[Quest]

  Survive for 744 hours

  Rewards:

  

  
• Entrance to the second floor


  
• Access to Dungeon Forum


  
• 3 skill points


  
• 10 stat points


  

  [Side quest]

  1. Kill the floor Sovereign

  Rewards: - Unique Skill, Unique Equipment,

  2. Kill 10,000 Dungeon beings

  Rewards: - Unique Equipment, Skill,

  3. Survive with all allies alive.

  Rewards: - N/A

  4. Stay alive for 24 hours.

  Rewards: - Equipment of your choice

  David stared at the fading afterimage of the quest text. "Seven hundred and forty-four hours," he muttered, the words tasting like ash. "A full month in this shithole."

  [Main Quest: Survive for 744 Hours]

  The words hung in the air, etched onto his vision in light that felt heavy.

  Well, there's a motivational poster for you, he thought, the sarcasm a thin shield against the creeping dread. "Hang in there, kitten, for seven hundred and forty-four consecutive hours of pure terror." Just absolutely inspirational stuff.

  His eyes scanned the side quests. "Kill the Floor Sovereign. OK. Sure. I'll just pop down to the basement and strangle the god-king of this particular circle of hell before lunch." He let out a short, breathy laugh that held no humor. "And ten thousand dungeon beings? That's... what, three hundred and twenty-three a day? Why not? I'll pencil in a quick genocide between breakfast and being eviscerated."

  The third quest, "Survive with all allies alive," with its "N/A" reward, made his jaw tighten. Yeah, we already failed that one. Thanks for the reminder. Really classy.

  The word "dungeon" finally clicked. The gamer kid's theory about finding dungeon instances had been right, they all just hadn't realized they were already inside one. So we're not just in a demonic realm. We're in a specific, structured meat grinder. A curated experience in suffering.

  He pushed away from the window, needing to move. Okay. Panic later. Systematize now. He retreated under the shadow of the wedged plane fuselage, the metal still warm against his back.

  His mind, refusing to be paralyzed, pivoted to resources. Mana was a faint trickle in everyone, but the demonic energy here… it was a thick, potent soup. It had already given him an edge. To survive a month, he needed information.

  "Demonic energy or mana?" he whispered to himself. "Mana's the standard issue—everyone had it. It could be critical, but this place... it's steeped in the other stuff." He remembered the calm feeling versus the corrosive power he'd somehow channeled during the fights. They had been distinctly different. The first came before he had the demonic stat.

  "The demonic stuff is more volatile than mana, maybe, but it's so much more potent, too. Oversupply. If I'm stuck here for a month, I need to learn to use the local tap water, even if it's poisoned." Besides, his skill said ‘Affinity,’ which should mean he harmonize and accept the energy, and wouldn’t turn into a thirty foot winged monstrosity. Hopefully. He would have to test how literal the affinity was. If he started growing fangs or horns, he’d reevaluate.

  He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the world. Calm down, he commanded himself. But it was like trying to grab smoke. His mind kept skittering away.

  Frustrated, he changed tactics. He constructed a scenario in his head, vivid and brutal. He chased the memory of the fight—the hyper-clarity, the surge of power that had let him move faster than should be possible. It was like trying to catch a greased eel with his bare hands. He breathed, in and out, ignoring the part of his mind that screamed this was all insane.

  He gave his brain a job. He constructed a scenario, vivid and brutal: surrounded wounded. Okay. You're in a clearing. Possessed Knights in black, full plate. Swords glowing. You’re surrounded. Your sword's gone. You're bleeding. What do you do? You run. You dodge. Your legs are everything. He poured every ounce of imagined desperation into the thought. The image clicked.

  Slowly, the world faded. The sound of his own heartbeat grew louder in his ears. Then he felt it—a low, simmering heat igniting in the soles of his feet. It wasn't a pleasant tingle; it was an uncomfortable, burning sensation, like stepping on hot coals that didn't consume the flesh but instead seeped into the muscle.

  Don't think. Just feel. God, that sounds so stupid, he chastised himself, even as he leaned into the sensation. The heat crawled up his calves, a wave of dense, alien vitality. It felt heavy, unwieldy. He guided it, painstakingly, down into his legs, then up into his arms, concentrating it preparing to replicate his movements.

  He clenched his hand. Bent his knees. The difference was immediate and unsettling. His legs felt stronger, but more than that; they felt denser, like the bones had been replaced with ironwood, the muscles woven with steel cable. There was a latent hunger to the power, a desire to be used, to break things.

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  He opened his eyes, staring at his clenched fist as if it belonged to a stranger. "Well, that's not terrifying at all," he murmured dryly.

  A final, paranoid thought crossed his mind. "I really hope some hall full of demon gods aren’t getting a live feed of this," he said to the empty space under the fuselage. "Because this would be really, really twisted."

  He had a month. And he had just started learning how to play with hellfire. It was a start.

  He was covered in a mix of sweat, soot, and optimism’s corpse. His sword leaned against a rock; his shield had collected enough dirt to qualify as farmland.

  He squinted at his hands.

  “So, demonic energy,” he muttered. “Apparently, I’m full of it. Just like my high school guidance counselor said.”

  He inhaled. Spread out his senses. Prepared for battle. Feeling. Trying to sense it.

  Something stirred—then fizzled.

  “Close,” he said, and tried again.

  On the fourth attempt, a pulse of something hot and metallic surged through him, ending in his right arm. It burned, but not enough to make him scream—just enough to suggest regret. His hand trembled, fingers twitching like they’d been wired to a faulty socket.

  “Okay,” he said flatly. “That’s new.”

  He canceled it. Then tried again. Then again.

  After fifteen tries, his vision wobbled.

  By twenty, the world started doing that fun tilt thing gravity does when it smells weakness.

  Finally, he felt it properly—like a black-and-red current snaking from his chest down his veins. It branched, forked, flooded muscle, bone, tendon. Every inch of him became a bad idea in motion.

  So that’s where it lives, he thought. In my chest.

  He lifted his sword and let the energy slide into his arm. Black and red flame crawled along the blade, quiet, mean, and somehow smug. He almost jumped and dropped the weapon before he noticed it didn’t burn him. It just existed, as if daring him to question if it was flame at all.

  “Ah of course. Demonic OSHA would have a field day with this.”

  He swung once. The flame followed, leaving a trail that hissed against the air before snapping out. His knees wobbled but held. He could feel the energy feeding muscle groups, syncing with motion. Like steroids done by someone drunk on excess.

  He poured the energy into his legs next. It took a few messy starts—once he launched half a meter backward, another time forward with a sound similar to an angry kettle.

  When it worked, it worked too well. He moved faster than planned, stopped just short of faceplanting into a scrap piece of plane the size of a car. His outstretched arms made the impact.

  “Amazing,” he said, panting. “Now I can die faster.”

  The forest said nothing, though a few passengers peeked their heads out at the noise.

  David moved back to the cover of the fuselage and tried again. He pushed it toward his hand. For a brief second, nothing. Then, a slow creep—like syrup but angrier. His palm flushed black-red, faint flames licking the skin. They burned without heat. He grinned.

  He cut the flow. Tried again. Missed. Again. Nothing. Again. His fingers twitched. The flames sputtered, guttered, reignited. His body felt hollowed out, like the energy wanted to leave him but hadn’t packed its bags yet.

  “Come on, demonic energy. Work with me here. You did it once, do it again I’m the one who feeds you blood and trauma.”

  On the fourth try, he found it a second time—a thread connecting chest to limb. It smoldered, steady and alien. Old. He followed it, guiding it through his veins toward his leg this time. His thigh flared red-black, muscle trembling with sudden strength.

  He stood. The world tilted. Okay. Progress. Very useful. He felt as though he was almost there.

  The flames flickered around his calves as he shifted stance. He tested it: a short dash. Dirt exploded under his feet. The redwoods blurred. He stopped before vomiting.

  “Holy hell,” he muttered. “Fast.” Also suicidal.

  He focused again, this time channeling into his sword arm. The blade drank the energy like it had been waiting centuries for this meal. Black and red lines crawled along the metal, humming. He swung once, the air warping with the motion.

  [Energy Affinity Lvl 2 ? Energy Affinity Lvl 3]

  [Demonic Energy Mastery Lvl 1]

  [Demonic Energy Mastery Lvl 1 ? Demonic Energy Mastery Lvl 2]

  A nearby rock bisected cleanly. “I’ve done it. I’m a cursed glowstick.”

  He sat again, chest heaving, eyes half-closed. Energy still pulsed faintly through him, restless. “Alright, demonic mana, we have an understanding. You try to kill me, I try to use you. Mutual incompetence pact.”

  He picked up his sword. The black-red flame flickered back to life on its edge. “Fine. Let’s see if the Impossible rating includes refunds.”

  The phantom text of his new skills dissolved, leaving David with the distinct sense of having opened a door he could never close. Energy Affinity Level Three. Demonic Energy Mastery. Manipulation Level Two. The titles felt less like achievements and more like labels on a dangerous new tool he was expected to use. So now I'm officially a hazardous material, he mused. The system has a wonderful way of making the terrifying sound bureaucratic.

  He slid out from under the fuselage to find Corbin's steady gaze waiting for him. The marshal gave a slow, deliberate nod, his hand resting on the sidearm at his hip.

  "We're scouting the northeast slope," Corbin said, his voice low and even. "Henderson, Evan’s, and Mara are ready. If the terrain holds, it may lead to water."

  David grabbed his sword, the worn leather grip a familiar anchor. "Water would be a nice change from whatever psychic pollen we're breathing," he replied. "Though I'm sure the local wildlife agrees."

  They found the others near the broken wing. Henderson shifted his weight from foot to foot, his own sword looking awkward in his hands. "The rest are too scared to move. Just huddling in the wreckage like it's some kind of shelter."

  Mara stood calmly beside Evans and another girl who looked like she came to say goodbye. Mara’s sword was held with a quiet competence. She was whispering to her friend, a brief, tense exchange of words that ended with a tight hug. The raw worry on their faces was a clear indication of the lives at stake. David looked away, a familiar emptiness settling in his chest.

  "Just the five of us?" David asked.

  "The others are maintaining a defensive position at the crash site," Corbin confirmed. "We move faster alone."

  Henderson started muttering again, a stream of anxious complaints about the others' cowardice. I wonder if the system offers a skill for filtering out background negativity, David thought. It'd be worth a skill point.

  They fell into the grim procession: Corbin leading with a marshal's cautious tread, David on the left flank, Henderson on the right, Evans and Mara guarding the rear. Their movement through the undergrowth was a chorus of rustling leaves and snapping twigs. After a few minutes, Corbin stopped. His hand came up in a closed fist. He pointed toward a dense thicket of thorny, magenta vines ahead and to the left.

  David saw only the unsettling, pulsating glow of the flora. A cold dread tightened in his stomach.

  The vines directly in front of them thrashed violently. At the same moment, Mara's voice cut through the silence from behind, sharp with warning. "Contact! They're behind us!"

  They were surrounded. Emerging from the foliage were creatures of nightmare—wolves woven from shadow and solidified hatred, their forms bleeding into the gloom, their eyes burning with malevolent orange light.

  And then David felt them. His new energy sense, a raw and screaming nerve, ignited. The world lit up in his perception, four violent stars of malice burning in the twilight of the forest. Hostiles. A cold, numerical value branded itself onto his consciousness for each one.

  Level 2. Level 1. Level 3.

  His head snapped toward the presence behind Mara. It was a conflagration of pure threat, a vortex of power that dwarfed the others, its value a death sentence written in fire.

  Level 7.

  "Holy fuck," David breathed.