Dungeon End offered an impressive level of skill customization. In fact, that feature alone was likely what kept me engaged with the game for the past ten years.

  However, having endless options didn’t mean they were easy to obtain. In fact, acquiring new skills was often a frustrating challenge, relying heavily on luck rather than strategy. If fortune wasn’t on your side, you could struggle for an extended period—sometimes failing to gain a single new skill well into the mid-game. The early stages? Utterly grueling.

  “Ooze.”

  I said the name aloud, and in an instant, a tiny, slimy blob materialized in my hand—a squishy green glob that barely filled my palm. It didn’t reek, thank God, but the texture was unsettling, and its constant jiggling only added to the discomfort.

  To think, this unimpressive little blob cost me an entire mana point.

  What a joke.

  “Ten times. That’s all I have. Just ten small uses, and then it’s gone. Ten instances of… nothingness.”

  The game features two types of skills: active and passive.

  Passive skills function automatically. Some are continuously active, while others activate only under specific conditions. For instance, my Bloodzerker’s skill, Blood Rage, is a passive ability—it doesn’t consume mana and remains active at all times.

  Active skills, like this underwhelming Ooze, consume mana with every use. At just one mana per activation, Ooze was about as inexpensive as they get.

  Mana is directly linked to the Mentality stat. Since mine was ten, I had exactly ten mana points available. That meant I could summon ten slimy blobs before completely running out. To make things more challenging, mana in this game didn’t regenerate the average way.

  No potions, no gradual mana regeneration over time, and no specialized mana-recovery spells—not that I’d ever encountered any in all my years of playing. The only way to recover mana was through rest.

  Having more Mentality points meant having more mana, making it an incredibly valuable stat. My Bloodzerker had managed to endure for so long because his skills didn’t rely on mana. Instead, I focused primarily on increasing my Physical stat to maximize damage output.

  "Why couldn’t I have been given a skill like his?"

  Here I was, left with a skill that seemed useless in a game that offered no mercy. If I wanted to survive, I needed to find a way to turn this weak ability into something valuable.

  But how?

  There were a few methods to improve subpar skills, but most required additional abilities that were too expensive or involved obtaining them from dungeon monsters. For example, one monster on the early floors occasionally dropped the chance to acquire a poison skill, but it was rare and often overpriced.

  The most frustrating part? This monster didn’t even appear until several floors in, and with my current setup, I wouldn’t make it that far. Even if I managed to reach that specific floor, there was no guarantee the environment would be the same. Each floor had dozens of potential environments that could be generated upon entering, making everything uncertain.

  With no money to buy better skills, no way to farm them, and no gear to back me up, I seemed completely out of options.

  Or so I thought.

  "Classes!"

  Classes in Dungeon End offered another avenue for enhancing abilities. Each class came with its own unique traits, and some could even transform otherwise weak skills into something far more practical and effective.

  For instance, my Bloodzerker was incredibly powerful because I combined his Blood Rage skill with the Blood Mage class. The Blood Mage talents converted mana into life points and drained health from enemies. Together, this combination created a cycle of damage and healing that kept me alive far longer than I should have been able to manage.

  Thankfully, choosing a class was straightforward. Just before entering the dungeon, you selected one, and the moment you did, you gained access to its traits, which could instantly influence your chances of survival.

  The tricky part? The game had hundreds of classes to choose from.

  Fortunately, after all these years, I’d memorized most of them and understood what each one brought to the table. Choosing the right class wasn’t just important—it was critical for survival. In the dungeon, it could easily mean the difference between life and death.

  A few options immediately came to mind.

  Pyromancers? They boosted fire attacks by 20%.

  Paladins? A solid choice for resisting dark magic.

  And my personal favorite—the Harlequin, with its once-a-day guaranteed dodge trait.

  But none of those were going to cut it this time.

  I mean, what was the point of focusing on dodging if I wasn’t planning to use Ooze in combat? The same went for the Pyromancer—fire skill boosts were useless since my ability had nothing to do with fire. And Paladins? They were built for tanky characters who could take a beating, which… definitely wasn’t me.

  What I needed was a class that could turn Ooze into something practical, something I could actually work with.

  This was going to take some serious thought. I closed my eyes and started going through every class I could think of, one by one, hoping to land on the perfect match.

  Alchemist? No, mainly for potion-making, and even if Ooze counted as an ingredient, it wouldn’t be enough to create anything worthwhile.

  Berserker? No, their trait only worked when health drops below 50%, but I’m way too fragile to take that kind of risk.

  Cleric? Great for healing, but completely useless in this situation.

  Druid? Boosts spirit companions, but I don’t have one.

  Elementalist? Enhances elemental damage, but I don’t have any elemental skills.

  Fighter? Melee-focused. Not exactly helpful for me.

  Guardian? Decent for defense, but it’s a support role—and I’m flying solo here.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Harlequin? Could dodge once a day. Tempting, but that’s all it offers.

  Ice Mage? Same as Pyromancer, just with cold damage instead of fire. Still irrelevant.

  Juggernaut? Built for heavy armor and physical strength, neither of which I have.

  Knight? Another frontline defender. Definitely not my style.

  Locksmith? Good for disarming traps, but this class is so common I’d never stand out with my limited skillset.

  Marksman? Ranged weapons like bows—nothing that would work with Ooze.

  One by one, I crossed off the options, the frustration building with each rejection.

  And then, I stopped.

  Necromancer.

  Necromancer!

  "This... this might actually work," I muttered, a small spark of hope igniting within me.

  Has it really been that long? I’d almost forgotten about the Necromancer class.

  To be fair, it wasn’t a class I’d spent much time exploring back then. Its unique trait stood out, but it didn’t always seem immediately practical.

  The more I thought about it, the more fragments of old memories came back to me. When a skill truly synced with the Necromancer’s abilities, it didn’t just work well—it completely changed how the game was played. It was like unlocking an entirely new playstyle.

  “Wow, has it really been that long? I almost forgot about that character—my Weaponmancer.”

  Yeah, another made-up name. Like my Bloodzerker, I came up with Weaponmancer to perfectly describe what the character could do.

  The Weaponmancer combined the crafting skill Weapon Craft with the Necromancer’s core trait. Unlike straightforward classes like the Pyromancer, which simply boosted elemental damage, the Necromancer’s trait had a unique twist.

  “What was it called again? Right—Animus.”

  [Necromancer Trait: Animus]

  [This trait allows the Necromancer to infuse latent life force into inanimate objects, turning them into animated constructs that obey the Necromancer's will.]

  It was like granting a heartbeat to the inanimate, breathing life into cold steel. With Animus, my character could transform weapons into loyal soldiers, ready to carry out my every command. Simple, effective, and undeniably impressive.

  The Weaponmancer I’d created was the perfect combination of crafting and command. With the Weapon Craft ability, I didn’t have to rely on waiting for new minions—I could simply create them myself.

  At first, I thought it was just a temporary gimmick, but the more I played, the stronger the synergy became. It felt like layering skill upon skill, creating a setup that kept growing stronger.

  At one point, the Weaponmancer transformed into a walking armory, surrounded by a swarm of self-forged weapons, all moving under my command.

  It wasn’t just a class—it was like carrying a personal army in my pocket.

  I’ll admit, I had grown attached. The versatility was unmatched. As the game progressed, I could upgrade to stronger materials and craft weapons that were more powerful and durable. It elevated the class from a standard fighter to a strategic powerhouse, capable of adapting to any challenge the game presented.

  “What a shame…”

  That Weaponmancer had been one of the most enjoyable characters I’d ever built. But that same character also taught me a lesson I hadn’t expected: betrayal—the kind that really stings.

  The Necromancer’s image was dark, edgy, and, let’s face it, more than a little unsettling. That alone made NPCs uneasy, especially those aligned with holy factions. In Dungeon End, NPCs weren’t just set dressing—they were part of a living, unpredictable world where anything could happen.

  You might be heading to a blacksmith to get your sword reforged, only to be ambushed by thieves out of nowhere. Or maybe you’re near the outskirts of a village when some local do-gooders decide it’s their duty to “take down the Necromancer.” Just another typical day in the life of a Necromancer in Dungeon End.

  I used to believe it was all advanced AI programming and clever scripting. But now, standing here, I realized I wasn’t dealing with just code. These were real people engaging with my character, reacting to my actions. They were out here making decisions in real-time, and I was just another person in their world for them to contend with.

  That’s when it clicked. Sure, there were dozens of classes to choose from, but picking one here wasn’t as straightforward as scrolling through a list. This place had its own social structure, a hierarchy where “who you are” carried just as much weight as what you could do. Even if a class perfectly matched your skills, you couldn’t just claim it outright because of something they referred to as “casteism.”

  In this world, casteism was more than just a social code—it was a rigid system that dictated how people lived. The hierarchy didn’t focus much on race; humans, elves, dwarves—they could coexist peacefully enough, as long as they mostly kept to themselves. But when it came to classes? That was an entirely different matter. Your worth wasn’t judged by your skills or abilities—it all came down to the title you carried.

  The first division was the hierarchy. Nobles sat at the top as the ruling class, while everyone else fell beneath them. Being born into nobility meant starting with better gear, better food, and just an overall better foundation. For non-nobles like me, it was a different story. We were bound by slave contracts, essentially stuck in servitude. Nobles held all the power, and if you weren’t born into their ranks, your role was clear: to help them maintain their grip on it.

  The second division was based on classes. Beyond the split between noble and non-noble, certain classes—like Necromancer—were branded as “evil.” That label didn’t just mean people kept their distance; it practically painted a target on your back. Those who picked classes like Necromancer or Warlock often carried a reputation for going rogue, destroying villages, dabbling in forbidden actions… essentially becoming the villains of the world. Choosing one of those classes was like hanging a sign around your neck that read, “Go ahead, ambush me.”

  And that brings me to betrayal. Dungeon End had a cruel way of driving the lesson home—a harsh reminder of how fragile trust could be. For me, that betrayal hit hard and fast. My Weaponmancer was leveling up like a dream, gaining power at an unbelievable pace. But all that progress didn’t just make me stronger—it made people uneasy. More specifically, it made my Cleric companion uneasy.

  This wasn’t just any Cleric. He was part of the holy faction—a group that prided itself on keeping the “dark classes” under control, something I hadn’t realized at the time. And apparently, that included keeping me in line.

  The stronger I became, the more uneasy he got. He knew what I was capable of and, as a Cleric, couldn’t stop worrying about what I might become. Necromancers had a reputation for going rogue, after all. The mere fact that I held power over life and death was enough to unsettle him.

  So, he called in a favor—or “guidance,” as he liked to call it. The church decided it wasn’t going to sit around and wait to see if I’d turn evil. Instead, they set up an ambush to take me out.

  “Self-righteous hypocrites,” I muttered. “Pulling something so underhanded while preaching about righteousness.” I shook my head, that familiar sting of betrayal creeping back in. I really liked that character.

  That was the day I realized “companion” didn’t automatically mean “trustworthy.” You couldn’t just join forces with anyone here; trust had to be earned, and bonds had to be built. For certain classes, like Necromancer, the challenge was even greater. Prejudice and fear warped people’s perception of so-called “evil” classes, making it that much harder to gain acceptance.

  I realized then that choosing a class wasn’t just about becoming powerful; it was about survival. Not just in the dungeon, but outside of it as well.

  And yet, here I was—back at square one, no better off than when I first tried my luck as a Weaponmancer. Did I even have a choice? If I went with Necromancer again, would I just be setting myself up for the same failure?

  The thought circled in my mind as I scanned the list of classes again. There were others—Warrior, Mage, Hunter—but none of them matched the potential that the Necromancer offered. Risks aside, I knew deep down this was my best shot.

  Years of gaming instinct told me as much.

  “So be it,” I muttered, a mix of determination and unease settling over me. “For now, survival is all that matters. If I have to keep my class a secret, then so be it.”

  With my decision made, a twinge of excitement flickered within me, even as I acknowledged the risks. Tomorrow, when the dungeon opens, I’ll choose the Necromancer class again —and face whatever comes my way.

  Book 1, you can find the full version available on . Happy reading!