Fenrik woke up choking.
Not on smoke.
Not on dust.
On silence.
It pressed against his ears so hard it felt louder than sound.
He lay flat on cold stone, staring up into darkness. The ceiling was there—he could tell by the way the darkness felt heavy, layered—but it was far beyond the reach of any light.
Slowly, Fenrik pushed himself up.
His body felt wrong.
Not injured.
Not weak.
Just… heavier. Like gravity had slightly changed its mind about him.
"This isn't a dream," he muttered.
The axe was still there.
Merged with his right arm, its massive blade angled downward, dull silver veins pulsing faintly along its surface like a heartbeat. Fenrik flexed his fingers. The axe moved with him—perfectly, unnervingly.
"No off switch," he said quietly.
His voice echoed.
Not once.
Multiple times.
Like the space around him couldn't decide where his words belonged.
Fenrik stood.
The ground beneath his feet was carved stone, ancient and worn smooth by time. Thick red symbols glowed faintly along the floor and walls—not bright enough to light the area, just enough to remind him he was being watched.
He took one cautious step forward.
Nothing happened.
Another step.
Still nothing.
Fenrik exhaled slowly. "Okay. I'm not dead yet."
The corridor ahead stretched far into darkness, branching off into several paths. Iron gates lined the walls, some closed, some shattered long ago. Chains hung loosely from the ceiling, swaying even though there was no wind.
Fenrik swallowed.
"This place…" he whispered. "It wasn't built for people."
As he walked, the axe reacted.
Not violently.
Not aggressively.
It hummed—softly—whenever he passed certain symbols. Fenrik stopped in front of one carved deep into the wall: a clawed circle split down the middle.
The same symbol from the garden.
His chest tightened.
"So you were connected," he said.
The symbol dimmed slightly, as if acknowledging him.
Fenrik stepped back.
"Yeah. That's… not comforting."
Time didn't work properly here.
Fenrik couldn't tell how long he walked. His phone was gone. There was no hunger. No thirst. Just a creeping fatigue that felt more mental than physical.
At one point, he entered a wide chamber.
The floor was cracked, the walls scorched black.
Broken weapons lay scattered everywhere.
Swords snapped clean in half. Spears bent at impossible angles. Armor pieces crushed inward, as if something had wrapped a hand around them and squeezed.
Fenrik froze.
"No blood," he whispered.
That was the worst part.
No bodies.
No remains.
Just the aftermath.
"This isn't a battlefield," he realized slowly. "It's a graveyard."
The axe pulsed once.
Fenrik felt it then—a pressure behind his blind eye. Not vision. Not pain.
Awareness.
Like something remembered him.
He backed away from the chamber, heart pounding.
"I'm not ready," he said firmly. "Whatever you want… I'm not ready."
The dungeon did not argue.
Eventually, Fenrik reached a massive door.
It stood taller than anything he'd seen yet, its surface carved with countless symbols layered over each other—animals, weapons, figures kneeling or screaming or standing defiant.
At the center was a claw mark.
Deep.
Violent.
Fenrik stared at it, breath shallow.
"This is where I'm supposed to go next," he said.
The axe hummed—stronger this time.
Fenrik took a step back.
"No."
The hum faded.
The door did not open.
Fenrik slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold stone floor.
"I didn't choose this," he said quietly. "But if you're going to drag me here every night…"
He clenched his fist.
"…then at least let me understand it."
For the first time since arriving, the dungeon responded.
Not with a voice.
Not with a vision.
But with a pull.
The symbols around Fenrik began to glow brighter. The floor beneath him warmed. The pressure in his chest intensified—not painful, just insistent.
Light crept in from beneath the cracks in the stone.
Fenrik shielded his eye.
"Wait—!"
The dungeon collapsed into brightness.
Fenrik woke up on his bed.
Morning light streamed through his window.
Birds chirped outside.
His heart hammered as he sat upright, gasping.
He looked down at his arm.
The axe was gone.
No blade.
No glow.
Only faint markings along his forearm, barely visible under his skin.
"…I'm back," he whispered.
His alarm clock blinked.
6:01 a.m.
Fenrik stared at it.
Night.
Dungeon.
Day.
Real world.
A rule.
Fenrik leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling.
"This isn't over," he said.
Deep beneath the world—
The dungeon agreed.