Each species of monster in the Dungeon had its own turf, like cranky old folks who refused to leave their favorite bench at the park. They didn't wander much. They didn't go exploring. They just... existed. Right where they were supposed to.
No dramatic entrance. No dramatic backstory. One moment the area was quiet, the next—there it was. A monster. Fully grown, fully ready to ruin someone's day. No eggs. No parents. No tragic orphan story. They just spawned, like the Dungeon itself tapped a button and went, "Yeah, this seems like a good spot."
It was always the same spot too. Like the ground had monster loyalty points.
And once they were defeated—sliced, burned, exploded, or smacked into next week—they didn't stay gone for long. After a while, they came right back, same model, same attitude, fresh as a daisy with memory loss.
That "cooldown" between spawns? It was the Dungeon's way of breathing. Take one out, and the system just exhaled a bit, waited, then respawned it like, "You'll be back in five. Don't be late."
So yeah. That was their entire lifecycle. No romance. No legacy. No existential purpose. They were born to fight, die, and queue up for the next round like it was a really aggressive theme park ride.
•••••
Steven charged into the battlefield like a man starring in the movie trailer of his own life—tracksuit flapping, greatsword gleaming, confidence dialed up to eleven.
It would've looked impressive.
Really, it had potential.
Except… he was holding the massive greatsword like it was a heavy broom someone handed him as a joke.
His grip wobbled, his stance was off-center, and the blade dragged behind him with all the enthusiasm of a tired shovel. What should've been a glorious charge looked more like someone trying to jog with a wardrobe strapped to their back.
Gideon trailed behind at a casual pace, hands in his pockets, head tilting slightly as he watched the slow-motion disaster unfold.
He shook his head—not angrily, not even with disappointment. It was the kind of shake reserved for someone who'd already made peace with the fact that players were going to do exactly this kind of thing forever.
Steven didn't slow down. Didn't think twice. He barreled straight toward a group of five white wolves lounging in the shade of a gently swaying tree.
The wolves weren't hunting. They weren't even paying attention to the surrounding players. They were just... relaxing. One had its head resting on its front paws. Another lazily scratched behind its ear. For all intents and purposes, they looked like a family picnic waiting for someone to bring sandwiches.
But then they noticed him.
The moment Steven's footsteps thundered closer, five heads lifted in eerie unison. Their eyes locked onto him—sharp, clear, a little too intelligent. Their fur shimmered in the light, smooth as silk, but it was the way their bodies moved that set the warning signs off. Quiet. Tense. Balanced like bows pulled just before the release.
Each leg was lean, sculpted for speed and control. They didn't posture. They didn't growl. They simply stood. Instantly alert.
And they were fast. The kind of fast that didn't warn you before it hit.
Gideon stopped walking, letting the scene play out before him like a cutscene he'd already seen too many times.
Yup.
This was going exactly where he thought it would.
[Tier 1: Grassland Wolf.]
Gideon narrowed his eyes as he watched the wolves fan out in a loose arc—smooth, practiced, almost polite about how thoroughly they were surrounding Steven.
Their movements were clean, no wasted motion. They didn't roar or bark or puff their chests. They just moved with quiet confidence, like they were clocking his every step, calculating the exact moment to pounce.
Yeah. He knew this pattern.
He'd seen it too many times, and the math never changed.
"Player, if you plan to face that many wolves alone… well, let's just say most folks bring a whole party and even then, it's not easy."
Steven turned slightly, that grin still plastered across his face like it had been glued on by sheer belief.
"Nah, I'd win."
Gideon blinked. Then furrowed his brows like someone trying to remember if they left the stove on in a house that didn't have a stove.
"Is that… a common phrase in your world? I've heard it many times before—from others like you. And each time, it ended… not so well."
He wasn't even mad. At this point, it was more like déjà vu mixed with professional concern. The kind of concern a veteran lifeguard feels when someone cannonballs into the deep end with floaties on backwards.
The five wolves paced in a loose ring, each one growling like it had something to prove. Their eyes flicked from Gideon to Steven, then right back to Steven like they'd already decided who looked crunchier.
Steven rolled his shoulders with the swagger of someone who hadn't actually tested if his arms could handle that massive sword on his shoulder.
"Bring it on, big cats."
Gideon pinched the bridge of his nose like the words physically hurt.
"They're wolves, Steven. You just challenged a pack of angry dogs and called them cats."
And that was it. The wolves were done being patient.
All five surged forward, a blur of fur, teeth, and the shared energy of animals that didn't believe in fair fights.
Steven, bless his delusional optimism, yanked his greatsword into a wide, theatrical arc. It whooshed through the air with all the speed of a sleepy sloth swinging a tree branch.
When it finally crashed into the ground, the impact was impressive—dirt exploded, a crater bloomed beneath the blade, and somewhere in the distance a bird probably rethought its life choices.
Unfortunately, none of the wolves were standing anywhere near the impact zone.
They hadn't dodged. That would imply effort. No, they just… stood there. Watching. One even sneezed. Another scratched behind its ear like it was waiting for the rest of the fight to happen.
Steven stayed frozen in his dramatic sword pose, panting like he'd just done something legendary.
The wolves exchanged glances.
Still no blood. Still no reason to take him seriously.
"This is looking real grim for you, player. Grassland Wolves aren't just fast—they're basically legs with teeth. Easily one of the fastest monsters on Floor 1. And you... well, you swing like you're underwater. I don't think you could land a hit even if they lined up politely and held still."
"Only a coward would retreat. I am no coward."
Gideon dragged a hand down his face like he was trying to erase the moment from existence.
The five wolves shot forward like someone had just removed their safety settings. No hesitation. No warm-up. Just full-speed commitment to violence.
Steven braced himself with the confidence of someone who'd clearly never seen a wolf up close. He raised his greatsword in that same dramatic, slow-motion fashion—like he thought time would wait for him to finish the swing.
It did not.
Before the blade had even passed the halfway mark, two wolves had already reached him. One sank its teeth into his arm with a crunch that made Gideon wince. The other went straight for the shoulder, clamping down like it was trying to carry him home as a snack.
Steven screamed. Loudly. The kind of scream that suggested he'd just found out the pain system wasn't optional.
He stared at the blood pouring down his arm like it had personally betrayed him. Eyes wide. Mouth hanging open. Brain very clearly trying to process the fact that this wasn't turn-based combat anymore.
"Gideon, I'm bleeding! This isn't a damage animation—this is real! I need healing! Give me a potion or something—I can still win this, probably!"
Gideon shrugged like a man who'd emotionally checked out ten minutes ago and was now just waiting to see how bad this could get.
"I'm not a healer, for one. And two—we don't have any potions. Remember Odette? The sweet NPC standing right next to the Monolith? Yeah, she literally hands out free potions to new players. All you had to do was talk to her. But no—you spotted wolves and sprinted in like it was your destiny to die dramatically."
The wolves, clearly still clocked in, rushed Steven again. He tried to swing his greatsword in something vaguely resembling an attack, but it was more like someone trying to swat a fly with a refrigerator door. He missed.
One of the wolves didn't.
It lunged low and clipped his leg with a sharp slam of its body, enough to knock him off balance. Steven stumbled with a very unheroic yelp, clutching his shin like someone who just stubbed their soul.
"Gideon! It freaking hurts! Why does it hurt!? This was supposed to be a game! A game!"
Gideon stared at him. Not in sympathy. Not in panic. But with the calm, slow blink of someone trying to figure out if Steven's skull had a user manual.
He honestly started to wonder what sort of brain wiring this guy was operating with. Did it run on vibes? Because it definitely wasn't logic.
Steven was getting swarmed. One wolf gnawed on his arm like it was chewing through a stubborn snack bag, another kept snapping at his leg, and a third was somehow just circling him in a very judgmental way.
The greatsword flailed again—wild, off-balance, full of emotion and absolutely zero accuracy.
"Gideon! Do something! Hit them! Bite them back! I don't care—just help!"
Gideon gave the world's most casual shrug. The kind of shrug that said, 'Wow, what a familiar Tuesday'. He'd heard this exact line so many times it could've been printed on a shirt.
"I'm a guide. I don't do combat. It's literally in the name. I guide."
Steven looked moments from falling over—partly from the wounds, mostly from the betrayal.
"So you're just gonna stand there and watch me die?"
"Yup. That's the whole job description. Watch, explain a little, maybe wave if it's a slow day."
Steven planted his sword into the ground with all the drama of a man trying to summon divine intervention through sheer frustration.
The blade wobbled slightly, not quite as heroic as he probably imagined, while the wolves continued to pace around him like they were considering seasoning options.
"What's the point of your weapon then? Huh? Isn't that thing meant to do something? Why even carry it if you're not gonna use it to smack things trying to eat us?!"
Gideon glanced down at the gauntlet on his arm. Sleek, polished, with faint etchings that shimmered if the light hit just right. If he flexed his hand, it could shift—activate, even. Transform into something sleek and sharp: a psyblade, forged more for precision than brute force.
"This is just for… aesthetic."
That was what he always said. That was the rule. The guide doesn't fight. The weapon was just part of the look. A prop. Flair for immersion.
Probably.
Maybe.
Possibly?
Gideon looked at the gauntlet again. There was a hum underneath it. Faint. Like it was waiting for something. Or someone.
He scratched his head, unsure if he'd just lied to Steven or to himself.
For the first time in his entire existence—however long that actually was—Gideon stared at the gauntlet on his arm and felt something weird.
Curiosity.
Not the usual flavor, either. This wasn't his regular "Hmm, wonder what that button does" curiosity. This one buzzed low in his chest, crawling through his circuits like a program rewriting itself in real time.
What if it wasn't just aesthetic?
What if the weapon wasn't there to look cool, but to be used?
What if all this time, all the silent battles and pitiful screams he'd stood through—what if the only thing keeping him out of the fight… was him?
What if the rules weren't as locked-in as he thought?
What if he could ignore the job description, skip the friendly NPC script, and—just maybe—smack something?
A wolf growled louder. Teeth bared. Claws digging in, ready to pounce.
"Quit spacing out! They're coming! And I'm still bleeding, in case you forgot!"
Gideon blinked back to the present.
Right. Wolves. Screaming player. Existential crisis.
Maybe not the best time for a personal awakening. But hey—what was the right time?
One of the wolves lunged straight at Steven, all teeth and menace and absolutely no sense of personal space. Steven managed to raise his greatsword just in time, catching the wolf with a loud clang that nearly knocked him off balance.
Before he could even catch his breath, another blur shot from behind—low, fast, quiet. A second wolf, silent as guilt, zeroed in on his exposed neck like it had a personal vendetta against spines.
[This action is not allowed. Please return to your designated script.]
The words echoed in Gideon's mind like an automated scolding from a very unimpressed parent. The usual kind he'd always obeyed. The kind that kept him out of the fight. The kind that defined his entire existence.
He ignored it.
No more doubts. No more "maybe I'm just decorative" inner monologues.
He stepped forward.
His gauntlet reacted instantly, like it had been waiting longer than he had. A sharp hum vibrated in the air, followed by a smooth, sudden shhk!—a blade of light burst out from the gauntlet, long and flickering, pink like bubblegum with murder issues.
[Warning.]
[Warning.]
The system's voice piped up again, more urgent this time, but it might as well have been background music.
Gideon kept walking.
One step. Then another.
The wolves hadn't noticed yet. Steven was still mid-scream. The system was still protesting.
But Gideon? He was done watching.
Gideon moved without hesitation—no script, no system prompt, just instinct finally waking up after a lifetime of dormancy. His body cut forward, the psyblade swinging in a pink blur, slicing through the air like it had always belonged there.
The blade met the wolf's neck with almost no resistance. Just a clean, smooth cut.
The head dropped like it had somewhere else to be, hitting the ground with a soft bounce. The rest of the body followed, collapsing into a heap right behind Steven—silent, still, very dead.
For a moment, everything froze.
Gideon stared at the fallen monster, at the flicker of light as it vanished into a puff of system dust.
His fingers tingled. His pulse—which, to be fair, he wasn't even sure he had before—was pounding now. Fast. Loud. Real.
Adrenaline surged through him like a soda can shaken too hard. It buzzed up his arms, wrapped around his chest, shot straight to his head. His hands didn't tremble. They thrummed. He felt light. Wired. Absolutely alive.
He'd done it.
He'd actually killed something.
Not observed it. Not taken notes. Not explained the death mechanics to a beginner. He'd swung the blade, ended a threat, made something vanish that was very much trying to eat someone. It felt—no, it rushed—like power bottled in disbelief.
He turned to Steven, stunned by his own success.
Steven lit up with a grin, full of admiration and exactly the kind of validation Gideon hadn't realized he wanted.
"You did it, Gideon. You actually did it—ah!"
The moment shattered like glass.
Two wolves lunged from the sides, all teeth and bad timing. One ripped into Steven's throat. The other barreled him down.
He didn't even get to scream properly—just a wet gurgle and a flurry of flailing limbs before his body broke into pixelated shards, bursting into soft blue particles and vanishing into the wind like he was never there.
Gideon blinked at the spot where Steven had just been—now reduced to glowing blue fragments, swirling away like the game itself was trying to quietly erase the embarrassment.
He didn't flinch. Didn't shout. Didn't fall to his knees in despair.
Instead, he stood there, still gripping the psyblade, its soft pink glow humming beside his face like an afterthought.
The adrenaline from his first-ever kill still buzzed in his system, electric and heady, but the aftermath hit with an entirely different flavor—something like mildly disappointed resignation with a dash of oh well.
His lips parted.
"Damn it."
The words came out flat. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just… even. Like he was reading from a list of grocery items and had just remembered he forgot the milk.
No rage. No panic. No movie-worthy screaming into the sky. Just that calm, eerily steady tone. The kind of tone reserved for when someone burns their toast but already expected it.
He looked down at his blade again. Still there. Still glowing. Still real.
One wolf down.
Steven… well, Steven was now very much logged out.
Gideon sighed through his nose.
For a first kill, this moment was supposed to feel epic.
But honestly? It felt a lot like babysitting a toddler who ran headfirst into traffic while you were unlocking your powers.
Before Gideon could shift his weight or raise the blade again, the other two wolves lunged like they'd finally decided he was part of the meal deal.
One clamped onto his shoulder, the other went straight for the neck—fangs tearing through him with the kind of teamwork usually reserved for synchronized swimmers or really aggressive sales reps.
There was blood. Sharp, hot pain. Bones grinding. Vision flickering at the edges.
But Gideon didn't scream.
Not even a grunt.
He just stood there, jaw tight, eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance like he was trying to remember if he'd left the door unlocked back at the spawn zone.
Pain didn't rattle him anymore. Not this kind. Not the kind where your flesh gets treated like a chew toy and your insides get rearranged like a badly packed suitcase.
He'd felt it all before—over and over. Dozens of failed players. Dozens of botched tutorials. Dozens of times the monsters had turned on him the moment his job was technically done.
He'd died so many times, it was basically part of his morning routine.
Gideon stared at the nearest wolf even as it dug in deeper. His legs buckled a little, but his expression didn't change.
They could tear him apart if they wanted. It didn't matter.
He'd respawn anyway. Just another day. Just another death. No big deal.