp, unnervingly precise, glowing with an eerie, colorless light.
The system chimed in, its usual smug detachment intact:
Fragment of the Death God's Grimoire identified.
Tier 1–3 spells unlocked.
Available Spells:
- Tier 1: Magic Bolt, Shadow Veil, Necrotic Surge
- Tier 2: Arcane Snare, Tombcarve
- Tier 3: Fireball
I stared at the list, my mind already racing. Offensive spells, defensive spells, utility...
“Boss have book!” Grib exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement. “What it say? Maybe slime spell?”
“It’s got options,” I said, running my finger down the list.
My gaze landed on a diagram for Magic Bolt—a basic attack spell. It looked simple enough, and less likely to blow up the room than something like Fireball.
I raised the staff, feeling a faint hum in my bones. Energy gathered at its tip, a small orb of crackling light forming almost instantly. It was warm, but not unpleasant. A steady pulse that felt... alive.
As the spell formed, I felt a strange tug deep inside me, like something draining away. There was nothing on the UI to indicate it, but I somehow knew, instinctively, that it was mana. And that little pulse had cost me about ten percent of it.
Grib pointed at a distant wall with a dramatic flourish. “Boss show dungeon who’s boss!”
I aimed for a jagged outcropping of stone and released the spell. The bolt streaked forward, leaving a faint trail of blue light before slamming into the wall with a loud crack. A small crater appeared where it hit, sending bits of rock skittering across the floor.
Grib cheered like I’d just brought down a mountain. “Boss amazing! Boss use more magic!”
I lowered the staff, staring at the faint glow still lingering at its tip. For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t just fumbling through this. There was something here—something real, something I could actually use.
I didn't know about amazing. But mayybe Grib was right. Maybe I could figure this out.
I closed the grimoire with a snap, feeling something that almost resembled resolve.
“Alright,” I said, gripping the staff a little tighter. “Well, now we have some real firepower.”
“Do more magic! Maybe big ice spike next?”
“Let’s not,” I said, brushing past him to keep moving. “We’re here to figure this place out, not redecorate with destruction.”
Grib saluted, his grin somehow even wider than before. The slime, still squelched against his chest, gave what I could only describe as a supportive jiggle.
“Boss ready.” Grib nodded. “Grib ready. Dungeon not ready for Bone King and Grib!”
For the first time in longer than I cared to admit, I felt a small smile tugging at my nonexistent lips. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
The corridor stretched ahead of us, its angles far too precise to feel natural. The smooth stone walls gleamed faintly in the glow of the mushrooms, and the silence was thick enough to make every step echo. It felt more like a tomb than a dungeon, but at least it wasn’t actively trying to kill us. Yet.
“Boss?” Grib called, lagging a few paces behind. “Why second floor so boring? First floor had goblins, mushrooms, mud. Second floor just walking.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” I said. “If it’s quiet, maybe we won’t get our heads cracked open.”
Grib tilted his head, unconvinced. “Maybe. But boring.”
I didn’t argue.
The truth was, the silence was unnerving. Every time I thought I’d adjusted to it, the quiet pressed in a little closer, like it was daring me to let my guard down.
But there was something else. Something I hadn’t quite put my finger on until now. The silence wasn’t just heavy. It was intentional.
It wasn’t that the second floor was empty; it was that things were avoiding us. The place was too still, the absence of sound as conspicuous as a held breath. No skittering in the shadows, no distant growls or squeaks.
That knot of unease tightened in my chest.
I remembered the adventurers, how they had looked at me like I was the thing nightmares told their children about. The terror in their eyes hadn’t been the casual sort you’d give to a skeleton wandering around; it had been something deeper. Primal.
And now, whatever creatures lurked here were keeping their distance, as if they knew better.
I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.
We rounded a corner, and that’s when I saw it, a flicker of movement at the edge of my vision. I froze, raising a hand to stop Grib.
“Something’s there,” I whispered.
Grib’s ears twitched, his spear already in his hands. “Where?”
I pointed down the corridor. A shadow lingered near the next bend, small and low to the ground. It shifted slightly, and I caught the faintest glint of yellow eyes staring back at us.
Grib squinted. “Goblin? No, too small. Maybe lizard?”
“Lizard?” I said, glancing at him. “It looked more like... a dog.”
Grib shot me an incredulous look. “Dog? No way, Boss. Too scaly.”
“It was fast,” I said, keeping my eyes on the corner. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”
The creature darted out of sight, disappearing behind the bend with a quick, almost fluid motion. I tightened my grip on the staff, unease prickling at the edges of my thoughts. It hadn’t attacked us, which was... something. But it also hadn’t looked particularly friendly.
Grib puffed out his chest. “Grib find it! Maybe friend? Maybe snack?”
“Neither,” I said, grabbing his shoulder before he could charge ahead. “Let’s be smart about this.”
“Smart means find it,” Grib said, his ears twitching. “If it lizard, maybe it has friends. If it dog... why dog here?”
“That’s... not helping,” I, gestured for him to stay behind me. “Let’s just take it slow.”
We moved cautiously down the corridor, the silence pressing heavier with each step. The faint glow of the mushrooms seemed dimmer now, the shadows deeper. I could still feel the weight of those yellow eyes on us, like they’d left an impression in the air itself.
When we reached the bend, I peered around the corner carefully, the staff raised and ready. The corridor beyond was empty, stretching out into the gloom like nothing had happened.
“Gone?” Grib asked, his voice tinged with disappointment. “Maybe Boss scare it.”
“Maybe,” I said, though the knot in my nonexistent gut told me otherwise. Whatever it was, it wasn’t running scared. It was smart. At least smart enough to watch us without being seen for long. That thought didn’t sit well.
Grib sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling. “Still smells like lizard.”
“Does it?” I asked, my voice sharp with disbelief. “Because I’m pretty sure it looked like a dog.”
“Boss wrong,” Grib said confidently. “Too fast for dog. Too shiny.”
“Dogs can be fast,” I argued. “And maybe it wasn’t shiny. Maybe that was just the light.”
Grib frowned, clearly unwilling to concede. “Dog in dungeon makes no sense. Lizard makes sense.”
“Does it, though?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Lizards like rocks,” Grib said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
I sighed, letting the argument drop as I turned back to the empty corridor. The creature’s absence didn’t feel like a relief. It felt like a pause—like it was waiting for us to get closer to something it didn’t want us to see.
“Let’s keep moving,” I said, my grip tightening on the staff. “And stay alert.”
Grib saluted, his slime companion giving another supportive jiggle from inside his tunic. “Boss lead the way! Grib ready!”
As we walked deeper into the dungeon, the silence pressed in closer, as if the whole place was conspiring to keep its secrets. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the eyes weren’t gone.
Whatever that creature was, it wasn’t just running. It was planning.
And, judging by the way the air itself seemed to hold its breath, it wasn’t the only thing.