Dungeon - Floor Five
The Eternal Swamp.
No one could have guessed that just beneath the scorched sands of the fourth floor lay a completely different world. The final floor, forgotten and buried under the desert for thousands of years.
A fifth floor never recorded in any ancient map, absent from the memories of any traveler who had ever made it out alive. A place where the entrance was nothing more than random sinkholes, appearing among the golden dunes without reason.
This place... was covered in a permanent haze, trapping the space in an eternal, cold twilight. The wind blew softly without sound, the ground was damp, and the breath of the swamp whispered a song of decay.
At the far north was a crescent-shaped cliff, carved with a massive dragon skull with its jaws open, teeth as sharp as stone spears, stretching out as if ready to devour anyone who took a wrong step.
"Aaaaaaa!!!"
A sudden scream rang out, growing clearer as it came closer.
And then, from the dragon's mouth, a figure rolled out like a ball tumbling down a slope.
Gerald.
This time, he didn't need to cast a spell to understand that fate was playing with him.
The drop wasn't high enough to be deadly, but it was more than enough to make his old bones crack in protest.
Even with protective magic, the impact was far from pleasant.
Worse yet, in that weightless tumble through the air, he couldn't even close his eyes to lock onto a teleportation point using Space Element magic.
The spell was ready...
But it was like holding a door without knowing how to open it.
...THUD!
A heavy thump sounded as his body plunged headfirst into the swamp, water and mud splashing, creating small ripples across the startled croaks of frogs.
Luckily, it was water. If it had been stone, he would have become part of an archaeological site.
Gerald surfaced, gasping like a fish pulled out of saltwater. He spat out a thick mouthful of mud, inhaling deeply like it was his first breath in a century. His chest ached, spine groaned. After confirming that he was still alive and his limbs were attached, he swam toward the shore.
Gasping and wheezing...
He staggered to his feet, each step heavy under his soaked cloak, which clung to him like salted seaweed. Every move made a cursed squelching sound. It felt like he was dragging the entire swamp on his back.
His left arm itched strangely.
Looking down, a small green snake was tightly coiled around his elbow as if seeking warmth.
"Get off me, damn thing!" Gerald grumbled, yanking the snake off and tossing it back into the swamp where it disappeared into the dark water.
Still sore all over, Gerald forced himself to take in his strange surroundings.
The air was unnaturally still.
A dim twilight filtered through the lingering mist, casting a pale light of unknown origin.
Black water covered the swamp. The ground was as soft as rotting flesh. Thin roots poked from the soil like warning fingers.
No birdsong.
No visible life.
Only one thing lingered everywhere: the smell.
A stench of rot, like the scent of bones buried in mud for centuries.
Gerald grimaced. "Smells like the Grim Reaper just wiped his feet..."
"Bloody hell..."
He flung his cloak aside, about to curse further when—he froze.
Ahead, draped over a dead tree, a simple military tunic was spread out as if someone had just taken it off. Beside it, a pair of old cloth shoes caked in mud sat neatly.
Gerald narrowed his eyes and approached. His fingers trembled as he touched the fabric.
Wet. Cold. Still retained heat.
"Not monster clothing..." he muttered.
Then he looked up, scanning the area. In that moment, his old eyes sharpened like a spearhead.
"Someone's been here... Before me, or with me."
A chill crawled up his spine, not from the swamp, but from the terrifying possibilities forming in his mind.
Who else could have reached the fifth floor?
And were they friend... or something else entirely?
Gerald fell into thought.
Elsewhere...
In the dim twilight, where strange insect sounds echoed now and then, where mist drifted like lost souls—Gen sat beside a small fire he had conjured with magic.
The flickering light revealed his eerily calm face. In the shifting glow, he looked ancient and oddly at peace. He sat barefoot, wearing only soaked pants still dripping, unconcerned by the swamp's ceaseless eerie noises and the rustling behind his back.
Next to him, Dolly stood still like a statue. No weapon in hand, no wasted movement. Like a loyal guardian. Only the firelight glinted in her lifeless eyes, a living watchtower in a realm of death.
In front of Gen lay his disassembled black armor, the Deadroot King Set. The back and chest plates were torn, gauntlets shattered. Though battered, the black steel still gleamed with a cold, dormant fury.
Without a word, Gen opened his status screen. His eyes stopped at a newly acquired skill.
A forging and enhancement ability inherited from the Stone King:
[Forge].
Forging: Allows the creation of equipment from any material. Shape and function are fully dependent on imagination.
Enhancement: Deconstructs items to retain core stats, which can be merged into other equipment.
(Requirement: Advanced Appraisal.)
"...Interesting," he murmured.
Still seated, Gen removed a ring that boosted HP from his finger. Without hesitation, he whispered:
"[Forge]."
A faint cracking sound echoed—like glass breaking under a hammer. The ring shattered into dust midair. But instead of disappearing, a glowing speck of light floated above his palm, flickering like a will-o'-the-wisp.
He touched it to another ring.
[Confirm fusion?]
[Accept]/[Decline]
After choosing to fuse, a soft beam of light swept over the ring. The glowing speck vanished. All fell silent.
"So that's how it works..." he mumbled, a spark of understanding flashing in his eyes like an ancient alchemist grasping a forbidden truth.
He took out several enhancement stones and scattered them before him. They shone like isolated stars in the swampy darkness.
Bright red: HP
Deep blue: MP
Blazing orange: Strength
Golden yellow: Physical Resistance
Dark green: Magic Power
Pale blue: Magic Resistance
Deep purple: Agility
Each stone was a crystallization of monsters—essences born of death, battle, and fate. Their strength scaled with the monsters slain: the stronger the creature, the brighter the stone.
Despite their brilliance, everyone knew: they were no miracle.
+1 stat—that was the minimum. And the risk of failure in enhancement always loomed like a guillotine.
Shattering. Wasting. Pain.
Yet in every remote village forge or dark alley of the Capital, smiths continued to try. They embedded stones into weapons with sweat—and sometimes blood—praying that luck would smile. To them, it was not just a trade, but a gamble where skill and fate walked hand in hand.
Gen drew the stone hammer from the Black Dungeon via Dolly, then silently picked up a random enhancement stone.
The fire flickered beside him. The air held still.
[Enhance].
A soft ting rang out. The stone merged with the weapon.
No explosion. No failure.
"Easier than I thought."
Without waiting, Gen placed his hand on the damaged Deadroot King armor set.
"...[Forge]," he whispered again.
A strange sound echoed—not the clash of swords or explosive spells, but the sound of the world itself being bent. As if the laws of matter were twisting, molecule by molecule. Like the low rumble of the earth, like forgotten anvils ringing from ancient eras.
Unlike enhancement, this was forging.
Above the armor, the air trembled. A faint magic circle appeared, flickering like glowing embers. Gen dropped into it several pieces of gear looted from deadwood creatures in the Level 100 Forest of Death.
To others, they were resources. To him... trash.
Slowly, each item melted in midair.
Metal peeled like snake skin. Fragments twisted into dark liquid, swirling like molten lava bound in orbit.
[Decomposition complete — Materials obtained: Refined Iron, Magic Core Shards, Black Titan Residue.]
Gen nodded.
His hand remained on the armor.
"Begin forging."
Instantly, the liquid metals surged toward the armor like hunting serpents. They clung to cracks, gaps, and broken parts. Instead of coating the surface, they fused into each piece like blood returning to a body.
Old steel shuddered.
At the chest and back, new layers grew, sealing shattered sections. The deepest tears were mended with swirling iron stitches, like bones healing with scar tissue. Shattered gauntlets reformed—not perfect, but usable, enough to grasp a weapon.
Sweat beaded on Gen's forehead. The process steadily drained mana—not as quickly as enhancement, but more sustained.
This was real forging. No miracles. No cheats.
Only patience.
Bit by bit, the armor rebuilt itself. Old and new blended strangely well, as if the armor remembered its original form and was reborn.
Finally, the light faded.
Only the black armor stood tall in the firelight.
Suddenly... Gen froze.
One of the four faint pulses in his mana network... vanished.
He closed his eyes. In his mind, a black thread had snapped.
"...One shadow has disappeared."
It was one of four clones created by his skill [The Shadow]—reflections of himself, bearing one-tenth of his true power, only Level 28.
Before setting up camp, he had sent them out in the four cardinal directions: East, West, South, and North—as silent scouts.
And now, the northern one was gone—eliminated by a swamp monster.
Gen raised an eyebrow.
No shock.
No anger.
To him, this loss was like stepping on a bug on a battle map. The shadows were not allies, not fragments of his soul. They were tools. When a tool breaks, you mark the location.
"...I see."
He muttered, glancing north. The air there felt heavy, hiding a dormant pulse beneath the silent mud.
He ordered Dolly to collect the enhancement stones. Then he picked up the armor—now restored—and put it on.
Each piece clicked into place. The glossy black armor hugged his form, gleaming like divine plating forged in hellfire.
As he fastened the final shoulder plate, his expression darkened.
Something... odd.
A cold, damp sensation crept from below. Like something was slithering between his underwear and skin.
Gen flinched.
He tilted his head, feeling it clearly—something clung to his flesh like a leech, soaking in, seeping deep, freezing.
His underpants, the last thing left after falling into the swamp, were still wet. Cold and heavy, like remnants of the dead swamp clinging on.
A dark drop trickled down, falling through the gap by his heel.
Gen stood still as a statue.
For a brief moment, something very... human stirred within him.
He sighed quietly.
Not from cold.
But from annoyance.
"Should've dried it first," he muttered, as if cursing himself for skipping a crucial step.
A bitter smile flickered—then vanished.
And so, he took off his armor again, this time for the mundane survival task every Dungeon dweller knew: drying his underwear.
He pulled out a spear—loot from a monster—and hung the underpants near the fire.
Then he sat down, cross-legged, wrapped in that Dracula-like cloak.
Maybe this was the closest he felt... to living a normal life.
All that was missing was a hot cup of tea.