Godfrey stepped into the corridor.
The heavy stone door sealed behind him with a sound like a coffin lid closing.
The air smelled of dust—and something older. Old blood, sweat, decay.
He paused, letting his eyes adjust.
The torches along the walls were unlit. Yet a faint blue flicker pulsed somewhere deeper, like a heartbeat in the stone.
He gritted his teeth.
Eight people had come with him. Two vanguards. One healer. One scout. Four damage dealers. And him.
Disposable.
Even now, he felt their eyes slide past him. Their conversations skipped him like a bad note.
Godfrey's mind—sharp and restless—scanned the corridor.
Claw marks ran along the stone floor. Uniform. Deep. Deliberate.
They weren't random.
"They're bait marks," he muttered.
No one responded.
His pulse quickened.
If I push straight, they'll trigger a flanking spawn in less than two minutes.
He clenched his fists.
I should warn them…
But words would change nothing.
They would ignore him. Or worse.
Better to survive and act.
He moved carefully, eyes following the faint blue glow flickering from a fissure in the wall ahead.
Something about it… promising. A hint of hope.
Though he wasn't sure what it meant.
His fingers twitched.
Could be a trap. Could be an artifact. Could be nothing.
But it's worth the risk.
He crouched, scanning the floor and the marks leading toward the glow.
Timing, distance, angle—every small detail mattered.
He extended a thin rod from his pack, inching it toward the fissure.
The metal hummed faintly as it touched the stone.
The trap released.
A stone panel slid back with a harsh grind.
Dust choked the air.
A small spike shot out, embedding itself in the far wall with a clang.
He jumped back.
His chest hammered.
But he was alive.
The glow dimmed.
Whatever opportunity the fissure represented was partially gone.
He had acted. He had risked.
Now a small consequence had locked into place.
He couldn't reverse it.
Godfrey exhaled slowly.
Every action counts.
Every choice can hurt—even when it seems small.
The corridor stretched before him, narrow and uneven.
The claw marks twisted left and right in branches. A labyrinth of danger.
One wrong move and the group would die.
Or worse—he'd be blamed.
He inched forward, rod extended, eyes flicking between marks and shadows.
His sharp mind raced.
If I move too fast, I trigger the next trap.
Too slow, and the group will get ahead, ignoring my observations.
Maybe I can redirect them… or maybe survival means staying behind and watching.
He took the calculated risk.
He stepped lightly onto a tile marked with faint scratches.
Nothing happened.
He allowed himself a flicker of relief.
A small win.
No one would notice. No one would praise him.
That was fine.
He didn't need recognition—not yet.
A faint click echoed behind him.
He froze.
Not a trap this time—footsteps.
Someone, or something, was following.
His heart thrummed against his ribs.
He considered retreating.
But he had committed.
Retreat would trigger suspicion—perhaps even hostility from the others if they noticed.
Instead, he paused. Breath steady. And observed.
The footsteps slowed… then disappeared.
Good, he thought.
They didn't see me panic.
I can still control the next move.
He crouched closer to the fissure.
The glow pulsed again—faint but distinct. As if taunting him.
He reached in carefully, probing the crevice. Cold stone against his fingertips.
A system chime echoed softly in his skull:
Reputation −1 | Trait Discovered: Composure Under Duress
A small smile tugged at his lips.
Not pride. Not triumph.
Just acknowledgement.
A reminder that careful, deliberate risk could yield small victories—even in a place designed to kill him.
The corridor ahead was quiet.
But the claw marks twisted deeper. Sharper. More intentional.
The next choice would matter more.
Every sound, every shadow, every faint flicker could become a trap—or a key.
Godfrey straightened.
He gripped the rod tighter.
I can survive this.
I have to.
And with that thought, he stepped forward into the darkness—eyes scanning, mind calculating, pulse steady—ready for the next risk the dungeon would throw at him.