Dawn arrived without warning, tinged with a faint glow that filtered its light through the cracks of the vast cavern. Kael crouched in the shadows near the entrance of a hidden waterfall he had stumbled upon while blindly exploring the passages near Rivira. The constant roar of the water offered him a strange kind of comfort: a rhythm foreign to the Dungeon—unchanging, pure.
That morning, when the flow of adventurers between floors had lessened, Kael had dared to get closer. He had no intention of entering Rivira—not in his current state. Not with his body still covered in a hardened mix of mud, dried blood, and traces of creatures he barely remembered. The guards, though neutral, wouldn't let him in. Or worse: they'd recognize him. And he wasn't sure he could face questions… or stares.
So he slipped between the rocks, following the crystalline murmur of the water, until he found a small hidden lagoon formed by the overflow of the waterfall. The area was unusually peaceful: vines hanging from rocks, soft moss blanketing the ground, steam suspended in the air as if that corner ignored the cruelty of the outside world.
And there, for the first time since he had awakened… he allowed himself to breathe.
Kael stripped off his torn clothes, feeling every shredded fiber slide across his hardened skin. He slowly sank into the water, gasping at the cold touch that shook his body. It wasn't just cleansing. It was redemption. The mud dissolved. The blood disappeared. His skin, though still marked, regained some of its original color. His black hair once again fell naturally over his forehead.
When he saw his reflection on the calm surface, he couldn't help but grimace in surprise.
The red eyes were still there. The pointed ears. Some scaly traces still clung to the back of his neck and shoulders, along with a few other spots here and there. But beneath all that… there was still a face. A young one. One that, under different circumstances, might have even been handsome. He wasn't a complete monster.
Not yet.
He stayed there for a long time in silence, until a sudden prickle of discomfort ran down his spine. He turned sharply.
Nothing.
The rocks, the twisted trees of the Dungeon's artificial biome, the waterfall… everything was the same. But he felt it. He knew it.
"…I could've sworn someone was watching me," he murmured, voice low and tense.
He scanned the surroundings again, searching every corner for a figure, a shadow out of place… but found nothing. Maybe his paranoia was growing. Maybe the latent Berserk in his blood was warping his senses.
He sighed and stepped out of the water. He had no other clothes, so he put his ruined garments back on, though at least now they weren't caked in filth. He hid in the nearest cave—not very deep, but enough to take shelter.
The artificial sun of the floor began to descend. Soon, the Dungeon's "night" would fall, marked by the fading of magical light in the atmosphere. Rivira would close its gates at that hour, and the paths would become dangerous again.
Kael wouldn't go in today.
He wrapped himself in his cloak—or what was left of it—and decided he had to make use of the time. If he wanted to survive, he needed to know the surroundings. So, with careful steps, he ventured into the area around the waterfall.
After only a few minutes along a barely visible path through jagged rocks, the air changed. A scent of iron and dampness alerted him. He instinctively crouched, moving through twisted shrubs and translucent roots that hung from the ceiling like veins.
A muffled sound. A whimper.
He followed it, moving like shadow among shadows.
And then he saw it.
A young adventurer—no older than seventeen—lay between two rocks, his left arm clearly broken, one leg trapped under debris. His light armor was in tatters, and his sword lay several meters away. He must have been part of a group that ran into an ambusher, and judging by his pained expression, he didn't have much time left.
Kael hesitated.
His instincts told him to approach. To take that weakened energy. To absorb it and claim that vitality as his own. It would be easy. It was right there. No one would see.
But… he didn't.
Instead, Kael stepped back a few paces, watching. Then, he picked up a small stone. He aimed carefully and tossed it near the sword.
The sound made the boy turn his head slightly.
Kael moved then.
He emerged swiftly from the shadows, staying behind the adventurer, and with superhuman strength, removed the rock pinning him down. The boy screamed in pain, but Kael had already moved. He used some of the vines around to fashion a makeshift tourniquet for the leg and a splint for the arm. Then, he placed the sword closer—just in case a monster approached.
All without the injured boy getting a clear look at him.
"W-what…? Who…?" the boy stammered, glancing around, breathing heavily.
Kael didn't answer. He was already far enough that his silhouette vanished into the foliage. He just watched from a distance, making sure the boy wouldn't die.
And when he noticed another group—perhaps the boy's companions—approaching along a nearby path, he turned and left.
His steps were light. His soul, a little less heavy.
He returned to the cave as the glow of the floor's artificial "stars" was fading. The roar of the waterfall greeted him like an old friend. The residual warmth of the rock offered him an improvised bed.
Kael sat down, hugging his knees. He wasn't hungry. He didn't want to absorb anything. For once… he just wanted silence.
He looked at his hands.
"I'm not lost yet," he whispered.
And for the first time in a long while, it didn't sound like a lie.
The cave wrapped him in stillness. Outside, the Dungeon kept breathing. Inside, Kael closed his eyes.
And slept.
Scene Change
Darkness was absolute in the underground chamber, interrupted only by the faint reflection of a handheld mirror embedded in a frame as black as obsidian. The object, usually vibrant and full of shifting images, now looked dull, lifeless, as if refusing to cooperate.
Ikelos stepped back from it with a grimace of frustration, his long, slender fingers trembling slightly. He paced back and forth, muttering quietly to himself as he ran a hand through his hair.
Dix watched from a high-backed armchair, relaxed, with a glass of wine in hand and a crooked smile on his face. His eyes followed every movement of the god with curiosity rather than concern.
"So, you lost him?" Dix asked, his tone almost mocking.
"I had to stop using the mirror," Ikelos snapped irritably, stopping in front of one of the many magical torches flickering without any wind. "Riveria Ljos Alf… that cursed elf… she almost sensed me. If I had kept using it so close to her, it would have triggered all the alarms. Her mental spell, her magical sensitivity… I couldn't risk it."
"And right at that moment the phenomenon disappeared?" Dix asked, leaning his elbow on the arm of the chair, entertained.
"Just before he entered the eighteenth floor. That's when everything became blurry. The layers of natural magic on that floor are too dense. The mirror can see without being detected… but it can't find what it has no way of locating."
Dix pursed his lips slightly but didn't seem surprised.
"So, in short, the great god of dreams and surveillance has lost his most promising experiment," he said with a crooked smile, raising his glass. "Brilliant."
Ikelos spun sharply toward him.
"Don't mock me. The mirror is sealed precisely to prevent interference. It can't point or track. It only observes. If I tried to actively search for him from here, someone with spiritual perception would notice immediately. And then… well, you know what would happen."
"Oh, I know," Dix nodded, setting the glass down on a nearby silver tray. "What worries me isn't that. It's that you seem to have forgotten your own story."
Ikelos narrowed his eyes.
"What are you implying?"
Dix stood up calmly from the chair and walked over to one of the bookshelves. He picked up a small book with cracked leather covers and flipped through it as if searching for a specific quote, though it was clearly just for dramatic effect.
"You once told me," he said without looking at him, "about that encounter he had on the fifth floor, remember? With those two novices who were in his path."
"Yes…" Ikelos replied, his voice quieter. "He moved away from them. Didn't attack. Hid."
"Exactly. Not because he couldn't kill them, but because he chose not to. Maybe out of fear of losing control, maybe out of compassion. Either way, that decision revealed something important: emotions. There's still something… that makes him retreat, that makes him hesitate… something almost human."
Ikelos blinked slowly.
"And?"
Dix turned toward him, a spark of macabre excitement in his eyes.
"So we don't need to search for him. We just need to lure him."
Ikelos raised an eyebrow.
"Lure him?"
"You said you can't find him. Fine. The phenomenon moves by instinct, right? When he feels he might be in danger, he steps away. When he sees a life in danger, he hesitates… and that will be his weakness."
The god crossed his arms thoughtfully.
"And what's your plan?"
Dix smiled with that expression that combined genius and cruelty in equal parts.
"Easy. We'll set a trap. Something… vulnerable. A group of young adventurers, the kind who think everything is glory and bravery. We'll make their way to the eighteenth floor easy. Maybe even give them a little 'blessing' so they don't die right away."
He walked to the mirror and laid a hand on it, as if already seeing the result in its still-dull surface.
"Let's see how long he can keep playing the good boy."
Silence filled the room once again. But this time, it had sharp edges.