MC'S POV
The air in the dungeon tastes like rust and old sorrow. Every breath scrapes my throat dry—iron, dust, and the faint sting of mold. My palms rest against the stone floor, slick with something that isn't quite wet but cold enough to crawl under my skin. I've grown used to this damp air, but not the loneliness. That still bites.
It's strange how easily a mind folds inward when left in silence too long. Time, smell, and pain blur into one thing. The only constant is the faint hum vibrating against my fingers—the Time Button. Its pulse is softer than a heartbeat, but more persistent, like a whisper that refuses to fade.
I stare at it under the faint lantern light, wondering again if this thing saved me or sealed me away from a greater death.
"Survive. Endure. You get another chance," the voice of the unknown entity echoes in my skull. It's been two years in this new, borrowed life, and I've never stopped doubting that voice. It had sounded too precise—too human to be divine, too detached to be kind.
Maybe it wasn't granting mercy; maybe it was experimenting.
There had been questions I didn't ask: Why me?Why bring me from Earth of all places? Back in Maharashtra, life had been ugly but simple. My days were ruled by deadlines, the smell of street tea, and the sticky monsoon heat that made clothes cling to skin. Magic didn't exist there; gods didn't speak directly; betrayal never carried actual swords.
Here, everything is alive—even darkness has a pulse.
When I first arrived in this world, I thought reincarnation was a reset button, a divine repair of misfortune. I thought I could build something meaningful. But perhaps gods—if that was what the entity was—don't repair us; they repurpose us.
Some nights, I dream of Mumbai rain. Water hitting tin roofs, horns blaring, and the tang of sea-salt mixed with exhaust fumes—harsh but familiar. Now, when I open my eyes, I meet stone and silence. Not even the rats come close anymore.
My name, Lysander Valen, tastes foreign on my tongue. The syllables feel ornamental—too noble for someone who has spent more nights kneeling in blood than walking under open sky.
My family name means power. But I've learned names mean nothing when the people behind them see you as defective.
Father used to look at me with polite disappointment. I remember those eyes clearly—steel gray, sharp as tempered blades and just as cold. He was a sixteen-star mage, capable of burning armies to ash, commanding nobles with a glance. Yet when he looked at me, all that fire went out.
The servants would whisper after formal dinners. "Poor Duke—his son can't even gather mana." "No star resonance. Not even a flicker."
You learn not to care about gossip eventually—until silence replaces it, and even gossipers stop acknowledging you exist.
By seven, my sister Seraphine was a first-star mage. She'd swirl light around her fingers like a goddess playing with dawn. People adored her. Tutors praised her sensitivity, her elegance, her promise. I tried not to envy her. But envy is a shadow—it never leaves.
At ten, she reached her second star. Father rewarded her with a mana focus forged from ancient Atlarite crystal. She smiled when she received it, dazzling in that serene way perfect people smile—kind, but distant enough to remind everyone you'll never touch their world.
At thirteen, she became a three-star. The Kingdom's academies fought for the chance to teach her; mages half her age tried to imitate her poise.
And me?
I couldn't even light a candle.
My body repelled mana, rejected it like filth. The healers said I carried a "void core," a condition so rare that most forgot it existed. A human without mana resonance in a world built on it—an embarrassment carved from the wrong kind of birth.
When I compare that to life on Earth, I laugh. Back there, nobody cared how much cosmic energy you pulled from the skies. All you needed were grades, grit, or charm. You could climb the ladder with effort. But here, effort means nothing without mana. Talent is currency; I was bankrupt from birth.
Even now, remembering those nights when the tutors silently avoided my name in roll calls burns more than the dungeon's cold. The way some of them sneered—so politely, so professionally—as if my existence insulted their craft.
My sister never defended me. She didn't need to. Her silence was a sword sharper than any blade.
Father's disappointment evolved into avoidance. Elowen's affection turned to distance.
Elowen.
The name alone exhausts me. She was warmth once—my friend from childhood, the only person who'd sneak from her lessons to bring me stolen pastries or share stories of distant kingdoms. Her laugh was light and hesitant, like the tinkling of glass bells. I thought there was honesty there.
But affection withers beneath comparison. I think she saw Seraphine shine and wondered why she ever bothered keeping company with shadows like me.
And perhaps—perhaps—she only stayed because she pitied me. Love rooted in pity is just the prelude to betrayal.
The betrayal came suddenly; I can still feel the vibration of that day down to each breath. The accusation choked the entire mansion—howls of "shame," "disgrace," "unforgivable." Father didn't strike me; he didn't have to. His silence was punishment enough. The guards took me by the shoulders, their metal gloves clanking louder than thunder.
I tried explaining. They didn't listen. People never listen when truth costs them comfort.
When they threw me into the labyrinth dungeon, I felt no anger—just awareness. Awareness that everything I'd believed sacred—blood, family, love—was nothing but ornamental lies covering the rot beneath.
That's how the first chapter of my life here ended: a powerless duke's son stripped of name and worth, trapped in the belly of the world. The irony stings still. On Earth, I wasted days dreaming of isekai magic adventures. Now—living one—I'd give anything to return to smog and routine and mediocrity.
I glance at the Time Button again. Its glow is less comforting now, almost mocking. What kind of "golden finger" grants power but chains you to despair?
Sometimes I think the entity watches me through it—studying, recording. Other times, I think it's waiting for me to break.
Do true gods offer salvation, or do they demand stories? Pain makes the best stories. Perhaps that's all I am here—a verse in some cosmic experiment.
The Button thrums faintly under my thumb. I close my eyes, the metallic smell of blood still lingering from the Minotaur fight earlier. My mind tries to reach comfort, but all it finds is echo. Somewhere behind my ribs, the memory of the entity whispers—deep, distorted, amused:
"Each death draws you nearer to eternity. Keep walking, little echo."
"Shut up," I whisper back into the dark. But the sound dies, swallowed by the dungeon's yawning void.
When I finally open my eyes, my pulse steadies. I'm still here. Starless. Hated. Alone.
But alive.
That—perhaps—is the entity's greatest cruelty yet.