The dungeon breathed like a living beast. Each corridor pulsed with dull crimson light leaking from ancient runes etched into the stone walls. The air stank of burnt blood and rust, mixing with the heavy musk of Minotaur fur. The ground, slick with old gore, trembled every time one of the horned giants took a step.
The MC, a man with ashen-white hair and crimson eyes, stood alone at the heart of the maze. Once his hair had shimmered like silver under sunlight, but now sweat and blood had turned it into tangled streaks of grayish red. His eyes, those piercing rubies, dimly reflected exhaustion—but in their depths still burned a defiant spark.
For three hours, his world was nothing but motion and pain. The dungeon's echoing chambers became a field of slaughter. The Minotaur's—massive beasts with twice his height—came at him in relentless waves, swinging brute-forged axes that could cleave marble. Each blow he dodged tore shreds of fabric from his once pristine coat.
The MC's clothing, once a black combat jacket lined with faint silver threads, was now a tattered ruin. One sleeve hung loose, the other drenched in blood, revealing lean muscle beneath torn skin. His boots slipped on crimson puddles; his breathing came in uneven, ragged bursts.
Every cut burned like molten metal. Every second stretched longer. Time had long lost meaning in this underground world—only survival remained.
He slashed one of the beasts across the throat. Black ichor splattered on his face. Two more replaced it, howling. Their horns glowed orange as flames erupted from their nostrils. His sword arm trembled. The wounds layered one over another until even holding the blade felt like defying gravity itself.
When the last swing shattered his weapon, silence swallowed the hall—just for a moment—before the stampede began again. The creatures surrounded him.
His chest rose and fell with a faint laugh—half bitter, half mad. Three hours of hell, he thought. And I'm still not strong enough.
Blood dripped from his fingers onto the cold floor. His legs gave out. The red light of the runes flickered across his pale, sweat-glazed face.
From his belt pouch, his trembling hand pulled out the artifact—a small, circular device made of fractured glass gears and golden filigree. The "Time Button."
Even cracked, it hummed like it contained a heartbeat of its own. Ancient symbols pulsed faintly along its rim.
He smiled faintly, eyes glowing brighter as the Minotaur's shadows closed in. "If this is the path... then let time devour me too," he whispered.
His thumb pressed the center crystal. The world screamed.
The dungeon stretched and bent, stone melting into threads of light. Minotaur froze mid-charge. Gravity folded. His body felt weightless, bones disassembling into particles of glowing dust.
Time shattered like glass around him—one piece trapped in the present, one racing to infinity.
He felt nothing. Only the dull realization that he had failed—but would not die.
In the final instant before the world imploded into silence, his eyes turned crimson gold—the artifact devouring even the concept of time itself.
When the light vanished, the corridor was empty. The dungeon ceased its trembling. Only the broken sword remained, half-dissolved, smoking faintly where he had stood.
The white-haired man was gone, pulled into the folds of eternity.