Oh, my God...
if they ever find out I’m a fraud.
The truth couldn’t stay hidden forever. If they continued deeper into this dungeon, his deception would inevitably be exposed. Sam tried to hope things wouldn’t keep getting worse, but he carried a dark pessimism: a feeling that whenever your luck keeps being good, don’t worry—it’s just your bad luck leading you to your ultimate demise.
One way or another, this had to stop. But he certainly couldn’t run away. He was terrified of eting the Wyvern couple again; they’d roast his ass for sure. He needed these people to stay as his human shields.
While Sam was drowning in his thoughts, the rest were walking behind him, gossiping about his greatness. It was getting unbearable.
"You know what? If I ever get married and my wife gets pregnant, I’ll bring Master Ra’s al Ghul over. He always knows the way!"
Damn it, stop using your skills for wordplay! Sam cursed internally. If any of you knew the truth, I wouldn’t find a soul to help deliver , let alone a baby.
"Master Ra’s al Ghul, what kind of insults existed two hundred years ago? Were there curses like the ones we have today?"
You know what? I’m done with life.
No one understood his misery. Every ti Sam improvised, he felt the cold touch of doom. His mind would instantly leap to the four worst-case scenarios—the kindest of which was death.
In his past life, he had once landed a role in a movie... a background extra, as usual. His role was simple: to lightly bump into the protagonist as they moved, a subtle warning from destiny not to advance further toward their demise.
From that experience, Sam realized that the stars of the scene carry the heaviest burdens. Those facing death are the ones who must never improvise... while extras, like him, are free to ad-lib as much as they please.
He understood then that no matter how clever you think you are or how much you stray from the script, Death can rewrite your lines.
What will happen, will happen. All he could do was finish his mission and withdraw. He promised himself: once he made it out of here, he would never impersonate this character again. Just for today.
The group was growing weary from the long trek through the dungeon. They decided to take a break right there in the corridor.
Despite their differences, they seed to be of one mind now, bonded by the trials they had faced together in such a short ti.
"You know what? We’ve made it this far for a reason," one of the prospectors said, sparks of hope reigniting in his eyes. "If we weren’t destined to be here, we wouldn’t have been worthy from the start. Don’t you see? Any of us could be the one to bring back the Blessed Mana Child."
The other prospectors looked at him, their strength unified in their solitude. Everyone felt a sense of security in the presence of the group, even if that security was built entirely on an illusion.
"When I get out of here, I’ll buy my brother a statue of Saint Mouthyon," one said. "He loves his sermons. He always says that a heart that believes in God is a heart that believes in salvation and never despairs."
Life is far too complex for everyone to understand; truly, only fools can live life to the fullest. In reality, life was designed to be lived, not to be spoiled by Sam’s pessimistic outlook.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Sam snapped. "None of you have any idea what you’ve truly suffered yet, and you have no clue what’s coming for us. Has it even crossed your minds that your bodies might simply vanish here? There is no room for ’hope’ in a dungeon."
Everyone turned to look at Sam, who stood a bit apart from them, with Old Max by his side, watching him with a strange expression. They were astonished, suddenly realizing the "professional mindset" required here. You cannot afford optimism in a dungeon. Two hundred years ago, everything was unknown, and any form of negligence was a banner for death.
"You’re right, sir... we must not be complacent," they muttered.
Sam was simply venting his rage and projecting his inner loathing, unable to do anything else.
"Even if you aren’t complacent, there’s no guarantee of survival," he added bitterly. "There’s no place for amateurs like you. Just... go back to your families."
Despite his words of contempt, that wasn’t how they received them.
"It seems we must not only be serious, but ruthless as well," they whispered among themselves. "Together, let us follow the teachings of Master Ra’s al Ghul."
Sam’s rage reached a breaking point. He began marching forward again, utterly ignoring them all.
The group rose to follow him, but Old Max signaled them to stop.
"The secret of the dungeon..." Max whispered. "He is going ahead simply to discover what the dungeon truly is at its core."
In ancient tis, kings existed because they harbored a profound hatred for humanity. As long as you carry enough contempt for people, you will know exactly how to rule them. The more your hatred and loathing grow, the more unattainable and mysterious you beco in their eyes. Your hatred doesn’t matter as a feeling; it becos your weapon of governance.
The dungeon demands hatred to be ruled... for it governs through hatred itself.
Is it possible for a man to truly step into the role of the dungeon? To be the one true hater in this place?
"To Rule is to Hate"
The dungeon’s whispers ceased. As Sam vanished into the encroaching darkness, the Eye of the Gate appeared—a massive, singular eye that pried its stone lids open. Its circular fra fixed its gaze solely upon Sam, as if he were the only soul existence in that void.
The eye glowed with an eerie radiance as it analyzed his form.
"What are you looking at...?" Sam muttered, actually speaking to the grotesque eye.
"What are you talking about? Just get out of here!"
The darkness surged, coiling around him and binding his limbs from every direction. He struggled to break free while the eye continued its unblinking scrutiny. His mind was a fractured ss of confusion and disorientation.
{This entity is weary of governing this realm... Ownership of the Blessed Mana Child shall be transferred to you. From this mont forth, you shall protect this statue with your very life.}
{ An entity is attempting to breach the Host’s soul and essence. Activating Soul Protection...]
A system prompt flashed before his eyes. The System had been hidden from him since the mont he woke up; he had no idea why it was surfacing now. Is this entity trying to take my soul? A breach? Am I so kind of computer or a calculated system?
{The Dungeon offers to rge with the Host. Does the Host accept?}
"No! No! I refuse! I don’t want to rge with so damn dungeon!"
Sam was paralyzed with fear; he couldn’t bear that eye peering into his soul for another second.
{The previous owner of the dungeon has abdicated ownership to the Host... Dungeon identified as an ’Owned Item.’ All monsters, domains, and... the Blessed Mana Child are being registered as the sole property of Host: Sam Wells.}
"I said NO! Don’t you hear ? No ans no! Transfer it to soone else!" Sam scread.
But it was already too late. The massive, eerie eye suddenly began to shrink, contracting until it was the size of a human eye. It drifted through the oppressive darkness toward him, moving with a suspicious, predatory grace. Closer and closer it ca. Sam tried to recoil, but the shadows were suffocating, binding him like iron chains.
The strange eye pressed itself against his own.
"ARGHHHH!"
The eye forced its way into his socket. A surge of magical energy rippled through his face as the eye adjusted itself, rging perfectly until it looked like a natural, ordinary eye. The pain vanished instantly, replaced by a chilling realization: he was still surrounded by shadows, but now, he owned them. This darkness was his domain.
He opened his new eye, and a torrential flood of information rushed into his mind. He could see everything, feel everything, and control everything within the dungeon. Strangely, he found himself looking at his own self and the group as they moved through the corridors in the past.
He saw the serpent nearly killing him. He tried to watch without interfering, but the primal urge to protect himself took over. He realized then that he could rewrite the past within the dungeon’s walls, bypassing every obstacle according to his will. He truly was the Controller.
To test this power, he manifested a small insect and made it sting one of the prospectors in the past. The man flinched, but the "Past Sam" didn’t notice and kept walking.
Desperate to escape the darkness, Sam willed himself back to reality. He suddenly erged from the shadows and sprinted toward the man who had been stung.
"What is happening...?"
Sam lunged toward the prospector, ignored the bewildered stares of the others, and focused on the red mark on the man’s neck. "When... wh-when did this happen?"
"What’s wrong, sir? What’s the matter?" the man asked, startled.
Sam touched the sting, his hand trembling. "This... when did this appear?"
Seeing Sam’s deadly serious expression, the man stamred, "It happened while we were walking. I was stung out of nowhere... is there a problem?"
"Yes," Sam whispered. "There is a problem."
Reviews
All reviews (0)