As the group left the ruins behind and gathered at a safe distance, silence hung heavily between them. The battle was over, yet none of them felt any sense of victory. What remained was confusion, shock, and a truth that could no longer be avoided.
Among them all, Lila stood the most restless. Her eyes never left Zora's back. The man who had raised her, protected her, and watched her grow, now revealed to be someone far more than she had ever imagined. Her chest felt tight, her thoughts tangled. She needed answers. Not later. Not slowly. Now.
But Zora did not turn around.
He stood apart from the group, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides. His expression was unreadable, yet the weight he carried was visible to anyone who looked closely. He did not have the strength to speak. Not the courage. The past he had buried for so long was now clawing its way back into the light, and he did not wish to face it, not in front of her.
Zora had no intention of telling his story.
Someone else had to.
Arachna understood that better than anyone.
She stepped forward slowly, her movements calm but heavy with meaning. She had known Zora...Zortheus, long before this moment. She knew the dungeon, the tragedy behind it, and the man who had been broken long before he became feared. She also knew that Lila, and everyone standing there, deserved the truth.
Kalix, Riya, and Shin stood close by, their expressions tense. Though they were Zortheus's students, even they knew little of his past. They had followed him, learned from him, trusted him, but the origin of his power, his pain, and his dungeon had always remained untold.
Arachna took a quiet breath.
"Then I will speak," she said softly.
And with those words, the story began.
---
The Dungeon of Zortheus
In the past, the name Zortheus carried weight.
Not the kind spoken loudly, but the kind lowered into whispers. Among adventurers, scholars, and even kings, it was a name tied to unease, a presence rather than a person. His dungeon, hidden deep within an immense forest, was feared long before most ever understood why.
The forest itself was the first trial.
It stretched endlessly, its borders unclear, its paths unreliable. Adventurers who entered with confidence often found themselves wandering for days, sometimes weeks, without ever realizing they were walking in circles. Many believed they were drawing closer to the dungeon, only to suddenly emerge from the forest from the very side they had entered, unaware of when they had turned back.
Some never reached the dungeon at all.
Some never even knew they had failed.
Because of this, rumours spread freely.
There were those who claimed the dungeon was nothing more than a myth, a story exaggerated by failed adventurers to hide their incompetence. Others spoke of a suffocating pressure deep within the forest, a feeling of being watched by something vast and ancient. Some said the monsters within the dungeon were far stronger than any found elsewhere, capable of overwhelming even elite parties.
Yet there were also stranger rumours.
Stories of monsters that did not attack immediately. Creatures that stood guard instead of chasing intruders. Beings that watched adventurers pass with silent, unreadable gazes, as if protecting something rather than hunting prey.
Because only a handful ever reached the dungeon itself, only those few understood how different it truly was.
Zortheus's dungeon did not feel like others.
It was deadly, yes, but not cruel. The corridors were dark, the magic dense, the danger real. Yet there was an odd sense of acceptance within its walls, a feeling that those who entered were allowed to be there. Adventurers who survived their first descent often returned again and again, not for treasure, but for understanding.
Over time, some came to know the dungeon.
And in knowing it, they came to know Zortheus.
No one died in the forest.
No one died in the dungeon.
This alone shattered expectations.
The world did not know what to make of such a place. A dungeon that did not expand, did not consume land, did not massacre those who challenged it. Scholars argued endlessly. Some declared it a miracle, a natural anomaly that defied the laws governing dungeon formation.
But miracles did not exist without reason.
As research deepened, truths surfaced that the world was unwilling to accept.
Dungeons were born in only three ways: through immense concentration of magic, through harmony with the spirit of nature, or through sacrifice.
Zortheus's dungeon was not born of chance.
It was a choice.
The dungeon had been formed through the sacrifice of souls. This truth, once uncovered, changed everything. Regardless of how peaceful the forest seemed, regardless of how adventurers spoke of the dungeon's strange warmth, the world judged quickly.
A dungeon built on sacrifice could only be evil.
A being capable of such an act could only be a monster.
Zortheus was condemned by history without question.
And yet, even that truth was incomplete.
Deep within the dungeon lay a chamber known as the Heart of the Dungeon. Scholars believed it earned its name because the dungeon core rested there. That was true, but it was not the reason the chamber felt so heavy, so absolute.
The core was not the heart.
The heart lay before it.
In that chamber, untouched by time, rested the skeleton of a human.
Preserved unnaturally, cradled with care, protected by the very dungeon the world feared. Every corridor, every monster, every shifting wall seemed to exist for that single place. The dungeon did not guard its core, it guarded that remains.
That skeleton had played a role far greater than anyone understood.
In the formation of the dungeon.
In the life of Zortheus.
And in the truth the world had buried.
As the story reached this point, silence fell over those listening.
No one interrupted.
No one questioned.
Because for the first time, the legend of Zortheus no longer felt like a tale of a monster.
It felt like the beginning of something far more tragic.