“Charming, isn’t it?” I muttered, the sarcasm a thin shield against the creeping unease. “Really captures the essence of Eldoria. ‘Soiled medieval dungeon chic, with a hint of eldritch horror.’”
A faint, almost imperceptible sigh emanated from my side. Bartholomew was padding along beside me, his tail held with an air of profound disapproval. He’d shed his usual regal bearing for something more akin to a disgruntled butler escorting a particularly unruly guest through the servants’ quarters.
“My dear Paige,” Bartholomew’s voice was a low rumble, laced with an impatience that had become his default setting since our, shall we say, unexpected relocation. “Your attempts at levity, while admirable in their persistence, do little to elevate the current grim reality.”
“Grim reality is my middle name now, Barty,” I retorted, kicking a loose stone out of my path. It skittered into the darkness ahead with a hollow clatter. “Paige ‘Grim Reality’ Hawking. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Much better than ‘Paige Hawking, communications major and serving wench, currently unemployed and being chased by monsters.’ Or at least I assume I’m unemployed since I never showed up again.”
“I daresay the moniker is less the issue than the latter half of your description,” he sniffed. “Though I grant you, your current profession does seem to involve a rather visceral form of pest control.”
I shot him a sideways glance.
“Visceral is one word for it. Messy is another. My armor’s probably got more monster bits on it than actual leather at this point.” I gestured down at my attire, a practical if not fashionable ensemble of sturdy trousers, a linen tunic, and the aforementioned leather pieces that had seen better days. “Seriously, this is not the adventure I signed up for. I thought maybe I’d be, I don’t know, charming some fairy prince, or finding a hidden treasure. Not whatever this is.” I gestured at the tunnel.
“The Shadow Lord’s machinations are rarely conducive to pleasantries, Miss Hawking,” Bartholomew said, his tone softening almost imperceptibly. “And ancient magic, as I have come to understand it, has a rather peculiar sense of humor. Often at the expense of those who stumble upon it. I might also observe that you have been reading entirely the wrong sort of fantasy. Reality is much less ‘tall, dark and brooding’ than your kind seems to think.”
“Whaaat?” I scoffed, the magical light flickered, momentarily plunging us into deeper shadow. I instinctively tightened my grip on the magic. “This whole ‘Sucked into a fantasy world and forced to fight monsters’ thing is peak dark comedy. I’m waiting for the laugh track.”
“Ha ha,” Bartholomew said dryly, without a hint of humor.
“Was that a joke?” I stopped in my tracks, “I think it was. I’m rubbing off on you.”
“Never.”
We walked in silence for a few more moments, the only sounds our footsteps and the faint, unsettling drip of water somewhere deeper within the tunnel. The archway we’d come through from the first chamber was now a moderately comforting, if still menacing, rectangle of darkness behind us. Ahead, the tunnel curved gently, its end lost in the gloom.
“So, what’s the plan, oh wise feline guardian of all things ancient and probably dusty?” I asked, trying to keep the weariness from my voice. “Do we just keep wandering until we find a conveniently placed ‘exit’ sign? Or is there a specific ‘this way to not get eaten’ map you’ve conveniently failed to mention?”
Bartholomew paused, his whiskers twitching.
“Patience, Paige. The path will reveal itself. As will its occupants.”
As if on cue, a low growl echoed from the darkness ahead. It was deeper, rougher than the last creature’s. My hand tightened on Rusty. Not that Rusty felt particularly inspiring right now, but he was all I had.
“Occupants, huh?” I muttered, raising the magical light higher. “Let’s see them.”
The tunnel opened up slightly, revealing a small alcove on the left wall. Perched within it, clinging to the stone like an oversized, chitinous toad, was a creature I hadn’t seen before. Its skin was a mottled gray, rippling with unseen muscle. Two pairs of eyes, large and multifaceted, blinked slowly, reflecting the light. Its mouth was a gaping maw lined with needle-sharp teeth. And the smell… It was the stench of something that lived and breathed something foul.
“Okay, new model,” I whispered, a morbid curiosity momentarily overriding my fear. “Definitely more toad-like than the last one. Less slimy, more leathery.”
“A Grotesque,” Bartholomew stated, his voice devoid of emotion. “A rather territorial specimen, I believe. They are known to guard their lairs with extreme prejudice.”
[Cave Grotesque] [Lvl 5]
“A little late there, guy,” I whined as the notification settled over the creature’s head. “Great. So, this one’s territorial. And I’m apparently trespassing. This is getting old, Barty. I’m starting to miss my landlord complaining about the rent.”
The Grotesque stirred, its head tilting as it regarded us. A low guttural sound rumbled in its chest. It flexed its clawed limbs, digging into the stone. This wasn’t going to be a quick dispatch like the previous one. This one looked like it meant business.
“Well, no use standing here admiring the local fauna,” I said, squaring my shoulders. The weary resolve was back, a grim determination hardening my gaze. “Rusty, old friend. Let’s do this again. Try not to get me eaten, okay?”
I took a step forward, Rusty held out in front of me. The magical light cast dancing shadows, but it also served to illuminate the creature, revealing its grotesque details in sharp relief. It hissed, unfurling itself from the alcove, revealing a surprisingly agile form.
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This was not going to be glorious. It was not going to be easy. But it was, once again, going to be necessary. And as I braced myself for the inevitable lunge, I couldn’t help but think that somewhere, in some other universe, I was probably just scrolling through TikTok and rolling my eyes at some nerd shit. Oh, the irony.
The lunge, when it came, wasn’t a straight-on bull rush. It was a fluid, horrifying blur of motion. The Grotesque shot forward, its spindly limbs scrabbling against the flagstones with a sound like a thousand scratching knives. It was low to the ground, a nightmare cricket the size of a black bear, and it moved with a speed that defied its lumpy, asymmetrical frame.
I sidestepped, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and swung Rusty in a wide, desperate arc. The blade connected with the creature’s flank. It wasn’t a clean cut. It was like hitting a wooden post. A shriek, high-pitched and grating, echoed in the cramped corridor, and the monster recoiled, a shallow, oozing gash weeping black ichor onto the stone.
“Score one for the lazy millennial, take that, grandma.” I panted, backing away. The thing’s head twisted a full 180 degrees, its cluster of mismatched eyes fixing on me with cold, alien hatred. There was no pain in its expression, just fury.
It didn’t lunge again. It adapted. It used the walls. With a chittering hiss, it scrambled sideways, its serrated feet finding purchase in the ancient mortar. It moved along the wall parallel to me, a grotesque parody of a gecko, its head cocked, watching my every move. The shadows cast by Rusty’s light twisted and writhed around it, making it seem even more unnatural.
My brain, helpfully, supplied a clip from an old horror movie. “I’m not trapped in here with you,” I muttered, my voice tight, “You’re trapped in here with me.” It was a lie, and we both knew it. I was so trapped. I was the last Pringle in the can of this fucking dungeon.
The Grotesque dropped from the wall, not in a clumsy fall, but in a controlled descent, using its momentum to spin. I raised Rusty to block, expecting a blow from its primary claws, the big, obvious ones. It was a feint. Instead of attacking with its arms, it kicked out with its back legs. I saw them coming, a blur of jagged, chitinous edges, but I was too slow, my body still locked in for a block that never came.
Searing, white-hot fire erupted along my left thigh and calf. I screamed—a raw, ugly sound torn from my throat. I stumbled back, my leg buckling. Looking down, I saw the problem. My breeches were shredded, and through the gashes, three parallel cuts welled with blood, deep and shockingly red against my pale skin. The edges of its feet weren’t just sharp; they were serrated like a bread knife. I was being tenderized.
The creature hissed in triumph, the sound wet and gurgling. It saw the blood, smelled it. It took a slow, deliberate step towards me, savoring the moment.
Panic, cold and sharp, tried to take over. My leg throbbed, sending waves of nausea through me. My life was now basically a bad B-movie, and I was the stupid side character who trips over nothing. Except I hadn’t tripped over nothing. I’d been filleted by a giant murder bug.
From somewhere behind me, a prim, annoyed voice cut through the haze of pain.
“Mistress Paige, if you would be so kind as to cease cosplaying a shish kebab, I would suggest you conclude this rather vulgar affair.”
Bartholomew. Of course. Probably sitting on a ledge somewhere, grooming himself and judging my life choices.
His voice, as irritating as it was, shocked me back into focus. He was right. Pain was temporary. Being monster chow was permanent. Gritting my teeth against the fire in my leg, I straightened up, putting my weight on my good side. I held Rusty in a two-handed grip, the sword’s rust-spotted blade seeming to brighten with my renewed resolve.
“Alright, ugly,” I growled, my voice shaking. “You drew first blood. Big mistake.”
I didn’t wait for it to come to me. I charged. It was a clumsy, limping, hobbling kind of charge, but it was a charge nonetheless. The Grotesque, surprised by my sudden aggression, reared back. It was exactly what I’d hoped for. As it rose, it exposed the softer, paler flesh of its underbelly, a mess of pulsing organs and tangled sinew.
I didn’t swing. I lunged, putting every ounce of my weight, my fear, and my sheer, unadulterated rage into a single, desperate thrust.
Rusty slammed home.
There was a sickening, wet crunch, like plunging your hand into a rotten pumpkin. The creature convulsed, a death-metal screech tearing from its maw that vibrated in my bones. Black, viscous fluid erupted from the wound, spattering my face and armor. It smelled like burnt hair and sour milk. Its limbs thrashed wildly, one of its serrated feet catching my arm and adding a fresh new gash to my collection before I could yank the sword free and stumble away.
The Grotesque staggered for a moment, its multiple eyes glazing over. It took two wobbly steps, then collapsed in on itself with a final, shuddering sigh. The silence it left behind was deafening, broken only by my ragged, gasping breaths and the slow, steady drip…drip…drip of its fluids pooling on the floor.
[You killed a Cave Grotesque] [Lvl 5][Rewards:]
[Grotesque feet x6]
[Lens x4]
[50XP]
I leaned against the wall, sliding down to a sitting position. My leg was a symphony of agony. Adrenaline began its inevitable retreat, leaving behind a throbbing, all-encompassing pain.
“A rather visceral display,” Bartholomew commented, appearing as if from nowhere. He padded over, his fluffy gray tail held high, and sniffed disdainfully at the corpse. “Though your form lacks any semblance of elegance. Raw aggression is a tool for barbarians, not heroes-in-training.”
“Shove it, you pretentious furball,” I wheezed, clutching my leg. The blood was soaking through the tattered linen, warm and sticky. “I think I’m going to need more than a Hello Kitty band-aid for this.”
He peered at my wounds, his green eyes clinical.
“Indeed. Your defensive posture is appalling. However, the energy you absorbed from the last creature should be sufficient. Focus, Mistress Paige. Reach inward. Find the spark of life that now burns a trifle brighter within you.”
“What are you, my yoga instructor? I’m bleeding out here!”
“Exaggeration is unbecoming,” he sniffed. “Now, place your hand over the wounds. Do not simply touch them. Will them to close. The incantation is simple, even for a novice such as yourself. ‘Minor Heal.’”
“What, no fancy ancient tongue this time?”
“Cease your yammering for once and just do as I say.”
It sounded ridiculous. Like something from the D&D game my ex used to drag me to. But at this point, I was willing to try anything. I closed my eyes, took a shaky breath, and laid my trembling hand over the worst of the gashes on my thigh. I tried to ‘reach inward,’ whatever the hell that meant, focusing on the faint warmth that always seemed to hum just beneath my skin in this world.
“Minor Heal,” I whispered.
A gentle, pale green light bloomed from my palm, sinking into my flesh. It felt like warm honey, soothing and surprisingly gentle. The sharp, searing pain dulled to a manageable ache. I pulled my hand away and stared. The deepest cuts were still there, but they were no longer gaping. The flesh had knitted together, leaving angry red lines where open wounds had been moments before. The bleeding had stopped completely.
“Holy shit,” I breathed. “It actually worked.”
“Of course it worked,” Bartholomew said, sounding bored. “It is rudimentary magic. Do try to keep up.”
Just as I was about to fire back a retort, a sound chimed in my head. It was a soft, melodic ding, like a notification on a minimalist mobile game. Before my very eyes, shimmering in the air like a heat haze, a translucent blue box appeared.
[LEVEL UP!][You have reached Level 4] [All attributes increased!] [New Skill Unlocked: Inspect]
I stared at the celestial pop-up ad with mild disinterest. Cool. But what the hell was inspect? A new message appeared:
[Skill: Inspect][Allows you to learn about an item by studying it.][Non-Magical, Requires Concentration, Does not apply to creatures.]
The blue box faded away. I felt a subtle, but distinct, surge of energy flow through me. The ache in my leg subsided even further. I felt stronger. More solid.
I pushed myself to my feet, testing my weight on the injured leg. It held, protesting only with a distant throb. I looked from the quickly congealing puddle of Grotesque goo on the floor, to the faint, silvery scars now tracing my skin and then to the empty space where my level-up notification had been.
“Level Four,” I said to the empty corridor, the words tasting like ash and irony. “Fantastic.”