The last hero trudged out of the dungeon, leaving an uneven trail of mud and dried blood on the stone floor.
The door closed behind him.
Not with a dramatic slam. Just the heavy scrape of rock against rock, followed by a metallic click as the magical seals reactivated. The sound traveled down the hallway, bouncing off the damp walls, losing itself in the depths.
Then, nothing.
Silence.
Lian let out a sigh he didn't even know he'd been holding.
He stood behind the counter, hands resting on the worn wood, listening. The kind of listening that requires your whole body. The kind that tells you when a space is finally truly empty.
One.
Two.
Three seconds.
The air changed.
It wasn't something you could see, but Lian felt it every night. As if the dungeon itself had been holding its breath all day and could finally exhale. The smell of sweat and hot steel began to fade, replaced by something older: damp moss, cold stone, the earthy scent of roots growing between the cracks in the ceiling.
The temperature dropped half a degree.
The magical torches on the walls flickered, shifting from their aggressive white to a softer amber.
Lian smiled faintly.
"Well," he murmured to himself, stretching his fingers. "Guess I can open now."
He leaned toward the small wooden sign hanging on the side of the counter. It was hand-carved, the letters worn by years of use. He carefully turned it, feeling the familiar weight.
CLOSED
became
OPEN
The change was subtle.
But the dungeon felt it.
From somewhere in the depths, something creaked. Something sighed. Something stirred.
---
During the day, this place was a battlefield.
Shouts. Clashing steel. Magical explosions that left scorch marks on the walls. Hurried footsteps. Desperate orders shouted by leaders pretending to be confident. Heroes entered full of bravado and left...
Well.
They didn't always leave.
And when they did, they rarely left the same.
But night was different.
Night belonged to those who stayed.
Lian took a clean glass from the shelf and began drying it with a cloth, more out of habit than necessity. His hands moved with the bored precision of someone who has made the same gesture thousands of times. He was in no hurry.
Never was.
Not here.
In his previous life—that blurry, distant, other life—there was always hurry. Always noise. Notifications. Alarms. Deadlines. Constant artificial light that never let your eyes rest.
And yet, he'd always been alone.
Here, he was also alone.
But it was different.
Here, his loneliness had purpose.
A faint sound came from the hallway.
The scrape of leather against stone.
Then another.
Small, cautious footsteps.
Not human footsteps.
Lian didn't immediately look up. He already knew who it was. The rhythm was unmistakable. Three quick steps, then a pause. As if whoever was walking still wasn't sure they should enter.
The small figure appeared at the edge of the warm lamplight.
A goblin.
He wore worn leather armor, patched in at least five places with different shades of material. His right pauldron hung at an odd angle, the strap half-broken. The sword at his side was scratched, dull in several spots, with a deep notch near the hilt he'd never bothered to repair.
He had a new scar over his left eye. Still red.
He looked tired.
Not the kind of tired that a night's sleep cures.
The kind that accumulates.
The goblin stood in the doorway, his yellow eyes fixed on the sign. Then on Lian. His green fingers drummed against his sword hilt.
"...You open already?" he asked in a raspy voice, like he'd spent the day shouting orders no one followed.
Lian looked up and nodded.
"As always."
The goblin let out a sigh he seemed to have been holding since dawn. His shoulders visibly dropped. His hand stopped touching the sword.
He entered.
Each step was slow, heavy. The kind of walk that only appears when the body finally gets permission to stop pretending to be strong. He limped slightly on his left foot.
He dropped onto one of the stools facing the counter.
The impact was harder than he probably intended. A small wince of pain crossed his face.
For a few seconds, neither spoke.
Lian noticed the ash on the edge of his armor. Black charcoal, still fresh.
Fire.
Again.
He didn't need to ask.
Lian took a glass—one of the smaller ones, the one the goblin preferred—and began preparing the drink. He poured two fingers of a soft amber liquid that smelled of smoked honey and something earthier. Glimmerwood root, if he remembered correctly. He added three drops of a dark oil that briefly glowed upon touching the surface.
It wasn't human alcohol.
Humans would die if they drank this.
But for monsters, it soothed pain without numbing the mind. Without robbing them of their ability to think. To remember.
Sometimes, remembering was important.
He placed the glass carefully in front of the goblin.
The goblin stared at it for a few seconds, as if seeing something more than a drink.
Then he took it with both hands. His fingers trembled slightly.
He drank.
His eyes closed.
His breathing slowed.
His shoulders dropped another inch.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
Lian nodded.
"Hard day," he said.
It wasn't a question.
The goblin let out a small, humorless laugh. More like a bitter snort.
"A new group."
Ah.
That explained everything.
New groups were the worst. Not because they were strong. But because they were careless. Nervous. Violent in the wrong way. They wanted to prove themselves. They wanted a story to tell when they returned to the surface.
That usually meant someone got hurt.
Sometimes more than one.
The goblin slowly turned the glass between his hands, watching the light pass through the liquid.
"The mage used fire," he finally said.
Lian listened.
He always listened.
It was the only thing he could really offer.
"Burned everything," the goblin continued, his voice flatter now. "The spiderwebs. The nests. The shelter where we kept supplies."
He paused.
"It wasn't even necessary."
Silence returned.
Lian offered no empty comfort. Didn't say "I'm sorry" or "it'll get better." There were no right words for things like that. Platitudes only made it hurt more.
So he just nodded.
And the goblin seemed to understand.
He drank again. This time, a little calmer.
From the hallway, another sound emerged.
A small plop.
Then another.
Something round rolled clumsily into the room, bouncing softly against the stone floor before stopping against the leg of one of the stools.
A slime.
Its translucent body glowed with a faint blue light, pulsing slowly like a tired heart. Small particles floated inside it—dust, probably remnants of adventurers. A small crack ran across its surface, barely visible.
"You're late," Lian said.
The slime made a small wet sound in response. Something between a sigh and a gurgle.
Lian took a small container—ceramic, glazed on the inside—and placed it on the counter. He poured in a viscous, glowing substance, pale green in color. It smelled faintly of lemon and ozone.
The slime jumped lightly onto the counter—a visible effort—and slid toward the container. Its body spread around the edge as it slowly absorbed the contents.
The crack on its surface began to close.
It looked satisfied.
"Many adventurers today," Lian said, wiping the counter with slow movements.
The slime pulsed twice.
Affirmative.
The goblin snorted.
"Too many."
The back door creaked.
Not much. Just enough.
Both looked toward it.
The slime stopped eating.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then, a shadow moved.
And a tall figure emerged from the darkness.
The First Floor Boss.
Even stooped, his head nearly brushed the stone ceiling. His curved horns cast long, twisted shadows on the walls, moving with each step. His armor—once polished, once proud—was shattered. A deep crack ran across his chest plate, wide enough to stick a finger in. There was dried blood on his knuckles.
Not adventurers' blood.
His own.
He walked toward the bar in silence. Each step made the floor vibrate slightly. Bottles clinked on the shelf.
He sat.
The stool creaked under his weight, the wood protesting, but it didn't break.
It never did.
Lian sometimes wondered if the stool had some kind of enchantment. Or if it was just stubborn enough.
The boss didn't speak immediately. He just closed his eyes and breathed. Deep. Slow.
Lian was already preparing his drink.
Something stronger. Darker. With a touch of something bitter that helped with the bone-deep ache.
He poured it into a large glass—the only one the boss could hold without breaking—and placed it in front of him.
"You look worse than yesterday," Lian said.
The boss opened one eye. A small spark of humor glinted in it.
"New hero," he said simply.
Ah.
That explained it too.
New heroes were dangerous. Not because they were strong. But because they didn't know when to stop. They didn't understand that dungeons had rules. Rhythm. Balance.
They came in trying to be legends.
And legends didn't stop until something died.
The boss took the glass carefully, as if the crystal were more fragile than his own hands.
He drank.
His eyes closed for one longer second this time.
When he opened them again, something in his expression had softened.
"Thanks," he finally said.
The bar filled with a comfortable silence.
Not the empty silence of the day, when heroes prepared and fear filled the air.
But the shared silence of those who no longer needed to pretend.
Lian wiped the counter with slow, methodical movements. The kind of task that let the mind wander.
The slime absorbed its food, pulsing gently.
The goblin stared at his glass, lost in thoughts Lian wouldn't try to guess.
The boss breathed heavily, but without haste. Letting his body remember how to relax.
This was their routine.
His real job.
Not the paperwork he filled during the day. Not the cleaning of blood and debris.
This.
Being present.
Giving them a place where they didn't have to be enemies. Where they didn't have to be monsters.
Where they could simply... be.
Sometimes, Lian wondered if this was really better than his previous life.
He remembered it vaguely, like a fading dream. Bright lights. Screens that never turned off. Constant noise. Notifications. Alarms. People everywhere and still...
Loneliness.
Here, he was also alone.
But it was different.
Here, his presence mattered.
Here, someone noticed if he wasn't there.
The goblin finished his drink slowly, savoring the last drops.
He carefully got off the stool, testing his weight on his left foot. It still hurt, but less.
"Tomorrow they'll return," he said.
It wasn't a complaint.
It wasn't fear.
It was just a fact.
The cycle continued.
"Yes," Lian replied.
The goblin nodded. Something in his posture was a little straighter now. A little less defeated.
"Goodnight, human."
"Goodnight."
He disappeared into the darkness with firmer steps than when he'd arrived.
The slime finished shortly after, its body glowing a little more intensely. The crack had completely disappeared. It bounced softly into the darkness without looking back.
The boss was the last.
He always was.
He sat a while longer, staring at the empty glass. His fingers slowly turned it, as if reading something in the crystal.
"Why do you do this?" he suddenly asked.
His voice was lower than usual. Softer.
It was a question he'd never asked before.
Lian stopped. Set the cloth down on the counter.
He thought about it.
Really thought about it.
He could have said "it's my job."
He could have said "I have no other choice."
But neither of those was the complete truth.
"Because someone has to," he finally replied. "And because... when you're here, you're not alone."
He paused.
"None of us are."
The boss watched him for a long moment. His ancient eyes, tired, but not without understanding.
Then he slowly nodded.
He stood, and for a moment he seemed to fill the entire room.
But when he spoke, his voice was almost gentle.
"Goodnight, Lian."
It was the first time he'd used his name.
"Goodnight."
The boss walked back toward the darkness, his footsteps echoing until they faded completely.
Silence returned.
Lian looked at the empty bar.
The used glasses lined up on the counter's edge.
The chairs slightly displaced.
The warm light of the lamps reflecting off the polished wood.
The smell of glimmerwood still floating in the air.
He walked to the sign with tired but satisfied steps.
Turned it one last time.
OPEN
became
CLOSED
The dungeon fell back asleep.
The torches flickered, returning to their cold white.
The air cooled another degree.
But Lian knew that in a few hours, it would all begin again.
The heroes would return.
Swords would rise.
Blood would fall.
Fire would burn.
And when they finally left, when the door closed with that heavy, final sound...
He would be there.
Waiting.
As always.
Because someone had to do it.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.