She smiled with a casual air as if we were already friends. I was a little surprised, not because of her bluntness, but because it was rare to hear anyone talk like that publicly– especially anyone under 70.

I peered into her eyes for a second. Her bangs came down in a wave partially covering one eye, but she returned my gaze steadily.

“I mean, how does that make sense?” she insisted.

“You're right. It doesn’t make sense,” I agreed. Of course, having a spell-casting grandpa, I'd always known that magic never died.

The guide finally finished his spiel and led the group towards the archway. The girl and I walked side-by-side. Her face had brightened, and she became more animated. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she gazed ahead, walking alongside me.

She had my attention now. Since she was so sure that magic still existed, it made me wonder if she came from a magical family. I wasn’t about to ask her yet, though. Not until I got to know her better. And I certainly wasn’t about to divulge the fact that I knew a spell.

The tour group approached the third pair of pillars. The chatter quickly died down. An air of danger hung about the Dungeon threshold. It seemed to demand our attention and silence.

“Where are you from, anyway?” I whispered, stealing a glance at the girl. “I rarely meet anyone with such… unorthodox views.”

“Adalgard. What about you?”

“Well, I grew up here but I’ve lived in Adalgard for years.”

She snapped her head towards me. “Here? You’re an Uplander? Wow, just like Vlard Drakin!”

The Uplands, a rural region, had been important from prehistoric times until the end of the High Heroic Age, producing many adventurers and heroes. By the time I was born, the population had dwindled to a few villages and farms. It was still a legendary region, though.

The girl gazed at me, her eyes glowing. “How old are you, anyway? Twenty-five, twenty-six?”

“Twenty-nine.”

Her eyes widened. “So Vlard was alive when you were a teenager. Did you ever see him?”

By this time, a grin had spread across my face. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. I saw my grandfather a lot growing up; he pretty much raised me. He tried his best to recreate the rigorous experience of an elite Dungeon-diving academy just for me. Every morning he’d wake me up with: “UP, UP, UP! Hands off cocks and onto socks!” I wasn’t always happy about it at the time, but he taught me a lot.

But I did not share this information with just anybody. Only very close friends. I gave Meg a polite smile. “Sure, I saw him many times.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Why did you laugh?” she hissed, swatting my arm. Her eyes burned with curiosity. “We gotta talk more about this later,” she whispered rapidly. The guide was standing at the rope barrier in front of the threshold, waiting for everyone to gather around.

I smiled. “Sure.”

“I’m Meg, by the way.”

“Tom. Pleasure to meet you.” I extended my hand, and she shook it with a firm grip.

It was exciting to meet a like-minded person. Her personality may have been a little rough around the edges, but I didn’t care. After all, many of the best adventurers back in the day were eccentrics and misfits.

A heavy silence fell over the tour group as everyone gathered around the guide. Beyond the rope barrier, maybe five yards away, the Dungeon entrance loomed like the shrine of some terrible god. Even the most arrogant tourists shut up now.

The guards stood on the other side of the rope barrier with their backs to the Dungeon. The tour guide abruptly broke the silence: “Alright, here we are at the Dungeon entrance!"

It only took him a moment to get back onto his propaganda pulpit. “It is important that we contextualize Dungeon history," he said, adopting a high-minded air. "We must keep in mind that the old Heroic system was deeply flawed because it unfairly advantaged the Heroic class at the expense of everyone else.”

A groan rumbled in my throat. That was an outright lie– one that our new rulers had to promote to justify their radical reforms. But I just rolled my eyes. There was no point in arguing.

Meg’s hand shot up. “Excuse me! Excuse me! I can’t let this slide.”

The guide paused, evidently unaccustomed to hecklers. Meg pounced. “What you said isn’t true. Anyone could enter the dungeon and become a hero. It happened plenty of times. Just look at all the legendary heroes who came from humble backgrounds: Cynthia Serpentina, Lek Rivenborn, Rulinda Baleclaw– I could go on.”

I agreed. Yes, people from ancient heroic families had an advantage. Dungeon diving was in their DNA. But that didn’t mean everyone else was excluded. The Dungeon was open to anyone who dared. And the academies were open to anyone who qualified. People from any background could – and did – become Dungeon heroes and ascend to the top of the societal hierarchy.

The guide shook his head emphatically, raising his hands. He’d overcome the initial shock of being contradicted. “No! That is not accurate information. All the experts agree–”

Meg scoffed. “Oh yeah, ‘experts’ my butt.”

As the outspoken beauty heckled the tour guide, a noise came from inside the Dungeon. It sounded like a rock falling. The noise echoed inside the darkness. Then I heard scraping sounds.

Meg and the guide were both too distracted to notice. But the guards turned slightly. One, a tall guy, glanced over his shoulder at the shadowy threshold.

A rapid clicking sound came out of the darkness. Others in the tour group heard it, too. People exchanged perplexed glances and murmured. Some aimed their phone cameras at the Dungeon entrance.

Meg was still too busy heckling to notice the noises. “How do you explain Cynthia Serpentina, then, huh? Her parents were peasants with no dungeon background, and she became one of the greatest melee fighters of all time.”

The tour guide sighed in exasperation. “Look, if you have questions about Cynthia Serpentina, I’ll be happy to address them after the tour has finished.”

Meg huffed. “Questions! I’ve read every book I could find about her!”

Meanwhile, the tall guard looked over his shoulder and peered into the dark threshold. Then he looked at his stockier colleague, frowning in confusion.

But the stocky guard only scowled at the tour group, stubbornly refusing to look at the threshold. He didn’t need to look. Everyone knew the Dungeon was dead. It was an article of faith, repeated endlessly by teachers, politicians, and media. And there were many staunch believers.

But all that was about to change.

With a flurry of scuttling, a giant insectoid creature slammed against the iron gate, smashing the status quo into pieces.