Once a character got their first skill—however they acquired it—they were more or less “compelled” to enter the dungeon.

For street rats, this was due to the slave contracts. Middle-class folks didn’t have it much better, though their contracts weren’t quite as harsh. Nobles, on the other hand, had different motives, usually personal, making their reasons a bit unpredictable.

But no matter where they came from, all adventurers who wanted to enter the dungeon had to pass through Arn.

Arn wasn’t just any city; it was the hub of this world, the beating heart of trade, preparation, and dungeon access. The ruling powers—the “government”—built Arn up around the dungeon entrance, and with that came all the shops, guilds, and people anyone could imagine. Arn became the nerve center of everything dungeon-related.

Unlike typical cities, Arn’s residents weren’t the average citizenry. Only adventurers, whether street rats, middle-class, or nobles, could live within its walls, obligated to enter the dungeon every time it opened. The city’s population was almost like a defensive measure; if something ever managed to escape from the dungeon, Arn’s adventurers would be the first line of defense.

With the acquisition ceremony behind me, I’d tried to get some sleep, but the nerves kept me up. My so-called home was a shack in the slums, close to Arn’s gates but not part of it. These slums were for those just trying to survive—too poor or unskilled to enter the dungeon. Not much comfort here, but at least I’d saved up a few credits. Nothing spectacular, but enough to grab some food.

I made my way to a vendor to buy some dried rations. Without armor, a weapon, or any money to buy either, food was my best bet for survival. If I missed the dungeon opening, I’d miss out on any chance to earn credits, which would mean a late payment to the government—a one-way ticket to trouble.

When I finally arrived at Arn’s massive gates, the contrast between the city’s polished exterior and the ramshackle slums was almost surreal. There was a certain order, a rigidness about Arn that felt nothing like the slums.

Most people needed a permit to enter, something you had to buy from the government, and if you didn’t have one, you needed a good reason. Luckily, my slave contract served as a pass today, since dungeon contracts got special treatment on opening day. Once inside, though, I’d need to leave as soon as I exited the dungeon unless I managed to secure a proper permit later.

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As I passed through the gates, I felt like I’d crossed into another world. The city was alive with the chatter of merchants, the clinking of coins, and the unmistakable sounds of adventurers haggling over gear. The streets were paved, smooth stone beneath my feet, and lined with buildings that seemed to scrape the sky compared to the shacks I’d left behind. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meats, spiced stews, and fresh-baked bread from street vendors—food I could hardly afford.

Ahead, a grand square teemed with adventurers of every class, rank and species, all clustered in armor, weapons at the ready, as if they were waiting for some signal to charge. At the center, a large open space lay conspicuously empty, and flanking it were statues—each meticulously placed and crafted.

These statues represented the greatest adventurers in the game, or rather, in this world.

I approached them, taking in the sight of these stone legends. Each was a monument to someone who had left their mark, who had ventured further into the dungeon than most dared to go. These were the legends who had conquered floor after floor, facing what lay in those depths with relentless courage.

But none of them, as far as I remembered, had reached the 100th floor like my Bloodzerker character. Or so I thought—I had blacked out right when it happened, so it was possible he’d only reached the 99th.

But in my gut, I felt that my character had achieved something real, something that these statues, no matter how celebrated, might not have reached.

Then, something caught my eye.

One statue in particular—it looked familiar.

As I got closer, something about it nagged at me. The shape, the pose, the armor… The closer I moved, the stronger the feeling grew, until I had no choice but to walk right up to it. This statue wasn’t just familiar—it was like looking at a reflection of my beloved character.

Heart pounding, I read the inscription:

[The Great Noble, Valerian Steelheart]

[Renowned as the supreme adventurer, Valerian Steelheart stands unmatched. A noble beyond compare and the proud scion of the Steelheart Family. Master of the Blood Mage Class. Conqueror of the 99th floor. The sole witness to the mysteries of the 100th floor.]

A chill ran down my spine.

“Valerian Steelheart… It’s really him…”

It wasn’t just a name. Valerian Steelheart was my character. The one I’d poured hours into, the one I’d built from scratch. Every milestone, every hard-fought battle, each etched achievement—the statue’s inscription described all of it.

“This… this is my Bloodzerker!”

The sculptor had captured everything: the fierce, unyielding expression, the blazing eyes, the long mane of hair that fell in waves like a lion’s mane. He stood gripping a massive greatsword, its blade etched with perfection. It was like staring into a memory made of stone, a piece of my past brought to life.