The Dungeon smelled like damp breath. Like something sleeping under rock and waiting to yawn.
The first floor opened up in uneven curves, like nature had started carving a tunnel and forgot to finish it. Moss crept down the stone. The light didn't reach this deep. Not really. Not the sun's kind, anyway.
I stepped forward.
Each footfall was quiet, but not cautious. My boots didn't clack—they whispered. I wasn't sneaking. I was studying.
If you want to survive in a world built on stats and floors, you don't chase power. You learn how to make everything else chase you.
The goblin appeared like bad storytelling.
One moment: stone. Next moment: snarl.
It crawled out from behind a crooked formation, crooked itself—shoulders hunched, dagger in hand. It moved like it thought it was clever.
I let it come closer.
Because I'd never killed something before.
Not in this world. Not with this body.
And that felt important.
The goblin lunged.
I sidestepped. Sloppy.
It overcommitted.
My hand moved faster than I thought it could. Not graceful, but exact.
The dagger sank under its chin. Upward. Clean. I twisted, then yanked back. Its body convulsed once. Dropped.
Blood steamed on the floor.
I stared at it. Not in horror. Not in guilt.
Just interest.
Things I learned:
Goblins are loud when they die.
Their insides smell like boiled moss.
Killing isn't hard if you already decided it has to happen.
Three more came, drawn by the noise.
I ducked behind a broken pillar. Counted their steps.
The second one died the same way as the first. The third tried to run. My dagger found its spine before it got far. The fourth screamed. So I stopped that, too.
When the echo faded, I was still standing.
Breathing steady.
My heart wasn't racing. It was listening. To the Dungeon. To myself. To the shift happening under my skin.
Meta-knowledge is great in theory. Until you have to do the stabbing yourself.
Still, the theory held.
Stay mobile. Watch the flanks. Never swing unless it ends something.
I sat down. Not to rest. To think.
Blood soaked the floor around me. My boots were sticky.
The blade in my hand wasn't shaking. Neither was I.