Buck’s heart hung heavy in his chest like a rotten fruit. It hurt and was swollen with guilt. The stories of what he’d done festered in his mind, a chorus of whispers painting him as the villain of his own legend. It ate away at his every thought. The tribes saw him as a demon. A butcher. The thing mothers named to scare kids when they were misbehaving.
He needed a change. He needed to escape the rhythm of slaughter. Needed to stop pretending his hands weren’t stained.
“Evander,” Buck said, grabbing another suspiciously chewy coyote kebab from the fire. “Tell me again about these Dungeons. You were pretty insistent that I enter one before.”
“Finally showing interest?” Evander wiped grease from his whiskers with a dignity reserved for kings and raccoons. “I’d nearly given up hope after your pathetic squeamishness over that slime. Mark my words, Blackwood, you’ll yearn for the days’ disgusting’ just meant gelatinous.”
William’s translucent form shimmered with amusement. “Ain’t nothing squeamish ’bout avoidin” that mess. I’d take a nest o’ rattlers over cleanin’ up after this furball any day. He ain’t what you’d call a tidy trail hand.”
“Master,” Flint said, kebab grease glistening on his chin like ceremonial warpaint. “I do not understand the ramblings of this ghastly figure.”
“The Dungeon?” Buck swatted away Flint’s confusion like a gnat.
Evander sat up a bit straighter. “Of course. As I stated in our prior discussion, Dungeons are the Root’s crucibles. Trails that forge Titles and Skills beyond what the open world offers.” His tiny paws gestured wildly. “They allow for Peasants and Citizens alike the opportunity to test their strength against whatever lies within.”
By this point, Evander had stood up, basking in the rapt attention of the party sitting around the campfire. “What you find within is…improvised. Bev provides prizes, but her control ends where the fun begins.”
“Can Flint go with me?” Buck’s fingers tightened around the kebab stick. The thought of facing the Dungeon alone made his ribs feel like a birdcage. He didn’t know if he wanted to complete the Dungeon alone. The only thing keeping him sane right now was making sure the stoic idiot didn’t get himself killed.
As if on cue, Flint spoke, “Master, what is this word? Cote?”
“It’s a coyote, you magnificent philistine,” Evander sighed. “The fact that you both have survived this long is a story for the ages. Yes, Blackwood, Flint may accompany. Solitude in a Dungeon is for poets and corpses. The memories pulled from the Eidolon are often… disfigured.”
“Ah. Fascinating” Flint returned to Buck’s notes, reading with the focus of a scholar documenting eldritch grocery lists.
Buck exhaled. “The Eidolon?”
Evander steepled his paws like a villainous librarian. “Write this down, lest you die ignorant and embarrass me. It is quite important to understand this before entering the Dungeon.”
He paused, waiting expectantly. With a sigh, Buck grabbed a piece of necromantic paper, poking himself with the quill and preparing to write. “Good. The Eidolon is harvested memories of those who died during Integration. These memories are then used by the Root to populate all the Dungeons of the world. It stitches them together like a taxidermist with existential dread. Enter, and you’ll relive them—or what’s left after the Root ‘adjusts’ reality.”
Buck’s gut lurched. “Wait—not everyone survived Integration? You told me before that everyone got sent to the Tutorials?”
“By Lucius’s cursed backside, no!” Evander cackled. “The Root doesn’t want everyone. It wants entertainment. It wants power.”
The campfire crackled like a failing heartbeat. Not everyone made it. His wife could’ve burned away in an instant, her last scream folded into the Root’s tapestry of suffering. Was his quest to save her just some demented fever dream? Was he doomed to hunt for her forever just to find her soul consumed by the very thing that was keeping him alive?
Evander tossed a raspberry at Buck’s head. “Oh, stop. Do not worry yourself, Blackwood. It is based on population density. The Root does not wish for a high death toll right at the outset of an Integration. You say your wife was just to the north of this forest? If that is true, her chances of survival are very high. If she were still in that city you say you’re from, she would almost certainly be dead. However, she could have died another way. Impossible to know.”
Buck gritted his teeth. “You said the memories are ‘disfigured.’”
“Like a funhouse mirror made of grief.” Evander’s eyes gleamed. “As you have seen with the local flora and fauna, the Root cannot create—only twist. Look at the jackalope we find ourselves pitted against. You say these things did not actually live pre-integration? Existing only in tales and mythos? Now they’re our very own hooved nightmares. The Eidolon does the same with memories. Takes dreams and turns them into roller coasters… with teeth.”
Evander paused. The fire spitting embers like a warning.
“The Viewers,” Buck muttered.
Evander waddled over to the [Leaderboard], tapping it with the gravitas of a gambler rolling dice:
Sector 95.8Y
856th Integration Ranking
- Point Pleasant Kingdom
- Gulf of Mexico Kingdom
- Stonehenge Kingdom
- Hawkesbury Kingdom
- Osaka Kingdom
- Mesopotamian Kingdom
- Cliffs of Moher Kingdom
- Himalayan Kingdom
- Roanoke Kingdom
- Bern Kingdom
“We’re gloriously irrelevant,” Evander announced. “No one mourns if you die screaming in a Dungeon. Though do try to make it entertaining, I’d love to watch the replay once the Convergence begins.”
Buck stared. The names glared back, a gravestone roster of a butchered world. The Root had devoured Earth like a starved god crunching through an apple core, spitting out seeds to sprout Kingdoms like some garden of nightmares.
How many people were still alive? Millions? Thousands? A dozen unlucky bastards?
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Gods, what were they facing? His mind raced. Stonehenge’s standing stones now walked, crushing all who dared stand in their path. Osaka’s neon street signs writhed, having grown teeth and appetites, their glow revealing things with too many joints scurrying between buildings.
But the Gulf of Mexico—what Lovecraftian horror festered in those sunken depths? And Bern? Had the Swiss been turned into cuckoo-clock cyborgs?
“Master!” Flint’s voice shattered the moment. He clutched Buck’s journal with the reverence of a prophet handed divine scripture. “I have acquired the [Reading] Skill. Ah. These symbols now resolve into… words. Many words.”
Evander squinted at Flint like a biologist considering a disappointing specimen. “Congratulations. Only seven days to achieve what most manage in kindergarten. Truly, we witness evolution in reverse.” He turned back to Buck. “Now, before you embark on your three-day vacation in existential horror—a favor.” His whiskers twitched. “Our defenses here are as robust as a house of cards in a hurricane. Those jackalopes will overrun us if you die… which is likely.”
“What exactly am I supposed to do?” Buck snapped. “Go full genocide? That’s not happening.”
Evander’s sigh could have powered a small wind turbine. “You are pitiful. My recommendation? Do exactly that. Slaughter them. We can use their corpses to create an army of our own without worrying about any ties they may have. Dead things tell no tales or seek revenge.”
“No,” Buck carried the finality of a slamming tomb.
“No?” Evander’s pitch climbed like a teakettle reaching its boiling point. “Unless you’ve miraculously pulled the ability to re-write all of known history, I recommend you start getting used to the reality of this world. You cannot…I repeat…You cannot survive without defeating your enemies. Especially by enemies literally designed to hunt you down and turn your death into an inspirational folk song!”
The worst part? The furry little bastard was right. Buck’s hands clenched. “Fine.”
“Fine? That’s your grand epiphany?” Evander tapped his foot with the impatience of a DM waiting for a player to finally take the plot hook.
Buck grabbed his notes from Flint. “Traps. I sketched some ideas. Spikes, pitfalls, maybe a trebuchet if we get ambitious. But help’s needed. Wait—” His brain finally processed the math. “Three days? Since when do Dungeons come with a limit?”
Evander blinked with Oscar-worthy innocence. “Did I neglect to mention? The Root runs on a strict schedule. Seventy-two hours—success, failure, or mental breakdown, and you’re forcibly ejected. Usually vomiting and sobbing.”
Buck stood. The firelight carving shadows under his eyes like a woodcut of dread. “Then we start now.”
—-
[25:22:48]
The forest surrounding their makeshift Kingdom was now a gauntlet of teeth and treachery. Pitfall traps yawned beneath camouflage, snares hung like drunken spiders, and deadfalls perched with the patience of executioners. Corpse Seekers lurked in the canopy—Evander’s unblinking sentinels—while a horde of [Rodents of Totally Normal Size] patrolled the camp, their tiny eyes gleaming with unnatural obedience.
Buck exhaled. Not perfect, but it was the best he could do without turning the camp into a war crime.
There were just too many things to think about. At some point, he had to trust his friends. Even if one was a literal ghost, another a hamster-sized tyrant, and the last a jackalope who’d once eaten a map instead of reading it.
“Master.” Flint’s voice cut through his thoughts. The jackalope stood at the tree line, his fur dusted with sawdust and murderous intent. “If we wish to reach the [Rats Nest] before sundown, we must leave now.”
Buck didn’t need to say anything. They set off after double-checking the map and placing it back into his Bottomless Bag. The [Rats Nest] was a six journey by foot. Which a month ago would’ve caused Buck an unquestionable amount of dread. Now, the half-marathon through a forest filled with all manner of nightmares felt more like a casual jog.
Still, he didn’t know what would happen if he had to fight again. He felt it deep within him, an indomitable pressure, an unwillingness to kill. He had to get over it. This wasn’t the world that he found himself in. Hells, The Cracked Kingdom’s entire motto was to literally ‘go out and kill stuff.’
Still, Buck found himself giving each beast he sensed a wide berth. With his [Sneak] Skill growing ever closer to Level 25, he found it wasn’t even hard. They could maintain a healthy jog while remaining completely silent. It was almost… cathartic. Buck couldn’t help but smile to himself. He hadn’t felt the wind rushing past him like this since he was a child. If only he had some hair.
The duo arrived at the [Rats Nest] right on schedule. The Nest’s entrance was a gaping maw of mucus and regret, the setting sun stretching its shadows like fingers from a grave. Buck’s stomach churned. He hated goo. Hated its squish, its schlorp, its audacity to exist in states of both wet and dry.
“Plan’s simple,” Buck said, swatting a glob of slime off his knee. “I’m the bait. You’re the blender.”
Flint would tank. Buck would lurk as mist, leeching rodents’ Endurance like a supernatural parasite. All while Flint power-leveled toward his [Class]. Simple.
Buck would only intervene if necessary. His bodyguard had grown significantly stronger since his rebirth, but Buck was seeing for the first time how long it truly took to level up in this world. Hopefully, this little adventure would change that.
Waiting until a pair of rodents ran out into the forest, the duo stalked forward, approaching the slippery orifice. As planned, Buck phased through his bodyguard and took the lead, keeping the ability active. Falling to his hands and knees, Buck took a steadying breath and began to crawl forward.
Then the smell hit.
It wasn’t just rot or rat shit—it was a presence thick enough to chew. The tunnel walls glistened with swamp-green goop, dripping like a dying dragon with indigestion. Every crawl forward squelched, every handhold sucked at his skin like a hungry leech. Flint, now resembling a half-melted candle, grimaced.
Drip, drip, drip.
Thankfully, it didn’t seem like any of the rodents with the nest knew that they were there. Or at least they were far enough away they didn’t care. Buck couldn’t help but wish his [Basic Hunter] worked with the skittering beasts. Their expertise in the [Sneak] Skill still hid them from all of Buck’s senses.
They were going in blind. Blind and covered in [Embryonic Goo].
[Congratulations! Your Spelunking Skill has increased to 12]
Buck froze. This counted as a cave? This tunnel resembled a colon after a bad taco night—glistening, pulsating, and deeply offended by its own existence. But if Bev said so…
With a flick of his eyes, Buck looked up towards the mini-map on his interface. A crisp, glowing outline of the tunnel materialized. After all this time, [Basic Caver] proved its worth once again.
“Master,” Flint whispered, “I have acquired the [Spelunking] Skill.”
Buck whirled. “Flint. What part of ‘stealth mission’ sounds like ‘monologue time’ to you?”
Too late.
The gooey walls quivered like a gelatinous chandelier in an earthquake. Ripples spread—forward, backward, probably into next Tuesday. Buck and Flint became statues, praying to gods who definitely hated them.
Silence.
Buck exhaled. Maybe the Root was feeling merciful—
Then: Chittering.
Not just a sound—a tsunami of needle teeth gnashing in the dark, surging closer. The walls themselves seem to scream lunchtime.
Buck turned to Flint, his expression a masterpiece of resigned suffering. “Stick close, buddy. If we die, I’m drafting a strongly worded complaint to the Root’s customer service.”