The moment Garron, Darin, and Lena rounded the corner, their bodies locked in place—muscles frozen, breath stolen.
Their hearts skipped a beat.
Because standing before them, waiting in the dim, flickering glow of the dungeon crystals, were monsters they should not have encountered.
Minotaurs.
Not one. Not two.
Three.
Hulking figures, each towering over three meters tall, their broad, muscle-bound bodies covered in thick, matted fur that had long since lost its natural sheen. Their massive, clawed hands gripped spike chains and greataxes so large that a normal warrior wouldn't even be able to lift them.
The jagged edges of their weapons were rusted and chipped, not from neglect, but from countless battles, countless kills. The dungeon's natural cycle of death and rebirth had honed these creatures into perfect killing machines.
But that wasn't what made Lena's stomach drop.
Their eyes.
Minotaurs were known for their fierce, beast-like intelligence, their deep brown irises carrying a sense of primal cunning.
But these?
These minotaurs had no brown in their gaze.
Instead, their eyes burned.
A sickly, crimson glow pulsated from their sockets, as if something unnatural had wormed its way into their very souls.
And their veins—black. Bulging. Throbbing with unnatural energy.
Lena's breath hitched. It was worse than the ogres.
These creatures were deeper into the corruption.
Darin took a half-step back, his staff trembling in his grip. "T-Tell me I'm seeing things," he whispered.
Garron's fingers tightened around his broadsword and tower shield, his knuckles turning white. "I wish I could."
Lena swallowed hard.
Minotaurs weren't supposed to be here.
These monsters were high-level threats—found only on Floor Fifteen and beyond.
So why—?
BOOM.
The dungeon shook as one of the minotaurs took a step forward, the sheer weight of its body sending tremors through the stone floor.
The sound of metal scraping against rock filled the air as it dragged its greataxe along the ground, sparks flying, leaving behind a deep gouge in the dungeon floor.
It wasn't in a rush. It wasn't charging at them blindly like the ogres.
It was stalking them. The way a predator does before the kill.
Lena's pulse pounded in her ears.
Behind them, the ogres were still coming.
They could hear them—the deep, guttural snarls, the furious thuds of their footfalls growing louder. The fire Darin had conjured was starting to die out.
Their only escape route was closing.
Ahead of them, the minotaurs stood waiting.
The three warriors were trapped.
A deep, ragged exhale left Garron's lips as he steadied himself, his shield trembling slightly in his grasp. "This—this isn't right."
Darin let out a shaky breath, his knuckles white around his staff. "Yeah, no kidding."
Lena felt a cold dread seep into her bones.
This wasn't just a dungeon outpacing its normal difficulty curve.
This wasn't just a high-tier monster appearing out of place.
Something was deeply, fundamentally wrong with this dungeon.
The dungeon rumbled, as if it were alive, shifting, breathing. Stone trembled beneath their feet. The air was thick, oppressive, tainted by a presence that did not belong.
A trap had been set. And Trinity Blade had walked straight into it.
The corrupted minotaurs stood before them, massive, unmoving, their hulking figures nearly blending with the darkened corridor. Their breath came in ragged, guttural gasps, thick black mist curling from their nostrils like smoke.
Their hooves struck the stone, slow and deliberate, each step a drumbeat of impending slaughter.
Behind them—a deep, guttural roar echoed through the dungeon as the corrupted ogres pushed through the flames. The fire Darin had conjured was weakening, its heat fading, no longer enough to keep the beasts at bay. Blackened flesh knitted back together before their eyes.
They were healing. Faster than before.
The ogres emerged, unstoppable, their forms even more grotesque in the flickering firelight. Their twisted shadows stretched across the walls, monstrous and shifting.
Lena gripped her staff tighter, her breath unsteady. Her mana was running low.
Garron's body still bore the weight of battle—his bruises, his wounds, only partially healed. If he took another full-force hit, he wouldn't get back up.
But there was no time to hesitate.
"We move," Garron ordered, voice firm despite the sweat dripping down his brow. He planted his tower shield forward, stepping between his team and the approaching minotaurs.
His breathing was rough. But his resolve was unshaken.
"Lena, keep healing. Darin—figure something out."
Darin scoffed. "Oh, sure. Let me just check my spellbook for 'How to Deal with Dungeon Bosses That Shouldn't Be Here.'"
No one laughed.
Because the minotaurs weren't waiting.
BOOM.
The largest of the three charged.
The ground cracked beneath its monstrous weight. The sound of hooves striking stone filled the air like rolling thunder.
It was fast—too fast for something its size.
Garron braced.
CLANG!
The impact slammed into his shield like a siege weapon striking a fortress wall. His boots skidded backward, carving deep trails into the stone floor. His arms screamed with pain.
Lena's Revival Heal kicked in instantly, soothing the damage, forcing his body to hold.
But even with the healing, his bones rattled.
"Gh—damn thing's strong!" Garron hissed.
And it wasn't done.
The minotaur raised its greataxe. The jagged blade gleamed.
The air seemed to freeze.
Darin moved first.
"Incendiary Blast!"
BOOM!
A fireball erupted from Darin's staff, slamming into the minotaur's shoulder. The explosion lit up the dungeon like a second sun, a shockwave of scorching heat ripping across the corridor.
The minotaur staggered—But barely.
Lena's stomach dropped.
The beast turned its head, snarling, and before their eyes, the charred flesh… regenerated.
Instantly.
Dark mist curled along the wound, sealing it shut as if it had never been burned at all.
Lena sucked in a sharp breath. Even the ogres had flinched when burned—But these things?
They didn't even react. They were worse.
Darin's voice broke with frustration. "Fire's useless?!"
The other two minotaurs began moving.
Weapons raised. Eyes glowing.
Behind them, the ogres roared.
The fire had died. The trap was complete.
Garron's grip tightened on his broadsword. His shield was trembling. Not from fear—
But from the brutal impact he had just endured.
His body couldn't take another one.
Lena could feel it.
They were out of time.
Garron exhaled. Rolled his shoulders. Adjusted his stance.
His eyes hardened.
"No choice—"
He lifted his broadsword. "We need to break through."
The walls trembled as the corrupted minotaur pressed forward, its monstrous strength bearing down against Garron's shield like an avalanche of raw power. His boots screeched against the stone, carving deep trenches into the floor as he struggled to hold his ground. His arms burned. His muscles screamed.
He was losing.
The minotaur's jagged greataxe dug into the metal of his tower shield, pushing him backward inch by inch. Black mist curled from its nostrils. Its veins—thick, pulsing, twisting like writhing serpents beneath its hide— bulged with unnatural power.
Lena's Revival Heal pulsed through him, knitting torn muscles together before they could fully rupture, but even with her constant support—He was nearing his limit.
And behind them—The ogres were coming.
The last remnants of Darin's fire flickered, shrinking into embers as the hulking creatures tore through the dying flames. Their towering silhouettes loomed, their molten-red eyes cutting through the thick smoke like twin beacons of death. Their blackened flesh was barely scorched—their wounds were healing before they even finished stepping forward.
They were unstoppable.
Time was slipping through their fingers.
Garron gritted his teeth, forcing himself to breathe through the pain. Think. They needed a way out.
"Darin!" His voice was raw, desperate. "Find a way to punch through! We need an opening!"
Darin swung his staff forward, his hands slick with sweat, his breathing ragged.
His entire arsenal revolved around fire.
Fire that wasn't working.
The corrupted creatures didn't fear it. Didn't flinch.
But he had no other choice.
His grip on the staff tightened as frustration surged through him.
"Inferno Surge!"
FWOOOSH!
A blazing vortex of flames erupted outward, twisting, searing, consuming. The heat ignited the very air, filling the dungeon with an explosive roar. The inferno surged forward like a tidal wave of destruction, swallowing the minotaur whole.
For a moment—just a single heartbeat—it looked like it might burn.
Then—the minotaur charged straight through.
Unfazed by the flame. Unstoppable.
Darin's breath hitched. "What—? No—"
His magic hadn't slowed it. Not even for a second.
The minotaur's eyes glowed brighter. Its veins pulsed violently, drinking in the fire like fuel rather than suffering from it.
The corruption was feeding off his flames.
"Shit!" Darin stumbled back, panic flashing in his eyes. His strongest magic was useless.
The minotaur's greataxe rose.
It was coming down.
Garron barely had time to react.
He raised his tower shield—CRASH!
The impact nearly shattered his bones.
The force ripped through his entire body, sending a violent shockwave down his spine. His shield held—barely—but the sheer brutality of the strike buckled his knees.
Lena let out a gasp, pouring more mana into healing, but—She was running out.
They couldn't keep this up. They needed a way out.
Darin's mind raced. If fire wasn't going to kill these things, then maybe—
Maybe he didn't need to kill them.
His eyes snapped to the side.
A narrow passage—almost hidden in the dungeon's natural formations. It was just barely wide enough for them to squeeze through—but too small for the minotaurs.
It was a gamble. But it was the only shot they had.
He made his decision.
"Through the side passage—NOW!" Darin shouted.
Lena didn't hesitate—she ran.
Darin followed, their footsteps pounding against the stone.
Garron held the line for just a second longer. His tower shield cracked under the next impact. His body screamed at him to move.
He threw himself backward—ripping free of the minotaur's crushing strength—and bolted after them.
Behind them, the dungeon exploded with rage.
The minotaurs let out earth-shaking roars, their colossal bodies slamming against the stone walls, too large to follow.
But the ogres—The ogres were still coming.
The dungeon shuddered with each of their monstrous footfalls, like war drums pounding in the darkness.
Lena's breath came fast.
The dungeon walls closed in around them.
The narrow passage stretched deeper into the abyss, its jagged stone pressing in like the fangs of a waiting beast. Every breath felt heavier. The air—thick, damp, and almost suffocating—seemed to drag at their lungs.
But they kept running.
Trinity Blade's boots pounded against the uneven ground, the rhythmic thudding lost beneath the monstrous roars echoing behind them. The dungeon itself trembled, the sheer weight of their pursuers shaking the earth.
Lena dared a glance back—their hunters were still coming.
Far behind them, beyond the twisting corridor, she could still hear the distant, rage-filled bellowing of the corrupted minotaurs, their colossal forms too massive to fit into the narrow passage. But the ogres—the ogres were different. They could follow. And they were closing in.
Lena's pulse thundered in her ears as she turned back to her companions.
Darin looked awful. His usual cocky smirk had long since vanished, replaced by a grim scowl. His fingers clutched his staff in a white-knuckled grip. His fire magic had been useless against the corrupted beasts, and that knowledge ate at him.
But Garron—Garron looked worse.
His armor was battered and dented, his shield arm trembling from the relentless blows it had absorbed. His breathing was ragged, his body held together only by sheer willpower—and Lena's healing.
But even her magic was fading.
She clenched her staff, her vision swimming. Revival Heal had been active for too long—draining her mana reserves dry. Her fingers tingled, her limbs sluggish with exhaustion.
She was running on fumes.
The passage opened.
The tight corridor suddenly gave way to a larger chamber, the ceiling stretching high above them. It was a momentary reprieve—a fragile pocket of safety in the nightmare surrounding them.
But it wasn't enough.
They couldn't go back. They couldn't fight. And they couldn't keep running forever.
The silence was suffocating.
This shouldn't be happening.
For the first time, Trinity Blade wasn't winning.
Darin slammed his fist into the nearest wall, frustration clear in his ragged breath. "This is bullshit." His hands shook—whether from exhaustion or anger, even he wasn't sure. "We're the strongest team in Dawnstead! We shouldn't be running like cowards!"
They were elite adventurers.
Ranked among the strongest in the guild.
They had fought trolls, ogres, even wyverns—and won.
But now?
Now they were retreating like rookies.
Lena braced herself against her staff, exhaustion creeping into her voice. "Darin, we didn't sign up for this. Those things—they aren't normal."
Darin gritted his teeth. "I don't care. We don't run." His glare snapped to Garron. "Tell me I'm wrong."
But Garron didn't answer. He couldn't.
He stood there, his broadsword driven into the ground, his battered armor a testament to just how much of a beating he had taken. His breathing was slow, controlled—but behind his calm expression, Lena knew the truth.
He hated this too.
The truth burned.
They had believed no dungeon could challenge them. No monster could push them to this point. They had trained for years, fought and bled together, built their reputation from nothing.
And yet—Here they were. Cornered. Beaten. Outmatched.
And worst of all?
Their enemies weren't even struggling.
Darin's fingers curled around his staff, his magic itching to lash out. "If my flames had worked—"
"If," Garron cut in, his voice sharp. "But they didn't."
Lena sucked in a breath. She understood Darin's anger. She felt it too. But facts were facts.
They weren't strong enough to win this fight.
"We need a plan," Garron said, his voice tight with pain.
Lena took a shaky breath. "We can't go back—the ogres are blocking the way."
They barely survived the minotaurs.
If there were more of them waiting ahead—
She didn't need to finish the sentence.
Garron exhaled slowly. "We're outmatched."
The words hung in the air.
Trinity Blade—Dawnstead's strongest party—Admitting they needed help?
Lena hesitated. "Would the guild even believe us?"
Corrupted monsters weren't just rare. They were myths. Stories whispered in the dark.
Something this dangerous, this unnatural—so close to civilization?
No one had ever seen it firsthand.
Who would believe them?
Darin scowled. "Doesn't matter if they believe us or not." He clenched his fists. "If we don't do something, we're dead."
They only had one option.
Lena swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around her staff.
The emergency flare.
Every adventurer team carried one—a last-resort distress signal. Once activated, it would send a pulse of mana straight to the guild, alerting them that a party was in absolute, life-threatening danger.
But using it meant—Admitting defeat. Damaging their reputation. Acknowledging that they had overestimated themselves.
Garron exhaled sharply, his gaze hard. "Swallow your pride. I'm not letting anyone die again."
He reached into his pouch—Pulled out a small, rune-etched crystal.
The emergency flare.
His grip tightened as he looked at Darin, then Lena.
"We don't have a choice."
Lena's heart pounded.
She hated this. But—They wouldn't survive otherwise.
She nodded, gripping her staff. "Do it."
Darin ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, looking away.
He hated this. But he hated dying more.
"Damn it." His jaw clenched.
Garron crushed the crystal.
A pulse of blue light exploded outward, spiraling into the air—Racing toward the dungeon ceiling.
The signal was sent.
Now all they had to do—Was survive until help arrived.
End of Chapter 36