Chapter 7
Avan stepped through the portal, the black void swallowing him whole, its starry specks brushing against his skin like cold static. His heart raced, boots steady on nothing for a split second, then his feet hit solid ground, the dungeon’s hum buzzing louder, sharper. He stumbled, catching himself on the stone, and looked up—and froze. What he saw left him speechless, his breath catching, jaw dropping, a mix of awe and dread washing over him. The room stretched out before him, massive and glittering, like a cathedral carved from shadows and light. Towering walls of dark, polished stone rose high, their surfaces etched with glowing golden runes that pulsed softly, warm and steady, casting long, shimmering reflections across the floor. The runes—circles, spirals, intricate patterns—covered every inch, their light like trapped sunlight, bright but heavy, making his skin prickle with unease.
https://i.ibb.co/sptk2jrh/First-dungeon-core.webp [https://i.ibb.co/sptk2jrh/First-dungeon-core.webp]
At the room’s center, a raised platform stood, square and carved with more runes, glowing brighter than the rest, like a spotlight in the dark. Above it hovered a sphere—a Dungeon Core, he realized, its surface a perfect, radiant gold, ringed with faint, shimmering energy that spiraled upward in twisting streams of light, almost liquid, reaching toward the unseen ceiling. The golden glow bathed the chamber, warm but intense, like staring into a sun that didn’t burn, its pulses syncing with the runes, their hum vibrating in his chest, stronger than ever. He blinked, heart pounding, a chill running through him, half-excited, half-terrified. “Holy crap,” he whispered, voice stunned, his hand tightening on his penknife, its chipped blade catching the golden light, trembling slightly in his grip.
Avan took a cautious step forward, boots—new and enchanted, their leather grip firm on the stone—creaking as he moved, the stiffness from his earlier sleep fading under the passive warmth of Origin Healing (Lv. 3). The room felt alive, the golden light wrapping around him, heavy and inviting, like it was watching, testing him. His gut twisted, awe swelling at the sheer scale—this wasn’t just another cavern; it was a temple, a vault, maybe the dungeon’s heart. But dread lingered, sharp and practical—what if this thing fried him, drained his energy, or locked him in forever? He shook his head, forcing a shaky laugh, voice rough but steady. “Get it together,” he said, running a hand through his hair, the golden glow reflecting in his eyes, making them shine like amber.
He circled the platform, penknife in hand, its worn edge scraping softly against his palm, boots silent on the rune-carved floor, each step sending faint ripples of golden light across the stone. The columns stretched upward, their surfaces etched with swirling circles and spirals, glowing steadily, their patterns weaving together like a code he couldn’t crack. The Dungeon Core pulsed, its light intensifying, and Avan froze, heart thudding, a mix of excitement and fear tightening his chest. What was it—a power source, a control hub, or a trap waiting to snap shut? His mind raced, questions piling up, but he stayed focused, practical. “One step at a time,” he murmured, voice firm, his energy reserves—golden threads laced with silver and violet—tingling, ready but wary. The dungeon’s hum grew softer, almost inviting, but the pull of the Core, its golden light, felt like a challenge, a test he couldn’t ignore.
Avan edged closer, the runes underfoot glowing brighter, their patterns shifting subtly, as if reacting to his presence. The air buzzed, electric, the Core’s light warming his face, its energy resonating with the Origin Energy in his chest, a sharp, electric hum that made his fingers twitch. He felt awe, sure—beautiful didn’t cut it; this was otherworldly—but unease gnawed at him, a practical fear of what might happen if he touched it, if it drained him like the runes he’d fried before. “This is nuts,” he said, voice low, half-amused, half-spooked, his boots scuffing the stone as he stopped, staring at the Core’s radiant glow. It pulsed again, stronger, and he stepped back, heart racing, a mix of curiosity and caution holding him in place. The dungeon wasn’t done with him, and this Core—this room—it felt like the key, or the next lock. Either way, he wasn’t walking away without figuring it out.
Avan edged back from the platform, boots scuffing the rune-carved floor, the golden glow underfoot sending faint ripples of light across the stone. His heart still pounded from the shock of the room, but he forced it down, gripping his penknife tighter, its chipped blade catching the Dungeon Core’s radiant light. The golden sphere pulsed in the center, its light warm and hypnotic, but he wasn’t ready to dive in—not yet. Something about those runes, glowing on every surface, felt off, like a puzzle he couldn’t ignore. He glanced at the towering walls, their dark stone etched with intricate patterns, and decided to hang back, scoping them out first. “Better safe than fried,” he muttered, voice low, practical, a mix of caution and curiosity tightening his chest.
The runes stretched across the walls, columns, and floor, a sea of golden light that bathed the chamber in an otherworldly glow. Up close, they weren’t just random scratches—they were precise, sharp, like someone had carved them with a laser, their edges clean but ancient, worn by time yet still radiant. He stepped closer to a column, its surface etched with circular patterns, each rune a tiny, intricate loop or spiral, no bigger than a dime, glowing with a steady, warm gold. Some were simple, single strokes curving into half-moons, others complex, layered with intersecting lines forming star-like shapes, their edges shimmering faintly, as if charged with energy. He traced a finger near one, not touching, feeling the heat radiating off it, a faint buzz in his chest syncing with *Origin Energy*—golden threads laced with silver and violet tingling in his fingers. “These aren’t just decoration,” he said, voice hushed, half to himself, half in awe, his mind racing with questions. Were they a map, a lock, or something else entirely?
He moved to the wall, its surface covered in rows of runes, stacked like paragraphs in a book he couldn’t read. They varied in size—some small, others palm-sized, their shapes shifting subtly under the golden light, as if alive, responding to his presence. He spotted a cluster near eye level, their patterns interlocking: a jagged zigzag feeding into a circle, then branching into a series of dots, each glowing brighter as he leaned in. The dots formed a grid, like coordinates, but the zigzag felt chaotic, its edges jagged, almost angry. He squinted, head tilting, the golden glow reflecting in his eyes, a headache creeping in at the edges of his mind, dull but persistent. “What’s the point of all this?” he muttered, voice dry, practical, rubbing his temple. The complexity was insane—thousands of runes, maybe millions, covering every inch, their connections weaving like circuits in some sci-fi tech he’d seen in movies, but heavier, older, steeped in power.
Avan crouched, studying the floor, its stone tiles etched with concentric circles, each ring lined with runes—spirals, crosses, triangles, their golden light pulsing in rhythm with the Dungeon Core. The circles overlapped, forming a labyrinthine pattern, some runes larger, glowing brighter, others faint, almost hidden, like secrets buried in the stone. He traced the pattern with his finger, not touching, the buzz of *Origin Energy* growing stronger, a warm current in his chest, silver and violet sparks flickering beneath his skin. One rune, a starburst with five points, pulsed faster, its light intensifying, and he jerked back, heart skipping, a chill racing down his spine. “Okay, that’s creepy,” he said, voice sharp, half-spooked, half-intrigued, standing and stepping away. The rune’s glow dimmed, but the pattern held, its complexity overwhelming, a puzzle he couldn’t crack but couldn’t ignore.
He circled the room, keeping his distance from the platform, boots silent on the rune-carved stone, their enchanted grip steady, their soft leather brushing the glowing tiles. The walls stretched upward, their runes spiraling in columns, each panel framed by thin, golden lines, like frames in a gallery of light. Some runes were simple, single strokes, others layered, forming glyphs—whole sentences, he guessed, their shapes interlocking but distinct, never merging, touching at precise points. He spotted a glyph near a column, its pattern a series of curves and dots, glowing brighter, its edges shimmering, as if charged. *Identification* flared, faint and unclear: Ancient script, arcane purpose, energy-linked, unreadable. “Great, useless,” he grumbled, voice frustrated but focused, shaking his head. The glyph pulsed, its light syncing with his energy, and he stepped back, hands up, heart thudding. “Not touching that yet,” he said, voice firm, practical, but a spark of excitement lingered—solving this felt like progress, like cracking the dungeon’s code.
Avan moved to another wall, its runes denser, layered in tight grids, their golden glow casting long shadows across the floor. He noticed patterns—some runes repeated, a spiral here, a zigzag there, forming sequences, like code or music. One sequence, near the ceiling, glowed brighter, its spirals looping into circles, then dots, their light flickering, as if alive, responding to his gaze. He squinted, head tilting, the golden light reflecting off his face, warm but heavy, making his skin tingle. “What are you hiding?” he whispered, voice low, curious, a mix of wonder and unease tightening his chest. The sequence pulsed faster, and he froze, heart pounding, a chill creeping up his neck. Were they watching him, testing him, or just reacting to his energy? He didn’t know, but the complexity was mind-bending—millions of runes, maybe, each a piece of a puzzle he couldn’t solve but felt tied to his *Origin Energy*—golden streams woven with silver and violet, humming in his core, stronger now, sharper.
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He dropped to one knee, studying the floor again, its tiles etched with overlapping circles, each ring lined with runes—triangles, crosses, loops, their golden light pulsing in time with the Dungeon Core. Some runes glowed steady, others flickered, their patterns shifting subtly, as if responding to his movements. He traced a circle with his finger, not touching, feeling the heat radiating off it, a faint buzz syncing with his energy, silver and violet sparks dancing beneath his skin. One rune, a jagged line feeding into a starburst, pulsed brighter, its light intensifying, and he jerked back, heart racing, a mix of awe and fear tightening his throat. “Too close,” he said, voice sharp, practical, standing and pacing back, boots scuffing the stone. The rune’s glow dimmed, but the pattern held, its depth overwhelming, a labyrinth of light he couldn’t navigate but couldn’t look away from.
Avan leaned against a column, catching his breath, the golden light bathing his face, warm but heavy, like a spotlight he couldn’t escape. The runes on the column spiraled upward, their patterns forming chains—loops feeding into zigzags, then dots, their light steady but shifting, as if alive, reacting to his presence. He noticed a sequence near the top, its spirals looping into circles, then branching into crosses, their glow brighter, more intense, their edges shimmering, charged with power. *Identification* flickered again, faint but insistent: Arcane script, energy conduit, unstable resonance. “Unstable, huh?” he said, voice dry, half-amused, half-wary, running a hand through his hair. The sequence pulsed, its light syncing with his energy, and he stepped back, hands up, heart thudding. “Not risking that yet,” he muttered, voice firm, practical, but a quiet thrill lingered—cracking this felt like beating the dungeon’s game, one step at a time.
Avan stopped, leaning against a wall, the golden light warming his back, its weight heavy, electric. The runes pressed against him, their complexity dizzying, a puzzle he couldn’t solve but couldn’t ignore. “This is insane,” he said, voice low, tired but determined, rubbing his temples, the headache creeping back. The patterns—spirals, zigzags, dots, circles—formed sequences, chains, grids, their light steady but shifting, as if waiting for him to figure it out. Were they a lock, a map, or a trap? His gut said they were tied to him, to his *Origin Energy*, but the depth, the sheer number—it was mind-bending, a code he’d need time to crack. He glanced at the Dungeon Core, its golden light pulsing, calling, but he stayed back, focused on the runes, their glow a quiet challenge he couldn’t walk away from.
Avan edged back from the platform, boots scuffing the rune-carved floor, the golden glow underfoot sending faint ripples of light across the stone. His fingers brushed the soft leather of his enchanted boots, their grip steady, but his pulse quickened, a mix of nerves and curiosity tightening his chest. The Dungeon Core pulsed in the center, its radiant gold light almost hypnotic, but nothing else in the room offered a way out—no hidden doors, no glowing portals, just the endless stone and glowing runes. He knew, deep down, something would happen if he touched it. Was he the only one ever reaching a Dungeon Core like this? In games or those system novels he’d skimmed, dungeon divers were usually beamed out or handed a portal after clearing the place, not left standing in a glowing temple with no exit in sight. Was this normal, or was he breaking some unspoken rule, stumbling into something unique, maybe dangerous?
He lingered at the platform’s edge, hand hovering near his penknife—its chipped tip now a useless stub, tucked into his belt for comfort more than combat. The golden runes on the columns and walls pulsed steadily, their light warm and heavy, but they offered no answers, just more questions. He glanced at the Dungeon Core again, its golden streams spiraling upward, a beacon in the vast, shadowy chamber. “Guess it’s this or nothing,” he muttered, voice low, practical, a flicker of unease in his gut. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, the passive warmth of Origin Healing (Lv. 3) easing the stiffness from his earlier sleep, but his nerves stayed on edge, a mix of excitement and dread churning inside him.
Avan stepped closer, boots whispering on the rune-etched stone, the golden light bathing his face, its heat prickling his skin. The Core hovered above the platform, its surface smooth and flawless, ringed with shimmering energy that twisted like liquid gold, reaching toward the unseen ceiling. He paused, heart thudding, a chill racing down his spine. What if it fried him, drained his energy, or trapped him forever? But staying here, staring at a glowing ball, wasn’t an option either. He exhaled, steadying himself, and reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the Core’s surface.
The moment he touched it, a sharp ping echoed in his mind—*Identification* flaring, crisp and clear: Dungeon Core—Ancient energy nexus, primary source of dungeon stability, hidden designation: Seed of Origin. His breath caught, eyes widening, the name hitting him like a shockwave. Seed of Origin? That whisper from his status, that mysterious connection—it clicked, deep and unsettling, but before he could process it, a flood of information crashed into his brain, overwhelming, unstoppable, like data downloading at warp speed.
Knowledge poured in—monsters, goblins, Hobgoblins, their forms, tactics, weaknesses, etched into his mind with perfect clarity. The caves, their twisting tunnels, the purple mist, the rune-carved walls, every detail of this dungeon’s layout and environment, cataloged in an instant. He saw the energy flows, the recycled motes of light and ash from fallen foes, the dungeon’s purpose as a self-sustaining system, feeding off its challengers, recycling their energy. His head spun, vision blurring, knees buckling as the weight of it pressed against his skull, a dizzying torrent of facts and images he couldn’t control. “What the—?” he gasped, voice strained, clutching the Core, its golden light intensifying, searing into his palms, warm but not painful, just… endless.
Another ping cut through the chaos—his status, sharp and urgent: New Skill Acquired: Origin Language – Runescript of the Origin. Description: A primordial language woven into the fabric of the universe, used to channel and control the energy of creation. Limited understanding detected. Further knowledge required to interpret. The knowledge unfolded in his mind, not as words but as a sprawling compendium—an infinite book of runes, their shapes, meanings, and connections, tied to this dungeon’s glyphs and enchantments. Runes were the alphabet, he realized, single letters of an ancient script, while glyphs were sentences, complex structures linking runes into meaning. But this was just the start—only the runes from this dungeon, a fraction of the knowledge, needing more sources to grow, to unlock the full scope of *Origin Language*.
Avan’s vision swam, his legs giving out, and he slumped to the platform, fingers slipping from the Core, its golden light dimming. The room tilted, the runes on the walls flickering, their golden glow pulsing faster, as if reacting to his collapse. His head throbbed, a relentless ache, but the knowledge settled, a quiet weight in his mind, a library he couldn’t yet read but knew was there. He tried to stand, but his body betrayed him, strings cut, and he fell, crashing to the stone, unconsciousness claiming him in a heartbeat. The last thing he heard was the system’s voice, calm and mechanical, echoing for the first time since that weird announcement outside the dungeon: “Dungeon Core Absorbed: Knowledge of Origin Runescript (Partial) and Summoning Control (Partial) Gained.” Then, darkness.
While Avan lay unconscious, his body still, the dungeon’s hum softened, the golden runes glowing steadily, as if approving. A quiet ping rippled through his mind, unnoticed in his sleep—his status shifting, evolving, as the energy from the Core and his trials propelled him forward. When he awoke, he’d be stronger, faster, sharper, but for now, his dreams took hold, pulling him into a vast, unimaginable expanse.
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In his dream, Avan stood—or felt like he stood, though there was no ground, no form, only an endless void that stretched beyond comprehension. Before him, or around him, or through him, loomed a being so vast it spanned multiple galaxies, its presence a paradox of purity and chaos, ancient beyond time, the origin of all existence. No description could capture it fully—no shape, no color, no boundary defined its essence, yet he sensed it, felt it, a weight that crushed and uplifted simultaneously. It shimmered like shattered stars, a kaleidoscope of light and shadow that flickered in and out of reality, never solid, always shifting. Its voice, if it had one, was a symphony of silence and thunder, a hum that vibrated through his soul, whispering truths he couldn’t grasp—creation, destruction, life, void, all at once. Tendrils of energy, golden and black, violet and silver, wove through the cosmos, threading galaxies together, unraveling them, a dance of infinite power that defied logic. It was the source of all *Origin Energy*, the heartbeat of the universe, formless yet omnipresent, a god of creation without form, its chaos more profound than any order, its purity more blinding than any light. Avan’s mind reeled, overwhelmed, as the being pulsed, a presence too vast to comprehend, leaving him adrift in its incomprehensible majesty—(end of chapter).