In the silence that enveloped the ancient dungeon, the groaning of stones and the screams of the fallen created a chilling symphony. He stood atop a pool of his victims' blood, the bodies strewn haphazardly, crafting a grim tableau.

There he stood, his once pitch-black eyes now transformed, the pupils a vivid blue indicating a consciousness seeping back in. His hair, previously black, gradually turned to gold, and his skin, once a deep shadow, now recovered, no longer as dark as before.

As his awareness returned, he turned and surveyed his surroundings with those blue eyes, his gaze sweeping over each corpse— one, two, five, nine. He recognized every lifeless face before him. This full awakening brought with it bitter memories—memories of the mission he had undertaken and the comrades who had now become victims.

He vividly recalled the ten heroes from across different continents gathered by King Tytoal-ba to conquer the ancient dungeon in the Wetlands. Dunoa the Ashen, Goria the Giant, and Sophia the Second were the first three heroes to arrive in Tytoal-ba, followed by Rushoa, the twin Fiammie, Gargant, and Tunoa, each coming by a different ship.

They were lured by leaflets pinned to guild boards or sent on missions by the kings from their own lands. The eight of them assembled in the royal hall, united by a common purpose: to plunder the ancient dungeon that Kaleb, the eldest son of King Tytoal-ba, had discovered. They were promised wealth and honor, for the legend stated that the dungeon had existed since the dawn of time, and whoever conquered it would receive a reward beyond imagination.

If his count was correct, there were eight heroes, along with Kaleb, his assistant, and a guide named Fionn who entered the dungeon.

The rhythm of his memory suddenly faltered, as if a shroud of mist descended upon his thoughts, slowly lifting as he tried to focus. Unexpectedly, he glanced down at what he was clutching so tightly; his pupils widened in shock when he realized it wasn't a weapon, but rather a severed hand and a severed foot. Reflexively, gasping for breath, he threw them to the ground. His eyes darted around, scanning for any clue to the identity of these dismembered limbs. He examined every detail—the ornaments and the torn fabric still clinging to them—each a perfect match for what Kaleb used to wear.

A shadowy image of Kaleb, in familiar attire, started to form in his mind. Questions with no answers raced through his head, desperately trying to piece together how and why these parts ended up in his hands.

Becoming aware of his own state, he noticed he wasn't wearing any clothes, and his hands and body were covered in blood. A chill crept through his bones, and in a panic, he rushed to find the nearest source of water. His eyes caught a glint of light from a puddle created by magic during the earlier battle. Without hesitation, he stumbled toward it, as if his soul hadn't yet returned to him, fragmented by the horrors he had just witnessed.

He stumbled into the puddle left behind from the battle, panic overtaking him as he began to wash away every drop of blood clinging to his skin. From his face to his entire body, he kept scrubbing, trying to erase the evidence of a brutality he couldn't understand.

"What happened?!" he wondered, his mind spinning. He couldn't remember why he was holding pieces of Kaleb's body, why he was drenched in blood, or why he was completely naked. Every time he tried to reach back into his memories, they slipped away, leaving him in a haze of uncertainty.

His hands stopped scrubbing, but the ripples in the water continued to spread. Suddenly, a question came to him, clear and urgent: "Who am I?" It was strange, he should know his own identity, but at that moment, everything felt foreign to him.

The ripples in the water slowly subsided, and he splashed his face, seeking clarity in the reflection that began to emerge. Finally, a face he recognized became visible in the rippling surface.

He rose to his feet, a sense of disbelief gripping him. He was sure he'd seen that face before, just recently, very recently. Without wasting any time, he ran to the last place he remembered seeing it. His steps were swift, taking him back to the source of this newfound realization.

He was out of breath as he stood over the corpse of someone he recognized. The condition wasn't as terrible as the others, suggesting this person had died more peacefully, despite the gaping hole in his left chest.

The dead man appeared young, around 16 years old, with an average build, golden hair, and blue eyes. He lay facedown, and through the hole in his chest, the dungeon floor was visible. Fionn paused, his body trembling as he slowly stepped back, shaken by the depth of the realization hitting him.

"How is this possible?!" he exclaimed in confusion. He touched his own face and then looked at the golden-haired man before him.

It was unmistakable—this was Fionn, the guide hired by Kaleb to navigate the dungeon. But that wasn't what stunned him the most. He was still out of breath, his body quivering with a mix of fear and disbelief.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Slowly, he crouched down, drawing closer to confirm what felt like an inescapable truth. His sharp gaze locked onto the features of the lifeless man lying before him, scrutinizing each detail to validate his suspicions.

"No doubt about it," he murmured, his voice quivering as he swallowed hard. The person lying dead in front of him had the same characteristics as the one he had just seen in the water's reflection—it was his own face.

The face he knew, the memories now slowly reconnected, and all the facts he assembled pointed to a shocking conclusion: he was, unknowingly, Fionn the Guide.

Haunted by endless questions, he felt as if his mind was filled with an ever-growing puzzle. “How could this be?” he muttered again, pure confusion written all over his face. Why did he, who shared the same face as the corpse in front of him, have blood all over himself? Who was the real Fionn, and how could he have forgotten so much about his own identity?

The sheer weight of this information was overwhelming, making it hard to think clearly. The only clear thought he could grasp was that he needed to get out of there as fast as possible.

“I need to leave this place,” he said, his voice weary but resolute. He grabbed the clothes belonging to 'Fionn' lying nearby—a white shirt with a brown vest that had a large rip through the chest, front to back. Although the clothes were far from perfect, he wore them with a confidence driven by the need to survive. He also took a pair of gray trousers, ensuring to cover as much of his exposed skin as possible.

He knew that wearing the heroes' clothing might not be the best option—it could raise suspicion from anyone he encountered outside. Even though the 'Fionn' outfit he now wore wasn't in great shape, at least it offered some form of camouflage.

With the guide's memories swirling in his mind, Fionn felt as if he was being driven by instincts older than himself. His steps grew more confident, his resolve strengthened with each passing second. He ran, following the footsteps of the heroes who had walked this path before him, each turn and corridor bringing him closer to freedom.

He turned right, his pace relentless. From the heart of the dungeon to the entrance, there were only four more turns to go. Each step brought him closer to the light, and with every breath, he felt the oppressive dampness of the dungeon beginning to ease.

"But where do I go?" Fionn pondered, caught in a dilemma as he sprinted toward freedom. The dark corridors felt drier, and the air grew fresher with each stride. The last turn passed, and he reached the entrance.

Light pierced the darkness, flooding his vision after that final bend.

Fionn didn't slow down, even as the light began to seep through the cracks in the door, revealing a dense wall of transparent energy that blocked his path. The closer he got, the clearer the barrier became.

Suddenly, an eerie feeling washed over Fionn. Something wasn't right. He strained to recall crucial details, fighting for any fragments of memory that might offer a clue. His steps halted right at the entrance, his face only inches from the transparent door.

As he retraced his steps in his mind, Fionn realized there was a disturbing inconsistency in his memory. If there were nine bodies on the ground, and he distinctly remembered that ten people—including himself as the guide—entered the dungeon, then one person was unaccounted for. He knew his memory never lied, so the choice he had to make was clear: turn back or proceed through the barrier. It was all down to one step.

"But who?" Fionn murmured, perplexed. "I counted everyone, there should be ten heroes, including Kaleb and his assistant, even Fionn the Guide." The feeling that something was seriously wrong tightened its grip on his heart, driving his anxiety to new heights.

"If I go back there, the kingdom's guards might be on their way to find Kaleb," he continued, weighing the unpredictability of time. What if the royal security was already en route? Or worse, what if they had already arrived?

The air grew increasingly stifling, as if the atmosphere itself was pressing against his lungs. It wasn't just from the fatigue of running; there was something more sinister creeping into his thoughts.

Suddenly, Fionn caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. There was activity—faint, but unmistakable. Could it be a guard, or perhaps one of the other heroes he hadn't noticed before? His heart raced, contemplating the risks of proceeding further.

"Someone must have been overlooked," he whispered, speaking to the reflection of himself in the doorway. "There must be someone else... or something that's still unaccounted for."

He took a step back, carefully turning around, preparing himself for any possibility. But what he saw made him freeze in place, stunned by the horrifying sight.

In front of him stand a man in a pitiable state. Deep wounds marred his body, his left arm hung limply, almost useless. His face was nearly unrecognizable—too many injuries—but the color of his hair, a shade bathed in blood, was eerily similar to what Fionn remembered.

Fionn gazed at the figure lying on the ground, and a ray of relief warmed his face as he recognized who it was. "You... Fiammie's twin..." he said slowly, his voice filled with a mix of shock and relief. "How did you end up here? Thank goodness, at least someone's still alive."

The tension that had gripped him began to ease, his posture relaxed, and his breathing returned to normal.

But the calm didn't last long.

Fionn, who had just felt relief at finding Fiammie still alive, suddenly sensed tension flood back into his body. The atmosphere around him shifted, the air grew heavier, and he began to struggle for breath. An aura of rage hung in the air, and its source was unmistakable...

"DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!" Fiammie screamed, raising his hand as a faint red aura shimmered around his palm.

Fionn's heart nearly leaped out of his chest at the sound of the shout. Fiammie stood with his hand still raised, his expression a mix of fear and defiance. "Fiammie, it's me! Fionn, your guide... You know me, don't you?" Fionn's voice carried a tone of desperation, trying to cut through the panic that was clear in Fiammie's eyes.

A faint, bitter smile crossed Fiammie's lips, but his words were laden with deep resentment. "A monster pretending to be human," he said with a cold edge. "I saw what you did, you bastard. The real Fionn died when you slaughtered the other heroes."

"You're just a monster wearing his skin," Fiammie continued, his anger simmering. A heat began to gather in his hand, forming a ball of energy the size of a grown man's fist, growing denser and hotter, like a miniature sun hovering in front of him.

Fionn's memories kept rolling through his mind, but he couldn't grasp or understand the accusations Fiammie was throwing at him. He was certain of his identity—he was Fionn, the real guide.

"Are you sure you're not mistaking the monster who died for me? I'm the real Fionn," he said, trying to clear the misunderstanding. "Please, lower your hand. I can take you to the doctor I know, and then we'll go to Tytoal-ba."

But Fiammie didn't move, his hand still raised, and the miniature sun he created became denser and hotter. The red aura that initially centered around his hand now started to envelop the entire corridor, making the atmosphere even more intense.

The once-damp corridor walls began to dry and then melt from the intense heat of the energy ball. Fear was written all over Fionn's face; he could step back and leave, but he knew he couldn't just abandon Fiammie, not when things had escalated like this.

"A creature like you should never be allowed to leave this dungeon!" Fiammie yelled, his voice echoing with determination. "It's my duty, as the last remaining hero, to avenge my fallen comrades."

「Insolo」—the incantation left Fiammie's lips, and the miniature sun shot toward Fionn. The distance between them was less than ten meters, and the blazing orb sped toward Fionn with terrifying speed.

In that critical moment, Fionn froze in the corridor, his legs feeling as if they were rooted to the ground. He wanted to turn and leap to safety, but escape seemed impossible. The approaching miniature sun, the product of Fiammie's rage, only added to the mounting pressure, but then—unexpectedly—a surge of memory washed over him.

Almost by instinct, his hands moved. His right hand extended forward, while his left hand cradled his right, a gesture that seemed both strange and familiar. In a flash, a dense mass of dark energy began to form in front of his right palm, hovering and growing larger, taking on the shape of a softball-sized sphere of inky darkness.

The distance between Fionn and the deadly 「Insolo」 quickly diminished, and with no other choice, he closed his right hand and then reopened it, as if pushing the dark sphere outward. The black ball shot forth with astonishing speed, creating a shockwave that threw Fionn back a few steps.

The black sphere collided with 「Insolo」 and exploded through it. The once-menacing miniature sun shattered into countless fragments, disintegrating into dust without leaving a trace that could harm Fionn.

Meanwhile, Fiammie was stunned by Fionn's sudden counterattack. His shock was clear as the black sphere zoomed toward him, unstoppable. In an instant, it pierced Fiammie's chest, leaving him with wide-eyed disbelief, unable to react.

As Fiammie reached to touch the hole in his chest with his right hand, his confusion transformed into a sharp glare aimed at Fionn across from him. "You monster," he said with a sly smile, the kind that hinted at a bitter satisfaction, before his body slumped to the ground a few seconds later. The sound of his body hitting the dungeon floor echoed, a haunting noise that made Fionn freeze, overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness.

"MASTER FIAMMIE!!!" Fionn cried, rushing over to cradle Fiammie's fallen body. Panic and fear painted his face as he tried to understand what had just transpired. "Oh no, I'm sorry, I didn't know what that was," he said, his voice trembling with remorse.

The light in Fiammie's eyes slowly dimmed, yet he managed a faint smile as he watched Fionn panic by his side. "What is this monster doing?" he wondered in his final moments. His last attempt to avenge the fallen heroes had failed, and he died at the hands of the guide he once believed was an enemy in disguise.

Fionn felt the weight of Fiammie's body growing lighter in his arms, a clear and unmistakable sign that life had left his friend's body. "What was that..." he whispered, his voice choked with emotion, as tears began to stream down his cheeks, wetting Fiammie's pale and cold face. "Reflex, just reflex. I didn't mean to do that." His voice sounded hollow, as if he wasn't entirely convinced by his own words.

He raised both hands to the sky, as if seeking understanding or forgiveness from some unseen force, his voice filled with pain and regret, "He attacked me first, so I was defending myself." Yet as he spoke, he felt as if he was talking to an empty space, trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

While looking at Fiammie's lifeless body, Fionn kept repeating to himself, "It's true, I was just defending myself," his voice trembling, trying to calm the turmoil in his heart and mind. Memories of the times he spent with Fiammie—before and after they entered the dungeon—began to flood his thoughts.

He recalled the silly moments they shared—like when he accidentally made Fiammie slip in front of Kaleb, or when he spit out water when Dunoa unintentionally made a funny face. Those memories, once light and humorous, now tasted bitter, knowing that he had inadvertently caused the death of a friend and companion.

And now, with Fiammie's final scream accusing him of killing all the heroes, Fionn began to doubt everything. He struggled to recall the events that led up to this, searching for any memory that might explain what happened, but nothing surfaced. The urge to scream bubbled up, a release for his frustration and confusion, but he held it back with all his might.

Standing on unsteady legs, Fionn steeled himself. In his despair, he created a narrative that might bring him some comfort or at least a reason to keep moving: "That Fionn over there is the imposter, the one who killed all the heroes. This tragedy happened because he disguised himself, and I, Fionn the guide, have to get out of here alive."

"There's nothing wrong; the heroes died because of the dungeon's monsters, I woke up and knew the monster was dead, I was defending myself, and Fiammie died." Fionn repeated these words like a mantra, taking deep breaths, trying to reassure himself that what he did was justified.

Now, he stood with more confidence, his body upright. He glanced briefly at Fiammie's body lying in front of him, tears welling up in his eyes, but he fought them back with sheer willpower. Fiammie's corpse sat slumped, his red hair blending with the blood around him, creating a bleak scene. The physical details remained the same as when Fiammie tried to attack Fionn, except for the large hole through his chest, with the dungeon wall visible through the gap.

Pushing those images from his mind, Fionn turned and walked toward the dungeon's exit, trying to reclaim his role as Fionn the guide.