Oz came to, standing in the bleak dungeon stone cube, fuming. He nearly ripped the talking pin off and threw it across the room.

  Classic Oz move. Angry? Break something. But the hitchhiking brain parts suggested insults instead. He resisted. He might punch people, but he tended to be polite about it. His mind swirled as the voices competed, and he felt himself vibrate with rage.

  He lowered his hand and growled to himself.

  “Oh, he's back. How's it going, champ?” The woman’s voice cut in.

  “My soul space is jank. That’s a new word the alien in my head taught me!” Oz spat out.

  “Sounds like some rough soul bleed.”

  “I ain't bleeding. But I feel like someone is going to bleeding soon. Why in the nether is my class [Delinquent]?”

  He felt the alien mind suggest it was thematically resonant. And Oz, in reply, threatened to resonate its face with a brick. Oz tuned out the observation that that wasn’t how resonance worked to focus on the two voices that formed his only link to the outside world.

  “Well, that's needlessly savage, Aldo.”

  “Don't look at me, it was the academy! It’s the one that put him in the gauntlet!”

  “What has an academy got to do with this? What is going on? Where am I? Why does my soul feel like it's been fed to the gritter? Who are you?” Oz bellowed at the pin, which ended up just being him shouting at his own chest.

  The energy in him was a mess. Whatever this was, it wasn't the act of someone looking out for him. It felt like an elaborate practical joke by someone with no sense of proportion. Like some cringey channel host was going to burst out trying to say it's just a prank bro.

  Oz didn’t have all the context for that thought, but it reminded him of the kind of stuck-up kids he’d always hated. No matter how alien the visions were, he recognised egotistic scum when he saw it. He began to pace and tried to calm down. He wanted to break things, insult people, and yet neither felt right. He looked at the door until finally the voices actually offered him something to work with.

  “I’m V. You might know me from birthday cards.” That female voice introduced herself, and Oz actually paused.

  “Wait, aren’t you Dad’s old war buddy? Why have you thrown me in here?” He remembered the cards. Always promising to catch up when he was an adult and offering nothing more. It was about the only mail that ever showed up for them, other than bills.

  “So I found you unconscious in front of an empty draught of Ambrosia and—where are you going?” V was probably about to start explaining things, but considering she’d just made up shit about him drinking liquid poison, he was tuning her out. She’d never been around before now, and this was how she introduced herself? Oz had reached his limit. He’d done a lot of thinking — time to go back to the tried and tested: doing.

  “I’m leaving.” He grabbed the door and swung it open. The next room confirmed a suspicion — things could indeed get worse. He might never have been that interested in the whole delving culture, but he could recognise a dungeon. Not a farming one either like the mines, or the precinct and its watchmen, no, this was a live one.

  It should have been obvious from the first room — dungeon stone walls, a literal dread portal, that whole ominous cube aesthetic — but Oz had been distracted by existential dread and questionable fashion choices.

  Now, staring into the next chamber, it was undeniable.

  Low ceilings. Rows of stone pillars. Flickering torches that looked like they’d been stolen from a discount stage production.

  This was a dungeon delve. A live one. And judging by the two monsters skulking out from behind the pillars, it wasn’t the friendly kind with gift shops and safety rails.

  The creatures were... unfortunate. Deformed humanoids, hunched and twitchy, maybe four feet tall with the heads of jackals and fashion sense that could only be described as aggressively greasy.

  They carried short blades and wore ragged copies of his uniform — though the golden insignia had been torn off, possibly eaten. Their fur was matted, their jaws wet, and their eyes shimmered with torchlight and a level of malevolent delight at ruining his day that Oz usually only saw in school bullies or tax men.

  Dungeon monsters. Low-grade ones, probably. Just barely enough soul to animate them, none left over for hobbies. They had swords. He needed a weapon.

  Oz patted his pockets. The fuckers had taken his knife, and his clan wraps were gone from his arms. He felt practically naked without them.

  The mutant-student-looking things hissed at him. Oz glared back. The alien thoughts, while endlessly interested by this turn of events, insisted on retreating, shutting the door. No matter its interest, the cowardly voice firmly wanted to keep that nice sturdy door between themselves and the swords that were slowly being drawn.

  Oz expected more bravery from someone who called their sword-shaped amalgamation of cutlery Bloodmoon. Besides, it was a dungeon — dying just meant a respawn. In theory.

  Sure, the process kicked your soul around a bit, left it with some scuff marks. Usually nothing that couldn’t be polished out... unless your soul was already cracked to hell, like his. And was, incidentally, the kind of damage that had turned his dad into a howling lunatic with a grudge against leaving hygiene facilities untrapped.

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  …Okay, maybe he should be worried. But worrying required thinking, and thinking was for later. Preferably when he wasn’t about to be stabbed.

  Oz tried to move into a fight. Years of training with his dad screamed to take the initiative. He might not have his knife, but he still had his fists. Only issue was his hand wouldn't let go of the door. This interrupted his plans to surge forward and obliterate the sods. This was just like the tunnel fighting he’d practised for years. It didn’t matter that they were monsters — they’d go down without issue. Besides, if he got stabbed he'd work it out. It wasn't like it'd be the first time he got hurt in a fight.

  Stuck between charging and slamming the door closed, Oz compromised. He placed his foot against the door frame and, letting out a roar, tore the door from its hinges and charged.

  The two monsters levelled their blades at him. They didn't seem intimidated by his assault. He wasn't about to let that stand. He was terrifying, and they should know it. He activated his only active racial skill, one he’d had for years, a treat from his mother's Troll heritage.

  [Frightful glare]

  His eyes glowed red and he levelled his attention on one of the two monsters, slapping its growl down to a whimper. It froze in place, and the one next to it flinched but recovered — the pair too spread out to both get the full effect of the skill. The bolder one raised its blade with a snarling war cry. That one got a faceful of door.

  [Aura of Menace has applied additional damage for each enemy afflicted by fear]

  [Hoodlum has Exceptional conductivity with improvised weapon ‘dread portal’]

  The words flashed past his eyes, the alien pausing its worried bleating to try and investigate, but that'd have to wait — he wasn't done.

  He’d all but pancaked the first jackal-headed dropout, then swung the door at the second like it was a giant flyswatter.

  Unfortunately, it turned out that even with his new class powers, a door was still... well, a door. Not a weapon. The hit barely clipped the frozen jackal, knocking it sideways and — worse — shaking it out of its terror-induced time-out.

  Great.

  The little bastard lunged. Oz blocked with the door — again — but the creature clambered up like it had paid for the ticket and was here for the ride.

  Now he had a snarling furball perched on the door, the weight dragging it down toward him. Oz ducked as gnashing jaws snapped inches from his face, the jackal's spare hand swinging its blade in clumsy, murdery arcs.

  The teeth nearly got him. The blade even gave his hair a trim just before Oz shoved the door forward and stepped back, just outside its range.

  His footwork held.

  Dad had drilled that into him: footwork was everything. Muscle memory took the wheel.

  Low stance. Good balance. Weaponised fury.

  And right there, still wobbling atop the tilted door like a confused dog on a seesaw, was his opening.

  Oz grinned. The kind of grin that made small children cry and teachers call for backup.

  Sure, he didn’t know much about dungeons — hadn’t cared to — but everyone knew the basics. These things weren’t real people. They were copies. Templates. Flimsy duplicates of better fighters slapped together with soul glue and psychopathic vibes.

  And now this one was off-script. Stuck on top of a door, unable to predict his next move.

  Perfect.

  Oz slammed his full weight into the door with a heavy boot, kicking the door over, launching the beast right into the pillar it’d been lurking behind at the start. It didn't quite go splat, but the sound was satisfyingly meaty.

  He looked about, spotting the shortsword from the first monster. Picking it up, he found it felt more like a dagger in his hands.

  [Hoodlum has Low conductivity with ‘Jackal short sword’]

  With a way to end this, he rushed over to where the wheezing jackal was picking itself up. The little creature screeched something at him — perhaps an ability? Something washed over him, and more text lit up.

  [Dwarven Stubbornness has helped resist mental attack]

  He blinked it away as he closed on the creature, hacking away at it. The little monster was done. Its trump card trampled, it barely deflected a single blow before Oz stabbed it in the chest.

  [You've defeated Jackal Drop Out. Additional experience awarded due to solo kill. Additional experience awarded due to being outnumbered]

  Oz grinned, standing over the monster slumped against the pillar. That felt better.

  Not the killing — he wasn’t a psycho — just the doing. The clarity of action. Fists over feelings, every time.

  Of course, the weird thoughts were already back, yammering in his head like a lecture he hadn’t asked for. They were trying to get his attention. Probably about the class he’d barely looked at. Fine, yes, he should’ve read more. Maybe.

  But that nagging internal voice — the one trying to turn this into some kind of life lesson — wouldn’t shut up. It was whining about something specific, something important, and Oz did what he always did with internal whining.

  He ignored it.

  Which, of course, is when the other jackal bit him.

  Broken-bodied, legs bent like wet straws, the thing had crawled to him. Clawed its way across the stone just to sink its filthy teeth into his calf.

  Oz howled — equal parts pain and you absolute bastard — and brought his weapon down again and again, hacking at the mangy little freak while it sawed at his leg like it was trying to win a prize.

  The red mist came down hard. Logic left the room. Rage pulled up a chair.

  [You've defeated Jackal Drop Out. Additional experience awarded due to solo kill]

  A second kill notification blinked into view — the one the tag-along in his brain had been trying to warn him about earlier.

  He slumped to the floor, swearing under his breath as he pried the jackal’s teeth out of his calf. The pin on his chest was talking again, but it might as well have been reciting elven poetry for all he cared. He yanked the silken cravat from his collar, preparing to bandage the wound.

  To his mild surprise, the trousers were bite-resistant — mostly. Probably to do with his [Hoodlum] skill. His leg was a mess of bruises and one nasty puncture where a fang had broken through and carved a neat little trench into his calf. Blood pulsed out in thick, lazy spurts.

  Ugly, but not the worst thing he’d walked off.

  His dwarven side would keep infection at bay. His troll blood would stitch it back together soon enough. Didn’t mean it didn’t sting like hell.

  He didn’t complain. Just muttered something bitter and set to work. A quick field wrap. Tight and practical.

  He sat back, grabbing the door and pulling it over the corpse of the beast he'd killed first, and used that to prop up his leg.

  As he sat back, breathing hard, ripping the button off to open up the stiff-collared shirt, staining it with blood, his weave popped up in his head — what the alien called ‘pixels’ formed text floating before him.

  [Hoodlum has Middling conductivity with ‘Non-standard Noxarcer uniform’]

  [Hoodlum has Exceptional conductivity with improvised weapon ‘dread portal’]

  [Hoodlum has Low conductivity with ‘Jackal short sword’]

  He really should check his class. The sword wasn’t triggering abilities, and he wasn’t about to become the Door Barbarian. Stuck for a while, he decided he could no longer tune out the voices.