Dungeon Diary

“Is this… death?”

He had fallen, the bullet now a burning weight lodged deep in his chest, and the alley—the one that had always been his refuge, his escape, the place where he’d once believed he could outrun the world, outrun the men who sought him—had betrayed him. No matter how fast he ran, no matter how many turns he took, he could feel their hounds, those dogs of justice, baying at his heels, scenting the dark things he’d done, drawn to him as though every crime he’d committed was etched into his skin. A single strand of his hair had been enough, and he hadn’t even known it.

“Target neutralized!”

The officer loomed above him, face unreadable, as if he had not just pulled the trigger, as if the bullet now lodged deep in his chest had been nothing more than a formality, a confirmation of something inevitable, and the faint hiss of static from the device on his vest, almost lost in the chaos, whispered to him of how little it all mattered, because this was always the end, the raid, the hounds, the relentless march of boots against pavement, the alley that had once been his refuge now closing in on him like a grave, as if the whole city, the world itself, had conspired to catch him, to remind him that his escape had never been possible, that from the moment he had taken that first step toward freedom, he had already lost, already fallen, already been claimed by a fate as indifferent as the cold eyes of the man who had shot him.

“To think the silent blade of Jagataru felled tonight…”

“Even the slickest fox fell into the eagle’s talon, he had enough blood to drown the city by himself. Half of the crook infesting the government met their last page of history, and all of those are credited to his craftiest art of assassination.”

It was never glory, never a boast or righteous cry. Murder, no matter how you tilt it, is a crime that rots the soul, and those dead faces haunt him in ways he couldn’t shake. The blasted names they whispered about him in the shadows were just men, more human than he ever let himself be. Some of them were thieves, yes, greedy, hungry, selfish men. But the others, the ones who died beneath his blade, they did it for something. For sick children. For a promise. Or because life had dealt them a cruel hand, and he was just the final push. Those people... they died, their last breaths mingling with his name, their stories erased because he had been too blind, too hardened to care.

The truth struck him, not like a revelation, but like the weight of the bullet still lodged in his chest, cold and unyielding. It was too late now. Every path he thought to choose, every moment he had tried to change his course, he had always found himself pulled back into the shadows. The darkness wasn’t just around him—it had become him, and he had wandered too far to ever find his way back.

And as he let that thought settle, let the cold numbness crawl through him, seeping into his skin like the death he deserved, his mind began to slip, the last of his strength fading into oblivion. Darkness swallowed him whole. Not the kind that invited peace, but the kind that mirrored his soul—empty, hollow, unrelenting.

“Hey, wake up!”

It wasn’t the police now, not the static crackle of their voices in the night, not the iron weight of judgment. Everything that had been—the street, the hounds, the alley—vanished into silence. And then, breaking through that quiet, a voice. Soft. High-pitched. A girl’s voice, piercing through the darkness that held him like a sudden burst of light.

“Wake up, human!”

The voice echoed again, persistent, like a needle threading its way through his fogged mind, followed by the odd sensation of something tapping against his forehead—soft, almost like the playful touch of a kitten's paw, which only deepened the strangeness, for wasn't he supposed to be gone by now, free from this damned world, his soul severed from that broken, aged body? But here he was, alive, or at least something close to it, and curiosity gnawed at him as he blinked, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, opening his eyes to a world that shouldn’t be.

"Hey, you, you’re finally awake! You tried to escape the dungeon, right?" said the thing before him—a tiny floating creature, round and glowing like some perverse firefly with a light far too bright, piercing, beaming into his vision.

The absurdity of it struck him—this thing, this whimsical spirit or whatever it was—how could it be real? He had heard stories, of course, of demons and devils, fiends that prowled the depths of hell, but this… what was this? A fairy? A spirit? A joke played on him by the universe? His mind flitted through these thoughts, barely registering the words spilling from his own mouth, “Uh… what?” The voice sounded foreign to his ears, younger, too whole.

Then his eyes fell to his own hands, his body, and the confusion deepened—what was this strange, ridiculous outfit, this sack of grain he wore like some crude attempt at clothing, with holes cut out for his head and arms, and a rope tied carelessly around his waist as if it feared falling to the ground would seal its fate. He tried to take it all in, the pieces of it—the bizarre creature, the unfamiliar surroundings, and his own flesh that seemed somehow new, less worn than it had any right to be—as if half a century had been stripped away, leaving him not just lost, but displaced, out of time, out of sense, like he had been transported into a world that wasn’t his, one where nothing made sense.

“Dungeon,” claimed the light, “You want to escape? Forget it!”

This light, this strange glowing thing, it floated there, mocking him almost, as if it had some sense of humor about it, a humor that he couldn’t grasp, not here, not now, not after the searing pain that still lingered, fresh as the moment it tore into him like molten metal branding his chest, as though the memory of it was baked right into his bones, and yet here he was, alive—or something like it. The place around him… it wasn’t right, it didn’t fit, like a puzzle missing its edge pieces, the world that should’ve been there—the alley, the narrow place he knew, where the walls closed in on either side like a vice—was gone, or maybe it was still here, but he couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel it. No, he could feel it, his fingertips grazing rough stone, but not like before. Was it stone? The texture eluded him, slipping through his mind like water through a sieve. It might’ve been rock, or maybe slabs, or even wood—he couldn’t say for certain, not through the haze that hung over everything, thick like fog in the early morning. The darkness wrapped around him, a veil, impenetrable, distorting even the most familiar sensations until all he could do was guess, his mind reaching for anything solid, anything that made sense, but finding nothing but shadows and questions where certainty should’ve been.

“This isn’t hell! Where’s the fire, the group of Chikrabalas that will punish me?”

“Huh? Cikar—what?” slammed the light ball angry, “This is dungeon, you buffon head! What’s hell, what place is that?”

He asked, irritation gnawing at him like a hound chasing its tail, circling, spiraling, confusion settling in deeper, “And you, what are you? A fairy? Are you some kind of fairy in this place?” His voice wavered between fury and disbelief, though the anger was more reflex than anything, as if lashing out might somehow make sense of all this.

But the little light didn’t bother with the straight answer he demanded, instead it bobbed left and right, floating like a leaf caught in the wind, mocking him with its silence. He couldn’t read this thing—how could he? He wasn’t a behaviorist, never had been, especially not for something like this, this glimmering creature with no face, no form that made sense. Yet, the way it danced in the air, there was something unmistakable about it—a curiosity, like it was toying with him, amused by his confusion.

“Fairy?” it finally echoed, almost laughing, though he couldn’t be sure. “Me? Well, sure, you could say I’m a fairy, for now. But I’ll have you know I was once a beautiful princess, seated upon the grandest throne.”

It flitted again, light as air, dismissing his question with a wave of some invisible hand. “Anyway, your claim about dying, that’s what interests me,” it continued, words sharp with mischief, as though it saw him as nothing more than a riddle to be solved, a tool with legs and arms. “And you’ve no clue why you’re here?”

The creature’s voice grew brighter, sing-song almost, teasing. “Those two things—dying and not knowing why—you know, they mark you as an outlander. You’re not from here, are you? You came from a different world, just like the prophecy said you would, long ago.” It paused as if relishing the absurdity of it all. “Anyway, welcome to Lucia!” The way it spoke, like welcoming a lost lamb to the slaughter, filled him with the sense that this creature saw him less as a man and more as a piece in some larger game, and he, well, he was beginning to wonder if he even mattered in it at all.

“Lucia? This place is Lucia?” Robin repeated, the name foreign on his tongue, like a word spoken from a dream half-remembered, lingering just out of reach.

“Yes, Lucia, a world of magic and miracle!” the light circled him, twirling like a leaf caught in the currents of a breeze, gleeful and weightless, until it perched upon his head as if it had found the only roost in all the world that mattered. It nestled there for a moment, content, as though oblivious to the dread that had begun to gnaw at Robin’s mind. “But, here, you’re in a bit of a predicament. Trapped, you know. For good.”

“Trapped?” he echoed, feeling the word sink into his chest like a weight. “Trapped like unable to get out forever?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say something so terribly discouraging, even to myself, outlander!” The light’s voice took on a sing-song quality, mockingly playful, as if this whole ordeal were some grand joke. “I mean, you’re prey here too, and you wouldn’t want to discourage yourself further, would you? That wouldn’t be wise.”

“Prey?” Robin felt the tension in his muscles, a knot twisting in his gut. “What do you mean, prey?”

The answer came not from the light, but from the growl—low, guttural, like the earth itself was groaning beneath his feet. His breath caught in his throat, turning toward the sound. And there, in the darkness that had swallowed his world whole, he saw it—emerging from the shadows like some nightmare given form. A creature as large as he was, its body hunched and crooked, covered in a thin, filthy layer of fur. Its maw hung open, thick strings of drool dripping between teeth like jagged stones, sharp and wet. The claws—yes, those claws, like hooks tearing at the air itself, but worse was the dagger it gripped in its foreleg, now a twisted hand, and with it came the promise that the fight would not end quickly, nor cleanly, for this beast was not mere hunger. No, this was violence made flesh, and Robin could feel its eyes boring into him, measuring him, weighing him as prey.

“That’s what I mean!” the light announced, triumphant, as it floated back beside him, its voice full of knowing, the kind of knowing Robin had never touched before, never even brushed against. His heart pounded, his breath caught between his teeth, the creature before him not just a beast but something pulled from the pages of a nightmare he hadn’t known his mind could dream. “Monster of this dungeon, Hundstein.”

Hundstein—the word sounded foreign, thick with dread, hanging in the air like a curse.

“What should we do?” Robin asked, feeling the question fall out of his mouth before his mind had time to catch up to it. What could they do? What was there to do, when something like that stood before him, when the very world he thought he had left behind now felt like a distant memory, lost in the shadows of this new reality?

“Omitiad!” The light's voice changed, thick and slow, warping like the sound of a record dragging beneath the weight of some unseen hand, and Robin felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, a chill running down his spine as if the world had shifted again, twisting under the power of a word he couldn’t understand.

And then it appeared—out of nothing, a floating tablet, ghostly and unreal, suspended in the air before him. The surface shimmered with lines of symbols, their shapes like nothing he had ever seen, twisted and jagged and old, older than the beast, older than him, older than anything. The way they were arranged—so precise, so cramped and layered like the frenzied notes of a scholar long gone mad—made his head spin. His breath came short, his pulse quickened, caught between the pull of wonder and terror, the feeling of watching something ancient, something that had no place in the world he knew, unfold before him. A world that wasn’t his, a magic that wasn’t his, but one that, for this moment, stood right before his eyes.

“What’s that? Magic?”

“Surprise, huh? You’re indeed an outlander, someone coming from the other world, exactly the prophecy had been so noisy about. Who’s your name?”

“Me?” the man looked hesitated, but soon he introduced himself, “Robin!”

“What a name! Okay, listen, this monster has an ability called Sword Mastery!” the light showed the panel, “It means this one can use a sword like a real swordsman. But we’re lucky this one has nothing but the thing between its legs.”

“What the…?”

“The tail, silly! What do you think?”

“Joking in this situation, you surely are someone I want to be with…”

The hundstein moved, not just toward him but into him, filling the air with the weight of its presence, its claws glinting in the dim light like promises made by the devil himself, and Robin could hear his own heart pounding as if it was trying to escape his chest, its rhythm a bitter reminder of the time he had left, if any, in this world he wasn’t supposed to be part of. He glanced at the strange light, the creature that called itself a fairy, though no fairy he’d ever heard of would hover there so quietly, its glow flickering like a candle in the wind, sharing his fear in its silence, as if it knew what was coming, as if it too understood that Robin had no weapons, no strength, only the scars of an assassin long past his prime, the wounds of a man who had lived too long in the shadows to ever be whole again.

But something stirred in him, something deeper than fear, something older than pain—a primal need, an instinct that screamed at him to survive, to find a way out, no matter what, no matter the odds, no matter the cost. He looked around, and then, just beyond the reach of the creature’s claws, he saw it: a narrow crack in the dungeon wall, barely wide enough, but wide enough, if he was fast, if he was lucky, if he was willing to risk everything he had left. The growl of the hundstein was louder now, vibrating through the walls, shaking the ground beneath him, promising not just death but a brutal, unforgiving end.

And in that moment, he knew—he had only seconds. Seconds to decide if he would face the beast, if he would meet it head-on, unarmed, weak, half-dead already, or if he would gamble on that sliver of hope, that narrow escape carved into the stone like a lifeline. The beast was close now, too close, its breath hot and foul in the air, and Robin, in those final heartbeats, could feel the weight of both choices pulling at him, both paths fraught with danger, both promising to change him forever.