The dungeon's walls swallowed their laughter, crude and jagged, as the party trudged deeper, oblivious to the girl who'd knelt before his core.
They didn't see her trembling fingers place the mushroom, didn't hear her whispered apology.
Their eyes were on loot, on slimes, on their own egos.
Torv, the rogue, kicked a slime corpse, its grey goo splattering across cracked stone.
"Fuck, I forgot how trash this place is. Should've brought a bucket—scoop these shits and farm from home."
Myra, the mage, all bones and crooked staff, pointed at a wooden trap, its spikes dull and splintered. "That's busted. Didn't even twitch."
Gorr, the warrior, stomped over it, his plate armor clanking. "Disarmed it with my goddamn presence."
Torv smirked. "Yeah, your presence of being a heavy-ass meatbag."
Their cackles echoed, scraping the dungeon's nerves like rusty blades. He felt each laugh, each careless step, a thousand pinpricks in his core.
Elia hung back, her eyes flicking to the core chamber, to the grey smear of slime, to the mushroom now drowning in viscous fluid.
Her hands twitched, still sticky with goo from the last kill.
"Don't just stand there, Elia," Gorr barked, wiping sweat from his brow. "Scrape some coins."
She didn't speak, dropping to her knees beside a barrel.
Her fingers sifted through rot—nails, leather scraps, a broken ring, one slime-slick coin clinging to her glove.
"Ugh," she muttered, voice barely audible.
Torv leaned against a wall, twirling a dagger.
"This place is a historical fart. Bet it's got cobwebs older than the gods."
"You should be thankful," Myra said, her voice nasal, eyes on her staff's faint glow. "Used to be a real dungeon. People died here."
Torv snorted, spitting on the floor. "From what? Bad mushrooms?"
More laughter, louder, uglier. Lila, the cleric, rolled her eyes, muttering, "Idiots."
Gorr stopped at a collapsed pillar, armor creaking as he crouched. He yanked down his pants, squatting with a grunt.
"No, no, don't you—" Myra started, voice rising.
Too late.
The wet slap of shit hitting stone echoed, a stench curling through the air.
Torv clapped, grinning like a hyena. "Legendary turd drop. Secret event trigger, boys."
Myra gagged, covering her nose.
Lila turned away, staff clutched tight.
Elia rose, unnoticed, and drifted to the wall.
Her hand pressed against the stone, fingers tracing a crack.
Her head tilted, breath barely a whisper.
"Does it hurt… to be like this?" she whispered. "You feel... Sad"
The dungeon felt her touch—a cold finger grazing raw nerves, pressing his exposed spine.
A pulse shuddered through the stone, not visible, but deep, alive.
He wasn't meant to think, to feel.
Yet her words, her pity, cracked the silence of centuries.
He remembered the deaths, the laughter, the endless pain.
For a fleeting moment, he was seen.
And he hated it—hated the warmth, the weakness it stirred, the violation of his torment.
"Move it," Gorr growled, yanking up his pants, oblivious.
"Last slime chamber, then we're out."
Torv flipped a lazy middle finger at the core as they passed. "Thanks for the XP, crusty rock."
Myra muttered, "Poop less visibly next time, Gorr."
Lila said nothing, her eyes on the floor, staff's glow flickering.
They filed into the hall, boots scuffing, torches casting jagged shadows.
Elia glanced back, just once, at the core, at the mushroom sinking in slime.
The dungeon held her gaze, her apology ringing in his stone.
For the first time in 417 years, something snapped—a scream, silent but searing, clawing at the edges of his core.