Life is not fair for everyone.
The world doesn't hand out mercy. It picks favorites.
Some are born into comfort—silver spoons and golden cradles, futures handed to them before they even speak. Others? They claw through dirt and blood, only to realize the world never planned to let them rise.
Nathaniel "Nate" Veran had always known which side he belonged to.
At sixteen, he was thin—bordering on fragile. His skin clung to bone, and hunger was a familiar ache gnawing at his belly. He wasn't special. Not in strength. Not in skill. Just another face in the crowd. But there were two things that stood out. Two things the world hadn't taken yet.
His hair, white as frost under moonlight.
And his eyes—ocean-blue, deep and endless. Eyes that didn't just look. They remembered. Like they held echoes of a life he hadn't lived yet.
But in this world, beauty meant nothing.
Power did.
He lived on the city's edge, where the sky seemed grayer and the streets colder. Their home was barely more than four crumbling walls and a leaking roof. His father, David, ran a modest herb shop, tucked between rusted vendors and shouting merchants. It earned enough to keep them alive—barely. His mother, Alice, stayed home, caring for Nate and his baby sister, Elara. Three years old, soft-cheeked, and always smiling, as if unaware of the weight pressing down on their lives, as debt choked their family like an iron chain.
They didn't have much.
But they had each other.
And for Nate, that was enough.
Until today.
It started with a cough.
Not a storm. Not a scream. Just a cough.
Quiet. Fragile. Dismissed with a smile.
"Just a little tired,"
his mother had murmured earlier, waving a hand dismissively.
Hours later, she collapsed.
One moment she was humming lullabies and doing house chores. The next, she was gasping for air, her body trembling, eyes wide in silent panic. Her chest heaved, each breath more difficult than the last.
Elara cried, her tiny fists beating the air. "Mama! Mama, wake up!"
Panic surged through Nate's veins like fire. His thoughts scattered.
"Go get your father!" his mother choked out, each word a painful effort. "David... hurry..."
He ran—barefoot, wind tearing at his face, legs burning. Fast. Wild. Desperate. His heart thundered as he pushed through the market, dodging carts and curses. When he reached the shop, he barely had breath.
His father, David, busy sorting dried herb, looked up, a furrow in his brow.
"Nate? What is it, son? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Father! You... you need to come home! It's... Mother!" Nate gasped, clutching his side.
"She... she can't breathe!"
David's face paled instantly.
"Nate? What are you saying? What's wrong with Alice?"
He dropped the herbs as if they were burning his hands.
"She just... she just fell," Nate choked out, tears welling in his eyes.
"She's gasping, Father! Please! She said to get you!"
Without another word, David bolted from the shop, knocking over a display of dried roots. They ran as fast as they could to their house, the sounds of the bustling market fading behind them.
Minutes later, they burst into the healer's clinic.
The place hung heavy with the cloying scent of incense and the musty odor of forgotten years. An old man with graying hair and a lined face, Uncle Haru, stepped forward, his eyes assessing the frantic newcomers. He took one look at the woman in his father's arms and frowned deeply. He examined her, his touch gentle but his expression grim. Silent. Stern.
Finally, he straightened up, his gaze meeting David's desperate one. "David," he said, his voice low and serious, "her condition is very serious. Her life force is fading rapidly. She needs an advanced potion to sustain it."
The words hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken dread.
A moment passed, the only sound Elara's whimpering as she clung to her father's leg.
Then his father asked, his voice hoarse and trembling, "How much will it cost, Uncle Haru?"
Uncle Haru sighed, his gaze drifting away for a moment before returning, heavy with reluctance. "The Advanced Potion... the ingredients are rare, David. It's not something easily come by. The cost..." He paused, then named a sum that made David stagger back as if struck.
"...I... I don't have that kind of money," he whispered, his shoulders slumping, shame thick in his throat. "Uncle... surely there's something else? Some other remedy?"
The healer named Uncle Haru shook his head slowly, his eyes filled with a weary sadness.
"I'm sorry, David. I really am. But without payment... I can't afford to use such a valuable potion. My own supplies are limited."
David's voice cracked. "But... she's my wife! My children... they need their mother. Isn't there anything you can do? Please, Uncle Haru, I beg you."
Uncle Haru looked away, his face etched with regret. "My hands are tied, David. I have my own costs to bear. I wish things were different... but without the payment... I can't heal her."
They returned home in silence.
Each step felt heavier than the last. The city, once loud and full of movement, now felt distant and uncaring. Like it had turned its back on their suffering.
Sympathy doesn't heal. Pity doesn't cure.
His mother lay in bed, her breaths shallow whispers of life. Elara had cried herself to sleep beside her, her small hand still clutching her mother's frail fingers. The house felt colder, the shadows deeper. Smaller.
His father sank onto a chair at the table, unmoving. His eyes stared into the distance—hollow, defeated. "What are we going to do?" he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Alice..." The weight of a man who'd spent his life fighting, only to lose everything when it mattered most, pressed down on him.
Nate watched him, his heart aching. "Father..." he began, but the words caught in his throat. He had never seen him like that. So utterly broken.
"This isn't fair," Nate finally managed, his voice tight with anger and grief. "She doesn't deserve this. We don't deserve this."
His family—kind, loving, undeserving of this fate—was falling apart before his eyes.
He tried to think, his mind racing. "Could we... could we borrow more money?" he asked, the desperation clear in his tone.
David shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Borrow? Nate, we're already drowning in debt. No one will lend us a single coin."
"But... what about asking for help from the others in the market?" Nate persisted, clinging to any sliver of hope.
David's gaze was bleak. "They have their own struggles, son. The poor... they look out for their own. No one has enough to spare for a debt like that."
"Then... then we have to go back to Uncle Haru! Plead with him again!"
"I already did, Nate," his father said, his voice flat with despair. "He made his decision. He won't change his mind."
Desperation gnawed at Nate. "Should I... should I try to steal it? The potion?"
David looked at him, his eyes widening in alarm. "Nate! No! That's madness! You'd be caught... they'd punish you severely!"
"But what choice do we have?" Nate cried out, his voice raw with frustration. "How much could I even get by thieving from random people? It wouldn't be enough! Not for a potion like that!"
There was no one left to turn to.
His gaze shifted to the old news clippings on the wall. Dusty, yellowed pages talking about the Dungeons.
Mysterious realms—doorways between worlds that appeared without warning. Within them, monsters roamed and treasures lay hidden. Danger beyond comprehension. Glory beyond imagination.
And the Nightmares.
Rare individuals chosen by fate—or cursed by it. People who survived trials no one else could. Those who conquered their Nightmares and returned became more than human with supernatural powers.
They became legends.
Most feared the Dungeons. Others worshipped them. But Nate?
Thinking about the dungeon, a dangerous idea began to form. "Should I... should I go to the dungeon?" he whispered, the words a fragile question in the silent room. "To try my luck?"
"What's there to fear," he murmured, his voice barely audible, a chilling resolve settling within him, "when you've already lost everything?"
His fists clenched so tight his nails dug into flesh. But he didn't feel the pain.
"I can either watch my family fall apart, let my mother die..." he said, his voice gaining a grim determination, "...or I can fight. In the only place that might offer a chance."
His mother, fading with every breath.
His father, broken and silent.
His sister, too young to understand—but one day she would ask what he did to save them.
He couldn't stay.
He wouldn't.
And so, for the first time in his life, Nate made a choice.
Not because he was brave.
Not because he was strong. And certainly not because he wanted to be a hero.
But because this world had left him no other choice.
"Tomorrow," he declared, the word hanging heavy with the weight of his decision, "I will enter the Dungeon."
No matter the cost.
And either return with hope—
Or not at all.