Second Dive, First Blood
I dove.
First floor.
The Dungeon swallowed sound the moment I stepped inside—stone corridors breathing cold air, walls faintly pulsing like something alive pretending not to be.
"…Small thing," I whispered.
Ahead of me, it stood there.
Short. Green. Ugly.
A goblin.
It wasn't attacking.
It wasn't even moving.
Just… staring at nothing.
That should have scared me more than if it had charged.
Slow.
Steady.
I shifted my grip, fingers tight around the spearhead. This was simple. Everyone said so. First floor monsters were jokes.
I stepped in.
Neck.
I thrust.
Slaskkkkkkk—KRrrrrchhhh
I froze.
The blade didn't sink.
Didn't cut.
Didn't even scratch.
"…What?"
The goblin turned.
Its eyes locked onto me.
And then—
"RUN."
I didn't think. I moved.
I bolted down the corridor, boots slapping stone, breath tearing out of my lungs.
Behind me—
Another goblin stepped out.
Then another.
Then—
"THREE?!"
My brain screamed.
"WHOEVER MADE THIS DUNGEON—I HATE YOU!"
The corridor narrowed.
No cover.
No corners.
No ambush space.
Bad. Very bad.
A screech ripped the air as one lunged. I slid sideways, barely keeping my feet.
"…Short sword!"
I tore the broken blade free and slashed.
Metal scraped flesh.
Nothing.
"Not working—!"
I backstepped hard as claws snapped where my throat had been. One goblin hesitated. The other two slowed.
Good.
They're cautious.
That meant fear.
I lunged—not at the closest one, but the one flanking.
I stabbed.
Deep.
It shrieked and dropped, thrashing.
"One!" I gasped.
Two lefts.
My legs shook.
My hands shook.
The ground trembled—
No.
My head was spinning.
Hallucinating or not, I didn't stop.
"MOVE."
Slash—miss.
Slash—glancing hit.
Stab—
The second goblin collapsed with a wet sound.
I screamed and kept moving, pure panic driving the blade again and again until—
Silence.
I stood there, chest heaving, tears burning my eyes.
"…I did it."
My knees nearly buckled.
Cruduckkkkkkk.
The sound echoed behind me.
I turned slowly.
More footsteps.
More movement.
"…Great," I whispered hoarsely.
"More company."
Aftermath: The Smell That Stays
"Blewwww—"
I barely made it to the wall.
One goblin wasn't dead. Not cleanly. Cut open, still twitching before the Dungeon finally reclaimed it. I'd worked Sundays at a butcher shop back home—cheap pocket money, numb hands, cold steel. I knew blood.
This was different.
The smell hit late and wrong, thick enough to sting my nose and crawl into my throat. My stomach clenched and tried to give me something it didn't have anymore.
"God," I rasped. "How do people keep doing this?"
My hands shook so badly the broken blade clinked against stone. I swallowed, gagged, swallowed again. Nothing left to come up—just dry heaves and heat behind my eyes.
I crouched until the spinning slowed.
When I stood, the bodies were already fading. Ash drifting down like dirty snow. What remained clattered to the floor—small, jagged, faintly warm.
Three magic stones.
I picked them up one by one. Each barely fingertip-sized.
"…Three," I whispered. "That's it?"
They glowed weakly in my palm. Not treasure. Not salvation. Just proof I hadn't died.
"How much is this," I muttered, doing the math I already hated. "One bread? Maybe."
The answer felt obvious.
Hard.
Even earning a single meal would take more than one fight like that. More panic. More smells that wouldn't leave my nose.
I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes.
"At least do some more," I told myself, not convincing anyone. "I have to."
My stomach answered with a hollow twist—and then nothing. No retch. No protest.
Empty means empty.
I opened my eyes, tightened my grip on the wrapped blade, and took one careful step forward.
Not brave.
Not ready.
Just… still moving.
The Dungeon wasn't done with me.
Not even close.
[End of Chapter]
Author's Notes:
Welcome to the reality check nobody asked for. Our protagonist just learned that "first floor = easy" is a lie when you're wielding a broken blade with zero training and an empty stomach.
That butcher shop detail? Yeah, cutting meat on Sundays doesn't prepare you for the smell of something that was trying to kill you five seconds ago. Commercial butchery hits different than survival butchery.
Three magic stones = maybe one bread. The dungeon economy is brutal, and he's doing the math in real-time while trying not to throw up.
Also: "Cruduckkkkkkk" is not a typo. Pay attention to strange sounds in dungeons. They usually mean your day is about to get worse.
Next time: More goblins. More stones. More questions about whether this is sustainable or just a slow way to die. Spoiler—he doesn't know either, but he's too broke to stop.
(The dungeon doesn't care about your budget. It only cares that you're still moving.)