---
Heal!... Heal!... Heal—! I said heal, goddammit!
Blood soaked the stone floor beneath his knees.
"It can't end like this…" Aron gasped, clinging to life by sheer force of will. A jagged spear protruded from beneath his ribs. Each breath burned like fire. His mana was almost gone—he could feel it flickering like a dying candle.
"I hope Ron made it out… this is all my fault—it always is. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Ron… Ariel… I'm such a fool."
He coughed, blood splattering the stone. A strange, almost hysterical laugh escaped his lips.
"Argh… the bleeding won't stop. I always thought getting a weapon thrown through you would be kind of cool…" he snorted, "…Turns out, it sucks."
Using the wall, Aron dragged himself upright. Everything ached. His skin was pale from blood loss, and his tunic clung to his chest, torn and slick with gore.
"I don't even know where I am anymore," he muttered. "I made them follow me away from Ron. I thought I was helping…"
And then it happened—the dungeon shifted.
The walls rumbled. The corridors warped. The room around him... changed.
"What? No. Nonono—!" he cursed, slamming his hand against the wall. "The dungeon changed! That's not fair! How do I exit this damn place?!"
Then he remembered.
A tale Ron once told him a story from ancient time's,A hero that was summoned in hopes to defeat the demon king.It became a myth, but legends said that that hero entered,A dungeon that twisted itself. A maze no one ever escaped from.
"That hero never returned…"
He fell to his knees. Silent. Shaking. Broken.
But then—something flickered inside him. A whisper.
They'll think I'm so cool if I escape this… if I do what a hero couldn't.
A grin tugged at his lips—not the carefree one he always wore. A twisted, pain-warped smile. His fists clenched.
"If I can't escape… I'll clear it. This dungeon will be my home now."
---
The Descent Begins
Aron changed.
He survived.
Every day blurred into the next. A hellish routine of waking in darkness, running corridors, and fighting. Sometimes, golems. Sometimes the undead. The spear that nearly killed him became his weapon. The thing he once cursed now saved him more times than he could count.
He trained. Fought. Bled.
He reinforced his body with healing magic, learning how to flood his muscles with life energy, repairing torn ligaments mid-battle, staying on his feet with broken bones. In time, his healing grew so precise that he could seal any wound in seconds. But old injuries—deep ones—remained.
They scarred him.
His body told the story of every battle. Slashes along his arms. Cracked knuckles. A jagged, cruel scar running from his cheekbone down to his jaw—a gift from a corrupted knight's blade.
His hair grew long, a tangled mess that reached his back. A beard formed on his jaw, coarse and wild. He looked like a man twice his age—grizzled, hardened. His face had lost its softness, replaced by shadowed eyes that had seen too much.
Magic? Useless against stone.
So, he stopped relying on it.
His fists became his weapons. He shattered golems with brute force. His body transformed—raw muscle built from desperation. His healing magic was now a last resort. He didn't need it as much anymore.
"I've become strong…" he whispered once, crushing a golem's skull with a single punch, "...but I feel so empty."
---
Time passed—he didn't know how long.
The dungeon toyed with him. He mapped his routes. Studied the shifts. Every time he reached what he thought was the exit, it looped him back to the beginning.
Floor 1.
Again and again.
The first time he punched the dungeon wall, it broke his hand.
The tenth time, the wall cracked.
He laughed when that happened. Laughed so hard he nearly cried.
"Ron, Ariel… you'd be proud of me. Look how strong I've gotten…"
But his smile faded.
"And yet I'm still trapped. Still helpless… like I was that day."
---
Sitting atop the remains of a golem, Aron stared into the darkness.
"I know I said this place would be my home…" he muttered, "…but I'm tired."
His voice echoed.
"I want to go back."
His body was filthy. Clothes torn. Skin covered in grime and scars. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from longing. The only thing keeping him going were the thoughts of Ron and Ariel.
"I'll tell her I love her…" he said quietly, "when I get out of here."
But his thoughts turned darker.
"No. Maybe this is all my fault. Ariel joined the Guild because of me. Ron, too. I dragged them into this…"
His fists clenched.
"Please… be safe."
He picked up the rusty spear and stood.
"I'll find you."
---