Dungeon Diary

There was reason enough why the dungeon remained wrapped in mystery, the kind of place that swallowed challengers whole, bodies left to rot, their names forgotten—no legend or scrap of wisdom survived to tell how such a place came to be, or what cruelty first gave birth to its monstrous brood. And yet Robin moved through its shadowed halls, unshaken, a man shaped by the same darkness, his breath steady as if the unknown weighed nothing on him. The seventeen hundsteins he'd killed already—a number he did not wear like a badge, but one that had seeped into his bones, making him quicker, sharper, more deadly. Dungeon Walker, they’d call it, but it wasn’t the title, it wasn’t the skill—it was innate, the rhythm of surviving, of walking a path no one else could walk, deeper and deeper, each step its own sharpened edge.

“Robin, over there! Two hundsteins!”

Minona’s voice, sharp like an echo through the black air, cut the silence, but he already saw them—bodies hulking in the gloom, muscles tensed, teeth wet with hunger. And yet, even in the face of such oblivion, Robin’s hand was still, as if waiting for the right moment to take them, to turn their threat into nothing but another ghost for the dungeon walls. They leaped then, both at once, those beasts of muscle and fang, confident that they would rip him apart, the prey already stepping into their sight. But Robin had already marked the moment. The footfall they heard was not careless—it was the trigger. The dust ball bursted into a smokescreen swirled in their faces, biting at their eyes, assailing their mouths, and the growl turned to choking coughs. In their blindness, his blade moved, as swift and silent as death itself, severing life with the precision of a man who knew that mercy did not exist here—only the final breath of beasts who never knew him, never saw his face, but still, in the end, fell to the hunter who walked where none dared follow.

“Stay put you two… uh? What—”

Yet, the fleeting taste of triumph soured in his mouth, turning bitter, rancid as the weight of what lay ahead shattered the assassin’s cold exterior. His heart seized, blood curdling with a sudden, cruel realization—this place, this dungeon, was no mere lair for beasts, no simple den of monsters. It was something far worse, a maw that devoured not just flesh, but the soul, a place that breathed horror and bled despair. And as the scene unfolded before his eyes, his mind recoiled, staggered by the grotesque display, an abomination that no battle-hardened killer, no assassin, could ever brace for.

“Robin, what’s wrong—oh, my…”

Minona’s voice, usually sharp, playful even, trailed off, faltering at the edge of the horror. It was as though the dungeon itself had swallowed their words, leaving only silence, thick and choking. The ground ahead—no longer just dirt and stone—was stained with deep, clotted crimson. Torn cloth and shattered armor, remnants of lives lost in screams that now echoed only in the shadows, were scattered like offerings to a bloodthirsty god. The air, sick with the iron scent of fresh death, clung to him, wrapping around him like a shroud. This was not slaughter, not savagery—it was something far worse, something no human could conceive, a scene not of murder. There were no bodies, just blood, dried mixed with dust. Whatever had happened here had left nothing but its signature of death behind, a hollow void where lives once stood. And for a moment, Robin’s mind wavered, teetering on the brink of disbelief, refusing to accept the monstrous truth that hovered just beyond the veil of reason.

“Woah, look at this mess.” Minona chirped, her light drifting lazily over the blood-soaked ground, casting pale illumination over the devastation below. “This is just how hundsteins enjoy their dinner—such messy eaters. Whoever was here didn’t stand a chance. Bet they didn’t even have time to scream.”

Her words felt distant, far-off, as if spoken through a dream. Yet the truth they carried was undeniable, etched in the bloody-red prints that marred the ground—footprints too large, too monstrous, and too deliberate, a grim reminder that this dungeon was alive with hunger, a predator in its own right, waiting to consume all who dared walk its halls. And as Robin stood there, the memory of seventeen battles visited the mind. Those fangs sinking into his arm, the claws raking his skin, flared up again, a dull, painful reminder of how close he had already come to becoming just another victim, another bloodstain on these cursed stones. He considered himself too fortunate, having Minona with him as a noisy distraction.

“But... no way just two hundsteins did this, right?” His voice broke the silence, a thin thread of unease in the dark.

“The two you took down were probably the last of them, just nibbling on scraps,” Minona mused, her light flickering with a playful gleam. “But these tracks? Maybe couples— if not dozens, I’d bet. But, but… can you guess what? They’re still hungry. Still on the hunt. Chasing something... or someone. A survivor, maybe?”

Robin’s mind staggered under the weight of it, the brutal reality sinking in. He had seen death, had caused death, had lived in its shadow his whole life—but this... this was something else. An atrocity that mocked everything he knew about cruelty. In the world he came from, there was a cold calculus to murder, a purpose, a reason, however twisted. But here, in this dungeon’s grip, there was only malice. Mindless, ravenous, unstoppable. It was a reminder that the darkness within these walls was not just a thing to be survived—it was alive, and it was coming for him.

And yet, even as the horror pressed down on him, a thought slid into his mind, unbidden. Perhaps this was what he deserved. A man steeped in darkness, a killer who lost his village, Jagataru, he had lived a life of blood and vengeance. Maybe this place, this dungeon, was not a punishment, but a reckoning—a final judgment for all the lives he had taken. To die here, twice, would be fitting, wouldn’t it? The nightmares, the endless cycle of violence and death, they were not just his fate—they were his penance. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t need to fight it anymore. Maybe this was how things were meant to end, for a man who had walked with death for so long.

But then again... should he fight? Should he rage against the cruel hand of fate, or accept that this was simply the way of the world? The darkness was vast, and in its grip, it would be so easy to let go, to let it claim him at last.

“Let’s move, Minona,” Robin’s voice was flat, a cold command layered over the swirling unease that he tried to ignore—the crimson pool beneath his feet, thick and glistening in the dim light, a reminder of death’s omnipresence in this wretched place, as if the very dungeon drank deeply from its victims.

But before his feet could take the first step, her voice, ever gleeful, stopped him.

“Wait, Robin! Look there!”

Minona hovered in the gloom, her small light casting shifting shadows against the grim walls, illuminating something half-hidden beneath the rubble. A leather bag, weathered and torn, lay partially concealed in the corner, covered in grime and dust, the edges of it nearly buried under debris. And nearby, the dark stain of dried blood—a silent witness to whatever fate had befallen its owner.

“Seems there were two people here, and this bag must’ve belonged to one of them…” Robin said, his voice softer now, solemn even, as he bowed his head in some small gesture of respect. “May your soul rest in peace.”

Minona’s tone matched his for a moment, soft, almost tender. “I pray for the owner too,” she said, her light dimming, a quiet moment passing between them, a stillness rare in the relentless churn of the dungeon’s chaos. But the peace of it, the fragile sanctity, shattered as quickly as it had come. “Now, can we open it?” Minona’s sudden excitement broke through like a spark of mischief, her light brightening as she eagerly flitted toward the bag.

Robin stared at her, the weight of his disappointment sinking deeper into his expression. “We just prayed for the fallen, and now you want to loot their bag? You’re a princess, right? Use your noble heart for once, damnit.”

Minona paused, her glow dimming slightly, as if to reflect the silent judgment behind her playful exterior. “This bag is masterless, remember?” she quipped, her tone light but her words carrying a heavy practicality. In this place, the sudden morality Robin tried to cling to felt absurd for the little light, out of place— like trying to patch a sinking ship with a piece of cloth, an act of sentiment that had no weight against the dungeon’s brutal reality.

Robin frowned, the lines deepening on his face. “But it feels wrong.”

“Really, now?” Minona’s voice was pleading now, but with that edge of exasperation, as if she couldn’t believe he would still cling to this in a place like this. “We need everything we can get to survive. You know that. Or did you suddenly sprout a conscience here, in the middle of this lovely, moral-less death trap, huh?

Robin sighed, arms crossed, the conflict inside him twisting tighter. “What if the owner isn’t dead? What if they just forgot it in the panic, or had to run? They might come back for it.”

Minona lowered herself onto the dusty bag, her light casting a soft glow on its aged, leathery surface, now revealing every crack, every sign of abandonment. “Take a good look at the blood, Robin. And the dust, too. Whoever owned this? They didn’t just misplace it—they’ve left this place, and I mean permanently. And even if, by some miracle, they survived, do you really think they’re gonna waltz back in here? After seeing all this... crimson charm?” She gestured at the bloodstains, the silence between her sarcasm growing heavy with the weight of her logic, cold and undeniable. "What makes you sure they’re just dying to revisit the scene of their near-death experience.”

“Dying…?”

Minona saw the hesitation, the falter in his eyes, and softened her tone, her light gleaming brighter again. “We’re not stealing,” she said, her voice lifting with sudden inspiration, as though solving a riddle. “We’re doing a service for its late owner.”

Robin stood there, silent for a moment longer, his eyes once more on the blood-stained floor, the weight of the dungeon pressing down on him. The bag seemed less a moral question now, more a simple fact, a decision he had already made in his heart even if his mind had fought it. Finally, with a sigh, he nodded, conceding defeat, his voice tired but resigned. “Fine. We’ll loot it. Let’s see what’s inside.”

Minona shone brighter now, almost gleeful, as if some weight had lifted from her. The bag lay before them, ragged and worn, its age showing in every frayed seam and dust-covered fold. Robin crouched beside it, inspecting the crossing lines of rope that seemed to hold it shut in place of a proper clasp. He drew his dagger, its blade dulled from the countless strikes it had landed in hundstein flesh, its edge now tired and worn like a warrior long past his prime. He tried to slice through the ropes, but the blade only scratched the surface, barely leaving a mark.

“It’s lost its sharpness,” he muttered, frustration edging into his voice, the dull scrape of metal against rope a reminder of the weapon’s fatigue.

“No worry!” Minona chimed, hovering closer to the blade, her light flickering as her voice shifted, carrying an eerie weight, an otherworldly resonance as she spoke. “Orimka!”

The air around them shimmered, a soft hum of magic swirling as sparks danced along the dagger’s edge, wrapping it in a strange, fleeting glow. When the light faded, the blade gleamed, restored, sharper than it had been in days. Robin stared at it, his brow furrowing in disbelief.

“You’ve still got something in you?” he asked, his voice tinged with both surprise and a faint trace of accusation, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

Minona’s glow flickered, a teasing gleam in her light as she floated higer to the level of his face. “Oh, relax, human," she said, her tone dripping with casual amusement. "It’s just a little spell, nothing fancy. Just bringing our sad little helper back to its former glory. See? No big deal.” She hovered just above the bag, her playful smirk almost audible. "Now, quit stalling and cut it open, unless you're planning to give the rope a second chance at life too.”

Robin sighed, tilting his head, as if weighing whether to press her on it, but eventually, he gave in. With a steady hand, he sliced through the ropes with ease, the sharpness of the blade shocking him as it glided cleanly through the tangled mess. The bag fell open, revealing its contents—a small trove, a scattered collection of worn supplies, things left behind by someone who never got to return for them. Potions, food rations, a couple of scrolls, and then, nestled between the rest, a book.

“What’s this… a book?” Robin muttered, pulling it out, turning it over in his hands. The cover was rough, leather-bound, the pages worn but intact, marked with strange symbols that seemed familiar yet distant, the same language he’d seen in Minona’s spellwork. “It’s got the same letters as your diatimo spell.”

Minona hovered closer, her light casting long shadows over the pages as she inspected it, curiosity alight in her voice. “Hmm, a book,” she mused, almost sounding surprised herself, though her tone quickly shifted, practical once again. “Forget about the bag—you don’t need something that’s only going to slow you down. But the book? Oh, definitely take it. I’ve got more than enough wisdom to teach you how to read it. Consider yourself lucky, human.”

Robin ran a hand over the cover, feeling the rough texture beneath his fingertips, the weight of the knowledge it contained pressing against his mind. He hesitated for a moment, the ghost of guilt still lingering at the edges of his thoughts, a reminder of the fallen owner whose blood still stained the floor. But the necessity of it, the harsh reality of survival, had already settled in his bones. There was no turning back now.

He nodded, resigned to whatever Minona would do in the close future, “Okay…” and then slipping the book into his pack, leaving the torn remains of the bag behind as they prepared to move forward once more, deeper into the dungeon’s cold, unforgiving depths.