The smell of iron filled the air.
Blood. Old, sticky blood.
Adam Kain wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced around the dungeon chamber. Moss-covered stone walls stretched into the darkness, lit only by the flickering glow of broken crystal sconces embedded unevenly in the walls. A faint mist hung low near the ground, stirring with every cautious step they took. His pulse thundered in his ears. This place didn't feel like a D-rank dungeon. Not even close.
But he was F-rank. And when an F-ranker got offered a dungeon raid with decent pay, he didn't ask questions—he said yes and hoped he survived.
That's what Adam always did. What choice did he have?
"Hey, you. Stick to the back, got it?" one of the better-equipped hunters barked, not even bothering to look at him.
Adam just nodded. He was used to it by now. That was his role—pack mule, healing crystal runner, cannon fodder. A walking target for weaker monsters while the stronger hunters farmed cores and XP like predators picking off the weak.
He adjusted the worn leather strap of his satchel, weighed down with spare potions and supplies. His cracked boots made faint scuffing sounds as he followed the group through a narrow corridor carved from jagged rock. Their footsteps echoed in rhythmic taps, each one swallowed quickly by the silence of the dungeon.
Something felt off.
The air was too still. Too heavy. Like the shadows weren't just watching—but breathing.
There were ten of them in total—three C-rankers, four D-rankers, and the rest, like him, F-rank nobodies desperate for money. Most of them were mercenaries or freelancers, barely registered with any guild. Temporary alliances, shallow trust. No one here would die for anyone else.
The dungeon gate had read "D-rank."
But the monsters told a different story.
They'd already fought things—shadow beasts with razor-like claws and void eyes. Creatures that moved in sync, like a hive mind. One of the C-rankers—an arrogant woman in sleek armor—was torn apart in seconds. No time to react, no chance to save her. Just blood and screaming.
Still, they pressed forward.
Cores meant money. And money meant food, treatment, maybe enough for rent. That hunger outweighed fear.
Always.
Adam's fingers trembled as he held his rusty dagger. It had seen too many battles for a weapon that was barely worth keeping. Cracks ran along the blade like spiderwebs. He didn't even know why he still brought it. It felt like a comfort item more than a tool.
Then they entered the next room.
And everything changed.
The chamber was vast—almost cathedral-like. Cold wind whispered from nowhere as their boots stepped onto polished obsidian tiles. Tall stone pillars reached up into a ceiling lost in darkness. Black torches burned with blue flames that flickered violently as if alive. In the center of the room stood a statue—tall, cloaked, its face hidden under a hood, and a massive scythe held across its chest.
Adam froze.
The statue's hollow eyes seemed to lock onto him. He couldn't explain it, but the gaze made his chest tighten. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his feet wouldn't move.
"W-We're not on the map anymore," one of the D-rankers stammered, eyes glued to the glowing crystal scanner in his hand.
"No readings… this wasn't part of the layout," another murmured.
The lead C-ranker, a tall man with silver hair and a too-confident smirk, took a step forward. "Probably a hidden room. Jackpot. These things usually have rare loot drops."
He grinned and strode toward the statue.
"Wait," Adam whispered, barely audible.
Heads turned. Silence fell.
He hadn't meant to speak. He didn't even know why he did. His voice felt like it belonged to someone else.
"What did you say, rat?" the silver-haired C-ranker asked, his grin faltering.
Adam swallowed. "I… I don't think we should touch it."
The hunters looked at each other—then burst into laughter.
"You scared? Then stay behind and cry while we get paid," one of the D-rankers snorted.
The C-ranker smirked and reached for the scythe in the statue's stone hands.
And the room screamed.
A deafening wail erupted from the walls, like a thousand souls crying out at once. The ground trembled violently. The flames on the torches surged, burning a deep crimson. The statue's eyes flashed blood-red.
Too late.
The trap had been triggered.
Stone doors slammed shut behind them with a thunderous crash. The corridor was gone. Escape—gone.
From the shadows, figures began to emerge. Robed, skeletal warriors with hollow eyes and curved obsidian blades. They glided across the floor with eerie silence.
Not one. Not ten. Dozens.
"What the hell—!"
A blade sliced through a hunter's neck before he could finish the sentence. Blood sprayed like a fountain as his body crumpled.
"Run! Spread out!" someone screamed.
But there was nowhere to run.
The skeletal warriors moved with unnatural speed—dancing between pillars, cutting down hunters in clean, precise strikes. Crystals shattered. Screams echoed. Blood painted the floor in seconds.
Adam didn't fight.
He ran.
Not out of bravery. Not to save anyone. Just to live.
He dove behind a broken column as a blade missed his neck by inches. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest. Sweat and blood stung his eyes.
He peeked out—only to see the silver-haired C-ranker get pinned down and impaled by three curved blades at once. His scream ended in a wet gurgle.
One by one, the hunters fell. The floor was littered with torn limbs and scorched weapons.
And then—only Adam remained.
He staggered forward, tripping over a corpse. His hands slipped in blood. His knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed near the base of the statue, coughing, shaking, on the verge of unconsciousness.
"Why…" he whispered, voice raw.
The statue's eyes glowed again—brighter than before.
And then, it spoke.
"You have escaped death… seven times."
Adam's eyes widened. The voice didn't come from the statue—but from everywhere. It was cold. Deep. Like the bottom of a frozen sea.
"Your kind fears me… yet you have danced at my doorstep again and again. Why do you cling to life so desperately, Adam Kain?"
His name. It knew his name.
He looked up, trembling. The statue remained unmoving. But its presence pressed down on him like a mountain.
"I… I don't know…" he whispered. "I just… I don't want to die."
"A lie."
Suddenly, his vision blurred.
Memories poured into his mind.
His mother, coughing in a hospital bed—too poor for treatment.
His younger sister, crying alone in a dark room, clutching an eviction notice.
The guild officer, laughing as he rejected Adam for the fifth time, calling him "trash."
Dungeons. Monsters. Pain. Loss. Hunger. Fear.
"You desire power. Not life. You wish to never kneel again."
The statue's shadow began to twist—stretching toward Adam like ink in water.
"Then I offer you a contract, mortal."
"Become death. And death shall never claim you again."
A sudden light flashed before Adam's eyes.
> [You have been chosen by Belial, the God of Death.]
[A unique class is awakening…]
[System initializing…]
His mouth went dry.
"Belial…?"
> [Do you accept the contract?]
He looked around.
At the bodies.
At the fading torches.
At the monsters closing in once more.
His fingers clenched into fists.
And he said—
"Yes."
In that moment, Adam didn't just survive.
He changed.
The system etched itself into his soul like a brand.
And far beyond that cursed dungeon, something ancient—something forgotten—awoke.
Death had found its new heir.