Chapter 13
Avan stepped into the *Tower of Akkalon*, the dungeon’s threshold humming beneath his enchanted boots, their rune-stitched leather scuffing faintly against the white marble floor. The massive double doors groaned shut behind him, sealing the goblin-infested tunnels outside, their stench replaced by the dry, dusty air of ancient corridors. A faint blue glow pulsed from runes embedded in the walls, casting a dim, ethereal light that bathed the hallway, rendering his torch unnecessary. He tucked it into his backpack, the weight of his spear a comforting presence against his shoulder as Horny hopped beside him, ears twitching in the stillness.
The walls stretched high, adorned with murals—scenes of robed figures locked in combat, their stances fluid yet precise, fists and staffs striking down shadowy beasts. Avan paused, tracing the carvings with his fingers, *Identification* (Lv. 2) pinging faintly: Depictions of battle monks, style unknown, purpose unclear. “Monks, huh?” he muttered, voice echoing softly. “No runes, just poses—fighting stances, maybe?” His *Origin Language – Runescript of the Origin* stirred, teasing fragments of meaning, but nothing concrete emerged. Could be useful— old Earth's Wing Tsun got limits. He filed the thought away, steps resuming with a confident rhythm, the dungeon’s mana thrumming through his *Celestial Dungeonheart* sphere, a ten-meter radius of awareness pulsing around him.
The hallway stretched on, the blue glow steady, the air thick with ambient mana—a dense, vibrant contrast to the thin threads outside. His core hummed, the *Seed of Origin* resonating with it, silver and violet threads sparking faintly beneath his skin. First dungeon—monsters, traps, loot. Let’s see what you’ve got. A grin tugged at his lips, the goblin horrors fading behind a surge of curiosity, the weight of Yue’s grief and the pyre’s ashes momentarily set aside. He needed this—a distraction, a purpose, something to channel the simmering rage still coiled in his gut.
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Meanwhile, beneath Cyntha’s cobblestone streets, in a damp, shadow-cloaked hideout, chaos erupted. A wiry man burst through the iron-bound door, his ragged cloak flapping, breath ragged from a desperate sprint. “They messed it up, Adrian!” he shouted, voice cracking with panic. “All of it! The goblins—dead! Some damn adventurer stumbled into our setup, killed them all, even freed one of the girls! She’s at the guild now, spilling everything—we’ve gotta run before they piece it together and come for us!”
Adrian, a hulking figure draped in a tattered robe, sat hunched over a table littered with vials and bloody tools, his scarred hands pausing mid-motion. His eyes—cold, predatory—flickered with irritation, imagining the screamer’s throat torn out by his pet wolfhounds, their growls a low rumble from the corner. Then the words sank in, and his rage flared, a snarl twisting his lips. “You idiot!” he hissed, slamming a fist down, shattering a glass vial, green liquid hissing as it hit the stone floor. “Stop yelling and explain—or I’ll feed you to the breeders myself! Who did this? What happened to my goblins?”
The lackey flinched, sweat beading on his brow, his voice dropping to a trembling whisper as fear overtook bravado. “I-I was first scouting near the caves—then heard it from a guild runner. Some kid, low-level, nobody special. Came out of nowhere, wiped out the nest—the two brutes, three fodder, all dead. Freed a fox-kin girl, Yue, she’s at the guild now, talking. They’re linking the missing women, the corpses—won’t be long ‘til they trace it back!”
Adrian’s face darkened, a vein pulsing at his temple. His goblins—his carefully bred tools, his experiment in chaos—slaughtered by some meddling, unknown whelp? He surged to his feet, towering over the man, and seized his neck, fingers crushing with brutal strength. The lackey gurgled, eyes bulging, clawing at Adrian’s arm, but within seconds, his body went limp, a lifeless sack dangling from the monster breeder’s grip. With a sneer, Adrian tossed the corpse aside, wolfhounds lunging from the shadows, tearing into flesh with wet snaps and growls.
He stormed out, robe billowing, the hideout’s damp air clinging to his skin as he sought his co-conspirators—shadowy figures lurking in Cyntha’s underbelly, bound by greed and cruelty. “Unacceptable,” he muttered, voice a low growl. “Some brat dares ruin my work? Here, in my domain?” The boy’s location was a mystery—he hadn’t entered Cyntha yet it seems—but the girl, Yue, was a target he could reach. Torture her, break her—get every scrap of info, then breed her into something new. A twisted smile curled his lips, anticipation coiling in his chest as he vanished into the tunnels, new improvised plans sharpening with every step.
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Avan reached the hallway’s end, an archway looming ahead, its stone frame unadorned, promising the dungeon’s depths. His mind buzzed with his newfound mana sense—the soul’s ocean within, the ambient waves around him—still raw, unrefined, but thrilling. Goblins are done—time to explore to clear my head. Yet, as he neared the arch, a glint caught his eye—a narrow gap in the right wall, just wide enough for a person to squeeze through, its edges rough, shadowed, unlike the polished corridor. It looked more like a crack.
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Curiosity flared, the archway forgotten. “Oh?” he murmured, stepping closer, *Identification* pinging: Hidden passage, purpose unknown. Big enough for me—something’s back there, dimmer than out here. He grinned, pragmatic thrill overriding caution. Not meant to be seen, huh? Let’s check it out. He sidled into the gap, Horny wriggling after him, the stone scraping his jacket as he emerged into a small chamber, lit by a faint yellow glow—weaker, warmer than the dungeon’s blue.
A plain door stood before him, less grand than the entrance, but its surface shimmered with runes—simpler, yet denser, etched in patterns that tugged at his *Origin Language*. Someone studied these deep—same base as the big doors, but different flavor. He pondered, hand brushing the stone. Rune dialects? Levels of complexity? Gotta ask Yue about this world’s rune script and written language. Without overthinking, he pressed his right palm to the center, *Origin Energy Manipulation* (Lv. 3) channeling mana—silver and violet threads flowing—but the runes only glowed brighter, unyielding.
“Huh,” he frowned, stepping back. Not enough—something’s off. He sank to the floor, legs crossed, the narrow space cramped but workable, and closed his eyes, breathing deep. Meditation had helped him unlocking the dungeon doors; it could crack this too. His soul bloomed within—an ocean, vast and calm, rippling as he touched it—while ambient mana threaded around him, denser here, weaving through stone and air. His sphere stretched, sensing a bronze vein in the left wall, its metallic tang a faint pulse, and then—unlike the main doors—he pierced the barrier, perceiving beyond.
A room unfolded in his mind: white marble floor, bookshelves sagging with decayed tomes, a stone table, rotted wooden chairs crumbled to dust. Two runes glowed on the door’s inner side, distinct—one higher, one lower. Different vibe—let’s try. He focused, mana flowing to the upper rune; it drank greedily, but nothing moved. The lower rune, though, triggered a rumble, the walls trembling as the door swung inward, an airtight seal cracking with a hiss, centuries of stale air rushing out.
Avan leapt up, heart pounding, but darting through before it could possibly snap shut. The hall beyond sprawled wide—fifty meters across, shelves towering over two meters, books crumbled into dust, their pages devoured by time. Yet some stood intact, faint runes glowing around them on the shelves, seemingly preserving their contents. He circled the central stone table, fingers brushing leather spines, *Identification* pinging: Ancient texts, Order of Akkalon, partial decay. “Not a nonfiction guy back home,” he chuckled, “but this? This I like.” The thrill of discovery outweighed his usual disinterest, the dungeon’s secrets tugging at him.
The door thudded shut, and a hidden panel slid open opposite—a smaller chamber, stone table, chair, shelf, and a moss-covered bed, soft and inviting. Avan beelined for the shelf, finding two pristine books, leather-bound and unmarred. Special—hidden for a reason. He carried them back, settling at the table under the room’s starry rune-light, popping a *Golden Meaple* into his mouth, its juice a burst of sweetness. “Forgot water—dumbass,” he muttered, smacking his forehead, resolving to surface soon.
The first book, a teacher’s diary, chronicled the Order of Akkalon—battle monks wielding healing and combat in tandem. It reminded him of a web novel he had read back home, something called Azarinth Healer. Avan smiled with fond memories and continued reading.. Faded pages detailed acolyte training: mastering fighting stances -like the murals- and knowing body and soul through meditation. Two keys—stances and self-awareness. The second listed the teacher’s gear—staff, robe, coins—and a now-useless glossary of lost books. Staff’d beat this spear—robe’d fit better too. He pocketed the books, then paused as a voice cut through the silence.
“Young sir, please leave those books—they’re not for taking,” it said, calm but firm. “I’d rather avoid violence, but I’ll enforce it if needed.” Avan jolted, dropping into a stance, *Sphere* sweeping—no threats. “Who’s there?” he called, sheepish at the empty air. A laugh answered, and a figure shimmered into view—a worm, mustached, bespectacled, scholar’s hat perched atop. “I’m the *Bookworm* of Akkalon’s secret library,” it said, bowing.
Avan tried to hide it, then roared with laughter, collapsing back on the chair. “*Bookworm*? For real? The bow—muahaha!” The creature’s absurdity—eyes, hat, manners—undid him, Avan's giggles persisting as it glared. “Sorry, sorry, too funny and sudden,” he gasped, calming. “You live here?” The *Bookworm* sighed, sour. “Eight hundred years, guarding this place, guiding acolytes to the healer class. You’re the first in five centuries. Ask nicely, and I might help—but no stealing!” It vanished, leaving Avan chastened.
He set the books down, mumbling, “Sorry,” and lightened his pack—clothes, bow, arrows—making room for berries. Back outside of the caves and the dungeon, he refilled his flask at a creek, *Identification* tagging edible fruits—tart, cherry-like—and then returned to the dungeon, backpack full with edibles and water. In the hallway, he mimicked the mural stances, *Dexterity* (25) aiding his form, practicing for hours until exhaustion won. When fatigue completely kicked in, he slumped on the moss bed, which was cool and soft, and as the second day on this strange new world ended, he drifted off, mind swirling with monks, runes, and a worm’s dry wit.
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