The dense fog of the first floor of the dungeon surrounded a gold adventurer. 

 

“No! No! Anyone but me! Please!” he cried, his voice trembling with desperation.

 

The adventurer looked at his other party members with eyes filled with sorrow and regrets. 

 

They looked at him like a man that was already marked for death. But in truth they all knew, the fog was harmless. 

 

Infact, of all the party members he was the only one who was now guaranteed to leave this dungeon alive. 

 

For the past month, since the discovery of this eerie dungeon, the pattern of death had been unsettlingly balanced. Parties of adventurers entered, and the dungeon exacted its grim toll: one would be consumed by the fog, three were condemned to face the trial of heroes, and the remaining three became fodder for the grotesque denizens lurking within. This peculiar calculus yielded a survival rate of over fifty percent, a prospect that many adventurers considered favorable.

 

Not to mention every party that entered the dungeon would receive a skill attached to their weapon or armor. 

 

The allure of these newfound skills far outweighed the dread of the dungeon's horrors. To adventurers who thrived on the thrill of danger and the promise of might, the cost seemed paltry.

 

But back to the present situation. The reason this adventurer looked so deathly pale as the fog covered him was due to the after effects of the fog. 

 

The dire consequence of the fog's touch lingered in the back of every adventurer's mind, a punishment worse than any death. They had witnessed valiant comrades reduced to gibbering, helpless husks, their very souls torn asunder until they eventually killed themselves. 

 

The other adventurers breathed a sigh of relief, happy they were not the ones chosen by the fog. They all felt what the fog did to even the bravest and toughest of men was a faith far worse than death. 

 

They had seen unbeatable men be reduced to suckling babes after being consumed by the fog. 

 

"Press onward! Let not his sacrifice be in vain,"

 

Urged their leader, attempting to muster resolve amidst the lingering unease.

 

Meanwhile in the fog-

 

Amidst the suffocating fog, unseen by mortal eyes, the cursed adventurer was subjected to his own personal hell.

 

[Bend over boy!]

 

a sinister voice echoed, a chilling whisper that dredged up traumatic memories.

 

The gold adventurer was pushed over by a phantom in the fog. 

 

‘That voice! It… It can’t be! I… I killed you!’

 

The gold adventurer’s pupil seemed to dilate with rage as he heard the voice of his dead step father. A man he had thought he'd buried in the depths of his subconscious. But here he was, a spectral presence, taunting him in the fog.

[You ain’t killed nothing boy!] 

 

The fog parted and the figure of his dead step father standing over him came into view. The step father’s face was blurry but the adventurer knew that figure anywhere he saw it. 

 

[Now let’s play our little game.]

 

the figure hissed, a grotesque grin twisting its blurry countenance. It leaned in close, a finger tracing his face with a malevolent sensuality.

 

[You remember… “Don’t tell mommy”]

 

the voice murmured, sending a sinister chill through the adventurer's very soul.

 

The figure licked its lip as it whispered in the adventure’s ear. ‘

 

Hearing those words a shiver washed over the gold adventurer’s back and cold sweat covered his face as he started to shake uncontrollably as the memories he had long repressed resurfaced. 

 

“No! NO! I … I am a boy!”

 

The adventurer almost sounding like he had reverted into a child-like state tried to let out his last ounce of resistance as he spoke. 

 

But the figure in the fog only raised the back of his hand menacingly. 

 

[Don’t  you dare talk back to me boy!]

 

Hearing that familiar threat, the adventurer shook with a primal fear he had long forgotten.  Flashes of repressed memories rushed back into his mind and all the pain and anguish he felt hit him at once like a freight train. 

 

The adventurer spasms violently and foamed at the mouth as sharp electrical impulses from his own brain overloaded his body. 

 

-

 

Meanwhile Bliss in his bed looked on through his crystal ball and smirked as he saw the greater phantoms of trepidations begin to escape from the adventurer’s body. Their malevolent essence danced around the fallen adventurer.

 

Bliss grabbed one of the phantoms and took a huge bite. 

 

‘The demonic corrupt energy amplifies their fears and unravels their past, it's almost too easy," Bliss mused, savoring the corrupt essence.

 

In his previous world, extracting such information required hours of careful questioning and psychological manipulation. However, with the advent of demonic corruption, these mental barriers crumbled when encountered by non-demons. 

 

Bliss pondered as he finished eating the phantom and got up. 

 

"Well, time to greet Participants Number 78 and 79," Bliss muttered, brushing phantom remnants from his hands before disappearing into the depths of the dungeon, his laughter echoing ominously in his wake before he teleported away.