The pain didn't fade. If anything, the brief respite provided by the level-up only served to make the burning in his shoulder sharper, a jagged contrast to the adrenaline now draining from his system.
Lenus clamped his right hand over the wound, his fingers sinking into fabric that was already stiff and tacky with half-dried blood. The Miasma wasn't just a poison; it was a necrotic parasite. He could feel it deep within the muscle—a cold, writhing sensation, like microscopic silver worms trying to burrow toward his bone.
"Status," he gasped, sliding his back down the cold, damp stone of the corridor.
The ethereal chime rang in his mind, and the glowing text overlaid the darkness.
[Name: Inias (Lenus)]
[Class: Sightless Blademaster]
[Level: 2]
[HP: 75/120]
[Stamina: 40/100]
[Condition: Blind, Miasma Infection (Minor) - Accelerated by open wound]
[Free Attribute Points: 2]
Accelerated. That word sent a chill through him. In the game, a Miasma wound just ticked your health down at a predictable rate. Here, he could feel his body actively waging a war it was losing. His heartbeat felt heavy, labored.
He pulled up his base stats, the glowing numbers hovering in the void.
[Strength: 12]
[Agility: 18]
[Endurance: 10]
[Perception: 35]
[Resistance: 8]
Lenus stared—or rather, focused—on the numbers. In Dungeon Heroes, his Inias build was the ultimate glass cannon. He had dumped every possible point into Agility and Perception, relying on frame-perfect dodges and hyper-awareness. If he didn't get hit, his low health and resistance didn't matter.
But a grim, heavy realization was settling over him: I can't play perfectly here.
He wasn't sitting in an ergonomic chair with a controller and a bag of chips. He was dragging a physical, sweating, bleeding body through a subterranean hell. He had to deal with real fatigue, the dizzying pull of gravity, and pain that threatened to shatter his concentration. His reaction times were bound to his actual flesh now, not his internet connection.
He needed a buffer. He needed to survive the mistakes he was inevitably going to make.
"Allocate one point to Agility. One point to Resistance," Lenus commanded.
Ding.
A sudden, jarring warmth flushed through his veins, starting from his solar plexus and radiating outward. The agonizing, icy bite in his shoulder dulled, regressing from a roaring fire to a manageable, rhythmic throb. He rolled his neck, feeling a marginal but noticeable increase in the lightness of his limbs. It wasn't a miracle, but it was enough to keep him upright.
He pushed himself to his feet, his hand brushing against the pile of ash left behind by the Grave-Stalkers. He hesitated, then scooped up a handful of the coarse, dry dust and rubbed it directly over his bloody shoulder. It stung—a sharp, alkaline burn—but the ash of the undead was devoid of scent. It was a gamer's trick: masking the smell of fresh blood from the carrion-eaters that would surely be tracking him.
"Alright," he whispered, drawing a slow, deliberate breath. "Where to next?"
He tapped his scabbard against the stone. Tap.
The silver wireframes rippled outward. The chamber had three exits: the fissure he'd crawled from, a narrow, jagged crack to his left, and a wide, arched corridor straight ahead.
But it wasn't the sound that made his decision. It was the smell.
Beneath the overwhelming stench of rot, Lenus caught a faint, anomalous scent. It was dry, slightly sweet, and heavily spiced.
Myrrh. And burning bone.
Lenus's heart gave a hopeful lurch. An Ashen Shrine.
In the lore, these were the remnants of warding spells left by the prison's ancient architects. In gameplay terms, they were safe zones—checkpoints where a player could rest, restore their HP, and purge the Miasma.
He moved toward the arched corridor, his steps silent and measured. As he ventured deeper, the ambient soundscape shifted. The hollow dripping of the dungeon gave way to a faint, rhythmic crackling.
A fire.
For Lenus, a fire was more than warmth; it was a beacon. He couldn't see the light, but the continuous, chaotic snapping of burning wood and bone provided a constant stream of acoustic feedback. In his mind's eye, the tunnel ahead was illuminated in flickering, dancing waves of blue and silver sonar. The fire was painting the room for him, frame by frame.
He emerged into a small, circular alcove. In the center sat a stone basin filled with glowing white coals and a singular, jagged bone burning with a pale, smokeless flame.
Lenus let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He stepped toward the warmth, his hand reaching out to touch the stone rim and trigger the rest sequence.
But just as his fingers were inches away, his [Aura Perception] flared with a violent, jarring pulse of yellow.
Warning.
Lenus froze. He expanded his hearing, filtering out the crackle of the flames. Beneath the fire... there was a sound.
Haaah... shhh... haaah... shhh...
It was the ragged, wet sound of labored breathing. Someone—or something—was sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the basin, entirely obscured by the "auditory glare" of the crackling fire.
"Who's there?" he demanded, his hand dropping to the hilt of his katana.
The breathing stopped for a fraction of a second, then hitched into a wet, painful cough.
"A... straggler?" a voice replied. It was female, weak, and thick with the sound of blood in the throat. The words were spoken in the common tongue, but laced with a sharp, aristocratic edge. "I didn't hear you approach. Are you... one of the Inquisitor's hounds?"
Lenus didn't relax. "No. Just a blind man trying not to die in the dark."
A bitter, hacking laugh echoed from across the fire. "A blind man? In the Abyss?" The woman shifted, the sound of heavy metal plating scraping against the floor revealing she was armored. "Then the gods truly have a sick sense of humor. Or you are a dead man who simply hasn't stopped walking yet."
The fire crackled, sending a fresh wave of sonar through the room. For a split second, Lenus caught her wireframe. She was slumped against the wall, one leg bent at a sickening, unnatural angle. In her hand, she loosely gripped a massive, shattered halberd.
But it was her soul that stopped him.
In his perception, a monster glowed gray or crimson. A normal human was a faint white. The woman across from him was glowing with a brilliant, blinding gold.
No way, Lenus thought, his stomach dropping. Elara Vane. The fallen Holy Knight.
In the game, Elara wasn't an NPC you could save. She was a tragic piece of lore. You found her corpse, looted her legendary weapon, and read a diary about her betrayal. But here she was. Breathing.
"You're bleeding heavily," Lenus noted, his voice neutral.
"Astute... for a blind man," Elara wheezed. "A Crawler got the drop on me. Severed the femoral artery, I think. I dragged myself to the shrine, but I don't have the strength to feed the flames. The ward is dying."
Lenus frowned. The fire was getting quieter. The acoustic map in his head was shrinking as the flames dimmed.
"If the ward dies, the Miasma floods the room," Elara whispered. "And the Stalkers will come. If you have a beast core... feed it to the basin. Save yourself. Leave me."
Lenus stood in the flickering light. The "gamer" in him knew the optimal play: let her die, loot the gold-tier halberd, and move on. She was scripted to die anyway. Why waste resources?
But as he listened to her struggling for air, the line between a game and reality vanished. This wasn't a line of code. This was a person dying in a hole.
Lenus drew his katana with a sharp shing.
He heard Elara flinch, her armor clanking as she tried to raise her broken weapon. "Make it quick, then," she spat, defiant to the last.
Lenus didn't step toward her. Instead, he turned toward the dark tunnel they hadn't explored yet. He raised his left hand and pressed his thumb against the edge of his blade, slicing the skin.
Drip. Drip.
"What... what are you doing?" Elara gasped.
"You need a beast core to feed the fire. I used mine," Lenus said, his aura perception locking onto three new, rapid crimson heartbeats approaching from the darkness, drawn by the scent of his blood.
"So I'm going to have to make a withdrawal from the local residents."