Chapter 3

Avan limped deeper into the dungeon, his penknife’s dulled blade slick with goblin blood, its weight a constant strain in his aching hand. Pain gnawed at his leg with every step, a deep, grinding ache threatening to buckle him, while the gashes on his chest and side throbbed beneath blood-stained, torn bandages. The tunnel stretched endlessly, its walls coated in shimmering purple moss, the air heavy with dampness and a low, persistent hum that vibrated through the stone. “This hell will break me,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow, his breath shallow and uneven. The skittering of goblins had quieted, but the shadows flickered, and that hum—a deep, unsettling pulse in his bones—felt like the dungeon itself was stalking him, waiting for weakness. He didn’t trust it, but standing still wasn’t an option; the portal had sealed behind him, trapping him in this nightmare, and the chaos outside promised death by monsters. He pressed forward, driven by cold necessity—waiting risked more goblins finding him, and his injuries wouldn’t heal fast enough to gamble on safety here. Logic demanded movement, survival over rest, even as his body screamed in protest.

A sharp sting pulsed behind his eyes, and Identification flared instinctively, probing the tunnel ahead. No immediate threats—just the dungeon’s energy, ancient and alive, a heartbeat resonating through the stone. But he felt it too: a subtle, growing warmth in his chest, Origin Energy, gold and silver flecked with purple sparkles, building from the goblins he’d killed. It wasn’t much, a faint nudge of strength, but it kept his legs moving, a lifeline in this brutal place. He leaned against the wall, steadying himself, the pain in his leg a brutal reminder of his limits. Staying here, exposed, invited attack—goblins could swarm from any shadow, and his rational mind pushed him to advance, to harness this energy’s potential before it faded. He moved, not out of bravery, but the cold calculation that stagnation meant death.

“Status,” he whispered, closing his eyes. The impression came, clearer, sharper:

Name: Avan

Level: 1 (nearing progression)

Class: None

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

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

“Nearing progression,” he muttered, brow furrowing. He didn’t understand it fully—the energy felt like a growing reserve drawn from each kill, each fight—but its presence fueled him. That healing, too—he’d begun coaxing Origin Energy to mend his wounds, slow and draining, but it dulled pain, stopped bleeding. It wasn’t enough to wait here, exposed; more goblins could come, and logic demanded he move, conserve strength, and grow stronger. If this energy could push him further, it might mean survival—pragmatism over patience, survival over rest. He pressed on, driven by the rational need to secure safety or resources, not idle hope or past burdens.

The tunnel widened into a cavern, its ceiling shrouded in darkness, stalactites dripping purple-tinged water that glowed faintly. Torches lined the walls, their purple flames casting jagged shadows, the air growing colder, heavier, pressing like a weight. Avan paused, scanning the space, the flickering light revealing a crumbling stone bridge arching over a chasm, its surface cracked and slick, leading to a shadowy passage beyond. Shadows writhed below, and a sharp skittering cut through the hum, urgent and threatening. He considered stopping, but the cavern’s openness left him vulnerable—goblins could attack from any angle, and his injuries demanded cover, not exposure. Crossing the bridge, despite the risk, offered a chance at safety; logic pointed to progress, not paralysis, even as his leg burned with pain.

Five goblins emerged from the shadows, their green skin mottled and warty, eyes glinting yellow in the torchlight. Identification surged: swifter than earlier foes, but weaker than the black hound—three-foot-tall scouts, lean and agile, armed with bone-tipped spears and razor claws, their twisted faces snarling with hunger, movements synchronized, predatory. Avan’s gut tightened. He could turn back, but his leg wouldn’t hold, and retreat meant death in the open tunnel. Fighting was his only option—pragmatism over fear, survival over hesitation. He couldn’t wait, not with injuries worsening; the energy’s growth promised strength if he pressed on, a rational drive to secure safety or resources ahead, not a repeat of old doubts.

“Can’t catch a break,” Avan muttered, gripping the penknife tighter. His injuries screamed, but he couldn’t stop—not with death looming. The goblins charged, spears jabbing in a frenzied pattern, their chittering echoing off stone. Avan ducked, pain flaring in his leg as he stumbled, slashing at the nearest goblin’s arm. The blade bit deep, black ichor spurting, but the creature twisted, its spear grazing his chest. He grunted, staggering, and the penknife slipped, skidding toward the bridge’s edge.

“No!” Avan dove, agony searing his leg, and caught the knife just before it fell. But the goblins closed in, swift and coordinated, and a spear pierced his side—shallow, but sharp, drawing a grunt from his throat. He rolled, slashing wildly, catching another goblin’s thigh. It shrieked, collapsing, but the others flanked him, claws raking his back. Blood soaked his shirt, and Avan slipped on the slick stone, crashing onto the bridge. He could’ve stayed down, let Origin Healing work, but more goblins would swarm—logic demanded he finish this now, or die. He forced himself up, driven by survival’s urgency, not sentiment, but also by a rational fear of losing control, a need to maintain his edge in this chaos.

The bridge trembled under his weight, cracks widening, and the stone he’d carried—marked with old scratches—slipped from his pocket, plunging into the chasm. “Damn it,” he hissed, but there was no time for regret. The penknife was his lifeline; losing it meant death—rationality over nostalgia, survival over sentiment. The goblins pressed closer, and Avan gripped the blade, channeling Origin Energy to steady his shaking hands. The warmth surged, gold and silver with purple sparkles, sharpening his focus. He lunged, driving the penknife into the second goblin’s chest, then slashed at the third, catching its throat. Both fell, black ichor pooling, but the fourth and fifth—quicker, smarter—circled, probing for weaknesses from either side of the bridge.

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Avan’s vision blurred, strength fading, but he pressed on, slashing at the fourth goblin. It dodged, its spear jabbing his leg, reopening the wound. He roared, pain and desperation mixing, and lunged, driving the blade deep into its neck. It choked, collapsing, and Avan pivoted, parrying the fifth goblin’s spear with a desperate slash. The creature lunged, claws slashing his arm, but Avan twisted, plunging the penknife into its chest. It fell, black ichor spilling, and Avan staggered back, blood dripping, exhausted but alive. He didn’t wash the penknife in the purple water—its metallic glow and taste suggested risk, a potential to dull the blade, harbor infection, or react with ichor, weakening his weapon. Logic demanded he keep it functional, not gamble on unknown magic, survival over cleanliness, a pragmatic choice unclouded by emotion.

“Five down,” he gasped, clutching his side. Wounds bled freely—leg, chest, side, back, arm—vitality draining fast. But a surge hit, power solidifying in his core, pushing him past a threshold. He felt it: Level 2, a quiet surge of strength, his Origin Energy deepening, body sharper, tougher. His Origin Healing stabilized, reliable but draining. He stored the sensation mentally, progress in this nightmare, a rational boost to survive. Moving forward, not waiting to heal fully, made sense—goblins would return, and his energy offered an edge now, not later. Logic, not past guilt or hope, drove him; a fresh, rational fear of stagnation pushed him deeper, untainted by repetition.

He dragged himself off the bridge, collapsing against the cavern wall. Origin Energy pulsed, and he focused on healing, warmth knitting flesh slowly. Bleeding stopped, pain dulled, but exhaustion overwhelmed him. “Not enough,” he muttered, closing his eyes. The dungeon’s hum pulsed, purple glow a strange comfort. Staying risked attack, but pushing deeper offered safety or resources—logic, not emotion, drove him. He moved because waiting meant death, energy promising strength if he progressed, a cold, rational choice.

His mind churned, questions rising. What was this energy? “Seed of Origin Protocol” echoed, personal, chilling. Was he tied to this place, these monsters? Not a philosopher, but logic pressed him: punishment, purpose, or luck? If luck, why this power, so intrinsic, like a forgotten instinct? Golden runes on the walls pulsed, unfamiliar but nagging—curiosity stirred, but survival came first. He moved deeper, not for destiny, but necessity—energy hinted at survival, answers, a rational drive, not old burdens. A new doubt surfaced: if this power grew, would it demand more than he’d give? But he dismissed it—speculation wouldn’t save him, only action would.

“Destiny’s a myth,” he said, wincing as he shifted. “I’m just surviving.” But the energy’s familiarity lingered—ancient, part of him? Becoming something else unsettled him, but mastering it could save him. If it twisted him cold, ruthless, would he care, alive? Logic pushed him forward, not heroism—injuries wouldn’t heal fast enough to risk staying, energy promising strength. A rational curiosity about its source, not family guilt, drove him, fresh and untainted by repetition, a need to understand its origin, not dwell on past losses.

“But the cost?” he whispered, staring at the glow. Using this energy might erode his rationality, pragmatism—would he care, living? He shoved the thought aside—survival meant action, progress, not doubt. He moved because staying meant death, energy offering life, truth—a rational choice, not emotion’s echo, a new drive to uncover its purpose, not revisit old pain.

“Morals,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Pointless here.” But silence forced a fresh question: others—like that woman he’d seen fleeing outside, killed by hounds—help or ignore? He’d left her, no regret, but doubt grew, new and sharp—survival first, but hardening into something he’d despise gnawed at him. Aiding risked death, vulnerability to horrors—logic forbade it, but the ache lingered, born of isolation, not past, a rational weighing of risk versus gain, not repetition.

Skittering returned, faint, persistent, and Avan tensed, gripping the penknife. He couldn’t rest here—goblins lurked. He pushed up, wincing, limping deeper, penknife unwashed—purple water risked dulling it, infection, weakening his weapon. Logic, not sentiment, kept it functional. The tunnel narrowed, walls etched with golden runes pulsing with his energy. He traced one, shivering—unfamiliar, but nagging—curiosity stirred, but survival came first. Logic drove progress, not delay, a fresh drive to understand, not repeat old questions.

The passage opened into a cavern, colder, darker, bones scattered. A spiral staircase descended, steps slick with moss. Skittering grew louder, urging deeper. He gripped the penknife, injuries throbbing, stepping down, hum swelling, drawing him in. Air thickened, purple glow intensified—Origin Energy hummed within, matching the pulse. He moved, healing slow, enemies many—energy promised strength forward, not wait—logic, not hope, drove him, a rational fear of stagnation, not old guilt.

Halfway down, skittering erupted. Goblins charged from below—two scouts sprinting up the stairs, spears aimed at his legs; one warrior lunged from a side passage to his left, club swinging wide. Identification surged: warrior stronger, slower, brutal—four feet, bone club, armor-plated skin, red eyes menacing, hunger deliberate. Avan’s gut clenched. Scouts attacked from below, thrusting upward at his shins; warrior swung from the left, club arcing horizontally. Retreat impossible—leg wouldn’t hold, stairs exposed—logic demanded fight, survival, growth. He slashed a scout’s arm, blade biting deep, but the warrior’s club grazed his shoulder, sending him sprawling down two steps. Pain exploded, and he rolled right, dodging a upwardward spear thrust from below, barely evading the club’s next horizontal swing from the left. He stabbed upward, piercing the warrior’s thigh, thick skin resisting, it roared, club arcing right again. He ducked, slashing its leg, but scouts flanked, spears jabbing upward from below, grazing his back. He twisted left, pain flaring, slashing a scout’s throat from above—it fell, ichor spraying down. The other’s spear caught his arm from below, and he grunted, lunging left at the warrior, driving the penknife into its chest. It howled, thrashing, and Avan stabbed its neck from the side, blade sinking deep. It collapsed, club tumbling left. The scout fled upward, vanishing into shadow, and Avan collapsed, clutching his arm, blood soaking him, injuries mounting.

A surge hit—power solidifying, Level 2, Origin Energy deepening, body sharper, tougher. Origin Healing stabilized, draining but reliable. He rested at the base, shadows promising threats, but another fight somehow survived.

Closing his eyes, he focused on Origin Energy, experimenting. He willed it outward, shaping a faint shield around his hand—gold, silver, purple crackling static. It flickered, unstable, draining fast, but held briefly, a potential defense. “A shield,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Might save me next time.” The effort left him dizzy, but he saved strength—logic favored caution, not exhaustion, survival over risk. He moved deeper, driven by necessity, energy’s promise, a rational curiosity about its source, not old shadows, a fresh start in this brutal descent.

The dungeon’s shadows shifted, and Avan tensed, penknife ready. But nothing jumped at him. A few moments later, his tensed shoulders loosened up and he took a deep, steadying breath.