Darkness was not silent.
It was written.
It pulsed like a living thing, wet with the sound of dripping water and the quiet squelch of slithering limbs. Beneath layers of ancient earth and obsidian rock, something stirred within the stillbirth of stone.
He was not born screaming. He was born watching.
Eyes opened before a mouth ever formed. He did not know the word for pain, yet the first sensation that greeted his soul was agony. Not the simple sting of a blade or the dull ache of bruises. This was raw, skinless becoming. His body was still forming, muscle wrapping around bone like ivy clinging to ruins, his spine coiling into place with a sickening crack.
He lay still.
The world around him was cold, wet, and humming with a strange hunger that was not his own. He was not alone in this place. There were other shapes, half-born things crawling through the dirt, gnawing at roots and stones. Some died before they took their first breath. Others fought.
He watched.
Through the slit of a glowing eye, he saw one of the newborns approach. It dragged itself with crooked limbs and a mouth filled with teeth too large for its skull. It screeched, a horrible noise like glass grinding against metal.
Instinct whispered. Not words, not thought. A command. A truth.
Kill or die.
He moved. The moment shattered the stillness. His claws were crude, but the other creature had no defense. He dug his hand into the soft part beneath its jaw and tore. Blood hissed into the air like hot steam. The creature convulsed, then stilled.
Something passed between them.
A thread. A memory. An essence.
He inhaled it without thinking. Power surged through his chest, and with it came understanding. Primitive, incomplete, but real. A word formed behind his teeth as bones shifted and strength grew.
"Devour."
He did not speak it aloud. The word was not for sound. It was for becoming.
He fed.
By the time the next creature found him, he was stronger. His fingers had hardened into talons. His spine had straightened. He stood.
The others came in waves. Broken things, screaming things, all born from the same dark cradle. He fought them one by one, his body remembering every wound, every strike, learning with terrifying speed. He was not faster. He was not smarter.
He was simply more willing.
When he killed the fifth, the cavern changed.
The walls moaned as if in approval. Faint red lines carved themselves into the stone, glowing with heat and ancient purpose. The cavern grew warmer. The air became thicker with the smell of metal and blood.
The dungeon had noticed him.
It was not a god. It was not kind. But it was alive, and he could feel its gaze, watching him as a hand watches its own fingers.
He staggered to the edge of the birthing pit and climbed.
The climb was long. Hours passed. Perhaps days. He never slept. He did not need to. The hunger inside him fed on more than flesh. It fed on purpose. With each step, his body changed further. His skin hardened like scaled stone. Horns curled from his brow. His breath turns to mist.
He emerged from the pit and found himself in a corridor of black glass. Symbols shimmered on the walls, pulsing softly. Before him stood a stone altar, and on it, a single crystal pulsed with dim green light.
He approached.
The crystal whispered.
Designation: Core Guardian.
Role: Develop. Protect. Expand.
Failure results in Termination.
He reached out to touch it.
The moment his claws brushed the surface, a thousand voices screamed into his skull. Visions poured through him like boiling oil. Monsters. Traps. Adventurers with steel and fire. Armies. Death. Rebirth. Evolution.
He saw himself at the center of it all.
Guardian of the dungeon. Born from its blood. Bound by its law.
He did not flinch. He did not kneel.
He accepted.
The crystal dimmed, and something unlocked in the back of his mind.
A map unfolded. A system of tunnels, chambers, traps yet to be built. He saw it all. It was his now. The dungeon would not speak again. It was chosen.
He was alone.
And he was ready.
From behind him, he heard footsteps. Not the slithering of half-born beasts. These were heavier. Controlled. A sound echoed by armor and confidence.
Intruders.
His first adventurers had arrived.
He bared his teeth and stepped into the shadows.
The hunt had begun.