The City Office Building loomed before her, its stone façade a stark reminder of her new reality. The imposing structure felt foreign, filled with the whispers of hope and despair she had yet to fully understand. She stood in front of its entrance, surrounded by well-tended gardens, where citizens often gathered to discuss matters of community interest. Statues of past leaders and heroes dotted the landscape, reminding visitors of the city’s rich legacy. Celestia’s heart was pounding in her chest, a mixture of anxiety and determination swirling within her. Over the past year, she had spent countless nights grappling with memories that slipped through her fingers like sand. The 10th Level haunted her thoughts, a shadowy realm that threatened to swallow her whole. Each attempt to recall the events of that fateful day triggered a burning ache in her temples, a reminder that some things were meant to be forgotten.
As she took a deep breath, the chill of the late morning air bit at her skin, awakening the remnants of numbness that had settled over her for too long. The City Office Building loomed like a guardian of secrets, its tall spires stretching toward a blue sky as if shielding the stories of those who had come and gone. With each step toward the heavy wooden double door, she felt the weight of her past pressing down on her, reminding her of all she had lost.
The whispers of the city surrounded her, snippets of laughter and conversations intertwining with the rustling of leaves, but they felt distant—echoes of a life she could barely remember. It was as if she was moving through a dream, and the world outside her mind remained just out of reach.
In the quiet moments, when the world was still, she could almost feel the pull of the darkness, urging her to return to its depths. It was a siren’s call that promised solace in oblivion, a temptation she fought against with every ounce of willpower she had left. She had resolved to seek answers, to find a way to lift the curse that tethered her spirit to a past she longed to escape.
With a shaky exhale, she smoothed out her blouse and the skirt. These were her best clothes, otherwise she only had her clothes for work and the dungeon in the city. Celestia pushed one side of the grand double doors, made of dark, heavy wood, framed by elegant bronze fittings open and stepped inside. The air was thick with anticipation, mingled with the scent of aged paper and ink. A vast atrium opens up, filled with the warm glow of chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. The air is perfumed with a hint of polished wood and parchment. The walls are lined with murals that celebrate the city’s achievements, while large windows allow natural light to pour in. One large front desk greeted her. On the left and right side of the desk were curved staircases that met onto the first floor. She felt like a ghost among the living, invisible and unworthy.
“Can I help you?” a voice broke through her reverie, pulling her back to the moment. A stern-faced blond assistant, barely looking up from the papers strewn before her, regarded Celestia with a mixture of curiosity, disdain, and disapproval.
Gathering her courage, Celestia squared her shoulders, trying to shake off the remnants of doubt that clung to her. “I’m here to speak with a... Mr. Nightglen, at two o’clock” she managed to say, her voice trembling but determined.
The assistant raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched across her features. “And what business do you have with him?” Giving her the same disgusted look as the last few times she came.
Celestia’s heart raced, a blend of fear and determination surging within her. She knew she had to prove her worth, to demonstrate that she was more than just a shadow of her former self. “I need to discuss an important matter... about the dungeon.”
At the mention of the dungeon, the assistant’s expression shifted, and Celestia felt the weight of judgment bearing down on her. She could sense the assistant’s skepticism, the unspoken assumptions that accompanied her presence. Like the last two weeks, when she tried to get an appointment from this very woman in front of her. But she refused to be deterred; she had come too far to turn back now.
The assistant—Zara, though Celestia didn’t know her name—looked her up and down with a cold, assessing stare before glancing away, as if the interaction were already over. “Lord Nightglen is currently busy,” she stated, without even pretending to check a schedule.
Celestia hesitated, confusion flickering in her expression. What did she say? It wasn’t Mr. Nightglen? Why was this woman saying ‘Lord Nightglen,’ as in the young lord of this realm? Celestia wanted to correct her but felt her courage falter under Zara’s disdainful glare.
“Stand over there,” Zara continued, gesturing vaguely toward a corner near the doorway, her tone dismissive. “I will... call for you.”
The dismissal hit harder than it should have, and Celestia felt the weight of Zara’s disapproving gaze as if it lingered long after the words had been spoken. She shifted her bag on her shoulder, standing where she was told, though her mind churned with a mix of embarrassment and determination.
She caught her reflection in one of the polished glass panels near the wall. At thirty-three, she carried the years with grace, though her reflection sometimes felt like a stranger. Her build was curvaceous, the kind some would call full-bodied or stout, with a quiet strength that belied the struggles she had endured. Her skin was pale, not the beautiful rose beige she normally had. Her long burgundy hair was tied loosely today, falling in a low ponytail that trailed down her back like a cascade of autumn leaves, gleaming faintly in the atrium’s soft light.
Her violet eyes, usually a source of quiet strength, shimmered now with a mixture of unease and resolve, their depth betraying the emotions she fought to keep hidden. They were windows to the resilience she carried, the battles she had waged, and the scars she bore—both visible and hidden.
Her attire, chosen with care for this occasion, balanced elegance and practicality. She wore a flowing black wool skirt that brushed the tops of her sturdy boots, its hem adorned with a delicate black satin floral embroidery that shimmered subtly when it caught the light. Which moved slightly upwards from the hem of the skirt. Her slate-grey blouse, loose but flattering, featured bishop sleeves that ended in dark turquoise cuffs, the buttons and intricate stitching lending a sophisticated touch.
A worn brown leather shoulder bag rested against her side, the strap cutting diagonally across her torso. It was a practical addition, bearing the marks of years of use, yet its sturdy design complemented her ensemble in a way that made it feel like an extension of herself—reliable, unyielding, enduring.
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The outfit was a testament to who she was: someone who navigated the line between necessity and beauty, who didn’t shy away from her reality but found ways to express herself within it. Yet, standing in the grand atrium under Zara’s dismissive gaze, Celestia felt the quiet doubt creeping back in, whispering that no matter how much care she put into her appearance, she would always be judged for the things she couldn’t change.
Still, she squared her shoulders, forcing her trembling hands to still. There were more important things at stake here than a stranger’s judgment. She was here for a reason—a purpose she couldn’t allow herself to lose sight of, even as the world seemed intent on making her feel small.
Celestia took her place by the wall, her heart pounding beneath her ribs. She clenched her fists, feeling the biting chill of the stone wall at her back, an unwelcome reminder of the indifferent world she now navigated. She hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but the assistants dismissive tone still struck a raw nerve, making the air around her feel colder, and heavier.
Minutes passed with deliberate slowness, the tick of a nearby clock drilling into her mind, each beat like an accusation. Zara continued her work, pointedly ignoring her as if hoping she’d simply fade into the background. Celestia glanced around the atrium, catching snippets of hurried conversations and observing the purposeful movements of clerks who barely acknowledged her presence. She was quiet early for her appointment, but at home, she was so restless. Anxiety twisted in her gut; if Zara succeeded in making her late, there was no telling if she’d get another chance to speak with Mr. Nightglen. But what could she do? She had never been in the City office before. And Even with the small note, a kind older gentleman gave her, she didn’t know where to go.
With her heart racing, Celestia’s mind began to slip into the past, a memory of her initial attempts to piece her life back together. Each fragment of her journey was marked by anguish and resilience, forging the path that had led her to this very moment. The memories of the last year slowly trickled into her mind, washing over her like waves as she remembered. Her mind slipped, unbidden, to...
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It was only days after emerging from the dungeon’s depths, her body still bearing the bruises and scars of her ordeal. Unable to heal herself as usual. Every morning brought new agony, the curse’s effects coursing through her like poison, leaving her bones aching, and her muscles weak. Her skin felt scorched, a constant simmering burn that never faded, a reminder of the curse that shadowed her every step.
And then there was the exhaustion, a deep weariness that robbed her of the simplest joys. Each day felt like a struggle just to exist, to walk among people who couldn’t see the invisible chains binding her. She began visiting the potion shop regularly, where the healer would look at her with a mixture of pity and helplessness, brewing concoctions that dulled the pain but could do nothing for the curse’s true toll. Offering Celestia to help out in exchange for the potions, was the only thing the healer could do to.
Still, Celestia found herself drawn to the dungeon’s outskirts as if it held answers she couldn’t yet grasp. She’d taken to helping beginner adventurers, offering guidance on basic potions, safe routes, which monsters to avoid, and even small spells that could help them defend themselves. She knew it was risky, that this predicament might lash out with a vengeance, but something in her couldn’t resist. She couldn’t let the darkness claim her completely.
She visited the local guild often, after her working hours for the guild, hoping to glean scraps of information that might lead her to some bits of information. Yet even there, she felt the weight of suspicion. Whispers followed her, fragments of conversations that stopped abruptly when she entered the room. The party, her so called friends, she went with to the 10th Level ignored her completely. It was as if people sensed the darkness within her, the scars of the 10th Level etched in her soul, and wanted no part of it.
And then, there was Ryker—her boyfriend, or rather, ex-boyfriend. When she first woke in the dungeon, battered and confused, her mind had fixated on him. Dragging her wounded, aching body from the 10th Level back to the ‘Safe Zone’ on the 5th Level. Unable to tell how she did it. She’d asked anyone who would listen if they’d seen him, desperate to know he was safe. Yet, each answer was the same—no one had seen him.
Refusing medical treatment, she’d tried to press on, her only thought was to find him. But before she could get far, a healer from the Safe Zone forced her into a tent, insisting on tending her injuries. Darkness had closed over her before she could protest, her body finally surrendering to exhaustion.
When she woke again, it was days later, in one of the Dungeons Hospitals on the surface. Groggy and disoriented, she learned it had been several days since her escape from the 10th Level. She’d gone straight home, hoping to talk to her best friend, Ellynn, about everything that had happened, only to be greeted with an envelope in her friend’s hand—Ryker’s handwriting scrawled across the front.
The letter had stunned her. The message was brief, cold, and completely out of character. Just a single line:
I’ve had enough of you.
She’d read it over and over, the words like knives slicing into her. She’d reached out to him, tried to contact him, desperate for an explanation, but he was nowhere to be found. He’d vanished from his usual haunts, and even his friends couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell her where he was.
After a month of silence, she’d been forced to accept the truth. He had abandoned her, cast her aside without a second thought. But by then, she’d already become ensnared by the curse’s cruel aftermath, her world narrowing to the burning pain, the fatigue, and the relentless headaches whenever she tried to remember what had happened on the 10th Level.
In the quieter hours, she would scour ancient texts and faded scrolls, searching for any mention of her affliction. Her hands would tremble as she turned each page, straining to read despite the throbbing in her temples that intensified with every line. It was a solitary, grueling journey, but each discovery, however small, felt like a victory—a spark of light in the vast darkness.
But the memories that haunted her most were of the curse itself: the endless, gnawing headache that flared up whenever she tried to recall what happened on the 10th Level. It was as if the curse sensed her probing, recoiling violently whenever she dared approach the truth. The pain would surge, sharp and blinding, forcing her to abandon the search again and again. No matter how strong her resolve, the curse fought back, an unyielding barrier she couldn’t yet shatter.
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But that was behind her now; she had a purpose here and now, standing in the City Office Building, she felt the weight of those memories press down on her, seeping into her bones. Zara’s disapproving gaze, the ticking clock, the sterile, judgmental air of the office—they were all reminders of how the world saw her: a fallen woman bearing a curse, desperate and out of place.
Grounding herself in the present, she drew a slow, steady breath. This meeting would happen. She’d fought too long, sacrificed too much, to let it slip through her fingers now.