"Sometimes I really wish I didn’t give up the class choice to Jessica,” Jack muttered, his voice carrying a sharp edge of regret as he braced himself against the slimy, pulsating walls of the tunnel. The passage he crawled through could only be described as the digestive tract of a gargantuan dungeon worm. It writhed faintly with an unsettling rhythm, as though the creature were having a bowel movement -or worse, was aware of their intrusion.

Wait, was that really worse? Jack was being sarcastic, even to himself as he drudged along.

Tendrils of wet, pulsating flesh hung down like grotesque vines, brushing against him with every movement. Each contact sent a faint jolt -electricity or some other arcane energy- through his limbs, making his muscles twitch involuntarily.

"Goddammit," he hissed under his breath, yanking his arm away from one particularly insistent tendril. "Next time, I’m flipping a coin," Jack grumbled to himself, wiping slime off his arm with a grimace. "Because being stuck as a hamstrung Dungeon Master with no primary class, while also being the only one who’s competent enough to deal with this crap, is starting to feel like the universe’s way of trolling me. Meta-classes are great on paper –‘legend’, ‘hero,’ ‘lord,’ blah blah- but it’s just another rank. S-rank for sure. But you know what they’re not great for? Crawling through a sentient sewer pipe. I need a real class. Something with punch. Something that actually lets me take advantage of my new path."

“In a place like this? It’s like showing up to a sword fight with a whiteboard,” he continued bitterly.

He wiped his hand on his pants, grimacing at the slick residue. "And don’t even get me started on the Path of the Unchained Phoenix -and the world's first title. So much potential... if only I had an actual class to unlock it. Right now, it’s like being handed a sports car with no keys. All show, no go. Maybe I should’ve gone with the Path of the Timeless Wanderer instead. At least then I’d know where I stand."

He knew he was complaining for nothing. He had been in worse situations before. And his willingness to do the jobs no one else wanted to do, or could do in some cases, was what had allowed him to gain the title of Dungeon Master in the first place.

Ahead of him, Susie moved gingerly, her smaller frame allowing her slightly more ease in navigating the worm’s inner sanctum. That didn’t mean she was having an easy time of it, however. Her muttered stream of expletives was growing louder and more colorful by the minute.

“Goddamn asshole dungeon worms and their slimy guts,” she spat, her voice rising an octave as her knee slipped against a particularly slick section of the tunnel. “This is worse than the time Travis convinced me to crawl through the sewer grate for his dumb treasure hunt. And guess what? No treasure. Just rats. Like, literal plague-ridden-”

“I get it, Susie,” Jack interrupted, his voice carrying a note of strained patience. “And for the record, I told you this wouldn’t be a picnic.” Her minor torment gave him a sense of schadenfreude that he was not ashamed to recognize, if only to himself.

She turned to glare at him over her shoulder, her hair matted to her face in wet strands. “A picnic? Jack, this is not dungeon crawling 101. This is hazing.”

Her complaint was punctuated by the soft, squelching sound of another tendril brushing against her shoulder, leaving a shiny trail of caustic mucus in its wake. She flinched, shuddering visibly as she carefully pulled it off. Jack smirked despite himself. She was managing better than he expected, but he had to admit -this dungeon wasn’t exactly beginner-friendly.

“I didn’t pick this dungeon, remember? It picked us. Or you to be exact,” Jack said, his tone a mix of exasperation and wry humor. “But hey, you’ve done well so far. You handled those oozes and slime mobs like a pro.”

Susie let out a bitter laugh, muttering something about how 'pro' wasn’t the word she’d use for barely surviving a swarm of gelatinous death blobs.

Her clothing had seen better days, and if Jack had not had spares on hand, she’d have been screwed.

But he hadn’t given them to her yet. As he had suspected the circumstances they’d soon find themselves in. Once they were finally clear of the caustic slime of the tunnel, then he’d present her with his gifts.

She pressed forward ahead of him, her movements becoming more deliberate as if willing herself to ignore the discomfort.

Jack couldn’t help but admire her determination. And he tried his best not to admire her other -assets. She might not have known what she was signing up for, but she hadn’t backed out when the reality of dungeon diving hit her. When they’d first encountered the slime creatures -strange, oozing monstrosities that reminded Jack of his early days in the Otherworld- he’d thought she’d freeze up. Instead, she’d followed his instructions, learning quickly how to anticipate their -usually- slow but relentless attacks. The fights weren’t pretty, but she’d handled herself.

Jack’s mind drifted, unbidden, to his own beginnings in the Otherworld. He’d been as clueless as Susie, thrust into an alien landscape filled with hostile creatures and a system of rules he’d barely understood. If it hadn’t been for Lord Arlington -his first mentor, his savior from the slave block- and the system, he doubted he’d have survived long enough to learn. Arlington had taught him everything: how to fight, how to think strategically, and, most importantly, how to trust himself.

And Sys, his constant companion, had unlocked the magic of the world for him in ways that had effectively been a cheat hack to the magical universe he found himself in.

∞

His time in the other world hadn't been easy. He wasn't some combat veteran, some former police officer, or military special operative. He wasn't someone who came into it knowing what to do. He struggled every step of the way. And if he was going to admit anything to himself, he liked it. It gave him purpose.

This moment felt achingly familiar. The terrain, the quiet tension in the air -it all pulled him back to another time, another place. The memory was sharp and unyielding, like a dagger hidden under layers of cloth.

Because he was young, small, and agile, Lord Arlington had taken it upon himself to send Jack in for the dirtiest work. The other troops, squires, apprentices, and seasoned veterans of dungeon diving had chuckled behind his back, their grins full of knowing malice. Jack had assumed it was some kind of hazing ritual -a rite of passage where the newbie was sent to do all the grunt work. But no. This wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a lesson disguised as mockery. It was a test. One he couldn’t afford to fail.

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The caves were damp, rank with the earthy stench of bog worms and rot. Jack could still recall the way the slime clung to his boots, the squelching sound that seemed louder than it had any right to be. These creatures built warrens and nests throughout the countryside, their labyrinthine tunnels snaking below unsuspecting villages. Not all dungeons were the classic dimensional pockets of legend. Some were subtle anomalies -folds in space that you could stumble into without ever realizing you'd crossed the threshold. The world didn’t need to announce its dangers. It simply waited for you to fail.

They had been traveling from dusk until dawn, avoiding the beasts that stirred during the day. This particular stretch of the Otherworld was cruel that way -its threats shifting like clockwork, nocturnal terrors giving way to diurnal predators. Exhaustion gnawed at the edges of the Argent Blade's focus, Lord Arlington's retinue, dulling their senses and sharpening their tempers. Not a one of them, not even Lord Arlington himself, realized they had entered a dungeon until it was too late.

Jack had felt it first. A tingle against his skin. A whisper of wrongness in the air. The wind had shifted subtly, carrying a scent that didn’t belong -wet decay and faint copper. At the time, he didn’t have a name for the sensation. Later, he’d attribute it to his Dungeon Sense, a skill that would become second nature. But back then, it was instinct. Pure and unrefined. A gift of the Fae'Ri that had sent him to the Otherworld.

"Something's not right," Jack had said, his voice hesitant but firm. He knew better than to sound unsure around the others; they would pounce on weakness like wolves.

Lord Arlington had stopped abruptly, his piercing gaze cutting through the mist and settling on Jack. “Speak up, boy,” he demanded, his tone a blend of calm authority and curiosity.

Jack swallowed hard, his fingers curling into fists to keep them from trembling. “The air… it feels different. And the wind -it’s wrong.”

Arlington’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Jack thought he was about to be dismissed outright. But then the older man barked a series of orders, commanding the company to halt and establish a perimeter. The veteran adventurers exchanged uneasy glances, their confidence wavering as they followed the orders. Jack’s unease spread like a ripple through the group, unsettling even the most seasoned warriors.

They stopped in a clearing surrounded by twisted trees and patches of murky water. The wetlands offered no natural defenses, but Arlington’s wardens quickly etched protective runes into the damp earth, their hands moving with practiced precision. The shimmering glow of the wards brought a small measure of relief, though it was ephemeral.

Finally the scouts returned, their faces pale and their expressions grim. Arlington chastised them soundly, his voice cutting through the humid air like a blade. Jack watched and listened, absorbing every word. Arlington's reprimands weren’t born of anger; they were lessons wrapped in scorn, meant to shape his men into sharper tools.

Lord Arlington valued competence above all else. He despised stupidity, though ignorance -so long as it was paired with a willingness to learn- could be excused. Willful ignorance, however, was an unforgivable sin, one punished by exile. And in dangerous territories like this, exile was a death sentence.

The scouts, properly chastened, returned to their tasks with grim determination, their movements brisk and efficient. Jack couldn’t help but admire their discipline. Their failure didn’t crush them; it galvanized them, each step a vow to prove their worth anew.

As he observed them, Jack noticed something else. The Otherworld didn’t adhere to rigid rules when it came to roles. A thief wasn’t always needed to disarm traps; sometimes a skilled scout or a monk with the right tools could manage just as well. Flexibility was key. Adaptation was survival. These early lessons were carved into Jack’s young mind, shaping his understanding of the Otherworld’s cruel logic, and how to survive it.

The clearing grew quiet as the scouts faded into the mist, their movements ghost-like and deliberate. Arlington stood at the center of the camp, his imposing figure outlined by the faint glow of the wards. His gaze swept over his men, lingering briefly on Jack before moving on.

Jack felt the weight of that glance, heavier than any words. It wasn’t approval, exactly, but it wasn’t dismissal either. It was recognition -a subtle acknowledgment that Jack’s instincts had saved them from walking blindly into disaster. It was a small victory, but in a world like this, small victories were everything.

Jack turned his attention back to the shifting mist, his hand instinctively brushing against the hilt of his silver-runed blade. The cool metal was a comfort, a tether to the here and now amid the unsettling haze of the bog. The mists clung to the air like reluctant phantoms, thick and unyielding, curling into the trees with an almost sentient persistence. Each tendril of fog seemed to carry a faint, acrid tang, as though the very land was exhaling its sickness into the world.

“A copper for your thoughts,” Lord Arlington’s voice cut through the oppressive quiet, startling Jack out of his ruminations. Jack’s head jerked up, and he turned to the lord with a slight bow, his unease hidden beneath the practiced motion.

“It’s nothing, my lord, just a feeling,” Jack replied, though the words felt hollow. How could he articulate the strange, intangible wrongness that gnawed at the edges of his senses? It defied description, slipping through the grasp of language like water through a sieve.

“What do you sense, Jack?” Arlington pressed, his tone thoughtful rather than skeptical. His gloved hand rested lightly on the jeweled pommel of his sword, his gaze fixed on the mist-veiled horizon.

Jack hesitated, then took a steadying breath. “It’s... an amorphous cloud of sensation that I can’t quite pin down,” he began slowly. The words spilled out unbidden, a mix of fragmented thoughts and scattered impressions. “It reminds me of a toy from my time before.”

Lord Arlington raised a brow, curiosity flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t interrupt. Jack pressed on, describing the sensation in his own peculiar way. “It’s like one of those Water Snake toys we had as kids -the kind you try to hold, but it slips out from under your fingers. Impossible to grasp.”

The lord nodded, his expression carefully neutral. He was accustomed to Jack’s strange metaphors by now, the boy’s recollections of Earth often a source of quiet amusement for the others. But Arlington listened intently, sensing the weight behind Jack’s words.

“There’s a viscosity to the presence,” Jack continued, his voice quieter now. “It reeks of rot and decay -of earth and slime. But there’s something else underneath. Life, but... twisted. Sickly.”

Arlington’s gaze sharpened, and he turned to his chief counselor. “Raya?”

The Blessed Raya stood apart from the group, her pale features half-hidden by the hood of her dark robe. She moved with a languid grace, her hands clasped loosely in front of her as though cradling some unseen secret. Her eyes glimmered with an unsettling intensity, and her lips quirked into a faint, enigmatic smile as she stepped forward.

Raya was a conundrum wrapped in riddles. She often spoke to unseen entities, her whispers carried on the air like the ghost of a melody. Conversations with herself -or with something else- were as common as the fits of rage or laughter that punctuated her days. And yet, despite her eccentricities, Lord Arlington trusted her implicitly. She was his confidante, his advisor, his second in command. She was also, without question, utterly mad.

“My lord,” Raya murmured, her voice low and rough, as though dragged across gravel. She tilted her head, listening to something no one else could hear. “The boy’s right. What he describes, and what my divinations reveal, is a fiend. A Bog-Fiend, to be precise -part elemental, part Infernal. A fascinating mix, truly.” Her lips curled in a sly smile, and she added with a rasping chuckle, “The life energy here has been corrupted. Twisted into something... deliciously abhorrent.”

Jack shuddered involuntarily at her tone. Her words carried an eerie glee, as though she delighted in the discovery of such corruption. He glanced at Arlington, who stood unperturbed, his expression carved from stone.

“I do not yet know the name of this fiend,” Raya continued, her voice lilting like a chant. “And I doubt we shall know it until its demesne is conquered, its will broken, and its essence banished from this land.”

Arlington gave a terse nod. “Then we prepare for a bog run.”

A collective groan rippled through the group, but Arlington’s steely glare silenced it before it took root. “Better than underwater runs,” he added dryly. “Unless, of course, the bog turns into one.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Those are the worst.”