The room was silent.
The moment the steel door slammed shut behind them, the echo of footsteps reverberated against the dark gray stone walls. Each step sounded sharper than it should have, as if the chamber itself amplified tension. The space was enormous—square in shape—with a circular arena carved into the center of the floor. Overhead, rows of white spotlights beamed down, illuminating the scratched and scarred stone surface below. The marks were not random. They were long, deep, overlapping. This place had been used before.
Many times.
Along the walls stood racks of weapons.
Longswords with polished blades. Short swords with compact frames. Two-handed axes heavy enough to split bone. One-handed axes built for speed. Spears of varying lengths. Steel shields layered and reinforced. Bows strung tight beside bundles of arrows. Even throwing weapons—balanced knives and short javelins—were arranged with unsettling neatness.
Everything looked real.
Everything looked sharp.
This was not a demonstration.
This was not a simulation.
The man in the suit stood calmly at the center of the arena, his hands clasped behind his back. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, as if he were hosting a corporate seminar instead of something that made the air feel dangerously thin. His expression revealed nothing—no anxiety, no excitement, no doubt.
"This," he said in a quiet yet firm voice, "is the final test."
His words carried effortlessly across the vast chamber.
"Of all the participants present today… only ten will pass."
For a brief second, no one moved.
Then the silence shattered.
"What?!" someone shouted from the back.
"Only ten?!"
Faces that had been filled with anticipation moments ago stiffened. Some participants went pale. Others immediately began sweating. A few instinctively stepped backward, as if the number alone had pushed them.
Ryan felt his throat tighten.
Ten.
Out of dozens.
The odds were brutal.
The suited man raised one hand, and remarkably, the noise died down.
"Anyone who fails," he continued evenly, "will have their memory of the dungeon erased."
That sentence dropped like ice water.
Erased.
"We cannot allow information about the dungeon to spread to civilians. Mass panic would destabilize society. That is unacceptable."
Participants exchanged uneasy glances.
"As compensation," he added, "those who fail will receive a substantial sum of money."
The word money softened the tension—just slightly.
At least there would be something in return.
But Ryan understood something the others were only beginning to realize.
If this was real… if monsters truly existed… money was no longer the real prize.
This was about survival.
About opportunity.
About a world that was no longer the same as it had been yesterday.
The suited man clapped once.
The sound cracked through the chamber.
"Now," he said, "choose the weapon you will use."
The room erupted into motion.
Participants hurried toward the weapon racks. Some grabbed swords instantly, confidence radiating from their posture. Others tested axes, swinging them experimentally to gauge weight. A few picked up bows, drawing the string back halfway before releasing it with a sharp twang.
And then there were those who hesitated.
Ryan was one of them.
Weapons?
All his life he had held tools—hoes, shovels, pickaxes. He had dug trenches, mixed cement, carried sacks of sand across construction sites under the burning sun. His palms were hardened not from combat, but from labor.
A sword looked impressive.
But it felt foreign.
An axe seemed powerful.
But too top-heavy.
A dagger?
Too short. Too close.
His eyes wandered—until they stopped.
A spear.
Its shaft was long and sturdy, not unlike the wooden handles of the tools he used every day. The metal tip gleamed sharply beneath the overhead lights.
Ryan stepped closer.
He wrapped his fingers around it.
The weight felt balanced.
Familiar.
He lifted it and gave it a slow experimental thrust.
His body responded naturally, as if remembering a movement it had always known.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"This one," he murmured.
He lifted the spear from its rack.
Nearby, Participant Number 06—a woman with sharp eyes and tied-back hair—selected a longsword. She drew it smoothly from its sheath, testing its balance with practiced ease.
Participant Number 11, a large and broad-shouldered man, strapped a shield to his arm and picked up a short axe. The combination suited his build—defensive yet brutal.
Participant Number 23 chose a single-edged blade—a katana. The way she drew it in one fluid motion spoke of training. Her stance was steady. Controlled.
Participant Number 46 picked up two daggers, one in each hand. His movements were minimal, efficient. His eyes scanned constantly, calculating distances and angles.
Ryan studied the four of them.
They had stood out during the earlier physical evaluations.
Strength.
Speed.
Composure.
If anyone was guaranteed to pass… it would likely be them.
The suited man waited until every remaining participant was armed.
Then he turned and pointed toward the center of the arena.
Embedded in the stone floor was a black circle.
It was not paint.
Its surface shimmered faintly, like thick liquid contained by invisible boundaries. It pulsed subtly, as if breathing.
"Beneath this circle," the man said, "we have secured a low-level monster."
The word monster made the air tighten again.
"Why a real one?" he continued calmly. "Because those who pass must become accustomed to reality. We refuse to send you into a dungeon unprepared, only to die because you have never faced the genuine article."
Several participants swallowed audibly.
Ryan felt his heartbeat quicken.
A real monster.
Not a video.
Not special effects.
Real flesh. Real danger.
"You will face it one at a time," the suited man declared.
The black circle began to rise, stretching upward and forming into a transparent cage reinforced with metallic energy lines.
Inside—
A small creature crouched low.
Green skin.
Pointed ears.
Red, glowing eyes.
A goblin.
It grinned widely, revealing rows of sharp, uneven teeth. In its clawed hand was a rusty knife. Saliva dripped from the corner of its mouth, splattering onto the cage floor.
Several participants instinctively stepped back.
"Participant Number 01."
A thin man with pale skin stepped forward.
His hands shook visibly.
Ryan could see fear written plainly across his face.
The suited man descended into the arena, positioning himself at the side.
"Begin."
The cage opened.
The goblin exploded into motion.
It moved far faster than anyone expected.
"AAAAH!"
Participant Number 01 froze.
He attempted to raise his weapon—but too late.
The goblin lunged low and drove the rusty blade into his abdomen.
The sound was sickening.
A wet, tearing impact.
Blood sprayed across the stone.
The man collapsed to his knees, screaming.
"Help… I'm dead… I've been stabbed…"
Panic rippled through the room.
The metallic scent of blood filled the air.
Ryan's stomach twisted.
This wasn't training.
This wasn't controlled.
It was raw.
Seeing that the participant was no longer fighting, the suited man moved.
In a blur, he appeared between the goblin and its prey.
He seized the creature by the skull with one hand.
With brutal force, he hurled it back into the cage.
The goblin slammed into the barrier with a heavy crash.
The cage snapped shut instantly.
Medical personnel rushed in, carrying a stretcher.
Participant Number 01 was lifted away, sobbing, clutching his wound as blood soaked through his clothes.
Silence fell again.
"Next," the suited man said coldly.
That single word carried more weight than the attack itself.
No sympathy.
No delay.
Several participants looked at one another, fear now fully awakened.
Cold sweat dripped down their backs.
Suddenly, a hand shot up.
"I… I withdraw!"
Another followed.
"Me too!"
"I don't want to die!"
One by one, people stepped away from the arena.
Pride shattered.
Ambition collapsed.
Fear won.
In less than ten minutes, nearly half the room emptied.
The heavy door opened and closed repeatedly as participants surrendered their chance.
When it was over, only twenty remained.
Ryan was still standing.
The spear felt heavier now—not because of its weight, but because of what it represented.
He stared at the cage.
At the goblin pacing within.
Was he afraid?
Of course.
His heart pounded so loudly he could hear it in his ears.
But beneath the fear… something else stirred.
Resolve.
If he walked away now, his life would continue as it always had.
Construction sites.
Sweat and dust.
Low wages.
An uncertain future.
He would forget this place.
Forget the monster.
Forget the possibility that the world had shifted beneath his feet.
And he would remain small.
But if he stepped forward…
He might die.
Or—
He might become something more.
The suited man surveyed the twenty who remained.
His eyes lingered on each of them, measuring.
"Very well," he said at last. "The test continues."
Ryan tightened his grip on the spear.
His palms were slick, but his stance steadied.
Inside his heart, he whispered quietly—
"I won't back down."
Whatever happened next, he would face it.
Because the world had already changed.
And this time—
He refused to be left behind.