"What are you so afraid of, boy?” growls the creature’s voice in the darkness of the throne-room. He stares at her, readying himself — his feet slide into stance, his shoulders held at an angle, his blade glinting. He recognizes the tone of her voice — that dominantly playful lisp that he’s come to know. “You dare come all the way to me and then still dare to feel terror?" asks the distorted shadow, sitting on a throne of bones, her disdainful expression almost a mockery in and of itself. Her body is an odd amalgamation of points and distributed human mass. Her long legs end in tips like an insect’s, her elongated torso — that of a woman — is covered in spikes and sharp growths, her long, gangly arms end in razor sharp fingers, and she towers over him in stature — even sitting on her grim throne — the Demon-Queen, a creature akin to a human who had never quite finished turning into a praying-mantis after a third of the way there.

 

All around them, the world quakes, the auras of his and her power colliding now that he’s finally reached the final heart of her domain. After all of this time, after all of this training, after all of these aching days and hard nights, after all of the losses and pain, it’s finally time for his and her dance to end.

 

The true-hero, Pravyen, lifts his sword, pointing it at the monster — her and the weapon sharing an ironic history. "I’m not afraid of you," he says, his eyes not betraying that statement.

 

The Demon-Queen laughs, her confoundedly content voice carrying around the collapsing throne-room of her castle, as if she were a smug mother laughing over the failure of another mother’s child. "You say so,” starts the Demon-Queen, rising up from the throne, fabric falling from her warped body as she moves down the many steps toward him at a leisurely pace, giving her the presence of a skulking cat. She lifts an eyebrow. “But I hear your boots rattling from atop my throne, wretch,” she accuses, looking over the summoned hero that she knows well. The two of them have had many encounters with one another, some that are known to the chroniclers of history and others that are… secret. He is, by prophecy, the man who is destined to conquer her and end her terrible reign over the world. “I hear your heart striking like a witch clawing against a crib,” she remarks, lifting a long finger toward him, black-magic oozing from its tip like rot from a pustule. “— I can hear the churning of your gut."

 

Pravyen, the hero, shakes his head, the glimmering sword reflecting away the putrid green aura that is released by the true demon. "I am afraid, but not of you, beast."

 

Her claws dig into the stones around her, breaking off chunks of it in anger as she towers above the hero and the group of people standing behind him — his party, his comrades in arms, his friends. "All men fear me. Deceiver."

 

They both know this is not true and see it in one another’s eyes.

 

The single man steps forward defiantly, placing himself one more step ahead of the others than he was before so that there is no mistake whose fight this is. His party-members, his friends, have helped him grow; they’ve helped him find his place — it’s here; he belongs here on the final battlefield. He was chosen to be the true hero; he was chosen to end this, and he would have never made it this far or become this strong if not for them all. These men and women standing behind him, cheering him on, believing in him — they’re everything to him.

 

But now he has to do this alone.

 

"No," he remarks, readying himself for the final encounter. "I only fear what will come after you," replies Pravyen, before pressing forward to reach the shrieking Demon-Queen in the middle of the throne-room of the Demon-Queen’s Castle, marking the start of his final victory over her and also the final fight of his rein – fully ending his career as the true hero of this era, with nothing left to challenge against after the completion of his mission.

 

Months later, after the fall of the Demon-Queen, his party-members had moved on and begun healing from the trauma of their journey together. He would last be seen with an empty rucksack on his shoulders, walking off into the distant wilderness by himself just before sunset.

 

He was never seen again by any sources of recorded history, disappearing like so many other heroes before him once their mission had ended and their only purpose in life was lost, once it was revealed that a man without a mission is simply just… a man.

 

And like an insect expelled from its hive, like the axe that felled the last tree, the healer who cured the last illness, once he was without purpose and goal, he was simply without.

 

---

 

 

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” chants the crowd as the two men tumble over one another.

 

Within the dimly lit resting quarters of the colosseum, the stifling air carries with it an intoxicating scent of sweat and spilled spirits — several sorts are available to purchase for champion-points. The uninhibited, restless energy of two contestants has turned toward one another. Raucous laughter and cheering reverberate off the walls as the two of them fight in a drunken brawl. In one corner of this cramped space, where the off-duty gladiators lay sprawled upon frayed cushions or perched precariously atop rickety stools, two champions find themselves locked in a drunken struggle born of bruised egos and liquid courage. Their once-immaculate clothes now tarnished by bloodstains and tears, these brawlers lunge at one another with wild abandon—a far cry from their calculated grace displayed on the sands beneath a merciless sun back during their glory days of being free, living people on the surface.

 

The first champion, a burly figure with hair matted by perspiration and ale, swings his fists like battering rams against his adversary's defenses. Each blow lands and reverberates through his knuckles up to his shoulders; yet despite the force behind these strikes, they lack finesse or precision. His opponent—leaner but no less fierce—responds in kind with sinewy arms that whip through the air. His countenance contorted by anger and intoxication alike, he ducks beneath one crushing fist only to retaliate with an elbow aimed squarely at his assailant's jaw.

 

Neither combatant seems concerned for their own well-being as they trade punches. The sensation of pain becomes little more than background noise amidst the cheers rising from those who bear witness to this impromptu spectacle.

 

Entertainment of any kind is always enjoyed by the prisoners of the dungeon-core, who, in the state of their situation, have truly sunk into devolved debauchery of every kind.

 

After all, they were dead. Now, they’re trapped underground, hidden from the world.

 

The prospects of shame and such things have long since left the arena.

 

The other warriors, spurred on by their own inebriation and a relentless thirst for bloodshed, roar their encouragement at the battling duo, telling them to kill each other. Whether their shouts betray allegiance to one brawler or another or merely serve to fan the flames of chaos that now engulf this rowdy assembly, is a mystery lost within the clamor.

 

A shrieking skeleton runs through the crowd, holding its ‘no fighting’ sign up in the air and running into the midst of the brawl. The two fighters, entirely indifferent to it, smash into the reanimated skeleton, causing it to fly back into the cheering crowd in several knocked apart pieces.

 

The skull, landing in the hands of a drunk elf, looks up toward the ceiling, toward the spot where the presence of the dungeon-core, Munera, is hovering unseen.

 

The humans are becoming kind of unruly lately, but that is understandable. The quarters are getting cramped, and they’re all so full of piss and vinegar these days that there isn’t anything possible except for everything that’s already happening within its precious walls. They’re overcrowded.

 

It supposes it will have to throw them a bone. Maybe that will help keep them content.

 

 

 

The dungeon shakes, the crowd screaming in fright for a moment as they all wobble on their legs in the quake, the bones of the skeleton rattling. The floor stretches outward, the stone moving in unnatural patterns as the rough granite is replaced with something akin to a sleek, craftsman made floor with a strong variation of pattern from zone to zone. The walls move, pressing into the world’s underbelly to allow for more space. The beds shift in clusters, moving to accommodate the wobbly, questionable frames, all creaking and groaning more than before as the wood hardens and firms, the craftsmanship becoming apparent. The dining area, the simple cauldron, and the hearth fill with racks and containers, with the assortment of free ingredients and spices increasing substantially.

 

Rugs flop down from the ceiling, finely woven tapestries that are large and soft for bare feet, keeping them away from the cold floors. Heavier sheets for the beds drop down from above, as do books and baubles to keep them occupied.

 

Outside of the item shop in which they can spend their champion-points, a mailbox appears for any outgoing letters.

 

The people fighting, having been dragged apart by the expanding room, take the hint and quietly rise to their feet, looking around the area in a mixture of confusion ranging between fear and excitement. They aren’t really sure what to feel, actually. But they quickly adjust and change mindsets entirely, as they then start to run around like excited children, discovering something new. Munera watches them all from above. People are such strange things, are they not? They are so easy to please sometimes.

 

It looks down at the scattered skeleton, whose bones are being absentmindedly carried away in all directions by the people. “Stop slacking off!” barks the dungeon-core, at the skeleton that quietly shrieks its scream that never stops.

 

 

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