The descent into Floor Two was colder, the air damp with a faint metallic tang that clung to the back of Kairon's throat. The walls here pulsed with veins of light brighter and more frequent than on the first floor, casting shifting patterns across the party as they stepped into the deeper dark.
Kairon adjusted his satchel nervously, the weight of magic stones pressing against his spine. Floor One had been a blur of violence and fear, and already Floor Two felt different—heavier, charged, as if the Dungeon itself pressed closer.
"Keep together," Lars said, voice low but carrying. "They're not stronger down here, just more. Expect them in packs. Don't break formation."
Kairon's chest tightened at the word packs. One goblin had nearly frozen him on Floor One. He couldn't imagine a dozen.
The corridors wound like veins through the stone. Sometimes they opened into wide caverns where dripping water echoed for long moments, each sound warped by the Dungeon's strange acoustics. Other times they narrowed so tightly Kairon had to brush against the slick walls, the faint pulse of magic vibrating through his shoulder.
Every sound mattered: Sera's armor shifting, Corin's bowstring creaking as he checked its tension, Bren's unceasing hum timed perfectly with his steps, and Lars's steady tread that never faltered.
Kairon found himself trying to match that rhythm. It gave him something to cling to when the walls seemed to close in and shadows whispered at the edges of his sight.
The first wave came without warning.
Eight goblins burst from the stone, their pale forms slick with birth residue. They shrieked, a sound halfway between a growl and a scream, high-pitched and animal. The noise multiplied in the chamber until Kairon's ears rang.
The party moved as one.
Sera braced her shield against the first charge, the impact reverberating through the corridor like a struck bell. She didn't give ground. Her Endurance was more than flesh—it was a wall of steel and willpower.
Corin loosed arrow after arrow, each one precise, each one fatal. His Dexterity and Accuracy spoke for themselves; not a shot was wasted.
Bren danced in and out of the melee, his Agility carrying him where the goblins' crude blades couldn't follow. He laughed, the sound cutting through their shrieks as he slashed tendons and throats in fluid arcs.
And Lars… Lars was overwhelming. His greatsword carved through bodies with crushing force, each strike deliberate, never wasted. His Strength and Control were staggering. This wasn't just a man with a weapon—it was an avalanche given shape.
Kairon crouched low, heart pounding, gathering the glowing stones as bodies dissolved into smoke. He felt like a child clinging to the edges of something vast and terrible. The Falna system wasn't just a blessing—it was a gulf. These people were weapons, honed and sharpened. He was nothing more than a porter scrambling in their wake.
The party pressed deeper.
The tunnels shifted from wide chambers to tight corridors, forcing them into single file. The air smelled of damp moss and faint sulfur, heavy enough that each breath carried the taste of stone. Goblin shrieks echoed often now, not always followed by an attack. Sometimes the sounds faded away. Sometimes they grew louder, closing in.
A second wave struck them at a bend where the passage forked. Ten goblins this time, spilling out of both walls at once.
Sera gritted her teeth as claws raked against her shield. Bren darted past her shoulder, cutting low and fast, while Corin's arrows whistled overhead, dropping two before they ever closed the gap. Lars stepped into the fray, his greatsword smashing through a cluster with one brutal swing.
Kairon scrambled after each corpse dissolved, sweat dripping into his eyes as he grabbed stones before they vanished. His satchel grew heavier, the clink of stones inside forming a grim music with every step. His shoulders ached, his palms burned, but he didn't slow.
By the time the last goblin fell, his chest heaved as if he'd been fighting alongside them. In truth, he hadn't even lifted a blade.
Minutes passed. The party walked in silence, only the Dungeon's voice filling the air: dripping water, distant shrieks, the occasional scrape of claws inside the walls.
Kairon dared to study them more closely.
Sera was unshaken, her shield arm steady despite the punishment it absorbed. Her Endurance must have been formidable.
Corin looked half-asleep, yet every so often he flicked an arrow through a tiny gap in the wall, cutting short a goblin's emerging shriek before the creature ever finished clawing free. Precision like that couldn't come from practice alone—it was Falna sharpened to a fine point.
Bren smirked constantly, but Kairon saw the control in his movements. His speed wasn't wild—it was measured, almost mathematical. His Agility let him weave through a battle like water through stone.
And Lars… Lars was beyond comparison. He wasn't just strong—he was steady, unyielding, a bulwark against chaos. Kairon wondered what level he was. Second? Third? Higher? Whatever it was, Lars carried it like a mantle, a living reminder of what adventurers became when blessed by the gods.
Kairon lowered his gaze. He had no Falna. No blessing. Just trembling hands and a satchel full of proof.
The third wave struck them in a vast chamber where the ceiling disappeared into shadow. The goblins came in pairs this time, crawling from both floor and walls, twelve in total.
Their shrieks hit like a physical force, bouncing around the chamber until Kairon clapped his hands over his ears. His heart hammered as the party clashed again, shield and steel and arrows answering the chaos.
He forced himself to keep moving. To gather. To not fall behind. His legs shook, but his hands grew steadier, learning the rhythm of dissolving bodies, of how quickly stones faded.
When the last goblin fell, the chamber was silent save for the sound of Kairon's ragged breathing. His satchel felt impossibly heavy now, pulling at his shoulders with every step.
"Good pace," Lars said, voice level. "Stairwell should be near."
Kairon lifted his head, blinking sweat from his eyes. And there it was, at the far side of the chamber: a spiral stair of stone, slick with condensation, leading down into shadow.
The way to Floor Three.
Kairon's stomach twisted at the sight, fear and awe tangled in equal measure. He had barely survived Floor Two by hiding in the rhythm of stronger men and women. What waited below, where the Dungeon grew darker still?
No one spoke. They simply moved forward, boots echoing against the chamber floor, until they stood at the edge of descent.
Kairon tightened his grip on his satchel. The stones inside clinked softly, the proof of their passage through Floor Two. Proof he was still alive.
The stairwell yawned before them.
And together, they stepped into the dark of Floor Three.