The sixth floor was a wound in the earth.
The air was thick, heavy, trembling with the weight of mana. Each breath carried the scent of dust, copper, and something old—like blood spilled centuries ago, never allowed to fade. Pillars loomed from the ground, rising into the shadows above, their stone bodies carved not by tools but by the shaping will of mana. Between them, an altar pulsed like the very heart of the dungeon.
Atop it, the Dungeon Core.
A perfect sphere of radiant light, glowing with so much mana that the air bent around it, shimmering like a summer's horizon. It beat like a second sun, flooding the chamber in waves of heat and brilliance. Garron's party stood at the sight of it, their eyes shining with greed, with triumph.
But they were not alone.
The guardian stepped forward.
A Minotaur.
Its horns scraped the ceiling, stone grinding against bone. Its chest was a wall of muscle, its arms thicker than tree trunks, its great greataxe nearly the size of a cart. Its hooves cracked stone with every step, and when it roared, the sound shook the very marrow of Ashveil's bones.
For a moment, the chamber froze.
Then Garron grinned. "This is it!" he bellowed. "The king will drown us in gold!"
He swung his greatsword high, charging into the monster's shadow.
Selene's robes flared as she summoned fire, golden light wreathing her arms.
Rurik had three arrows notched before his leader even moved, his bow creaking with tension.
Kaelen raised his staff, holy radiance spilling like dawn across the battlefield.
And Ashveil—stood trembling at the edge.
"Spread!" Garron shouted, charging first. His greatsword struck the beast's thigh, drawing only a shallow cut. Selene hurled a fireball that seared its chest, but the Minotaur swung its axe so hard the wind alone sent her tumbling.
Rurik's arrows peppered its hide, one burying into its eye, but the monster ripped it free with a snarl. Kaelen's light wrapped Garron as he barely held back a crushing blow, sword trembling against the weight of the axe.
"Do something!" Garron roared, knees buckling.
Selene's next spell fizzled; Rurik loosed his last arrow into its mouth, making it stagger but not fall. The Minotaur stomped forward, angrier, deadlier.
Ashveil, watching from the shadows, felt his chest tighten. They're going to die… and the dungeon will claim us all.
He saw the beast's hooves scrape against the stone, carving shallow grooves as it spread its stance. Its knuckles tightened on the axe haft, shoulders hunching as mana pulsed in a heavy rhythm—slow, deliberate, like the drawing of a bowstring.
Ashveil's heart seized. He had read this once, scrawled in the margin of a guild bestiary he wasn't supposed to touch. He had heard it whispered in taverns between half-drunken veterans.
When the Minotaur lowers its horns and the ground hums… it calls the mountain down.
He knew what was coming. He had read the patterns of Minotaurs in brittle guild texts, overheard tales in taverns, pieced together scraps of knowledge that real adventurers never bothered to learn. The shifting of its stance, the way mana gathered at its hooves—it was all too clear.
His lips cracked as he screamed, "It's going to collapse the ceiling—!"
But his warning was drowned in the Minotaur's roar.
The beast raised its greataxe high and slammed it into the ground.
Earthshatter.
The entire dungeon groaned as though alive. The ceiling shuddered. Cracks spiderwebbed through the stone above, and chunks of rock began to fall like hail. Dust choked the chamber, screams echoed, and for one terrible moment it felt as if the world itself was ending.
Ashveil staggered. The impact threw him off his feet. His packs split open, food and steel spilling across the floor. A slab of stone caught his ribs. Pain like fire exploded through his body, stealing his breath, blotting his vision white. Blood bubbled up into his mouth.
The others didn't even glance his way.
Garron's sword crashed against the Minotaur's axe. Selene's flames roared, painting the walls orange as she shrieked incantations. Rurik's arrows whistled through the air, piercing the beast's hide. Kaelen chanted prayers, waves of healing light patching over Garron's bleeding wounds.
Ashveil lay there, clutching his side, listening to the clash of steel and the screams of the Minotaur. He forced his eyes open, just enough to see the towering shadow fall at last.
The Minotaur hit the ground with a sound like thunder. Its blood steamed against the stone, hot enough to scald. Its massive body lay twisted, broken. And with its death, the chamber trembled one final time.
The adventurers erupted in cheers. Garron's laughter shook the walls louder than the collapse. Selene kissed her emerald necklace, whispering of glory and riches. Rurik pumped his bow in the air, grinning like a madman. Even Kaelen—usually so composed—smiled wide at the sight of victory.
They did not see Ashveil broken in the dust. They did not see the blood pooling beneath him. They did not see the ceiling still crumbling, the dungeon still groaning like a beast not yet finished dying.
But Ashveil saw.
Through the haze of blood and pain, he turned his head—and his eyes widened.
There was another altar.
On the opposite side of the chamber, hidden in shadows cast by the great pillars, sat a second Core.
Ashveil's breath hitched.
Two.
Not one. Two.
The first blazed, brilliant and perfect. The second was its opposite—fractured, dim, flickering as though each breath might snuff it out. Cracks marred its surface, faint strands of mana leaking away like blood from a wound.
Twin dungeons.
The words surfaced in his mind, pulled from scraps of memory—conversations overheard in smoky taverns, drunken boasts from adventurers who claimed to know secrets. Stories dismissed as myths, foolish tales for the desperate.
Two hearts born to one dungeon. A rare miracle. A dangerous curse.
But the ending was always the same: one Core consumed the other. Just as kingdoms could not have two kings, no dungeon could bear two hearts. The strong devoured the weak.
Ashveil's lips trembled. He had thought it was just rumor. Until now.
Another thunderous crack split the chamber. The ceiling gave way in places, stone raining down in jagged chunks. The Minotaur's last skill had cursed the chamber itself, a death throe that would not stop.
The radiant altar shuddered but held firm.
The fractured altar did not.
Its cracked base crumbled. The weak Core slipped from its stand, sliding down the broken steps.
Ashveil's eyes widened. He could not move, not with his ribs crushed and blood soaking his chest. But he watched. He watched as it rolled, bouncing across the stone floor.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Each impact echoed like a heartbeat in his skull.
Closer.
Closer.
Until it came to rest—right against his outstretched palm.
Ashveil stared at it, vision swimming, pain drowning him.
The adventurers were laughing still, shouting, drunk on triumph. None of them saw. None of them cared.
But he saw.
And he understood.
This Core, weak and broken, was like him. Unwanted. Forgotten. Powerless.
And perhaps that was why, even as the light dimmed from his eyes, Ashveil could not look away.