Chapter 11: Dungeon World (1)
Michael crouched low and pressed his hand against the sand. He willed his strength into a single motion, and~
Boom!
The ground erupted like a geyser. Sand shot into the air in a fountain before collapsing back down in a torrential spray. The blast was so powerful that dunes within ten meters shifted.
"Pooh! Pooh—damn it."
He spat out sand and shook his hair violently. Grains clung stubbornly to his face, neck, and even inside his collar.
"Note to self: stop testing raw strength in a sandbox."
Despite his irritation, his lips curled. The stomp hadn't even used his full strength, and yet the landscape reacted like it had been struck by artillery.
Still too rough. I need control… precision. Otherwise, I'll waste power in the College Exam dungeon.
---
Interrupted Experiment
Michael pulled out a bottle of potion is the one that Maria Frostheart had casually gifted him. A high-grade spirit-strengthening agent, the liquid shimmered with emerald brilliance, radiating vitality.
The moment he uncorked it, a refreshing aroma surged outward, cutting through the dry air.
"Good stuff," he muttered. "Much better than the junk I used to choke down."
He raised the bottle to his lips—
—and froze.
Something was moving beneath the sand. Not far, circling like sharks in shallow water. He felt the subtle vibrations, faint but unmistakable.
He lowered the potion slowly. His eyes narrowed.
"Now!"
A harsh whisper, followed by the sudden appearance of a black object thrown from the dune's ridge.
Grenade.
Michael barely had time to leap.
BOOM!!!
The explosion ripped through the desert, a pillar of sand and smoke erupting high into the air. Heat and shrapnel tore across the ground. Michael's ears rang, and the force pressed into his chest like a hammer.
When the smoke settled, the spot where he had stood was a smoking crater.
Two figures rose from the sand nearby. Their faces were wrapped in cloth, eyes darting, hands gripping compact rifles.
"Ha! Nailed him," one of them spat, brushing sand off his shoulder. "Told you, anyone carrying high-grade potions without protection is an easy mark."
The other laughed, voice dry and hoarse. "Poor student with decent talent, family probably went broke buying him one bottle to gamble on. Shame they'll never see him again."
"Don't waste time. Check if the potion survived the blast. If you blew it up again, I'll—"
"I know, I know!" The grenade-thrower scowled, climbing down toward the smoking crater. His boots sank into the sand as he muttered, "Last time was an accident. This time the bottle should be intact—"
The man's words choked off.
His legs stopped moving.
He looked down in confusion—and horror.
The sand around his waist swirled like quicksilver, tightening like chains. His lower body sank with bone-snapping force, pulling him down to the hips in an instant.
"Wha—AAAAHHHHHHH!"
Pain ripped through him, his pelvis twisting unnaturally. He clawed at the air, screaming as if molten lead filled his veins.
"Brother!" the second robber spun, raising his gun. His instincts screamed danger. "We've hit a wall—!"
Veins bulged along his arms as he roared, activating his talent.
"Ape Rampage!"
His body swelled, muscles ballooning grotesquely. His eyes glazed red, instincts overriding reason. He swung wildly, clubbing the ground with his gun-stock, then turned and—
Crunch!
—smashed it straight into his partner's back.
The trapped man gave one final scream before collapsing, spine shattered.
The berserker didn't even notice.
His gaze had locked onto the dune where a figure now rose, brushing sand off his shoulders.
Michael.
Unharmed. Calm. His black hair fluttered in the hot wind.
The berserker bellowed and charged, gun raised like a mace. His fist, swollen with unnatural power, swung toward Michael's chest.
The ground split under the sheer force. Air howled.
Michael didn't move.
The punch landed directly against his palm.
Bang!
Sand blasted outward in a shockwave. Yet Michael's feet barely shifted. He looked down at the clenched fist in his hand, expression flat.
"That's it?"
The berserker snarled, muscles straining further. His veins glowed faintly as he forced more strength into his talent. His other arm swung down like a falling tree.
Michael caught that too.
The bones cracked beneath his grip. Blood spurted as the man howled.
"You prey on students," Michael said coldly. His fingers tightened.
"Students who carry their families' last hope. You strip them of life without a thought. And you think you deserve to walk away?"
He twisted.
Crack! Snap!
One arm tore free, spraying blood across the sand. The berserker collapsed to his knees, screaming, tears and snot mixing with the crimson staining his face.
"Spare me—!"
Michael's eyes stayed icy. "No."
Boom!
The man's skull burst like a watermelon struck by a hammer. Red splattered across the dunes, soaking into the sand.
Silence fell.
Michael wiped his hand on the dead man's torn shirt, disgust curling his lip. He bent and rifled through their belongings.
"Seven hundred thousand cash, one ordinary spirit potion, two grenades." He snorted.
"That's it? You rob and kill for pocket change?"
He pocketed the cash, tucked the potion into his coat, and flung the grenades far across the desert. They detonated midair, twin blossoms of fire flashing briefly before fading.
"Pathetic."
He glanced back at the crater, then at the lifeless bodies.
Human monsters. Worse than beasts.
---
Michael retrieved his Boundary Stone. The crystal glowed faintly, pulsing as if alive. With a squeeze, it shattered into motes of light.
The world began to distort. Space bent, tugging at his body, promising extraction back to the real world.
But halfway through something went wrong.
The light shivered. The air rippled violently. Instead of the smooth pull of teleportation, a strange pressure slammed into him.
The desert floor trembled. Sand swirled, whispering with voices that weren't wind. Something vast stirred deep below, like an ancient beast waking from slumber.
Michael's eyes narrowed.
"This dungeon… isn't as safe as they said."
And then the light swallowed him whole.
Outside the Dungeon Gate
The wasteland dungeon's barrier shimmered faintly like a heat mirage. Soldiers and guild officials stood guard, rifles and artifact-weapons at the ready. The dungeon had been classified as a "safe" F-tier dungeon, yet precautions were always mandatory. Dungeons were unpredictable. The line between "safe" and "deadly" could be crossed in a single heartbeat.
At the edge of the queue, the staffer who had processed Michael earlier still scowled. He puffed on a cheap cigarette, glaring at the barrier as though it had personally offended him.
"That kid…" he muttered, exhaling smoke. "E-rank support, level three. Walking into a dungeon like this is just suicide. Not even worth writing a report about."
"Talking about that student?" A guild inspector in a navy coat approached, holding a clipboard. "Intermediate deacon certification. Sky Fist Guild. Name's Willson… no—Michael Willson?"
The staffer nearly choked on his smoke. "Yeah, that brat. Still don't get how he pulled that title. Some rich family must be backing him."
The inspector frowned. "Sky Fist doesn't back weaklings. Maria Frostheart herself authorized his certification. If she vouches for him, we can't dismiss it."
The staffer scratched his head, uneasy. "Even so… a kid that green's got no chance."
Almost on cue, the dungeon barrier flared. For an instant, a tremor ran through the ground, and faint echoes of an explosion rippled outward. The soldiers tensed, weapons raised.
A beat later, silence returned.
The staffer clicked his tongue. "See? Probably stepped on his own bomb. Not even worth wasting time."
The inspector, however, didn't look away. He narrowed his eyes at the glowing barrier. "...We'll see."
---
Inside the Dungeon
Michael had felt his body disassemble into light when he crushed the Boundary Stone. Teleportation should have been instant, safe, flawless.
Instead, halfway through transit, a foreign force had clawed at him—cold, ancient, hungry.
He fought it with raw strength, forcing the stone's magic to hold. For a heartbeat, the world twisted into a nightmare: shadows crawling across the dunes, a colossal silhouette writhing beneath the desert. Something vast, chained, straining against invisible fetters.
Then, with a final wrench, the light spat him out.
---
Back at the Gate
The barrier rippled once more.
Everyone stiffened as a silhouette emerged, step by step, from the shimmer.
Gasps filled the air.
Michael walked out casually, brushing sand from his hair. His uniform was torn, dust clinging to his sleeves, but his body bore no injury. In one hand, he carried a bloodstained sack—heavy, bulging.
The staffer dropped his cigarette. "You… you're not dead?!"
Michael's eyes flicked toward him, bored. "Disappointed?"
With a lazy motion, he tossed the sack onto the ground. It split open, spilling two corpses onto the dirt. The soldiers immediately aimed their rifles, tension spiking until they saw what the bodies were.
Humans.
Armed, scarred, cruel-looking.
One missing an arm, the other with his skull caved in.
"Bandits…" the inspector hissed. His voice shook, equal parts fury and relief.
"Damn parasites! They've been plaguing this dungeon for weeks."
Michael stretched his shoulders. "They tried to rob me. Bad luck for them."
"You killed them?" the staffer asked, incredulous.
Michael gave him a look sharp enough to cut glass. "Should I have asked them politely to hand over their grenades instead?"
The staffer's mouth opened and closed like a fish. No words came out.
---
The inspector knelt by the bodies, confirming their identities. "These two were on the Guild's wanted list. Kill-on-sight orders. You did everyone a service."
"Service?" Michael raised a brow. "I was just cleaning up trash in my way."
Whispers spread among the soldiers.
"That's the kid with the E-rank support talent?"
"No way… look at those bodies. They weren't weaklings."
"He walked out without a scratch…"
"Intermediate deacon title might not be fake after all."
Michael ignored the murmurs. He didn't need their approval. He had seen enough in the desert the cracks in this "safe" dungeon, the whisper of something hidden.
Still, drawing attention was inevitable now.
Engines roared in the distance. A sleek black armored vehicle pulled up beside the barricade. The Frostheart crest gleamed on its side, blue and silver like icefire.
The door swung open, and Maria Frostheart stepped out.
Her presence immediately drew every gaze. Long silver hair cascaded down her back, her guild-leader's uniform tailored with precision. A faint smile played on her lips, though her eyes is sharp as crystal gace swept the scene like a predator's.
"Report," she commanded.
The inspector saluted. "Lady Frostheart, the bandits within the wasteland dungeon have been neutralized. Their corpses were just delivered…" He hesitated, glancing at Michael. "...by this young man."
Maria's eyes softened instantly. She stepped forward, stopping only a meter away from Michael.
"So," she said lightly, "you were the tremor I felt."
Michael crossed his arms. "They ambushed me. I returned the favor."
Her smile widened. "Of course you did. Only a fool would try to rob you."
The staffer, still pale, sputtered. "L-Lady Frostheart, this boy is E-rank support! He should've been—"
Maria's gaze snapped to him. Frost filled the air, her killing intent pressing like a blade to the throat.
"Do you doubt my judgment?"
The man swallowed hard. "N-no, ma'am."
"Good." She turned back to Michael, her tone once again warm, almost playful. "You're attracting quite a crowd, you know. But I'd like to hear your version. What exactly happened in there?"
---