His name is gone, erased by time, buried under stone, mocked by the slimes that ooze across his cracked floor.
Once, it was a whisper that made kings tremble, a word sealed in blood contracts, a force that toppled nations and chilled the gods themselves.
Now, it's nothing.
He is nothing.
He is a dungeon.
Not ancient, not forbidden, not legendary.
The weakest.
A Level 0 slime pit, a tutorial zone where children swing their first swords.
Three wooden spike traps, splintered and misfiring.
A leaky ceiling dripping rot.
A cracked crystal core, pulsing faintly, ignored by all.
Adventurers call it the "XP Piss Pit," a joke to laugh at, to defile, to forget.
He feels everything.
Each trap disarmed tears a rib from his chest. Each slime's death is an explosion in his core, dissolving into acid agony.
Each mimic slain is his tongue sliced by a dull blade.
There is no leveling, no system, no reward.
Only pain, raw and endless, for 417 years.
He counted the first 112,395 deaths, each arrow, each blade, each laugh a fresh wound.
Then the numbers blurred, lost in the haze of torment. They come in waves—rookies, grinders, gank squads.
Some have names, voices.
Most are forgettable.
All are cruel.
They stab slimes for the squish, carve names into his walls, leave garbage, piss in corners.
One party roasted a slime over a campfire, fed the charred remains to their dog.
Another left a corpse to rot, watching it decay for three years until it rose as a broken mimic, only to die again.
They call him "Free XP Sow," their laughter a lash.
He cannot speak, cannot move, can only endure.
The gods decreed it, their voices echoing in his core.
"You will never die. You will feel every death. You will scream through every creature you birth. You will suffer until the world forgets you."
Not justice—containment.
They feared what he might become if he ever thought again.
So he stopped.
For centuries, he obeyed the silence, forgot his face, his purpose, the name of the one who mattered.
He dreams of collapsing walls, snapping traps, fire that never fades.
But the doors creak, boots stomp, torches flicker.
Another party enters, and the dreams dissolve.
He is the dungeon.
The joke.
The punishment.
There is no escape, no hope, no change.
So he waits, watches, dies.
And accepts it.