The All Consuming-Self

Chapter 3: Almost...

“Standard protocol,” Tessa muttered, her voice low and gravelly as her thorny vines, thick as anaconda coils, subtly flexed and retracted around her gloved fingers. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, scanned the ominous blue portal. “Goblins take the front, kobolds release fire from the rear. Stay clear of the shaman’s totems. It gives random debuffs to enemies, and buffs to all allies.” Her words were clipped, efficient, conveying a lifetime of dungeon experience Zander could only pretend to possess.

Zander didn't waste a second. He clapped a hand on Kael’s oversized armored shoulder, pushing the nervous boy forward with a surprising amount of force. “Keep your chin up, Sparkplug! Don't just doze around, we've got a dungeon to clear!” His voice boomed with a forced bravado, projecting an image of unshakeable confidence that he prayed was convincing. He laid on a thick performance, every muscle in his face carefully schooled, every gesture deliberate. He had to convincingly portray a C-Rank Captain brimming with capability, a leader who could confidently lead them through any challenge. His dramatic pronouncements were all part of this elaborate act, designed to deceive them into believing he was someone he wasn't.

Kael stumbled forward, a soft, wet schlorp sound accompanying his clumsy passage through the portal’s shimmering membrane. Zander followed immediately, stepping into the strange, viscous energy. His stolen badge, a cold, rigid disk against his chest, hummed with a phantom vibration – an almost imperceptible resonance that indicated its inherent, albeit fake, ability: [All C-Ranks got 10% mana resistance]. Despite the supposed protection, the transition felt like diving headfirst into frozen, molasses-thick syrup. The air grew heavy, dense, pressing in on him, as the pulsating blue portal swallowed them whole, dragging them from the mundane grime of the subway into the unnatural heart of the dungeon.

— Inside the Dungeon —

The first chamber of the dungeon snapped into existence around them, not with a sudden visual shift, but with a palpable pressure change, as if they had just stepped into a vast, enclosed lung. It was a cavern carved from rough, uneven stone, bathed in the eerie, pulsating blue light of massive, glowing fungi that clung to the damp walls and dripped phosphorescent spores onto the cavern floor. The very stone seemed to breathe with a soft, rhythmic pulse emanating from strange, intricate symbols etched deep into its surface – "D-Rank containment runes," Lyra had probably called them once. To Zander, they were simply a clear, chilling warning of the dangers held within. A grim testament to the dungeon's defenses, or perhaps its mercilessness, hung above them: the desiccated, rotting corpses of goblins, ensnared in thick, glistening spiderwebs, remnants of ill-fated expeditions by weaker parties.

The sight sent a cold prickle down Zander’s spine, a stark reminder of the stakes.

“Stick close!” Zander barked, channeling his inner action-hero, making his voice resonate with a false authority. He gestured with a wide, sweeping arm. “Lyra scouts ahead. Tessa watches our backs. Sparkplug here”—he jabbed a thumb at a visibly trembling Kael—“zaps anything that moves. I’ll handle… uh… strategy." The last part felt awkward, even to him, a vague placeholder for his lack of actual combat skill.

Lyra, ever the skeptic, rolled her eyes, a faint huff of exasperation escaping her lips. “Strategy? Captain, this is a D-Rank hole. Worst we’ll get is some common goblins and kobolds, probably just fodder.” Her tone dripped with a casual disdain that grated on Zander’s nerves, hinting at her vast experience and his glaring inexperience.

She regretted those words when the first growl echoed through the cavern. It was low at first, a guttural rumble that vibrated through the very stone, then quickly amplified as it was joined by dozens of similar snarls.

Suddenly, from every shadow and crevice, a torrent of small, ugly goblins erupted, their eyes glowing with malevolent intent. They rushed into the room, their tattered clothes and crude, rusty weapons – splintered clubs, chipped axes, battered knives – glinting wickedly in the blue light. Behind them, even smaller, lizard-like kobolds slinked forward, their scaled throats smoldering with nascent fire, a low, ominous crackle accompanying each breath. And deeper in the back, visible through the horde, a towering kobold shaman, its skin mottled and scarred, clutched a weird, gnarled stick – a totem pulsing with dark energy. As if in response to its presence, strange magical objects, more totems pulsing with malevolent power, quickly appeared around it, radiating an unseen, unsettling aura.

“Oh crap, oh crap—” Kael stumbled backward, a genuine whine escaping his lips. His hands, trembling uncontrollably, discharged arcs of raw, uncontrolled lightning that tore from his fingertips like angry blue snakes. A sizzling, violent bolt slammed into a snarling goblin at the front of the charge, leaving a smoking, twitching husk against the cavern wall, its death scream abruptly cut short. Another bolt ripped through a kobold's fiery exhalation, the creature erupting in a shower of sparks and greasy smoke, its scorched body collapsing in a pathetic heap. Kael's fear, raw and palpable, was his only trigger for power.

Tessa, a stark contrast to Kael’s frantic energy, roared. It was a deep, earthy sound, a primal challenge. Thorny vines, thick as anaconda coils and sharp as razors, erupted from the damp stone floor. They snaked out with terrifying speed and precision, constricting a pair of screeching goblins.

A sickening series of CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! echoed through the chamber, their bones audibly fracturing before their broken bodies were slammed against the rough-hewn walls, leaving smears of green blood.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Lyra’s rifle spat lead with cold efficiency, each shot a precise punctuation mark in the escalating chaos. The scent of gunpowder briefly overlaid the damp decay of the dungeon. A goblin, its eyes wide with feral cunning, attempted to cartwheel through the air, trying to sneak past their defenses. Fortunately, Lyra, with a hunter’s instinct, saw it coming. A bullet, a silver blur of death, was released mid-air, penetrating the goblin's head with a sickening pop, collapsing the creature on the spot, twitching its last. “Headshots only, damn it! Every shot counts!” she yelled over the din of battle, her voice sharp and commanding, focused solely on the kill.

A frantic, high-pitched chittering filled the air as a goblin, clad in tattered tin can armor and wielding a battered, rusty knife, darted towards Zander. It was small, desperate, its eyes burning with a suicidal zeal. It lunged, its rusty blade flashing, aimed directly for Zander’s gut – a precise, fatal strike. Just as the knife flashed, too fast for his F-rank reflexes to properly react, Zander’s foot caught on a loose stone. He stumbled sideways, a clumsy, unexpected, purely lucky movement.

Gods, that was close. Too close for a scrawny thing. The rusty blade swished past his side by a hair's breadth, so close he felt the faint, icy breath of death graze his skin.

If it weren't for that stone just then... That would have cut my gut. A cold dread, sharp and visceral, punched him in the stomach. He hadn't intended to move, his limbs heavy and unresponsive, caught off guard. “Captain?!” Kael yelled, a high-pitched note of fear lacing his voice, his own terror momentarily overriding his focus on the fight. An instant later, Lyra’s bullet, a saving grace, punched through the goblin's makeshift helmet, the creature collapsing in a final, tinny clatter.

Zander let out a shaky breath, a ragged gasp that hitched in his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, thunderous drumbeat, vibrating through his entire body. The adrenaline coursing through him left him trembling, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

Lucky stumble. Too damn lucky for such a pathetic little thing to almost get me. The thought was laced with self-loathing, a harsh criticism of his own weakness. He tried to appear nonchalant, adjusting his collar with a forced casualness, as if his near-death experience was all part of his "strategy." “Just… uh… demonstrating the importance of… uh… situational awareness,” he stammered, his voice a little strained, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “You gotta watch out for the little ones too, Sparkplug. They can be sneaky.” He managed a weak smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Zander let out a low whistle, a nervous habit, never taking his eyes off the fallen foe. He slowly stretched his neck, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips, though it felt more like a grimace.

'Damn it, need to focus. Can't let them see… can't let them see.'

The thought was a desperate, silent mantra. He couldn't let his mask slip. Not here. Not now. His life depended on this charade.