“Hahaha, that was sick, dude! We totally worked him!” The voice rang out with a mixture of exhilaration and disbelief, each word echoing down the damp, twisting stone corridors of the dungeon.
“Yeah, we did! It was so much easier with those potions! Who even knew those existed?” Another masculine voice joined in, carrying a giddy edge, the kind of excitement that only came from an unexpected victory.
Their laughter filled the cavernous space, bouncing off the walls and adding to the eerie ambiance. Despite the joy in their voices, the walls of the dungeon around them seemed to groan in protest, loose pebbles tumbling down from the ceiling with each rumble. Their celebration felt dangerously out of place in these ancient halls.
“Guys, focus," a woman’s voice cut through their excitement, her tone sharp and commanding. "We still need to leave. The dungeon's becoming unstable, and Marcus is injured.” There was an urgency to her voice that the others seemed to miss—or ignore.
“Oh, I’m fine!” Marcus replied, his voice thick with pride and adrenaline. “I’ll take this injury in exchange for all of those mana crystals and treasure on the final floor! I can’t believe we actually made it to a final floor! I can’t wait to tell my mom! We’re going to be in the newspaper!” He let out a giddy laugh that was half a gasp, half a cheer, as if he could already picture the headline: Local Heroes Conquer Dungeon and Claim Treasure Beyond Imagination!
Their footsteps echoed unevenly, the hurried, limping steps of Marcus and the quick, light pace of his companions. They were moving away from a large crate that lay haphazardly in the hallway, just a few feet from the portal room. The crate had been there long before they arrived, but in their eagerness to escape, they hadn’t given it a second glance.
“Too bad there weren’t more potions,” one of the men muttered wistfully. “I would have loved to have some for our next adventure.”
Inside the crate, something shifted. Fear and an unsettling, almost animalistic anxiety simmered within the confined wooden space, the energy so intense it seemed to make the crate tremble. If anyone had been close enough to listen carefully, they might have heard a soft, rapid string of curses coming from within.
‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’
The sound of the portal activating filled the corridor, a loud, resonant hum followed by a flash of blinding blue light. And just like that, the voices and footsteps vanished, leaving behind an eerie, heavy silence as the portal closed. The dungeon seemed to take a breath, settling into a strange calm now that the intruders were gone.
Slowly, cautiously, a head emerged from the crate. Dark hair fell across a pale, wary face as the figure—Riven—scanned the corridor, his sharp eyes darting back and forth to confirm that the adventurers had truly left. He waited, listening intently, his body tense, ready to duck back down at the first hint of danger. But there was nothing. Only silence, broken occasionally by the low rumbling of the unstable dungeon.
Finally satisfied that he was alone, Riven climbed out of the crate, wincing as he stretched his cramped muscles. He gave the empty hall a quick 360-degree glance, ensuring no one remained. He could probably take on one or two adventurers, especially if they were as low-level as the group that had just passed, but certainly not with the buffs he’d accidentally given them. The memory of it made his stomach twist in frustration.
Those potions hadn’t been meant for them. They hadn’t been meant for anyone, and he cursed his own carelessness.
‘It’s not my fault! His handwriting is just so terrible!’
Riven clenched his fists, remembering the moment he’d been handed that damn napkin. It had been crumpled and smudged, covered in cramped, barely legible scrawl. Sorvax’s handwriting looked like a spider had skittered across the napkin after wading through ink. He’d barely been able to make out a single word. And now, thanks to that, he’d accidentally gifted a group of rookie adventurers with potions potent enough to make a demon lord break a sweat.
The memory played out vividly in his mind, as if he were watching it unfold all over again.
Flashback
“Here, Riven,” Sorvax had said, shoving the napkin into his hands without even looking up. The elder demon’s eyes were fixed on a dusty tome, his bony fingers tracing some ancient script as he spoke. “Go make these health potions and resupply the stock on the 50th floor. And don’t mess it up this time.”
Riven glanced down at the napkin, squinting at the jumbled mess of words. He’d made these potions a thousand times, sure, but Sorvax had insisted on adding some “special” ingredients to this batch, claiming it would increase the mana yield from the adventurers. Apparently, the old demon had found some ancient recipe that he was dying to try out.
Sorvax had, in his own way, been trying to help. Riven knew that. His teacher was well aware of his struggles with memory, how he often forgot the precise measurements or mixed up ingredients if he wasn’t careful. So, in what passed for kindness from someone called Sorvax the Terrible, he’d scribbled down the instructions on a napkin and thrust it at Riven with a growl of, “Don’t ask questions. Just follow the instructions.”
As if that were possible.
Riven sighed, crumpling the napkin slightly as he headed to the lab, which was tucked away in a dark alcove off the main corridor. The walls were lined with shelves stacked with dusty bottles, bubbling flasks, and strange, faintly-glowing herbs. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and something metallic, a smell that clung to the back of his throat. He set the napkin down on the stone counter, smoothing it out as best he could.
He read through the list, muttering to himself as he gathered ingredients.
“One regenerative orc finger…” he murmured, pulling a withered, greenish finger from a jar labeled with a crude drawing of an orc’s face. He dropped it into the cauldron with a wet plop.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Two liters of water—bleh,” he added, wrinkling his nose as he poured the brackish liquid into the mix. It sloshed over the orc finger, the concoction beginning to take on a sickly hue.
“A baby harpy’s tear after they’ve been told ‘no’ three times…” He chuckled to himself, amused at the thought. Harpies were sensitive creatures, prone to tantrums, and he could only imagine the chaos that ensued when they were denied anything. He uncorked a small vial and let a single, shimmering tear fall into the cauldron. The liquid hissed as the tear hit the surface, turning a faint shade of purple.
And then… he frowned, staring at the last line on the napkin.
‘Uh… what does that say?’ The handwriting was particularly atrocious here, the letters bleeding together into an indecipherable scrawl. He squinted, tilting his head, as if a different angle would make the words magically reveal themselves. “Does that say… Essence of the Wagon?”
He blinked, baffled. That couldn’t be right. What on earth was Essence of the Wagon supposed to be? It sounded ridiculous, even by Sorvax’s standards. He almost turned around, ready to ask for clarification, but as he took a step toward the door, Sorvax’s voice echoed from the library.
“I swear to god, Riven, if you ask me one more time what’s on that napkin, you’ll be cleaning the first two floors for a month. You should have memorized the formula by now. It’s standard.”
Riven froze, swallowing hard. He could practically feel Sorvax’s glare through the wall. Cleaning the first two floors was a nightmare—a task he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. The lower floors were a mess of traps and slime pits, and the humans that wandered in were annoying, if not exactly dangerous. But they had a knack for stumbling into traps, getting injured, and generally creating a mess that he’d be expected to clean up.
He glanced back down at the napkin, clenching his jaw. Fine. He’d figure it out himself. How hard could it be?
Returning to the lab, he scanned the shelves for anything that might remotely resemble “Essence of the Wagon.” He muttered to himself as he went down the line of bottles, fingers brushing over each one.
“Essence of Dread… Essence of the Drunken Wolf… Essence of—” His eyes caught on a bottle near the back, its contents a strange, shimmering silver liquid that pulsed faintly, almost like it was alive. The label, barely legible, seemed to say Essence of the Dragon.
‘This must be it!’ he thought with a grin. ‘Essence of the Dragon… or maybe Wagon… close enough.’
Without a second thought, he poured a few drops into the cauldron. The liquid hissed violently, a plume of dark, noxious smoke rising as the potion turned a deep, unnatural red. The smell was overpowering, a mixture of burnt metal and sulfur that made his eyes water.
He gave the potion a few minutes to simmer, watching it bubble and pop with a sense of satisfaction. “That should be enough for the refill,” he muttered, pleased with himself. After all, there were only four potions missing from the stock on the 50th floor. No harm in being a little creative, right?
Carefully, he ladled the concoction into small glass bottles, sealing each one with a cork. He handled them gingerly, avoiding any contact with the potion itself—he’d learned that lesson the hard way after an unfortunate incident with an acid-resistant skin potion last month. With the potions bottled, he made his way up to the 50th floor, the path blessedly clear. The dungeon hadn’t been open long that day, so no adventurers had made it this far yet. He was able to reach the Safe-Zone without any interruptions.
He arranged the potions on the shelf, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. They gleamed an unsettling crimson in the torchlight, looking somehow… stronger than usual. But he brushed off the uneasy feeling. Stronger potions meant stronger adventurers, and stronger adventurers meant more mana to harvest. Sorvax would probably be pleased.
His task complete, he made his way back to the top floor, settling in to await the results of the day’s “harvest.” Soon enough, the first adventurers would reach the 50th floor, drink his potions, and…
Riven winced as he snapped back to the present, the memory of those rookies chugging his souped-up potions fresh in his mind. He’d managed to accidentally turn a bunch of clueless, low-level adventurers into overpowered monsters. All because Sorvax couldn’t be bothered to write clearly.
‘Sorvax the Terrible,’ he thought bitterly. ‘More like Sorvax the Illegible.’
He let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping as he surveyed the empty dungeon hallway. He could already imagine Sorvax’s reaction when he found out.
Sorvax was strong, no doubt about that. Riven knew his master was capable of fending off a party of adventurers, especially one as inexperienced as the group that had just left. But whether he was strong enough to keep them from stealing the precious mana reserves they'd been gathering for months… that was another question entirely. Riven’s stomach twisted as he imagined Sorvax’s reaction when he found out that he was the reason they might have lost it all.
He shivered, a cold dread settling in his bones, and forced himself to walk forward, his feet heavy as he approached the main chamber. He pushed open the massive double doors, one of which had been left slightly ajar. The doors groaned under his touch, their age-worn wood protesting as they swung wide to reveal the devastation within.
The sight that met him was worse than anything he’d expected.
The grand hall that once exuded an ominous, carefully curated order was now in shambles. Tomes from Sorvax’s personal Beast Collection were scattered across the floor, some with pages torn out, others lying open and trampled as if they’d been used as makeshift shields in some desperate struggle. The covers, previously pristine and marked with Sorvax’s dark runic script, were now smeared with dust and faint scorch marks. Riven could hardly believe it—those tomes were among Sorvax’s most prized possessions, accumulated over centuries of research. The thought of them tossed aside like so much rubbish sent a chill down his spine.
Crates lay overturned all around the room, their lids splintered and broken. The mana crystals that had once filled them to the brim—gleaming with faint, ethereal light—were gone, leaving only empty wooden husks in their place. The mana crystals had been the product of endless hours of work, a reserve of energy they’d painstakingly built up to power the more demanding magic of the dungeon. Now, the empty crates looked like hollow shells, their once-precious contents stolen in a matter of minutes by adventurers who couldn’t possibly understand their value.
Even Sorvax’s throne, an imposing structure carved from dark stone and adorned with spikes and demonic engravings, bore the scars of the battle. A jagged crack snaked down its side, cutting through the intricate carvings like a wound. Riven could barely believe his eyes. Sorvax's throne was supposed to be indestructible, a symbol of his unbreakable power, and yet here it was, damaged as if struck by some terrible force.
‘…Where is Sorvax?’ The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. His master was nowhere to be seen.
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the faint, echoing drip of water from a distant corner and the soft crackle of residual magic in the air. Every shadow seemed to lengthen and deepen in the absence of Sorvax’s usual presence. Riven’s heart pounded as he scanned the room, dread curling in his stomach. There were signs of a ferocious battle all around him—scorch marks on the floor, deep gouges in the stone walls, shattered relics scattered like broken toys. But Sorvax himself was nowhere to be found.
“Sorvax the Terrible… sir?” he called, his voice tentative, barely above a whisper. It was strange to hear himself call out like that, the hesitation betraying a deep-seated fear he didn’t want to admit to.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, from the adjoining chamber—Sorvax’s private study, opposite the lab—a faint, strained voice drifted out, barely more than a whisper.
“Over… here… child…”
Riven’s blood ran cold at the sound. The voice was weak, a shadow of the usual commanding tone Sorvax wielded.