Chapter 2

Avan slumped against a crate in the warehouse, the penknife clutched tightly in his hand, its blade barely longer than his thumb. His leg throbbed with every breath, a dull ache that threatened to buckle him, while the gashes on his chest burned beneath the makeshift bandage of torn fabric. The warehouse’s vast interior loomed around him, shadowed and silent save for the faint, unnatural hum vibrating through the floor. That purple glow—seeping from a gap between the towering shelves—had drawn him deeper, and now he regretted every step.

“Should’ve stayed in the alley,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. The air was thick with dust, the metallic tang of blood, and something else—something ancient and electric, like the static before a storm. He wasn’t sure what had pulled him here, but that warmth in his chest—the Origin Energy Manipulation—hadn’t let him ignore it. Now, here he was, bleeding and exhausted, in a place that felt more like a tomb than a refuge.

He pushed himself up, grimacing as his leg protested, and limped toward the glow. The shelves loomed like sentinels, their shadows stretching across the concrete floor. As he neared, the hum grew louder, resonating in his bones, and the purple light pulsed brighter. Then he saw it: a swirling vortex of purple and gold, crackling with energy, embedded in the concrete like a tear in reality itself. The glow was hypnotic, drawing his gaze deeper, but it also set his nerves on edge.

“A portal?” Avan whispered, his voice tight. He’d seen enough sci-fi movies to know a bad idea when he saw one, but that warmth in his core flared again, as if urging him forward. He glanced back at the warehouse exit, its rusted doors creaking in the wind. The screams and roars outside were distant but persistent, a reminder that the world out there was a slaughterhouse. Staying here wasn’t an option either—not with those monsters sniffing around.

“Fine,” he growled, stepping closer. The vortex pulsed brighter, and a faint pressure built behind his eyes. Identification kicked in instinctively, but it wasn’t a monster this time—it was the portal itself. He felt it: ancient, powerful, alive, a gateway to something vast and dangerous—a dungeon, born from those purple cracks in the sky, its energy humming with the same golden shimmer he’d felt earlier.

Avan’s stomach churned. “This is insane,” he muttered, but he wasn’t about to turn back. If the portal led to safety—or at least resources—he’d take the risk. He crouched, inspecting the vortex. No visible threats, just that eerie glow. He extended a hand, and the warmth in his core surged, tendrils of gold and silver with purple sparkles—his Origin Energy—reaching toward the portal. The energy connected, and the vortex stabilized, pulling him in like a vacuum.

Darkness swallowed him, then light exploded around him. He landed hard on stone, skidding to a stop, his leg screaming in protest. The air was damp and musty, the walls of the cavernous room rough-hewn and glistening with moisture. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows, their flames tinged with purple. He was inside a dungeon—some twisted, subterranean hellhole, and he had no idea how to get out.

“Great,” he said, pushing himself up with a groan. His leg buckled, and he slumped against the wall, panting. The gashes on his chest oozed blood through the bandage, sticky and warm. He needed to rest, but this place didn’t feel safe. The hum of the dungeon vibrated through the stone, and a faint skittering sound echoed from deeper within.

Avan gritted his teeth, focusing inward. “Status,” he whispered, closing his eyes. The familiar impression flooded his mind:

Name: Avan

Level: 1

Class: None

Skills: Identification (Lv. 1), Origin Energy Manipulation (Lv. 1)

Stats: Strength average, agility decent, intelligence above average, vitality stubborn, luck questionable

“Still a mess,” he muttered. His leg and chest needed attention, but he had no medical kit—just the penknife, lighter, and cigarettes from the car. He tore another strip from his shirt, wrapping it tighter around his leg, then pressed the fabric against his chest to stem the bleeding. It wasn’t much, but it’d have to do. Survival wasn’t pretty, and he wasn’t about to play hero.

The skittering grew louder, and Avan’s head throbbed as Identification flared. He peered into the shadows, spotting movement—small, green figures, no taller than his waist, darting between the stalagmites. Goblins, he realized, their skin mottled and warty, eyes glinting yellow in the torchlight. Identification told him they were weaker than the hound outside, but quick and vicious—three-foot-tall creatures, hunched and wiry, with jagged claws and sneering faces, their teeth sharp like broken glass.

“Fantastic,” he said, gripping the penknife. “Goblins.” He wasn’t about to charge in—too risky with his injuries—but he couldn’t stay here either. The goblins chittered, their voices high-pitched and grating, as they closed in, brandishing crude spears made of bone and stone.

Avan backed toward a narrow passage, his leg protesting with every step. He focused on the warmth in his chest, willing the Origin Energy Manipulation to steady his nerves, but he kept the penknife ready. No fancy blades today—just cold steel and desperation. The first goblin lunged, its spear thrusting toward his chest. Avan twisted, pain shooting through his leg as he stumbled, but he slashed out with the penknife, catching the creature’s arm. Black ichor sprayed, and the goblin shrieked, dropping its spear.

The others hesitated, their yellow eyes narrowing, but only for a moment. Two more charged, their spears jabbing at him in a chaotic flurry. Avan ducked behind a stalagmite, his leg buckling under the strain, and slashed at the nearest goblin’s leg as it darted past. The blade bit deep, severing muscle, and the creature howled, collapsing in a writhing heap. But the second goblin’s spear grazed his side, tearing through his shirt and drawing fresh blood. He grunted, rolling away, his movements sluggish from pain and exhaustion.

Panting, Avan pressed himself against the stone, the penknife trembling in his hand. The remaining goblin—the first one he’d wounded—snarled, its claws flexing as it circled him. He lunged, driving the penknife into its chest, but the creature thrashed, knocking him back. He hit the ground hard, his leg screaming, and the goblin loomed over him, its jaws snapping inches from his face. With a desperate yell, Avan stabbed upward, plunging the blade into its throat. It gurgled, black ichor spilling over him, then went limp, collapsing atop him.

Avan shoved the corpse off, gasping for air, his chest heaving. Blood soaked his shirt—his own and the goblin’s—and his leg felt like it was on fire. “Three down,” he panted, clutching the penknife. “And I’m still alive—barely.” The fight had taken everything out of him, leaving him battered and bleeding, but he’d survived. That was all that mattered.

He dragged himself toward the narrow passage, his body protesting with every movement. The dungeon’s hum grew softer, but the skittering persisted, faint but persistent. He needed rest, but this place wasn’t safe—not yet. The passage widened into another cavern, its ceiling dripping with stalactites. A shallow pool of water shimmered in the center, its surface glowing faintly purple. Avan approached cautiously, dipping his fingers in. It was cool, clear—drinkable, maybe. He hesitated, then scooped a handful, gulping it down. It tasted metallic, but his throat was too dry to care. The glow pulsed brighter, and a warmth spread through him, soothing the ache in his leg slightly. Was this dungeon water infused with that energy?

He settled against a boulder, pulling out the penknife and using its tip to scratch a few words into the stone: Day 1, still. Dungeon. Goblins. Purple water. Weird energy. Bleeding out. It wasn’t much, but it grounded him, a tangible record of his survival. His injuries weighed on him—his leg felt swollen, his chest throbbed, and the new gash on his side stung—but he couldn’t stop. Not yet.

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The skittering grew louder again, snapping him out of his thoughts. He gripped the penknife, its blade slick with goblin blood, and peered out of the alcove. The larger goblin emerged from the shadows, its axe raised, flanked by two smaller ones. Avan’s head pulsed with Identification: the big one was stronger, more cunning, its scars telling of battles won—a leader, three-and-a-half feet tall, with a hunchback bristling with bone spikes, its yellow eyes glinting with malice.

“Here we go again,” he muttered, rising unsteadily. His leg screamed, his chest burned, and his side throbbed, but he had no choice. The goblins charged, their movements synchronized, the leader barking orders in a guttural tongue. Avan ducked into the alcove’s shadow, his heart pounding, and waited for the first attack.

The smaller goblins struck first, their spears jabbing at the alcove’s entrance. Avan lunged, slashing with the penknife, catching one across the wrist. It shrieked, dropping its spear, and Avan twisted, driving the blade into its chest. Black ichor sprayed, and the creature fell, but the second goblin’s spear grazed his already-injured leg, reopening the wound. He grunted, stumbling, and the penknife slipped from his grasp, skittering across the stone.

“Shit,” Avan hissed, diving for the knife as the larger goblin roared, charging with its axe raised. He rolled, pain exploding in his leg, and grabbed the penknife just as the axe crashed into the boulder beside him, sending shards of stone flying. Avan slashed upward, catching the goblin’s arm, but its thick skin blunted the blow. The creature snarled, swinging again, and Avan barely dodged, the axe grazing his shoulder and tearing his shirt.

Blood dripped onto the stone, his and the goblin’s mixing in a sickening pool. Avan gripped the penknife with both hands, his vision blurring from pain and exhaustion. The goblin lunged, and Avan ducked under the axe, driving the blade into its side. It howled, thrashing, but didn’t fall. Avan stabbed again, targeting the neck, and the blade sank deep. The goblin gurgled, black ichor pouring out, and collapsed, its axe clattering to the ground.

Panting, Avan staggered back, the penknife still embedded in the goblin’s neck. He yanked it free, wiping the blood on his pants, and turned to the remaining smaller goblin. It hesitated, its yellow eyes wide, but Avan didn’t give it a chance. He lunged, slashing wildly, and caught it across the throat. It fell, choking, and Avan collapsed beside it, trembling and soaked in blood—his own and theirs.

“Four down,” he gasped, clutching his leg. The wound was worse now, bleeding freely, and his chest felt like it was on fire. He needed rest, but this dungeon wasn’t safe—not yet. He dragged himself back to the alcove, his vision swimming, and collapsed against the stone. The purple glow from the pool seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, and that warmth—the Origin Energy—flared again, weak but persistent.

Maybe he could use it to heal, or at least dull the pain. He closed his eyes, focusing on the gold and silver sparkles, willing them to flow into his wounds. The energy pulsed, warm and tingly, but it didn’t heal—not fully. The bleeding slowed, and the sharpest pain dulled, but his leg still ached, and his chest throbbed. “Not perfect,” he said, opening his eyes, “but better than nothing.”

A faint surge coursed through him then, subtle but unmistakable—a quiet whisper of strength, like a spark igniting deep within. He frowned, unsure what it meant, but it felt… right, like the energy he’d used to kill the goblins had left something behind, a residue of power sinking into his core. He didn’t understand it, but he filed it away, pragmatic as ever. If it made him stronger, he’d take it.

The dungeon’s hum grew softer, and Avan leaned back, exhaustion pulling at him. He needed sleep, but this alcove wasn’t safe—not with more goblins lurking. Still, his body demanded rest, and the purple glow from the pool felt oddly calming. He scratched another note into the stone with the penknife: Survived. Hurt bad. Energy healing slow. Felt stronger after fight. Need rest. It wasn’t much, but it kept him focused.

His mind drifted, heavier now. What if this energy wasn’t his to control—what if it controlled him? He’d always prided himself on being rational, on efficiency—automating problems away, staying out of drama. But this? Monsters, portals, glowing energy—it defied everything he’d ever known. Was this some cosmic joke, or had he stumbled into a nightmare he couldn’t escape? And why him? That message—“Seed of Origin Protocol”—still echoed in his mind, hauntingly personal. Did it mean he was special, or just unlucky?

“Special,” he scoffed, wincing as he shifted his leg. “I’m just a guy who wants to survive, not some chosen one.” But the thought lingered—why did that energy feel so familiar, so right? It wasn’t just power; it felt like a part of him, deeper than he could explain. Was he becoming something else, something he didn’t understand? The idea terrified him, but it also intrigued him. If he could master this, maybe he could survive—maybe even thrive.

“But at what cost?” he whispered, staring at the purple glow. If he kept using this energy, would it change him, body and soul? Would he lose what made him… him? And if he did, would he care, as long as he lived? He thought of his family—his parents in the U.S., his sister in Japan, thousands of kilometers away. He hadn’t spoken to them in months, too busy with work, too focused on his own life. Now, they might be dead, torn apart by those black hounds or worse. The thought tightened his chest, but he pushed it down. “No use crying over it,” he said aloud. “Can’t help them if I’m dead.”

But the guilt lingered, gnawing at him. Was it selfish to focus only on himself? He’d always justified it—family was important, sure, but they were far away, and he had his own problems. Yet, staring at the purple glow, he wondered: if he survived this, if he found a way to harness this energy, could he use it to reach them? Or was that just another pipe dream? And if he did find them, what then? Would they even recognize him, battered and changed by this hell?

“Moral questions,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Since when do I care?” But the dungeon’s silence forced him to confront it. If he found others—like that woman in the parking lot, torn apart by monsters—would he help them, or leave them to die? He’d walked away then, and he didn’t regret it, but the weight of that decision felt heavier now. “Survival first,” he told himself, but the words felt hollow. What if survival meant becoming someone he didn’t recognize—someone cold, ruthless, indifferent?

The skittering returned, faint but persistent, and Avan tensed, gripping the penknife. This dungeon wasn’t done with him yet, but for now, he let exhaustion pull him into a fitful sleep, the purple glow watching over him like a silent sentinel.

When he woke, hours or minutes later—he couldn’t tell—the pain had dulled, but his injuries still throbbed. The alcove was quiet, but the dungeon’s hum persisted, a constant reminder of its presence. He sat up, wincing, and focused on the warmth in his chest. The Origin Energy pulsed, gold and silver with purple sparkles, and he willed it to flow into his wounds again. This time, he concentrated harder, imagining the energy knitting his flesh together. The warmth intensified, and the bleeding stopped, the pain easing to a manageable ache. But it drained him, leaving him dizzy and trembling.

“Not enough,” he muttered, leaning back. “But I’m learning.” He scratched another note into the stone: Energy heals, but slowly. Drains me. Felt stronger. Need to practice. The idea of experimenting more intrigued him, but he wasn’t about to push himself now—not with goblins lurking. Still, the energy felt like a key to survival, a tool he couldn’t ignore.

He peered out of the alcove, scanning the cavern. The pool still glowed, and the shadows shifted with faint movements. He needed to move deeper, find a safer spot, but his body screamed for rest. “One step at a time,” he told himself, gripping the penknife. The dungeon stretched before him, its mysteries and dangers waiting—and Avan, battered but stubborn, stepped forward into the unknown.

As he limped deeper, the cavern narrowed into a tunnel, its walls slick with moss and glowing faintly purple. The skittering grew louder, and Avan’s head throbbed as Identification flared again. Another goblin appeared, smaller but quicker, its green skin patchy and scarred, eyes glinting with hunger—a scout, two-and-a-half feet tall, with wiry limbs and a spear tipped with a jagged shard of bone.

“Persistent little bastards,” Avan muttered, raising the penknife. The goblin lunged, and he sidestepped, pain shooting through his leg, but he slashed out, catching its shoulder. It shrieked, but didn’t fall, darting back and circling him. Avan gritted his teeth, focusing on the Origin Energy, willing it to bolster his strength. The warmth surged, and his movements felt sharper, if only for a moment. He lunged, driving the penknife into the goblin’s side, and it collapsed, black ichor pooling on the stone.

Another surge coursed through him, subtler than before but noticeable—a quiet whisper of growth, like the energy from the kills was sinking deeper into his core. He paused, catching his breath, and scratched into the stone: Killed more. Felt stronger again. Energy growing. It wasn’t much, but it was progress, and he clung to it.

The tunnel stretched onward, its walls growing rougher, the purple glow intensifying. Avan’s injuries weighed on him, but the energy kept him moving, a faint hope in this hellhole. He wondered, briefly, if this energy could change him permanently—if it was tied to those golden symbols he’d seen before the collapse. Was he becoming something more, or was he just deluding himself?

“Doesn’t matter,” he said aloud, shaking his head. “As long as it keeps me alive.” But the question lingered, tugging at his mind as he pressed deeper into the dungeon, the shadows and skittering sounds his only companions.