That evening, everything seemed normal.
Which, obviously, meant something was wrong.
Because normal doesn't happen to me anymore. Peaceful? Quiet? No monsters trying to eat my face? Yeah, that made me feel abnormal. Guess I'm officially addicted to dungeon crawling. Great. Maniac Kyle, reporting for duty.
After dinner (which, by the way, leveled up my Eating Enthusiast skill to Level 5—yay, sarcasm), I paid my dues to the household economy by doing the dishes. My mom was thrilled. My wrists? Less so.
Finally, I retreated to my bedroom and summoned my status panel like the nerd mage I apparently am now.
There it was—Potion Recipes.
I clicked.
> Do you want to learn [Basic HP Potion Recipe]?
[Yes] [No]
Oh yeah. I tapped "Yes," and boom—strange, bubbly alchemy knowledge poured into my brain like someone dumped a science textbook in fast-forward.
I could now brew HP potions. Like, actual ones. Thanks to the system, I could craft Grade E potions like a discount potion master. Even without the system, if I went old-school with a mortar and pestle, I could whip up a Grade F—maybe even E if I got lucky or wore a lab coat for style points.
Curious, I poked at the Potion Lab function.
> Locked. Requires Level 30.
Of course, I didn't stop there. I learned the MP and SP potion recipes too, because what kind of future dungeon delver only heals? I wasn't trying to be a one-trick health-chugging pony.
> Do you want to learn [Basic MP Potion Recipe]?
[Yes] [No]
Do you want to learn [Basic SP Potion Recipe]?
[Yes] [No]
Yes and yes. Always yes. If there's one thing I've learned from games, it's that mana and stamina potions are the unsung heroes of not dying horribly.
More strange knowledge sloshed into my brain. Like suddenly knowing how to turn weird blue herbs and bottled sparkle into magical Gatorade. My brain felt fizzy. My soul felt caffeinated. It was a good time.
I couldn't craft them yet, though—not properly.
The Potion Lab system function was still locked.
Level 30 required.
I was still 29.
One level away.
Just one.
I could practically smell the cauldron fumes already.
Right. Of course. Because I just said it was too quiet.
So naturally, that's when the system decided to go full siren mode.
---
[System Alert!]
Chaos Energy Radiation Detected.
Emergency!
Severely Contaminated Region Appeared.
Immediate Cleanup Required.
Warning: Dungeon Break Imminent.
---
I blinked at the glowing red message like it had just insulted my mom.
Seriously? Now?
I was in my pajamas. I had half a cookie in my hand. And a nice calm evening planned involving exactly zero goblins.
And yet here I was, getting drafted by the universe's worst magical task manager. Again.
"Guess bedtime's cancelled," I muttered, grabbing my jacket.
Good thing about emergency dungeons?
No need to find a portal. No dramatic run to some sketchy alley or spooky forest clearing. The system just whizzes me away on the spot, bedroom, bathroom, doesn't matter. Instant teleportation. Convenient and mildly traumatizing.
The other good thing? My equipment's got a stealth mode.
No joke, everything I wear in system stays completely invisible in the real world. So I'm not out here looking like a budget cosplay reject in full armor while trying to buy snacks or dodge teachers.
I'm always geared up, armor, accessories, even my enchanted Goblin Leather Boots with +5 Def, +5 Stealth, a terrible color scheme and no one's the wiser.
I checked my current equipments for upcoming dungeon.
Current Equipment:
Bone Helmet
+5 DEF
Protection: basic.
Style: prehistoric chic. Might also ward off museum curators.
Leather Armor (Rare)
+20 DEF | +5 STR | +5 VIT
Technically counts as fashion.
Cloak of the Wild
+5 Evasion
Because dodging is just dramatic running. With flair.
Orc Chainmail (Rare)
+30 DEF | +10 VIT | +10 STR
Latest loot. Feels like wearing metal spaghetti, but hey...it works.
Goblin Arm Guard
+3 STR | +3 VIT | +10% Attack
Stylishly terrifying. Like wearing a goblin's autobiography.
Socks of Invisibility
+5 Stealth
Yes, they're just socks. Mismatched, full of holes, and ridiculously overnamed.
Goblin Leather Boots
+5 DEF | +5 Stealth
Crafted from goblins. Smell questionable. Stealth undeniable.
Current Weapons:
Hobgoblin Axe (Heavy, Rare)
+20 ATK | +5 STR | +5 Fire Damage
Swings like a truck. Hits like one too. May spontaneously light marshmallows.
Necrofang Saber
+20 ATK | +10% Lifesteal
Because what's cooler than a sword that feeds you?
System Remark:
"Congratulations! You now resemble a medieval trash can with attitude. Statistically unstoppable. Visually... a work in progress. Proceed to act like a hero."
As far as I could tell, my current equipment was actually… not bad. Like, for once, I wasn't starting a fight in pajamas.
But the system doesn't care about feelings or preparation. Before I could even finish that thought, whoosh... teleportation magic activated.
I was whizzed away like yesterday's leftovers and slammed straight into another ancient ruin.
Correction: Apocalyptic ancient ruin.
Buildings half-collapsed, streets cracked like someone rage-quit reality, and the entire place smelled like moldy sadness.
I took one step forward and had that gut-sinking realization.
No skeletons.
No eerie silence.
Zombies.
Actual, textbook, rotting-zombie nightmare fuel. One shuffled into view with a sound like someone dragging wet socks across linoleum. It was missing half a face. Very aesthetic.
Appraisal:
Zombie – Lv 12
Status: Emaciated, Mostly Dry, Definitely Gross
Infection Risk: Z-Virus (transmitted by bite or saliva)
Warning: If VIT is under 15, please say goodbye to your immune system (and possibly your soul).
Awesome. We're doing full-on Biohazard mode now.
And because the system loves emotional damage, a bright red alert popped into view:
[System Alert: Dungeon Break Imminent.]
Time Remaining: 10 Hours.
Objective: Cleanse Chaos Contamination or Prepare for Apocalypse.]
Ten hours to save the world from a zombie break?
Cool. No pressure.
.....
Meanwhile, at LETI Headquarters…
WEE-OOO. WEE-OOO. WEE-OOO.
The alarm system screamed like it had just stubbed its toe. Repeatedly.
Across a dozen holographic screens, angry red alerts blinked like they were trying to give someone a migraine:
[ALERT: DEMON REALM ENERGY SPIKE DETECTED]
[UNKNOWN DUNGEON BREAK—IMMINENT]
[THREAT LEVEL: HIGH. SERIOUSLY, GUYS.]
One of the tech officers leaned in, squinting at the data like it had personally insulted him. "Uh, Director? We've got a situation."
"How bad?" grumbled Director Wexler, not looking up from his fourth cup of coffee and what might've been his second existential crisis.
"Demon-energy-bursting-from-the-ground bad. Radiation levels just spiked off the charts. Highest we've ever recorded in this region. And the town it's targeting? Barely staffed. It's got, like, two agents and a janitor."
Wexler groaned and set down his mug like he was saying goodbye to a dear friend. Then he pressed the Big Red Button on his console—the one labeled Only Press If The Apocalypse Is Texting You Back.
A booming voice echoed through HQ:
"All agents, report in. Junior operatives included. Emergency dungeon break protocol is now active. I repeat—this is not a drill. This is the kind of thing drills are afraid of."
Somewhere in the building, an intern fainted.
.....
Rhea and Michael arrived at the LETI headquarters in the most inconspicuous vehicle known to man: a slightly smelly, slightly dented taxi.
The driver gave them a side-eye that practically shouted, "Teenagers are weird."
"You sure this is the place?" he asked, eyeing the Museum of Hoaxes and Urban Legends sign like it was part of a prank show.
"Yup," Rhea said brightly.
"Huge fans of fake moon landings and Bigfoot."
Michael nodded, deadpan.
"Urgent… educational field trip."
The driver blinked. Twice. Then decided he didn't get paid enough for this and peeled off without another word.
As soon as he was gone, they jogged up the steps.
Michael glanced at his phone.
"Still no word from Kyle. Can you reach him?"
Rhea pulled out her phone and shook it.
"Nada. He's either in another dimension or forgot to charge it again."
Michael frowned.
"He wouldn't go dark like this unless he was literally gone. Like, teleported-by-system gone."
"Where could he even go?" Rhea muttered.
"Off watching a movie with Azalea?"
She said it like the idea physically hurt.
Michael snorted.
"Can't be. Kyle's a gaming otaku. He thinks popcorn is a waste of snack points."
Rhea sighed.
"Yeah... figures."
"Ready?"
Michael asked.
"Nope," Rhea said, and pushed the door open anyway.
They slipped through the museum, past a suspiciously realistic lunar module, and into LETI HQ—where the fluorescent lights buzzed like caffeine-addicted mosquitoes and the air smelled like old coffee, stress, and possibly something that used to be a chimera.
The lights in the briefing room were already on.
Time to find out just how doomed they all were.
The briefing room looked like a high-tech war bunker and a college lecture hall had a very tense, over-caffeinated baby. Giant holographic screens floated in the air, flashing maps, energy readings, and way too many red warning zones for anyone's comfort level.
About a dozen agents—junior, senior, and possibly one guy who may or may not have been a cryptid—sat scattered around the room, all locked on the central display like it owed them money.
At the front stood Director Wexler, arms crossed, suit wrinkled, and face carved from pure stress. If caffeine had a human form, it would be this man. He had the aura of someone who'd been living on energy drinks and sarcasm for at least a week straight.
Rhea and Michael slid into two open seats in the back.
On the main screen, a swirling red vortex pulsed like an angry heartbeat. Bold white text floated above it:
[EMERGENCY DUNGEON – B CLASS – TIMER: 09:22:17]
Rhea leaned over to Michael.
"So… that's bad-bad, right? Not just mildly concerning?"
Before he could answer, a sleep-deprived scientist in a crumpled lab coat walked to the front, rubbing his eyes like they owed him rest. "Okay, now that everyone's here—let's get one thing straight. We're in Ravenmoor. Population: just over 700,000 if you count the cows. Not exactly the kind of place built for high-tier dungeon breaks."
Michael raised a brow. "But we've got B-class agents, don't we?"
The scientist gave a dry laugh that suggested he hadn't had coffee or hope in 36 hours.
"One. We have one B-class agent. A break like this could spawn dozens of B-class monsters. And we're not even talking about what could crawl out if it evolves."
Director Wexler finally stepped forward, wielding a laser pointer like a weaponized stress stick.
"Our equipment and survey teams are running hot trying to pinpoint the dungeon entrance. Best case? We find it before it opens fully. Worst case? We start handing out holy water and good luck charms."
He clicked to a new slide, which looked somehow more apocalyptic.
"Our coffee budget is gone, morale's hanging by a thread, and the town has no idea it's sitting on a demonic pressure cooker."
The rest of the briefing was a blur of grim projections, blinking red zones, and the kind of silence you only hear before something explodes.
When it finally ended, no one stood up right away.
Because with less than nine hours left on the clock…
Ravenmoor wasn't just on edge.
It was standing on it.
---