The first step into the dungeon proper was like stepping into a dream. Or more like a liminal nightmare.
Flakes of dust hung midair. Above, broken masonry hovered—chunks of ceiling dislodged but suspended, refusing to fall. A thousand candlesticks lined the cracked stone floor, their flames solid and unmoving. Others, unlit, exhaled tiny ghost-streams of smoke that curved up and halted, mid-spiral.
The air smelled off. Not rot or ozone, but like memory. Forgotten things. Wet ink and burning paper, candle wax and iron, the scent of a childhood home from someone else’s dream.
The walls were made of strange dark metallic panels, but they weren't just dark. They were unlit, seeming to swallow the light of the candles. His eyes couldn't truly focus on them, unsure of where the bounds to the room was until he placed his hand on the wall. And they just..kept going.
[Time Elapsed: 2 hours] a message said in the corner of his vision. Just then, for the first time, Eryx noticed a set of bars. One red, indicating health. One was black and empty, assuredly for mana, and one green, his stamina bar, which had a line through it at 87%.
"I'm a Resonant now. I have status bars." He chuckled in bemusement. But that also meant..."Uh...skills?" He said aloud.
A blue screen popped up in his vision, listing off the few skills he had:
[Analyze Weakness I]
Militia training taught you to find the cracks in any armor.
After observing an enemy in combat, highlights a weak point for a bonus strike. Requires 3 seconds of unbroken line of sight. Must be stationary.
[Brace I]
Set your stance and absorb incoming force.
Temporarily reduces knockback and damage taken from the next hit.
Bonus resistance against charge-type enemies.
Heavy Swing I]
A powerful overhead strike with increased weight and momentum.
Deals bonus damage if charged.
Leaves the user open if it misses or is parried.
Grit] (Passive)
Pain can be overcome.
Delayed stamina loss and minor bleed resistance when below 30% HP.
"Interesting. Hmm..character?" Nothing happened. "Personal file?" Status."
Another screen layered over the first, slightly lowe and to the side in a cascade.
Level: 1
Experience: 0
Hp: 50
Mana: 0
Stamina: 81%/50
Class: Normal, average, bog standard, run of the mill warrior
The class description felt a little much. Then a new screen appeared. "It's not a litrpg if you don't mention how snarky the a.i. is every 5 minutes or have a 4th wall break, now is it?" Eryx blinked. He didn't understand what half of those words meant. "Oooookay?" He ignored it and moved on, slightly concerned about the walls structural stability. He wondered which was the 4th one.
His breathing sounded distant, filtered through layers of cotton. Closing the screens, Eryx moved forward, boots echoing against unmoving air. The sound came too late—each footfall trailing a heartbeat behind reality. His steps didn't feel like they belonged to him anymore. It was like walking through a memory already fading.
[Time Elapsed: 11 seconds]
[Time anomaly detected: Chrono-temporal distortion exceeds safe exploration limits.]
[Proceed at your own risk.]
The system’s warning blinked once, then vanished. "That's...not concerning." Eryx was unsure of the time, if it even existed in a place like this. He wondered who or what could have possibly created it.
The dungeon walls stretched outward the farther he walked, transforming from close stone and metal corridors into towering, cathedral-like halls. Stained-glass windows glowed faintly, despite the absence of light. Their scenes depicted twisted interpretations of battles he half-remembered reading about—Resonants falling while shadows watched from the edges, their smiles wide and knowing.
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He passed a toppled statue. The dust cloud rising from the impact was locked in time, an explosion captured mid-bloom. Waving a hand through it, for an instant, the particles resisted. Then they snapped free, flowing around his arm like water.
[Time Elapsed: 34 minutes]
[Error: Undefined]
His head pounded. He clenched his teeth and pressed on.
Eventually, he reached a wide chamber, a circular room, rimmed with mirrors. They stood edge-to-edge, framing the entire space. Dozens of reflections caught him from every angle.
All of them moved in sync—until one didn’t.
Eryx froze.
The reflection across from him hadn’t stepped forward when he did. Its arms remained at its sides while his moved. Its head tilted when he stood still. Its eyes shimmered with ink-black light.
Then it smiled.
It was... Familiar. Like looking at himself after years lost underground—eyes darker, posture heavier, mouth curled in a grin that didn’t reach the eyes.
Then it stepped forward—out of the glass.
The mirror cracked behind it with a quiet chime, webbing outward in spiderleg fractures.
The shadow-version of Eryx gripped a sword made of nothing but outline and hunger. It raised it overhead— fast, strong—and swung for his head.
Eryx barely managed to raise his own blade in time.
Steel screamed against whatever that thing held, and the dungeon—if this still was one-came unstuck.
The rest of the mirrors shattered.
Time caught up all at once.
The dust fell.
The flames flickered to life, smoke rising.
The explosion of the statue falling was loud in his ears, stoen shrapnel flying everywhere.
The shadow's sword screamed as it met Eryx’s again—steel against silhouette, form against void. Each clash sent shockwaves through the warped chamber, rattling the fractured remains of the mirrors and sending fresh spiderweb cracks down the metalic walls. The light from the candles flickered violently now, time spasming around them in short, brutal jerks.
It was fast. Faster than Eryx.
He ducked under a horizontal slash, felt the wind of it cut hairs from his head, and countered with a desperate thrust. The shadow slipped sideways, flowing more than moving, its grin still carved across its too-familiar face.
Another blow—this one overhead. Eryx caught it, barely, his arms screaming from the force of it. The blade in the shadow’s hands wasn’t made of metal. It didn’t cut—it devoured. Where it struck, his own weapon frayed slightly at the edge, as if the material itself were peeling away into nothingness
He staggered back, panting, sweat trickling into his eyes. His stamina bar dropped with a flicker—76%, then 65%. The shadow advanced, relentless. No wasted movement. It didn’t tire. It didn’t fear.
"Brace!" Eryx shouted. His feet felt as if they had magnetised to the floor. He held his shield in front of him, blade poised for a stab.
Another flurry of attacks came, brutal and precise. Eryx blocked, parried, ducked—missed one. Pain bloomed as the flat of the shadow-blade scored across his ribs, not cutting skin but pulling at something deeper. A memory. A moment. His mother's voice, calling his name as he left for his militia exam. Gone.
He gasped. He couldn't recall. His mother's face was blurred, her voice deep and distorted.
"You're not real," he whispered. "You can't be real! Analyze!"
The shadow tilted its head, mockingly. Then it raised its sword again.
Eryx didn’t move. "Error" was all he got from the skill.
He looked down at his own weapon—dented, half-unraveled—and then sheathed it. Slowly. Deliberately.
The shadow hesitated for the first time.
"You would forfeit? You would do this willingly?" The voice of the shadow was chilling. Every hair on Eryx body stood on end as it smiled. "You are not ready."
Then it lunged.
The sword passed through his chest like ink in water. No pain. No impact. Just cold, and the sense of something shifting deep inside. His vision blurred, not from blood, but from memory—dozens of lifetimes not lived, thousands of choices not made. Every shadow he'd cast in every cycle that never happened surged forward.
The shadow moved into him.
Eryx screamed without sound. Darkness folded into his limbs, smoke curling under his skin, and then—
Stillness.
The air settled.
Every candle flame stood straight and silent again.
The mirrors were gone.
He stood alone in the circular chamber, chest heaving, hands trembling.
A system message blinked into view, sharp and silver:
> [Shadow Archive Unlocked]
Access Level: Restricted
Hidden Potential: Echo-Splintered
Memory is a weapon. Choose what to forget.
Another message followed, slower to fade in, as though the system were deciding to send it:
> New Quest: “Survive. Adapt. Resonate.”
Objective: Unknown
Timeline: Ongoing
Progress: 0%
Eryx collapsed to one knee, propping himself on his sword, breath catching in his throat.
Whatever the shadow had been… it hadn’t left.
It was him. A version of himself from a path not walked—and now, it walked with him.
———
The path back was quiet.
No echo of battle. No flicker of time’s hesitation. The dungeon, once warped and uncertain, had settled—like a held breath finally released.
Eryx walked with measured steps, his boots brushing against candle wax and crumbled stone. The flames he passed now danced and sputtered naturally, casting flickers of gold across the cathedral-like halls. The earlier sense of unmoored reality had faded, but its absence only made things feel more surreal.
Time was flowing again. He checked the corner of his vision.
[Time Elapsed: 1 hour, 43 minutes]
It was the first message in a while that felt true.
He passed one of the stained glass windows and paused. The panes gleamed faintly, lit from no source he could see, and though he’d seen them before—flickers at the edge of battle—now he had time to look.
The first window showed a battlefield he recognized: The Fall of Arinthal, where hundreds of Resonants gave their lives to seal the Rift. But here… they weren’t sealing it. They were feeding something through it—ghostly arms stretching out, accepted by kneeling warriors in silver plate.
He stepped closer.
A soft hum buzzed in the back of his skull. A message appeared:
> [Echo Archive – Fragmented History Log]
Arinthal: The Offering. Version 3.
Status: Disavowed. Source: Shadow Thread 112-A. Integrity: 9%
He frowned. Shadow Thread?
The next window showed the Crown Accord, when the five high guilds unified under a single pact to police the Resonants and guard against misuse of thier powers. Only here, they were shackled—collared like prisoners, kneeling before a throne of interlocking gears and bloodstone. A tall figure stood behind the throne. His face was hidden, but his posture felt… familiar.
> [Echo Archive – Fragmented History Log]
Convergence Accord: Suppression Era. Version 2.
Status: Inherited. Origin: Unknown. Echo Stability: 11%
Eryx stared at the figure longer than he should have. Something about it gnawed at the edge of recognition. He didn’t remember these versions from any tome or bard’s tale. This was something different. Deeper.
On the opposite side sat 5 panels of stained glass. Eryx expected a pop up when he looked at it, like the others, but none came.
The first depicted two men living side by side, one a white silhouette, the other black, floating in a swirling void of colors.
The second pane was diagonally bisected, showing a glorious phoenix, wings spread wide. The lower half showed an Oroboros, a snake eating its own tail.
The third. Chaos. In the background many shadowed figures were running from opposite sides, weapons and Shields beared, ready to clash. In the forefront stood 13. Two stood off to the side together, still. One, also unmoving watched from on high, sitting on a throne. That uncanny familiarity was felt here too. The other 10 were locked in a fierce battle to the death. Eryx got chills looking at the violence depicted in such beautiful art work.
The forth was shattered, but it appeared to be by design. A large city sat in the center. Between the cracks in the glass, some shards appeared normal. Green grass. Blue skies. A beautiful city. The other shards, fire. Barren earth, darkened skies. Death.
The fifth and final was...Black. Just dark, empty, nothingness.
He moved on, faster now, resisting the urge to look at more.
The silence followed him.
Eventually, the towering ceilings dipped low again, the cathedral walls folding into tight corridors of dark metal. The breath of the dungeon grew fainter. The final archway came into view—etched in spirals and glyphs too old to name.
He stepped through.
Sunlight hit his face, wind tugged at his cloak. The world had resumed.
Behind him, the dungeon entrance pulsed once—just a faint shimmer in the air, like a dream trying to remember itself. Then it was still.
Varnstead’s skyline glowed beneath the morning sun, the light glimmering from the central peaceful and unchanged. Birds wheeled overhead. The grass swayed gently in the breeze.
It was like nothing had ever happened.
But something had.
He looked down at his hands.
They still shook.
