Upon reaching the third floor, John found himself facing a horde of at least fifty goblins. The sheer number of them was immediately apparent, their small, hunched figures filling the cavernous space, their stench of sweat and grime assaulting his nostrils. Armed with crude clubs and rusty axes, their emaciated forms and ragged clothing spoke of a desperate hunger, a gnawing emptiness that might very well lead them to view John as a potential source of sustenance. Yet, despite the overwhelming odds and the palpable sense of danger, John remained undeterred, a confident smirk playing on his lips.
“This floor,” he proclaimed, his voice ringing out through the chamber, “seems like the perfect opportunity to test my own strength, rather than relying solely on the power of my fly-rod.” With those words, the fly-rod vanished from his grasp in a puff of shimmering light, leaving his hands empty.
Max’s voice echoed in John’s thoughts, a note of concern evident in his tone. “Are you absolutely certain you want to engage such a large crowd in hand-to-hand combat?”
John’s reply, though tinged with a hint of hesitation, was ultimately firm and resolute. “Not really,” he admitted honestly, “but it’s absolutely essential to test my limits, to see what I’m truly capable of.” He then issued a direct command. “Max,” he ordered, a playful glint in his eyes, “play some music to set the proper mood for this little brawl.”
Suddenly, the dungeon chamber was filled with the driving, invigorating rhythm of ‘Faith’ by Limp Bizkit, the powerful guitars and aggressive vocals echoing off the stone walls. John, caught up in the energy of the music, began to sing along with the lyrics, his voice surprisingly strong and confident, until the sharp, jarring buzzer signaled the start of the battle.
As John unleashed the first verse of his chosen battle hymn, his “song of annihilation” as he playfully dubbed it, he erupted into action. He moved with a fluid elegance that masked the sheer power of his strikes, narrowly avoiding a roughly carved club by a fraction of an inch with a swift sidestep, the coarse wood brushing past his cheek. Spinning on his heel with incredible speed, he grasped the wrist of a lunging goblin, expertly using the creature’s own momentum against it, sending it crashing into its allies. With each passing second, John’s rhythm intensified, the pulsating beat of the music fueling his movements, and with it, the number of enemies he neutralized increased dramatically.
Not one goblin managed to touch him; he moved like a wraith, an ethereal figure amidst the chaotic melee. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, fear, and the metallic tang of blood, as John weaved through the goblins, his fists and feet a blur of motion. The goblins screeched and howled, their voices a cacophony of rage and frustration, but their attacks were no match for John's speed and agility.
The entire skirmish concluded in a mere two minutes; a breathtaking display of controlled power that left the chamber strewn with unconscious goblins. Unbeknownst to John, his “little experiment,” as he had casually described it, had generated quite a commotion among the spectators. To the countless individuals who had never before been exposed to the raw emotion and visceral energy of modern music, John was akin to a rock god incarnate, a mesmerizing performer moving through a throng of screeching goblins like a veritable harbinger of death, his every action a testament to his extraordinary abilities. His piercing green eyes, strikingly framed by a vibrant ring of blue, captivated all who witnessed them, their intensity drawing every eye. The lyrics of his chosen song, a powerful ode to self-reliance and unwavering conviction, resonated deeply with every observer, igniting a fire within their hearts. The warriors who observed his combat prowess felt their blood boil with a newfound zeal, a burning desire to replicate his effortless strength. John’s seemingly audacious decision to sheathe his weapon and depend solely on his own physical capabilities, combined with his inspiring song of self-belief and the graceful, almost otherworldly display of destruction he conducted, were sights never before witnessed in this world, or perhaps any other.
Will had barely finished transmitting the sound of the second floor’s completion when a chilling voice, thin as a whisper yet carrying an undeniable weight of power, responded from the other end. “How fast was the second floor?” the voice inquired, its tone sending a shiver down Will’s spine.
Will answered truthfully, his voice steady despite the unsettling presence on the other end of the line. “One second, Your Majesty. The same as the first level.”
An almost immediate silence followed, a pregnant pause that seemed to stretch on for an eternity. Then, as if in direct response to the queen’s inquiry, the weather outside the dungeon entrance underwent a sudden and dramatic transformation. Dark, ominous clouds amassed with incredible speed, blotting out the sun’s warm rays and plunging the area into an almost premature twilight. A dense, palpable power permeated the air, a tangible sense of dread that hung heavy in the suddenly chilled atmosphere.
Beside Will, with a faint shimmer of displaced air, a young woman materialized. Her long, flowing white hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of moonlight, contrasting starkly with the severe black dress that clung to her slender frame. Her piercing silver eyes, filled with an ancient wisdom and a chilling intensity, seemed to bore into Will's very soul. He had anticipated her arrival, having received similar summons in the past; her presence always gave him the unsettling impression of summoning a powerful, ancient demon. Yet, in this realm where life and death hung in such delicate balance, Will had long since accepted his role as a mere agent of death, a messenger of fate.
Seraphina, a half-vampire of immense power and ancient lineage, stood before him, her pale skin almost translucent in the dim light. An aura of power radiated from her, a palpable wave of cold energy that sent shivers down the spines of those nearby. Just as she fully materialized, solidifying her presence in the physical world, John commenced his descent into the third round of the dungeon. Her powerful, almost suffocating aura, a tangible wave of cold power and ancient energy, juxtaposed sharply with John’s melodic and almost graceful combat style, made it seem to some of the onlookers as though his performance was not merely a fight, but a serenade performed specifically for her, a beautiful and deadly dance offered as tribute to a dark queen.
The moment Seraphina’s silver eyes fell upon John, a jolt of unexpected emotion coursed through her, catching her completely off guard. She was immediately captivated by his striking presence, his air of quiet strength and resolute confidence. Emotions that had remained dormant within her for countless years, concealed beneath layers of icy detachment, began to awaken, a perplexing sensation she couldn’t quite comprehend. As his voice, resonant and powerful, carried the inspiring words of his chosen song, a hymn of self-reliance and unwavering conviction, she found herself pondering whether this unfamiliar feeling was somehow linked to her vampiric nature, a long-dormant instinct stirring within her ancient blood. Could he possibly be one of her own kind, a rare and unexpected kindred spirit? The thought crossed her mind, a fleeting flicker of possibility in the vast darkness of her long existence. She remained unaware, however, of the simple truth: her reaction was a perfectly ordinary human response to genuine attraction, a sensation that transcended species and supernatural origins. Despite being a woman whose heart had become cold and distant over the long centuries—or so she had led herself to believe—she found herself inexplicably drawn to him, like iron filings to a powerful magnet.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
While observing the unfolding scene, her gaze unwavering from John, she confided in Will, her voice barely audible yet imbued with a chilling intensity. “You’re correct, Will,” she murmured, her words carrying a sense of inevitability. “He’s the one I require.”
As the fight ended with John’s effortless triumph, she knew she had to return to the tenth floor, to prepare for their inevitable encounter. With a slight incline of her head and a whisper of displaced air, she vanished, leaving behind a faint scent of frost and a lingering chill.
Anya and Alana, who had unfortunately overheard her startling pronouncement, were left in stunned silence, their faces a mixture of bewilderment and unease. Once Seraphina had vanished, disappearing as swiftly and silently as she had materialized, Anya turned to Alana, her voice trembling with uncertainty and a hint of trepidation. “What…what are we supposed to do?” she stammered, her eyes wide with worry.
Alana, however, responded with unwavering determination, her voice steady and resolute. “We train,” she declared simply, her eyes fixed on the now-empty gateway to the dungeon.
John was riding a wave of exhilaration, feeling invincible in his newly rejuvenated body, a sensation that puffed up his ego for the first time in what felt like ages. He addressed the silent dungeon with a casual bravado, the tone of his voice reminiscent of his easy banter with his friend Max. “Hey, dungeon,” he called out, his voice echoing through the vast chamber. “Let’s skip the achievements for now, shall we? They don’t really count until I’m done fighting anyway, right? How about you just throw one boss at me? Just one. Let’s make a deal.”
To his utter astonishment, a distinctly female voice, smooth as silk yet laced with an undercurrent of ancient power, echoed through the dungeon, the sound seemingly emanating from the very stones themselves. “A deal it is,” the voice replied, the words sealing the agreement and sending a chill that had nothing to do with the dungeon’s temperature racing down John’s spine. He had been jesting, indulging in a moment of playful arrogance, never in a million years expecting the dungeon to actually respond.
Suddenly, with a crackle of displaced air and a low, guttural growl that resonated deep within his chest, a hulking troll materialized before him, its massive form casting a long, distorted shadow across the chamber floor. The troll's skin was a mottled green and brown, covered in warts and scars. Its eyes glowed with a malevolent red light, and its thick, gnarled fingers ended in sharp claws. The stench of rotting flesh and damp earth wafted from its body, making John's stomach churn.
“Crap,” John muttered under his breath, his earlier bravado instantly replaced by a surge of apprehension. He vividly recalled hearing tales of trolls and their almost supernatural ability to regenerate from even the most grievous wounds, unless the wound was cauterized by fire to prevent their rapid healing. With no magic at his disposal on this first foray into the dungeon’s depths, John knew he had to think quickly, his mind racing to formulate a strategy.
An idea sparked in John’s mind, a sudden flash of inspiration that ignited a burst of laughter within him. With a swift flick of his wrist, his trusty fly-rod materialized in his hand, the nano-line shimmering faintly in the dim light. “Max, activate augmented reality mode,” he commanded, his voice now calm and focused.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl around John, the world outside his perception becoming a sluggish blur of motion. His eyes shimmered, the vibrant blue and green hues swirling and swapping places, a visual indicator of the augmented reality taking effect. With a burst of speed that belied the slowed-down world around him, John charged forward, diving between the troll’s thick, moss-covered legs, the rough fibers brushing against his skin. As he landed on the other side, he spun with lightning-fast reflexes, the nano-line blade arcing through the air with deadly precision, severing both of the troll’s massive limbs in a single, clean cut. The severed limbs thudded heavily onto the stone floor, sending tremors through the chamber.
Now, how to cauterize the wound?, John thought frantically, his mind racing. He remembered the fire-starting gel.
John quickly retrieved a tube of fire-starting gel from his inventory, the cool metal of the tube a stark contrast to the heat of the moment, and hastily applied a generous amount to the troll’s gaping wounds. The troll, now unable to regenerate, let out a series of ear-splitting howls of agony, the raw, primal screams echoing through the dungeon.
With a solemn gesture, John pressed his palms together in a respectful bow, his movements almost theatrical in their precision, paying homage to the fallen creature. “May the fire of my passion purify your soul,” John declared in a clear, resonant voice, the words echoing through the chamber. As the final word left his lips, flames erupted from the gel, quickly engulfing the troll’s head in a crackling inferno, the intense heat radiating outwards.
The battle was concluded, the only sound now the crackling of the flames and the faint echo of triumphant trumpets and celebratory fireworks that seemed to emanate from the very fabric of the dungeon itself. New titles appeared in his field of vision: Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing, Silver Tongue, the words glowing with an ethereal light, though their specific bonuses remained veiled, locked until he reached level 20. A pang of frustration gnawed at John, a feeling of being shortchanged and cheated out of his due rewards. Unbeknownst to him, the dungeon itself harbored the very same sentiment. “I’ve been cheated,” they both thought simultaneously, a strange and unsettling connection forming between the warrior and the dungeon he had just conquered.
Will stood rooted to the spot, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief. The dungeon had spoken. The very notion overturned everything the Royal Academy had held as truth for centuries, dismantling generations of established doctrine. A cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach, and his breath caught in his throat. The urgent questions swirled through his mind: How had the dungeon managed to respond? Why had it chosen to respond to John? Especially given that John had not participated in any form of spiritual cultivation, a practice deemed essential for any interaction with such ancient and powerful entities. The origin of John’s ability to summon flames, which had so effectively negated the troll’s regenerative capabilities, appeared to be linked to his fervent prayer, his passionate song of unwavering faith. It was an unprecedented occurrence, a complete deviation from established precedent.
Will realized, with a growing sense of unease, that he had to inform Seraphina without delay. Shortly thereafter, a frigid, almost spectral voice echoed within Will’s mind, the disembodied words sending a chill through his very being. He could discern a subtle hint of anxiety, a rare display of worry in her typically emotionless demeanor. Will considered the unusual emotion in her mental tone, the weight of her unspoken inquiries.
“He interacted with the dungeon…and it actually responded,” he explained, his own voice still tinged with astonishment.
“Relate to me precisely what occurred,” Seraphina pressed, her mental voice becoming more urgent, more insistent.
As Will carefully recounted the chain of events, another astonishing revelation surfaced, adding yet another layer of complexity to the already unbelievable circumstances.
“He’s…he’s already en route to the tenth floor?” Seraphina questioned, the incredulity palpable in her mental tone.
Will confirmed, his voice barely audible. “Yes, Your Majesty. He should be arriving there at any second now.”
Then, as swiftly and silently as she had appeared beside him, Seraphina’s mental presence vanished from his consciousness, leaving Will alone to grapple with the implications of what he had just learned. He was left to contemplate, torn between a mixture of awe and a twinge of envy at John’s extraordinary, almost miraculous fortune.
