Chapter 6
Avan groaned, his eyelids fluttering open to the dim purple glow of the dungeon’s torches. His body ached, stiff from sleeping on the hard, jagged stone floor, every muscle protesting as he shifted. Hours must’ve passed—maybe more—judging by the heavy stillness in the air and the faint crick in his neck. His back throbbed where the Hobgoblin’s claws had torn into him, his leg pulsed with a dull ache from the boulder’s crush, and his arm stung from the cuts, but he felt… better. Not great, but better than the blood-soaked mess he’d been before crashing out. The mist in the Boss Room had settled, curling lazily around the ash-streaked floor where the *Dungeon Guardian* had fallen, its motes of light and dust long gone, leaving only the faint outline of its dissolution. He rubbed his eyes, wincing at the soreness, and sat up, taking stock.
Blood crusted his jacket, his pants were ripped, and his sneakers—once modern and sturdy—were shredded, soles peeling, laces frayed. But the pain was fading, faster than it should’ve. He focused inward, and a quiet ping echoed in his mind—Origin Healing had leveled up, now Origin Healing (Lv. 3). A new note shimmered in his status: a passive effect, healing him automatically, even when he wasn’t consciously channeling it. “No way,” he muttered, half-laughing, half-stunned, his voice rough from sleep. It explained the relief, the automatic tingle that patched his cuts and soothed his bruises while he slept. Not perfect—his back still stung, his leg felt stiff—but it was a game-changer, keeping him alive without draining him dry. He stretched, testing his limbs, feeling the warmth spread, the soreness easing, though the stiffness lingered, a reminder of his rocky bed.
Slowly, he pushed to his feet, wincing as his joints creaked, his sneakers squelching on the stone. The Boss Room was silent, no skittering, no roars—just the dungeon’s steady hum, a low buzz that felt almost approving. He stayed wary, penknife in hand, its chipped blade glinting in the purple light, but nothing moved, no threats lurking in the shadows. The golden runes on the walls pulsed faintly, their glow dimmer now, some patches melted and blackened from his lightning strike, cracks spiderwebbing the stone where the energy had overloaded them. He ignored that for now, his gaze drifting to the center of the room, where the boss loot chest still gleamed, its golden aura pulsing softly amid the ash and mist.
Avan approached cautiously, boots crunching on debris, his senses sharp. The chest was ornate, its dark wood carved with unfamiliar runes that shimmered faintly, the lid sealed with a latch glowing gold. He hesitated, penknife ready, but nothing stirred—no traps, no sounds. With a steadying breath, he flipped the latch, the lid creaking open. Inside, nestled in velvet, lay a pair of boots—soft leather, black as shadow, stitched with tiny, glowing runes along the soles and sides, their patterns unfamiliar but intricate. He reached in, pulling them out, and noticed his sneakers—worn, torn, practically falling apart. These new boots felt sturdy, their leather supple yet tough, and as he turned them, the runes pulsed, hinting at power. Identification flared: Enchanted Boots—enhanced durability, improved grip. Runes of unknown origin, stable but untested. “Nice upgrade,” he said, kicking off his sneakers and slipping the boots on. They fit perfectly, the grip firm on the stone, the durability a clear boost as he tested a step—sturdy, reliable, like they’d take a beating and keep going.
Next, he spotted a pile of shimmering coins in the chest, their surfaces glinting with a strange, iridescent light—copper, silver, and one gold among them, each coin etched with arcane symbols that seemed to shift under his gaze. Curious, he picked one up, a copper coin, its surface warm to the touch. The moment his fingers brushed it, the coin dissolved, tiny motes of light streaming into his skin, vanishing into his chest. He flinched, leaving the rest, heart racing. “What the hell?” he blurted, voice sharp, but a ping in his mind calmed him—his status updated, listing *Copper: 15, Silver: 8, Gold: 1, Platinum: 0* in a new tab, a weird, mysterious currency tied to the system. He stared, spooked but intrigued, then scooped up the rest, watching as each coin dissolved, adding to his tally. “System cash,” he muttered, shaking his head, half-amused, half-weirded out. It wasn’t money he could spend topside, but it felt… significant, tied to this place somehow.
With the chest empty, Avan stepped back, closing it with a soft click, the golden glow fading. He sat against a pillar, pulling up his status in his mind, reviewing it carefully with a focused, methodical eye. The details unfurled, clear and sharp, as he’d grown used to seeing:
Name: Avan
Level: 3
Class: None
Skills:
* Identification (Lv. 1)
* Origin Energy Manipulation (Lv. 2)
* Origin Healing (Lv. 3, passive healing effect)
* Origin Energy Shield (Lv. 1)
* Origin Energy Projectiles (Lv. 1)
Stats:
* Strength—average
* Agility—decent
* Intelligence—above average
* Vitality—stubborn
* Luck—questionable
Currency:
* Copper: 15
* Silver: 8
* Gold: 1
* Platinum: 0
The passive healing from Origin Healing (Lv. 3) stood out, a quiet safety net he hadn’t expected, and his energy reserves felt fuller, bolstered by the fight’s aftermath. The boots, the coins—it all pointed to growth, but he frowned, glancing around. “Now what?” he said, voice low, practical. Normally, in games or those system novels he’d skimmed online, a portal or exit path would pop up after a boss, or maybe a deeper level if this wasn’t the end. But nothing shimmered, no glowing door, no path forward—just the silent, misty chamber and the dungeon’s hum.
His eyes drifted to the walls, the golden runes now marred by blackened patches and melted stone from his lightning strike. The cracks spiderwebbed out, some runes warped, their glow uneven. He frowned, stepping closer, tracing a finger along a melted edge. “What went wrong here?” he muttered, voice thoughtful, a mix of curiosity and unease. The lightning had worked, but it wasn’t meant for that—Origin Energy wasn’t supposed to fry runes like that, was it? Were they designed for something else, something he’d accidentally triggered? His mind raced, piecing it together. Maybe they amplified energy, not lightning, but his desperation had overloaded them. Was this common, or unique to him, tied to his Origin Energy? The thought sent a chill down his spine, but he shook it off, practical as ever—speculation wouldn’t get him out.
He paced, penknife in hand, scanning the room for anything—another rune, a hidden door, a clue. The dungeon’s hum grew softer, almost inviting, but then he felt it—a faint tug in the air, a whisper of something calling, stirring deep in the mist. It wasn’t sound, not exactly, but a sensation, like a current pulling at his chest, toward the far wall where the runes glowed dimmest. His heart quickened, curiosity warring with caution.
Avan’s hand tightened on his penknife, its chipped blade catching the purple torchlight as the strange tug in the air pulled at him again—a faint, electric hum deep in his chest, like a current drawing him forward. He frowned, squinting into the mist-shrouded Boss Room, the dungeon’s low buzz a steady backdrop. “What the hell is that?” he muttered, voice low, practical, his heart picking up speed, curiosity mixing with caution. It wasn’t sound, not exactly, but a sensation, a whisper in the air, tugging at his Origin Energy reserves, toward the far wall where the golden runes glowed dimmest. He stepped forward, boots crunching on ash and debris, the mist curling around his new enchanted boots, their grip steady on the stone.
He moved slowly, penknife raised, eyes scanning the cavern’s edges. The room stretched wide, its shattered pillars and scattered bones casting jagged shadows in the torchlight. The golden runes on the walls pulsed faintly, some blackened and melted from his lightning strike, but others held steady, their light a quiet guide. He circled the chamber, narrowing it down—left wall, no tug; right wall, nothing; near the archway, still quiet. But as he approached the far side, opposite the entrance, the pull grew stronger, a sharp buzz in his chest, like Origin Energy resonating with something hidden. He stopped, peering closer, the mist thinning here, revealing the stone wall in sharper detail.
At first, it looked like just more runes—golden, intricate, glowing softly—but as he squinted, a pattern emerged, subtle and faint, woven into the stone. Countless runes, tiny and precise, like single letters of some runic alphabet, formed a shape—vague, but unmistakable: a door. Not a physical one, not yet, but a suggestion, a silhouette of uncountable runes interlocking, their glow barely brighter than the surrounding stone. It was unlike the other glyphs and runes he’d seen—whole sentences or enchantments linking runes into larger patterns—but this was different, intricate, dizzying. “A door?” he whispered, voice hesitant, half-hoping, half-doubting. If he was right, it meant a way out, or deeper, something to move forward. But it could also be a trap, another dungeon trick.
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Avan stepped closer, penknife still in hand, its edge too worn for combat but useful for now. He reached out, fingers brushing the stone, feeling the faint warmth of the runes, their energy pulsing under his touch. The buzz in his chest intensified, Origin Energy responding, golden threads streaked with silver and violet tingling in his fingertips. The runes felt alive, humming, their patterns shifting slightly, as if reacting to him. He traced a rune, its curve sharp and unfamiliar, then another, their shapes dizzying, a headache creeping in at the edges of his mind. “This is nuts,” he muttered, rubbing his temple, voice strained but focused. The complexity was overwhelming—hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny runes forming this door-shape, their connections too intricate to parse at a glance. Were they a lock, a key, or just decoration? His gut said they meant something, but figuring it out felt like solving a Rubik’s cube blindfolded.
He stepped back, staring at the rune-pattern, the headache growing, a dull throb behind his eyes. “What’s the point of this?” he said, voice low, practical, a mix of frustration and curiosity. The dungeon had thrown goblins, a Hobgoblin, now this—runes that could melt, doors that might not exist. Were they testing him, punishing him, or just screwing with his head? He thought of the system novels he’d skimmed online—runes often hid secrets, portals, or traps, but this felt different, deeper, tied to his Origin Energy somehow. The lightning strike had fried some runes, but these held steady. Maybe they amplified energy, like he’d guessed, or maybe they were a puzzle only he could solve. “Probably overthinking it,” he grumbled, shaking his head, but the tug persisted, urging him on.
Sitting cross-legged before the rune-door, Avan set the penknife down, its blade too dull for fighting but perfect for something else. He scooped away loose stones and dirt with his hands, clearing a patch of stone floor, then picked up the penknife, its tip scraping against the surface. He scratched a rough outline of the rune-pattern, the blade catching, leaving faint, uneven marks. “Might as well scribble it out,” he said, voice dry, focused, his mind working faster as he drew. The headache pulsed, but the act of sketching helped—visualizing the runes, their shapes, their connections, made the chaos clearer. He added notes, arrows, guesses—door, lock, energy?—each scratch a step toward understanding, even if it felt like chasing smoke.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes—the dungeon’s hum blurred time, its purple light steady on the stone. Avan leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow, the penknife’s edge worn to nothing, its shape barely recognizable now, more a tool for marks than a weapon. The rune-pattern loomed above, unchanged, its glow taunting him. “This is a headache and a half,” he muttered, voice tired but determined, rubbing his temples. The door-shape felt real, but unlocking it? That was the puzzle. His energy reserves tingled, Origin Energy humming, but he wasn’t sure how to use it, not without frying more runes. He glanced at his status, a quick ping in his mind:
Name: Avan
Level: 3
Class: None
Skills:
* Identification (Lv. 1)
* Origin Energy Manipulation (Lv. 2)
* Origin Healing (Lv. 3, passive healing effect)
* Origin Energy Shield (Lv. 1)
* Origin Energy Projectiles (Lv. 1)
Stats:
* Strength—average
* Agility—decent
* Intelligence—above average
* Vitality—stubborn
* Luck—questionable
Currency:
* Copper: 15
* Silver: 8
* Gold: 1
* Platinum: 0
Nothing new there, but the Origin Energy Manipulation (Lv. 2) caught his eye—maybe it could help, but he wasn’t sure how. The passive healing from Origin Healing (Lv. 3) kept his soreness at bay, but the headache lingered, a stubborn ache he couldn’t shake. He stared at the rune-pattern, sketching another line, his mind grinding through possibilities. “A door’s no good if I can’t open it,” he said, voice gruff, practical, but a flicker of excitement stirred—solving this felt like progress, like beating the dungeon at its own game.
Sitting cross-legged before the rune-patterned door, Avan stared at the golden glow on the stone, the headache from its complexity still throbbing behind his eyes. “How?” he muttered, voice tired but determined, rubbing his temples. The uncountable runes, tiny and precise, formed that vague door-shape, their patterns interlocking but never merging, touching at specific points like a puzzle he couldn’t crack. HMore time ticked by. He leaned forward, squinting, trying to make sense of it, but the shapes swam, dizzying, their connections too intricate to grasp. He didn’t get the runes, didn’t know what they meant, but something clicked—a pattern, subtle but there. The runes flowed into each other, grazing at precise junctures, never blending, each staying distinct yet seamless, like threads in a circuit board he couldn’t quite trace.
“Okay, there’s something here,” he said, voice steady and slightly happy, a spark of excitement cutting through the frustration. He studied the pattern closer, noticing how one rune curved into another, touching at a sharp angle, then branching to a third, looping back but never merging. It wasn’t random—it was a path, a flow, like wiring in some tech he’d seen in a sci-fi flick. If he could follow that flow, maybe he could use his Origin Energy to trace it, thread it through like a current. It was a long shot, but better than staring at a wall. He reached out, fingers hovering, the electric hum of Origin Energy—golden threads streaked with silver and violet—tingling in his palms.
Avan focused, channeling the energy carefully, willing it into the first rune, its golden glow pulsing under his touch. The energy flowed, a warm, golden stream laced with silver and violet, sliding into the rune’s curve—but then it fizzled, sputtering out like a dying spark, slipping from his grip. His head throbbed harder, the complexity overwhelming, his brain lacking the precision to hold it. “Damn it,” he grumbled, voice sharp, rubbing his forehead. He tried again, pushing harder, but the energy scattered after the second rune, vanishing into the stone, leaving him panting, energy drained, the runes unchanged. “This is harder than it looks,” he said, voice dry, half-annoyed, half-intrigued, but he wasn’t giving up.
Hours passed, or maybe less—the dungeon’s hum swallowed time, its purple light a constant flicker. Avan tried again and again, each attempt draining him, his energy reserves dipping, his hands trembling. By the fifth try, he’d threaded the energy through three runes, their golden glow flaring briefly with his silver-violet sparks before fading, but he stalled, losing control halfway through the pattern. “Come on,” he muttered, voice frustrated, wiping sweat from his brow. His body ached, stiff from sitting, and the headache pounded, a relentless drumbeat. He needed a break, a reset, but he hated the idea of sitting still, doing nothing—meditating, like some yoga guru, felt ridiculous. Still, something in the dungeon’s hum, the runes’ quiet pulse, felt… right. He sighed, crossing his legs tighter, closing his eyes. “Fine, let’s try this crap,” he grumbled, voice grudging, but he focused, breathing deep, letting the hum wash over him, calming his mind, sharpening his focus.
After resting, meditating reluctantly for a few minutes, Avan felt clearer, the headache dulling, his energy reserves tingling, replenished by the dungeon’s quiet. He tried again, channeling Origin Energy—golden streams woven with silver and violet—into the first rune, holding it steady, following the pattern’s flow. It moved, smooth and precise, lighting up the second rune, then the third, their golden glow shifting to his silver-violet sparks. He pushed further, threading through the fourth, fifth, sixth, each rune flaring briefly, the energy holding, his mind locking onto the path. But it faltered at the tenth, slipping, fading, leaving him gasping, energy low but closer than before. “Getting there,” he said, voice tired but determined, resting again, meditating briefly, the dungeon’s hum a steady anchor.
Days might’ve passed, or hours—the dungeon’s timeless buzz made it impossible to tell—but Avan kept at it, trial and error wearing him down, then building him up. He rested, meditated, pushed his limits, the passive healing from Origin Healing (Lv. 3) keeping his stiffness at bay, sealing minor cuts from scraping the stone. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of frustration, he channeled Origin Energy—golden threads laced with silver and violet—into the first rune, holding it steady, following the pattern with razor-sharp focus. It flowed, lighting up each rune in sequence, their golden glow transforming to his silver-violet sparks, one after another, twenty, thirty, fifty, a hundred, until the entire door-shape blazed with his energy, a radiant path across the stone.
The cavern rumbled, stone groaning, the runes on the walls shifting, their patterns sliding like puzzle pieces. Some mechanism clanked deep within the stone, trying to activate, but the melted runes—blackened and cracked from his lightning strike—stopped it, sparks flying, stone grinding to a halt. Avan stumbled back, heart racing, eyes wide with fascination. The stone between the rune-door began to dissolve, melting away like wax, revealing a black void sprinkled with tiny, star-like specks, like a fabric too dense to see through. “No way,” he whispered, voice stunned, a mix of awe and nerves, penknife trembling in his hand.
He hesitated, staring at the portal, its starry darkness both inviting and terrifying. His mind raced—*a door, a way out, or deeper, or a trap?* But the tug in his chest, the dungeon’s hum, pulled him forward, a quiet promise of progress. “Screw it,” he said, voice firm, pumping himself up internally, adrenaline spiking. He gripped the penknife tighter, boots steady on the stone, and stepped through the portal, the void swallowing him whole.
What he saw on the other side left him speechless, his breath catching, heart pounding.