Max POV
As Alise and Ryuu left, I stood alone on the cobblestone street, watching the rooftops where Alise's red hair had vanished like a candle flame snuffed out. The silence that followed felt heavy, filled with the secrets of a future only I knew.
The knowledge settled on me like a stone dropped into deep water—sinking, rippling, inevitable.
Astrea Familia would be massacred in approximately two years.
My inner weeb flinched instinctively. The lore dumped into my brain like a wiki page opening in a panic: Floor 27. The Juggernaut. The Trap. Ryuu becomes the sole survivor. The trauma that births the Gale Wind.
Immediate, frantic questions bubbled up, the kind birthed from forums and theory-crafting threads. If I save them, do I break the story? Does Ryuu never become the waitress at the Hostess of Fertility? Does Bell never get his mentor? Does the timeline collapse because I removed the tragedy that builds the heroes?
For a split second, I paralyzed myself with the classic time-traveler's dilemma. Am I ruining the plot?
Then, the magic thrumming beneath my skin pulsed—hot, heavy, and intoxicating.
The sensation cut through those frantic questions like a hot knife through butter. The university student who used to avoid drama? The guy buried under layers of ironic detachment, meme culture, and passive observation? That mindset went straight in the trash. The power at my fingertips wasn't just a stat sheet or a cool aesthetic—it was real. It was mine. And it demanded action, not observation.
The plot? I scoffed, the sound sharp. I fell out of the sky and punched a hole in an Elven lake. I nuked a monster stampede with a Bleach spell. The plot's already dead.
The "Butterfly Effect" was a terrifying concept from my world for those who feared the storm. But I wasn't a leaf blowing in the wind anymore. I was the hurricane.
The hesitation vanished, replaced by calm, arrogant clarity. Why was I worrying about preserving a timeline I wasn't part of? I wasn't a spectator watching a screen anymore. I was a player on the board.
Letting Alise Lovell—a kind person—die just to preserve the "tragic backstory" of a boy who wouldn't even arrive in this city for seven years? That wasn't honoring the canon. That was cowardice. That was admitting I was too weak to write a better story than the original author.
Two years. Plenty of time to get stronger.
A dark grin tugged at the corner of my mouth as a familiar line echoed in my head, finally making perfect sense in this twisted reality.
"I don't care if I'm a villain," I muttered, quoting Eren Yeager with conviction I'd never felt back on Earth. "I'll do whatever it takes."
If fate wanted Astrea Familia dead, fate was going to have to go through me first.
I straightened my posture, the weight of foreknowledge transforming from burden into weapon. I didn't need to worry about what might happen. I just needed to be strong enough to dictate what would happen.
Improve the odds. Dominate the board. Rewrite the script.
That was the only strategy that mattered.
I took a breath, the cool night air filling my lungs as I glanced around to get my bearings. The cobblestones beneath my feet were uneven, worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic. Distant laughter drifted from a tavern somewhere to my left—
My gut clenched. Not emotionally. Physically. Like someone reached inside and twisted my intestines into knots.
DANGER.
The instinct hit like a freight train—sudden, visceral, completely bypassing rational thought. Every nerve ending screamed: MOVE. GO. HIDE. NOW.
My skin prickled with phantom awareness. The back of my neck burned with that unmistakable sensation of being watched by something vast and utterly inhuman. Prey instinct, millions of years old, recognizing a predator circling just beyond the magical lamp's reach.
Kairu vibrated against my chest—a sharp, frightened pulse that confirmed what my body already knew. Something was hunting me.
But where could I hide?
An inn? A kill box. Single exit, thin walls, no witnesses. If I signed my name at the desk and this predator had any intelligence, that's the first place they'd check. Trapped, isolated, defensible for maybe thirty seconds before whatever was hunting me kicked down the door.
The streets meant wandering aimlessly while being stalked. In the open, exposed, with no backup. If I got attacked, would Orario's city guards even respond in time? And if they did, would they believe the paranoid foreigner with zero credibility?
The Guild? My mind latched onto it—public building, officials, witnesses. But what were the chances someone would actually help me? A complete nobody, fresh off the road, babbling about "feeling watched" with zero proof? Slim to none.
Adventurers didn't risk their necks for strangers out of kindness. This was Orario—everyone had their own problems, their own survival to worry about. Without money, connections, or credibility, I was just another paranoid newbie wasting their time.
What about a god? Thinking from their perspective, I had nothing to offer—no skills, no reputation, no leverage. And even if one listened, I'd be binding myself to a Familia out of desperation while being hunted. That was how people ended up in exploitative agreements they couldn't escape.
Thinking of Gods, what about Ganesha Familia? Astrea Familia? My thoughts jumped to Alise and Ryuu—they seemed kind, genuinely helpful. They were on patrol right now.
But I had no idea what route they took, which districts they covered, how long their patrol lasted. Orario was MASSIVE. I could wander for hours and never cross their path, and wandering meant staying exposed with the pressure building.
Their Familia bases? I had absolutely no idea where those were.
What about leaving the city entirely?
My head snapped around, eyes searching for the guard tower where I'd entered. There—the East Gate, still lit by torches, guards processing the evening's stragglers.
I could leave. Just turn around, walk back through—
As I took my first step in that direction, something whistled past my ear.
THUNK.
A small rock clattered against the cobblestones.
I spun, heart hammering, hand instinctively reaching for Kairu who was hidden. A large guard stood at the checkpoint, arm still extended from the throw. He was pointing emphatically toward the city's interior, and seeing my confusion, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled:
"THIS GATE IS ONLY TO ENTER! YOU CAN ONLY EXIT FROM WEST AND SOUTH GATES!"
My stomach dropped.
I turned slowly, looking across the massive expanse of Orario toward where the other gates would be. The opposite side of the city. Miles away through unfamiliar streets, past countless alleys and corners where something could be waiting.
Even leaving the city wasn't an option. Not quickly. Not safely.
Unless...
I teleported back to Agris.
My teleportation circle on the wall. One pulse of mana and I'd be gone, back to the small town where the biggest threat was boredom and bad ale.
Safe.
My Devil pride flared hot and acidic in my chest.
Runaway? Didn't you just claim to rewrite the script?
I came to Orario to grow stronger, to have my own isekai adventure, to prove I could survive in a world where power mattered. And at the first sign of real danger, I was already considering running back to a backwater village like a scared child?
Let's face this threat head-on. Use teleportation as a last resort.
My hands clenched. The anxiety was real. The danger was real. But if I used my escape hatch every time I felt scared, what was the point? I'd never get stronger, never improve, never become anything more than a coward with a convenient exit strategy.
You can't use teleportation as a crutch every time you feel threatened.
My hands stopped shaking. Not because the fear disappeared, but because something harder settled underneath it—stubborn, prideful refusal to run at the first test.
My eyes moved toward Babel.
The massive white tower dominated the skyline, glowing faintly in the darkness. The entrance to the Dungeon. The place every adventurer in this city risked their life daily, where power was earned through violence and survival.
The idea crystallized with sudden, desperate clarity.
What if I went INTO the Dungeon?
Not deep. Just the beginning floors where the threats were minimal and predictable. Goblins and Kobolds—I could handle those. My Devil durability and Power of Destruction should be more than enough for the weakest monsters in the labyrinth.
The logic clicked into place, cold and methodical.
First, the Dungeon was monitored. Guards kept watch at the entrance to ensure no monsters escaped, which might deter whatever was watching me. More importantly, it was a legal violence zone—the only place in Orario where I could fight back with lethal force and face zero consequences.
The threats were predictable, too. Monsters operated on instinct—hunt, kill, eat. No schemes, no politics, no 4D chess games I didn't understand. I could see a Goblin coming. Whatever watched me from the shadows was intelligent and patient, infinitely more dangerous than a monster with a rusty knife.
It was also a way to gather information. If the predator followed me in, I'd know it could enter the Dungeon and was willing to break cover. If it didn't follow, I'd know it either couldn't or wouldn't risk exposure. Either way, paranoid speculation became actionable intelligence.
And finally, my biology gave me an edge. Devil durability, Power of Destruction, enhanced physical stats—I was built for combat. Against monsters, I had advantages. Against whatever shadow-game was playing out on Orario's streets? I was completely outmatched.
I mentally weighed my options, going to the dungeon gave me more advantages than wandering or leaving the city.
It didn't take long to reach Babel. I barely registered my surroundings—not the Guild building I passed, not the few late-night stragglers hurrying home with weapons prominently displayed, none of it. My feet carried me forward on autopilot while my mind tried desperately to organize panic into something resembling strategy.
The entrance to Babel loomed ahead, its massive archway lit by glowing crystals that cast everything in cold blue light. The checkpoint looked understaffed—only two guards instead of the usual complement, deep in conversation over something one of them was reading. Another side effect of the Evils crisis stretching resources thin, I assumed.
I slipped past without drawing attention, my aura suppression making me forgettable. Just another exhausted adventurer heading for the dungeon at an odd hour. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth investigating.
Though the ease of it made me pause mid-step.
If they didn't even notice me, I thought, glancing back at the guards still absorbed in their conversation, how the hell would they stop whatever's hunting me?
The answer was immediate and uncomfortable: They wouldn't. Whatever was stalking me had remained undetected this entire time, patient and intelligent enough to avoid drawing attention. Two distracted guards at a dungeon entrance wouldn't even register as an obstacle.
So much for the "monitored environment" protection I'd been banking on.
I shook my head, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. Violence it is, then. Just me, Kairu, and whatever monsters the dungeon throws at us. No backup. No safety net except my own power.
The thought should have terrified me more. Instead, the familiar pride flared in my chest as I walked in.
The corridor leading deeper stretched before me, dimly lit and quiet except for the sound of my own breathing echoing off stone walls. The oppressive sensation of being watched hadn't faded, making my heart jump a beat, doubt creeping back in with each step.
Am I really doing this? Walking into the dungeon alone, unblessed, being hunted by something I can't even identify?
The spiral was starting again—that crushing weight of fear and second-guessing threatening to drag me back down.
Then, unbidden, a memory surfaced: River Village.
The smiles. Stella pressing food into my hands with maternal insistence, her eyes crinkling with motherly affection. Stan's proud salute, treating me like a hero despite knowing I'd just done what anyone with my power should do. Children waving with both hands, laughing and calling out thanks without a trace of fear.
I helped them, I thought, and the memory acted like an anchor thrown into churning water. I actually made a difference there. A real, tangible difference.
More memories followed—meeting Kairu, that first moment when the little slime joined me. Experiments with magic and demonic power, learning to control the Power of Destruction without vaporizing everything nearby. Flying properly instead of flailing through the air. Suppressing my aura. Testing transformations. Pushing my limits and discovering I had far more capability than I'd feared.
Real progress. Measurable achievement. In just four days.
The memories stabilized me, pulling me incrementally back toward that confident version of myself—the one who'd scoffed at the plot and declared himself the hurricane rather than the leaf.
I'm not some helpless isekai protagonist stumbling through disasters, I reminded myself, feeling my stride strengthen. I have power. Real, tangible, reality-breaking power. And I've already proven I can use it.
A self-deprecating smile tugged at my lips. I wasn't a hero, no matter how much River Village wanted to argue otherwise. But as a weeb with meta-knowledge actively participating in this world? I could be a strong background character. Someone like Cid from Eminence in Shadow, working from the shadows to achieve specific goals. Or a humble ruler like Rimuru, building power through strategic alliances.
The thought came unbidden then, ridiculous and audacious in equal measure: What would I rule, though?
And the answer was even more audacious.
Maybe the dungeon itself.
The sheer absurdity of it—a devil nobody, fresh off the isekai boat, declaring I'd conquer the literal labyrinth that had killed millions over a thousand years—broke through the last remnants of fear. A laugh escaped me, quiet at first, then building until I was grinning like an idiot in the empty corridor.
Goal worth pursuing, I decided with dark amusement.
With that thought, confidence fully returned. My mind began firing on all cylinders again, organizing priorities with ruthless efficiency:
That's when it struck me, this was my first dungeon run. While monsters on upper floors wouldn't pose much threat based on my current strength, I still needed caution. Rogue adventurers were a real danger, especially during crisis periods where morality took a backseat to survival. And whatever was hunting me might follow, all the better.
More importantly, I refused to let my first isekai dungeon dive happen while stuck in a terror-induced panic. I was going to commit fully to this experience, give it my all. Even if circumstances forced me to retreat after killing a single goblin—there was no shame in staying alive one more day.
And as a devil, I couldn't let these monsters or the dungeon itself see weakness. My pride demanded that much at minimum. First impressions mattered, even with ancient magical labyrinths that might or might not be sentient.
I reached the corridor's end and stepped into the entrance hall proper.
The circular room stole my breath despite my emotional recovery. Massive columns rose at equal intervals around the perimeter, and above—impossibly, beautifully—stretched a painted ceiling that perfectly mimicked the sky. Azure and gold, clouds drifting in eternal suspension, so realistic I had to actively remind myself it was just masterful artistry.
And in the center of it all: the entrance.
Ten meters wide, spiraling stairs carved into its sides, descending into darkness that seemed to pulse with something alive and hungry and infinitely patient.
The Dungeon.
Here we go, I thought, feeling Kairu stir with a mixture of excitement and trepidation against my chest. Time to see what I'm really made of.
The spiral stairs curved along the wall, each step worn smooth by countless boots over centuries. The descent felt longer than it should—maybe thirty feet down into darkness that deepened with each turn, swallowing the false sky ceiling above until only stone and shadow remained.
If veterans saw me now, they'd be disappointed. No armor. No visible weapons. Just what appeared to be a simple travel bag and my isekai clothes that hid my slime companion. Their eyes would say it all: Another rookie about to become dungeon food.
But the stairs were empty at this late hour. No one to judge. No one to offer warnings I wouldn't heed anyway. Just me, my thoughts, my familiar, and the growing darkness that felt almost welcoming after the oppressiveness of the city streets.
As I reached the actual threshold—where stairs ended and dungeon began—Kairu shifted uncertainly beneath my shirt, pressed against my chest. I felt him slide up, flowing over my shoulder to perch there, his gelatinous form adjusting to the new position. Through our contact, I sensed his question: Should I form weapons now?
"Yeah, buddy. Let's try those swords again."
Kairu rippled hesitantly on my shoulder, his mass flowing down my arms like liquid. Twin crude weapons began forming in my hands—barely resembling the water-sculpted sword shape I'd shown him during training. The process was slower than expected, the results imperfect. The left "sword" felt noticeably lighter than the right, balance completely off. The edges looked vaguely sharp, but the entire structure had that translucent, not-quite-solid appearance—like Kairu was still figuring out how to maintain rigid form instead of just being a blob holding a sword shape.
He's still learning, I know, testing the weight with experimental swings. The weapons wobbled slightly with each movement. We just formed this contract hours ago. He's literally trying to recreate a weapon he saw me make with water for maybe five minutes. Of course it's not perfect.
But they were functional. Sort of. They had weight, something resembling edges, and responded to my grip. That was enough to start with.
My first impression of the entrance was underwhelming in the best way. Dark and damp, as if the concept of sunlight had never been explained to it and the dungeon was cosplaying as an edgelord's fever dream. Water dripped rhythmically from somewhere overhead. The walls were rough-hewn stone that looked more organic than constructed—less like a corridor carved by tools and more like the inside of something's throat.
But my devil eyes cut through the darkness easily, rendering everything in perfect clarity. I could see the corridor stretching ahead, branching at irregular intervals, and the faint glow of bioluminescent moss clinging to corners like captured starlight.
I took my first step over the threshold.
The moment my boot touched dungeon floor, something shifted.
Not painful—more like being noticed. Like walking into a room and realizing everyone had gone quiet and turned to look at me. The air itself felt heavier, charged, as if the stone walls around me were inhaling and deciding whether to breathe me out or swallow me whole.
I felt Kairu tense on my shoulder. The slime sensed it too—that massive, ancient awareness turning its attention toward us like a searchlight sweeping across dark water.
Then, as quickly as it came, the pressure receded to background levels. Still there, still watching, but no longer pressing. Like it had taken my measure and decided to... wait.
What the hell? I thought, but I already knew. The Dungeon was aware of me. An unblessed adventurer, a devil from another world, something that didn't fit its usual patterns. And it was curious.
"Guess we made an impression," I muttered, forcing myself to step forward. My wings twitched beneath my skin, wanting to emerge, but I shoved them down through sheer will. Not yet. Not unless absolutely necessary.
"Ready, Kairu?"
A determined chirp answered me—ki, ki!—and I felt the slime's resolve through our bond. Whatever came next, we'd face it together.
I stepped forward into the dungeon proper, more confidently this time—
CRACK-POP!
The sound was like a balloon and glass shattering simultaneously, echoing through the corridor like a gunshot. My muscles tensed reflexively, Kairu's blades coming up into guard position before my conscious mind caught up.
The walls in front of me cracked— literally split apart as dozens of monsters spawned from the stone itself. Their bodies were literally birthed from the dungeon in a process that looked deeply, fundamentally wrong on a biological level. Green-skinned goblins with yellow eyes. Red-skinned kobolds with jagged teeth. Crude weapons clutched in clawed hands. All of them locked onto me with mindless hostility.
"Alright," I said, feeling a grin spread across my face as adrenaline surged through my system. "This is what I'm looking for. Let's get started."
I dismissed the Kairu's blades with a thought—no need to tax Kairu when he was still learning the forms. My hands blazed with Power of Destruction instead, crimson-black energy crackling between my fingers. Easier to control, less drain on my familiar.
I fired concentrated shots of annihilation magic, each one no bigger than a marble but containing enough destructive force to erase a goblin's head entirely.
Pop. Pop. Pop-pop-pop.
Headshots. Every single one. The monsters dropped like puppets with cut strings, their bodies dissipating into ash that left only magic stones behind.
"SSSSWWWEEEETTTTTT!" I drew out the final T in exaggerated satisfaction, feeling the rush of actual combat settle into my bones like coming home.
Kairu immediately flowed down from my shoulder, sliding across the floor and scooping up the magic stones—not storing them this time, but actively consuming them. I observed how the magic helped, slowly rebuilding the mass. After collecting them, he flowed back up to my shoulder, settling there with renewed energy.
The monsters here were definitely tougher than surface creatures—more agility, denser muscle structure, stronger magical signatures judging by their stones' appearance. But that was fine. I had literal reality-breaking hax abilities.
On cue, more monsters emerged. Double the previous number—maybe thirty total. A mix of goblins and kobolds, with a few that looked slightly larger and better equipped.
I fired conservatively, small bursts with precise targeting. No need to waste magic or risk uncontrolled flares. The combat fell into a rhythm: identify, aim, erase, repeat. Mechanical. Efficient. Almost meditative in its simplicity.
After the third wave, Kairu pulsed with readiness through our bond. He'd consumed enough stones to restore some mass and wanted to try weapon forms again.
"Swords, buddy? Take your time. No rush."
Kairu flowed down my arms more confidently this time. Twin swords materialized—noticeably better than before. The edges were sharper, the structure more solid, the balance improved. Not perfect—the right blade still lighter than the left, and the translucency was still there—but definitely improved. The shape actually resembled proper swords now instead of vaguely sword-like appendages.
He's learning from each attempt, I realized with satisfaction. Getting better with practice and stone consumption. Every time he forms them, he's refining the process.
I launched forward, testing the blades against the fourth wave.
Cutting through the monsters felt good. Visceral. Real. Each slash, each parry, each kill provided immediate feedback that my body was doing something right. But I noticed the resistance—the swords weren't quite as sharp as real steel, requiring slightly more force to cut through flesh and bone. And occasionally, when I hit bone dead-on, I felt sword's structure strain, the blades losing edge momentarily before the slime adapted and re-hardened.
Not perfect, I thought, carving through another goblin with a diagonal slash that took it from shoulder to hip. But we're getting there. Every fight, every stone consumed, he's learning. The weapons will improve.
As I cut down the final kobold with a horizontal slash that took its head clean off, Kairu flowed back to the floor, gathering stones—this time both storing and selectively consuming them for continued recovery and growth. Then he returned to my shoulder, his mass noticeably larger than before.
I stood there breathing hard but grinning like a maniac, covered in monster ash that was already fading into nothing. My muscles burned pleasantly, adrenaline singing through my veins, and for the first time since arriving in Orario, my mind felt quiet. No spiraling thoughts. No moral calculations. Just action, reaction, and the simple satisfaction of surviving.
This, I thought with fierce satisfaction, is exactly what I needed.
That high lasted through the next corridor and into a wider chamber where walls curved in a rough oval. More monsters appeared—twenty this time, with eight kobolds flanking them. I dispatched them with growing efficiency, Kairu's blades cutting smoother with each wave as the slime adapted and improved.
By the sixth wave, I'd collected maybe eighty stones, possibly ninety. Through our contact, I felt Kairu's satisfaction—the slime was growing noticeably, mass increasing, weapon forms becoming more refined and less crude-looking.
But as I moved deeper, something started to feel... off.
The sixth wave spawned before I'd even finished collecting drops from the fifth. Then the seventh came almost immediately after, pouring from the walls in greater numbers than before. Sixty monsters. Then seventy in the eighth wave.
"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," I muttered, cutting down a goblin that had gotten dangerously close. The swords felt better now—sharper, more responsive, balance improving with each stone Kairu consumed. But the spawn rate was what bothered me.
My shoulders burned from constant sword work, repetitive slashing taking its toll despite my devil physiology. Sweat dripped down my face in the cool dungeon air, soaking into my shirt. I could feel muscle fatigue beginning to set into my arms, that deep ache that warned of impending cramping. But adrenaline kept me sharp, kept me moving, and I pushed through the discomfort with grim determination.
I'd watched enough DanMachi to know Floor One spawned monsters regularly, but this felt different. More aggressive. More personal. Like the dungeon was deliberately throwing everything it had at me to see what I'd do. To test my limits.
Kairu's form shifted on my shoulder, unease bleeding through our contact. Not quite alarm, but definitely tension.
"You feel it too, huh?" I said quietly, finishing off the last kobold with a vertical slash. The blade cut clean through this time—Kairu's improvement was definitely noticeable. "Something's wrong with this place."
The eighth wave brought eighty monsters. The ninth brought more than ninety.
As I pushed deeper into Floor One, the air grew noticeably colder, carrying a damp metallic scent that hadn't been present near the entrance. The bioluminescent moss glowed dimmer here, shadows pooling in corners like living things waiting to pounce. And the walls—the walls themselves seemed to pulse with that massive, slow heartbeat I'd noticed earlier. More pronounced now. Almost oppressive. Each beat taking minutes, like the breathing of something so vast it operated on geological timescales.
The pressure from the entrance was back, but different now. Not the shock of initial recognition—more like sustained scrutiny. Like being studied under a microscope by something that had all the time in the world to examine every detail.
My wings tried to emerge again. I forced them down through sheer willpower again, gritting my teeth against the sensation. You don't control me, I thought at the presence. I don't care how old or powerful you are.
The tenth wave emerged, and this time I felt it—a wrongness in how they moved. Too coordinated. Too focused on me specifically rather than just attacking anything. Like they had a singular purpose: test the intruder.
I carved through them anyway, but unease was building with each swing. Kairu had gone from tense to actively protective, his mass spreading slightly across my shoulders as if trying to shield me.
"I know," I told him between strikes. "Something's definitely off. Just... stay ready."
The eleventh wave came.
Hundred-plus monsters, pouring from every available surface. The corridor became a writhing mass of green and red bodies, crude weapons, gnashing teeth, and glowing hostile eyes.
I fought like a demon—which, technically, I was. The swords became extensions of my will, carving through flesh and bone with increasing efficiency. PoD blasts filled the gaps when monsters got too close. My movements flowed from muscle memory and instinct, no conscious thought required.
But even as I fought, even as monster after monster fell to my blades, I felt the pressure building. The walls pulsed faster now, that massive heartbeat accelerating like something waking from sleep. The temperature dropped further until I could see my breath misting in front of my face.
The final monster of the eleventh wave fell.
Silence crashed down like a physical weight.
No more spawns. No skittering sounds from distant corridors. Even the rhythmic dripping of water overhead had stopped. The dungeon had gone completely, unnaturally still.
I stood in the center of the chamber, breathing hard, covered in sweat and monster gore, swords still raised in guard position. Kairu trembled on my shoulder—not from exhaustion, but from sensing something my conscious mind hadn't processed yet.
Something's wrong.
Then the pressure returned—not gradually, but all at once. Like being dropped into the deep ocean, thousands of pounds per square inch crushing down on every part of me simultaneously.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't think.
My wings erupted without permission, crimson membranes spreading wide as my body reacted to an existential threat my conscious mind hadn't yet identified. Magic flared around me in visible waves—not just PoD, but something deeper. The demonic power that made up my very essence responding to danger on a primal, instinctual level.
And I felt it then, truly felt it for the first time:
The Dungeon wasn't just watching anymore.
It was reaching for me.
Trying to pull me into itself, to make me part of it, to consume this anomaly that didn't belong and integrate it into its endless cycle of death and rebirth. Prime real estate in the city square, ready to be claimed, devoured, understood from the inside out.
My Power of Destruction erupted unchecked, annihilation energy rippling outward in waves. Through the haze of terror and instinct, I felt Kairu's mass diminish—parts of the slime literally erasing where my uncontrolled energy touched. The swords in my hands flickered, nearly dissolving as Kairu's form destabilized under the assault.
But Kairu didn't pull away.
Didn't try to protect himself.
Instead, the slime spread across me desperately—flowing from my shoulder to cover my back, my chest, trying to shield me even as parts of him were erased into nothingness. His form stretched thin, trying to protect me from something as vast as the dungeon itself.
The damage to his body was irrelevant compared to whatever threat he sensed. His loyalty, his bond, his instinct to protect me overrode even self-preservation.
Through the crushing pressure and terror and my uncontrolled magic destroying my only companion, something in me screamed:
NO.
My pride rose up like a shield made of pure ego, pure defiance, pure refusal.
You don't own me. You can't claim me. I am MINE.
And beneath that surface defiance, something else stirred—something deeper that I couldn't name. For just a fragment of a second, I felt an echo:
Vast space. Voices too enormous to comprehend, speaking in frequencies that made reality vibrate. A sensation of falling through infinite darkness toward something that felt like—
HOME—
The memory slammed shut like a door I couldn't open, leaving only the ghost of its presence and a hollow ache in my chest that felt like grief for something I couldn't remember losing.
But it was enough.
That piece of whatever I'd been before, whatever made me a devil rather than just another soul, pushed back against the dungeon's claim with absolute conviction.
I. Am. Not. Yours.
The pressure shattered like glass struck by a hammer. Air rushed back into my lungs in a painful gasp, my knees buckling as the crushing weight vanished.
Fragments of that crushing awareness scattered and receded to the walls, the dungeon withdrawing—not defeated, but... surprised? Maybe even impressed? Like a predator that had tested prey and found them unexpectedly capable of fighting back.
My wings folded away reluctantly, leaving phantom sensations across my back. My PoD flickered and died, leaving only exhausted trembling in its wake. Kairu's form stabilized, flowing back to concentrate on my shoulder, though I could see how much this attack costed—the slime had lost maybe half of his total mass, erased by my uncontrolled power while trying to protect me.
"I'm sorry, buddy," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I'm so, so sorry."
- Devil in a Dungeon -
AN:
Woah, that's some hardcore chapter. As if getting the attention of Freya wasn't enough, poor Max was psyched by the Dungeon itself...
And everything that could go wrong went wrong in Orario, huh? From the moment he entered, things were not to his favor, or were they? Hope the revision addressed the issues about Max's mindset and the whole Dungeon influence.
Do share your thoughts on what he might do next in a comment/review.
Next update will be on Friday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.