The plane's wreckage and the clearing around it had become their temporary boarding room complete with curfew and barred windows. They couldn’t leave. The idea of hauling a several-ton chunk of fuselage through that forest was a joke. The trees were as thick as small buildings and stretched up so high they blocked out entire sections of the sky. Even if they all poured every System-granted stat into Strength and spent a day digging the buried nose section out, the undergrowth was a solid wall of thorns and tangled objections. They were stuck.
So they all waited for the 24-hour Side Quest timer to run out. Most of them, anyway.
David’s own routine was a study in practicality. He drank water that tasted of leaves. He ate strips of tough, smoky meat that required more chewing than it was worth. The culinary highlight of my day, he thought, is something that would make a stray dog hesitate.
Between meals, he practiced. He cycled his demonic energy, feeling the corrosive tingle of it in his veins, and ran through dagger drills until his shoulder ached.
He saw Henderson watching him from near the smoking pit, the young man’s face drawn.
“Does that… hurt?” Henderson asked, his voice low.
David looked from the faintly shimmering blade to Henderson’s anxious face. “It feels like convincing a very angry cat to let you hold it. Mostly it’s just tedious.”
Henderson nodded slowly, not getting the joke, his gaze drifting back towards the forest where his friend had died. The interaction was over. David preferred it that way.
He went back to work, cycling energy, testing the dagger’s weight. The blade was comfortable now, not an extension, but good enough to keep him alive, hopefully—a sharp piece of bad intentions that could slice through a critter in one clean motion. He tested its limits, finding that while it sheared through wood and softer metals from the wreckage with ease, the thicker, hardened steel alloys of the main frame only got a deep groove for his effort. Good to know. Demonic energy, when channeled, could briefly reinforce the metal of the dagger itself, letting it withstand impacts that should have shattered it. That was the theory, anyway. He wasn't eager to test its breaking point.
As dusk settled, he found a spot near the relative shelter of the cockpit, leaning against a torn seat. He activated [Calm Mind]. The skill didn't erase his thoughts, all it was did put them in neat, manageable boxes. Paranoia went in one. Rage at the whole situation went in another. The constant, low-grade fear of being eaten went into a third, locked box labeled 'Deal With Later,’ while the skill did the magical equivalent of playing relaxing music by a warm fire while supercharging his brain and turning every sense and focus up to eleven.
He cycled his energy again, watching the faint, fiery haze twirl around his fingers under [Calm Mind]'s effect. It was like handling live wires with oven mitts on. Manageable. Barely.
He ran through the calculations one more time. Food: scarce. Water: available, but a pain to get. Security: a joke. Threats: innumerable. His own capabilities: slowly, painfully, becoming less of a joke.
Satisfied, or as close to it as he was going to get, he let the rhythm of his breathing and the hum of the [Calm Mind] skill pull him under. He drifted off, a weapon resting in a temporary holster, waiting for the alarm to go off.
The three suns hung in the same spot they'd been in for what felt like a full day. Rhea had noticed it too. The sky stayed that same unsettling shade of red-pink, streaked with streaks of red and white, with clouds that sometimes looked like bloody cotton. It was like the sky was locked in a permanent scenic sunset. The wind never changed. It felt like being stuck inside a painting of a really nice apocalypse. A beautiful hellscape, David thought. One of those places you'd see on a postcard from a dimension where the local cuisine is people.
A few minutes before the Side Quest timer was up, a man stepped in front of him. He was maybe fifteen or twenty years older than David, his clothes somehow still holding a crease. His hair was too perfect, his Rolex stored under his sleeve, and a gold chain with a discreet but expensive-looking pendant was tucked just inside his collar, a failed attempt at looking humble.
"Slayer," the man said, like it was a confirmed title.
David just looked at him. Is that my name now? Do I get a membership card?
"Wyatt Lane." He extended a hand. David shook it out of sheer curiosity. The grip was firm, practiced.
"David, right? I've been watching you. Impressive skill set. You remind me of some very driven individuals I've had the pleasure of funding. I'll be direct. I'm not sure if you're into the crypto space or venture capital, but my name carries weight. Personal-island-level weight." He gave a slick, boardroom smile. "I'm prepared to offer significant compensation for your exclusive services in ensuring my safety. I understand you have other concerns, but passing this up would be a mistake. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."
David stared at him. Is this guy for real? Did he miss the part where we're in a demonic meat grinder?
"Okay," David said, his voice flat. "How much?"
"Excuse me?"
"The compensation. What's the number?"
Wyatt's smile widened, thinking he'd hooked him. "Twenty million dollars."
David waited. Wyatt just stood there, looking pleased with himself.
He said it like he was announcing the cure for cancer.
David waited. Wyatt didn't add ‘up front’ or ‘per day’. He just stood there, looking guaranteed.
Dumbass. Is this guy’s brain just a screensaver of dollar signs? David thought, a laugh bubbling up in his chest that felt a little too close to a cough. "What do you think happens if we get back to Earth?"
"You've lost me…"
"Twenty million? Right now, a kid like Jamie with an ice skill is probably worth hundreds of millions to the right government. In five years? People like us could be walking WMDs. Twenty million is what you pay a mid-level executive for a quiet retirement. It's an insult."
He couldn't hold it in anymore. A short, sharp bark of a laugh escaped. "Sorry, Wyatt. I get it, I do. But I'm not interested." The conversation was over. David looked away, toward the tree line. Wyatt started to say something else, his voice rising in pitch, but David just waved a hand in his direction, a dismissive flick. After a minute of sputtered protests, Wyatt stomped off, his polished composure cracking.
Guy really can't take no for an answer, David mused. Probably a first for him.
A notification sprung in his vision.
[Side quest completed]
Please choose one of the following rewards:
- Flint and Steel
- Wooden Bow
- Short Sword
- Leather Flask
- Small Shovel
- Plain Cloak
- Wooden Club
- Simple Bow
- Light Leather Armor
- Leather Bracers
- Chainmail Shirt
- Basic Plate Armor
- Wooden Shield
- Spear
- Dagger
- Leather Bracers with Etched Lines
- Halberd
- Battle Axe
- Flint and Blackened Steel
- Full Plate of the Zealot
- Crossbow with Scratched Sigils
- Short Sword with Faint Runes
- Pouch of Dried Rations
- Leather Flask of Dark Oil
- Small Hand Shovel
- Tattered Cloak
- Wooden Mace with Carved Eye
- Longbow with Dark Stain
- Light Leather Armor with Minor Sigils
- Chainmail Hauberk of the Initiate
- Shield of the Pit
- Pouch of Rations…
A list of rewards scrolled past his eyes. It was a mess. Hundreds of items with no order. Flint and Steel sat next to Full Plate of the Zealot. Pouch of Rations was above Shield of the Pit. Most of the good stuff—anything with "Sigils," "Runes," or a fancy name—was grayed out. None of the magically-names items could be selected. Why show me the sports car if I can only afford the bicycle? There had to be a hidden floor-requirement or something. A test.
He scrolled through the entire disorganized list. The enchanted gear was all locked. Swords were redundant; he could loot those from the possessed armor. His demonic energy could turn a stick into a weapon, but starting with a better stick was the point.
It came down to a spear or a halberd. A shield was useless if it was made of wood that would splinter against the first real hit. The spear was versatile. Reach for keeping things away. Could be used for hunting. The halberd was a dedicated killing tool, a combination of axe and spear he’d seen in some history documentary once. It was probably more lethal in the hands of an expert, but it was also heavier, more complex, and required getting closer. He didn't have time for a masterclass in medieval polearms. He needed to stay alive long enough to learn on the job.
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The spear was the obvious choice. It was simple. It gave him reach against things that wanted to get close. He could even try jabbing the point with a portal if he was feeling creative, though he assumed the magic that let a portal slice a man in half wouldn't have much trouble with wood, and could risk his own weapon.
He selected the spear.
It appeared in his hand. No light, no sound. One moment his hand was empty, the next the weight of it was settling into his palm, the butt resting on the grass. His heart hammered against his ribs. He hadn't blinked. He’d even had [Battle Sense] active, his demonic energy sharpening his perceptions, and he'd detected nothing. No spatial distortion, no energy signature. It was just… there.
Awesome, really, he thought, the anger a cold stone in his gut. One more completely undetectable, reality-breaking thing to add to the list.
He studied the spear. The shaft was a dark, sturdy wood, smooth and comfortable to grip. The head was a simple, leaf-shaped piece of dark metal, its weight giving the whole weapon a solid, balanced feel. It felt right in his hands. Manageable.
He gave it a few experimental swings, getting a sense for its weight and balance. It would take practice, but it was doable.
Not bad, he thought. Now I just need something to stick it in.
Satisfied, David pulled up the quest log.
[Quest]
Survive for 744 hours.
Rewards:
· Entrance to the second floor
· Access to Dungeon Forum
· 3 skill points
· 10 stat points
[Side Quests]
1. Kill the floor Sovereign
Rewards: - Unique Skill, Unique Equipment,
2. Kill 10,000 Dungeon beings
Rewards: - Unique Equipment, Skill,
…
5. Reach level 15
Rewards:
- Available Bloodline of your choice
Bloodline? The word stuck in his head. Like I get to pick a new rich uncle? Or is it more like inheriting a predisposition for heart disease and a weak chin? He’d seen stats, skills, even demonic energy, but this was new. What did "available" mean? That he was personally too much of a mundane bastard to qualify for the cool infernal genealogies, or that this particular hell-dimension dungeon floor just had a poor selection? Every time he learned one rule, two more popped up to confuse him. It was like trying to solve a Rubik's cube that kept growing new, differently-colored sides.
His eyes scanned the clearing, taking inventory. None of the passengers seemed to have any etched or glowing items, or even weapons covered in the tell-tale haze of supernatural energy he was slowly becoming familiar with. It seemed he wasn’t the only one being locked out of the good stuff. They all were.
Evans was testing the weight of a war hammer, his expression suggesting it was a poor substitute for his service weapon. Corbin was running his hands over a crossbow. A crossbow, David mused, the thought dry and clinical. Let’s review the data. A 9mm round from a Sig Sauer pissed off an imp. So the logical upgrade is a slower, single-shot projectile launched by a piece of string. Sure. Maybe the next ogre will be allergic to splinters.
Then he saw the little marketplace of desperation that had sprung up. Henderson was at the center of it, playing post-apocalyptic shopkeeper. He handed a short sword to a woman with a shaking hand. An axe to a man who nearly dropped it on his own foot. A few people clutched spears, which was the first smart thing he’d seen all day. But others… others were accepting the new gear and handing their previous rewards over to Henderson.
Did he work out a trade? David watched, a flicker of cold appreciation cutting through his irritation. They just gave him their only means of defense? What’s the exchange rate? Three idiots for one slightly-less-shitty sword?
Corbin was clearly in on it, which meant he was more of a ruthless pragmatist than his "protect and serve" vibe let on. So was Theo, who was already strapping on a piece of scavenged armor that looked like it came from one of the possessed suits. Rhea and Mara, at least, had both held onto their spears. Smarter than the average livestock.
The arithmetic of their situation was simple and brutal. Huddling in the clearing for a month was a fantasy. They had a water source, they could maybe snare a few more rabbit-lizard things, but the memory of the ogre was a cold weight in his gut. That thing wasn't a boss monster. It was probably the local equivalent of a stray dog. The current plan—huddle and hope—was just a slower, more polite way of dying.
The only real option was to go into the forest and hunt. It was actively dangerous, but passivity was its own kind of threat. The illusion of safety here was just that—an illusion, a temporary pocket of calm in an endless storm.
His observations snapped into focus as he saw Corbin, Mara, the catatonic Simeon, and Henderson move toward the eastern tree line. They were a group. A party. Corbin’s eyes met his across the clearing. The marshal’s lips twitched into a small, tight smile that was about as warm as a tax audit. Then they turned and disappeared into the foliage.
Well, shit, David thought. They formed a hunting party and my invite must have gotten lost in the hell-mail. It was a familiar social sting, like being picked last for dodgeball, but with higher stakes. If this was a horror movie, Corbin’s group was the one where the likable guy shows a photo of his fiancée right before he gets bisected by something with too many limbs.
Did I just get professionally ditched?
Of course Corbin’s a prick, he seethed internally, the anger a quiet, focused burn. Authority-loving, tacticool… fucking Mall Santa with a badge. Was it Mara’s influence? Had she picked up on his scrutiny? Or did Corbin just decide he was an unpredictable element, a liability now that he had a pointy stick and a few stat points? The part that grated most was the subconscious shift he’d made—waiting for someone else to make the call. That reliance felt like a flaw in his own programming, and he hated it.
He found Rhea standing near where the younger survivors had congregated. "Rhea," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "You in or out?"
His patience was gone. If she declined, that was the end of it. He’d go alone. The risk calculus changed, but it was manageable. Let Corbin and Mara get a head start; he’d just have to be more efficient.
Rhea turned, her expression as unreadable as stone. She gave a single, sharp nod. "I'm in." She stood. "I'm bringing Jamie. I gave him my old spear."
Jamie was right there, practically buzzing with contained energy, swimming in a leather cuirass that was too big for him and clutching the spear like he’d just won it on a game show. He looked like a LARPer who’d taken a wrong turn into a warzone. Taking a fifteen-year-old into a monster-infested forest would’ve been unthinkable before, but now the kid’s instant ice wall was a strategic asset. Annoying, but useful.
"He follows my lead," David stated, locking eyes with the teenager. "Every word. No debate. No second guessing. Are we understood?"
"We've covered the rules," Rhea confirmed.
Jamie’s hyperactive grin melted away, replaced by a strained, overly-serious mask. He met David’s gaze and gave a stiff, determined nod. Well, I’ll be damned, David thought. The kid has an 'off' switch.
They spent a few minutes in final preparation—checking straps, taking a last drink of water. "Let's move," David said, leading them toward the western tree line, directly away from Corbin’s chosen path. He slid his dagger into its sheath, the familiar weight a comfort, and gripped the spear with both hands, the wood smooth and solid. The forest awaited.
He took the front position, his senses dialed up. Jamie was in the middle, his job to be a walking defensive turret. Rhea took the rear, her task to notch trees with her knife and watch their backs. David fixed the positions of the three motionless suns in his mind, creating a mental map aligned with the wreckage. Jamie’s role was simple: create ice the instant David gave the order. He didn’t plan to build a strategy around it, but a sudden wall was better than nothing. To his mild surprise, the kid kept quiet, his focus on the surrounding jungle.
The forest was a deceptive tapestry of vivid, fiery hues and softly glowing fungi. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and decay, and alive with the skittering and chittering of things he couldn't see. It was like walking into a spectacular, beautiful trap.
This deep into the forest, every crunch of leaf underfoot sounded like a gunshot.
They’d been moving for about thirty-five minutes, a tense, silent procession, when Rhea sucked in a breath and her hand went up, a closed fist that pulled everyone that turned to look to a halt.
“Movement,” she breathed out, the word barely audible. “Behind us, left flank, past the thorned bushes.”
David’s grip on his spear shifted, his knuckles pressing white against the dark wood. A welcoming committee. How thoughtful.
“It’s a warg,” Rhea whispered after a moment of intense focus, her eyes seeing things the rest of them couldn’t. “A young one. Level three.”
David ran the calculations. A lone scout suggested a pack wasn’t far, but a pack would have been on them already. The logic was cold and clear: a tracker left alive is a tracker that finds you when you’re tired. His vision tinged with the purple wash of demonic energy, he scanned the shadows. No other heat signatures, no shifting forms.
“It hasn’t caught our scent yet,” he said, his voice low. “If it had, we’d be having a much worse day. Rhea, you have the range. Take the shot.”
It was the optimal play. Her telekinetically-enhanced javelins were their best tool for a silent kill. It gave her field experience, removed a threat, and provided data on her capabilities under pressure. A three-for-one deal.
David let the demonic energy bleed into his eyes, the world washing in shades of purple and heat. His perception sharpened, picking up the subtle currents of energy in the air. He watched Rhea heft the javelin, a nasty piece of work made from a strip of that possessed armor.
He saw her focus, a slight tightening around her eyes. Then he saw the stuff happen. A visible shimmer of mana wrapped around the metal like cellophane, hardening it. Another pulse of energy gathered at the base of the javelin, a compressed spring of force. It was both a throw and a launch. The javelin left her hand with a sound that wasn’t right for something that heavy, like split air, almost a whistle, and he saw its path correct itself minutely in mid-air, like it was being guided. Okay. So that’s how she does it. He filed the observation away. Useful.
From the bushes came a sharp, choked-off yelp, then the solid, meaty thud of a heavy body hitting the dirt. Silence followed.
Nice. One less problem.
David's mind immediately flicked to Corbin, out on his little hunting trip without them. The marshal's voice echoed in his head, all strained authority and dismissal. Yeah, look at that. We handled our own pest control just fine. A faint, grim smirk touched his lips. Eat a dick, Corbin. The thought was a small, satisfying burn in his chest.
"Wait," Rhea said, her voice losing its whisper, gaining an edge.
Expansion
“Wait.” Rhea’s voice was tighter now, louder. The command in it froze everyone all over again.
Then came the sounds. Not rustling. This was the sound of something big not caring about being quiet. A thick branch snapped like a gunshot. A figure, way too tall, shouldered its way through a curtain of ferns as if they were cobwebs.
The thing that stepped out of the ferns made the dead warg look like a chihuahua. It was built on a different scale entirely—a solid eight and a half feet of pure, condensed "nope." Its skin was a tough, leathery brown, like old boot leather, and it was covered in a whole history of violence written in pale scars. This was far from some dumb, slobbering beast. Its face was all harsh angles and a wide, flat nose, but the eyes were the worst part. They were narrow, calculating, and they scanned over their group like a butcher pricing cuts of meat. It had these thick fingers that ended in nasty, chipped claws, good for grabbing and not letting go. It wore practical, scarred leather armor with so many tears and openings it could have been a string vest—the armor looked like it had been through a woodchipper and won, and it hefted a weighty warclub that looked just as deadly. The statement was: "I hit things, and they stop moving."
It stopped over the dead warg, a mountain of corded muscle and russet-colored hide. It was built on a different scale than them. It leaned down, sniffed the javelin buried in the warg’s side. It paused. Then it straightened up, its head turning with a predator’s slow certainty. Its eyes, narrow and full of a nasty, calculating intelligence, locked directly onto them.
A name burned in David’s vision, simple, brutal, and final.
[Hobgoblin — Colossal Variant, Lvl 10]