A fanfare of golden trumpets rang out across the capital square, echoing through the marble corridors of the royal palace and into the packed streets below. The crowd fell into hush as a tall man in polished dusksteel armor approached the platform—his presence commanding, his cloak trailing silver thread.
It was High Marshal Corven Althais, the Voice of the Crown.
He raised his hand, and the murmuring stilled.
"People of Vaerindale, and honored delegates from across the Nine Realms," he began, his voice magically amplified to roll over the city like thunder. "You gather here today not in celebration, but in solemn purpose."
Behind him, the colossal gate to the Mythic-tier dungeon—alive with scarlet light, shimmering like an open wound in reality.
"Thirty years ago, the System brought forth the first recorded Mythic-tier dungeon—The Furnace of the Forsaken Gods. It came without warning. Its trials reshaped the world, its losses redefined heroism. Entire guilds vanished. Borders shifted. The myths we knew became truths… and the truths became ashes."
The High Marshal paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"Since then, Dungeon Gates have appeared only seven times. Each one unique. Each one devastating. They are not mere tests. They are crucibles. And the cost of underestimating them has always been steep."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Everyone knew the stories. Everyone remembered the fallout.
"Yesterday, beneath the southern cliffs of Elvareth's Reach, a new Gate opened—glowing crimson, silent and unmoving. The System has confirmed its classification as Mythic Tier. It is unlike any structure recorded. Unknown depth. Unknown composition. Its magic distorts sound, time, and light within a two-mile radius."
A scroll was handed to him, and he unrolled it solemnly.
"This is not a conquest. This is an investigation," he continued. "By royal decree, scouting operations will begin immediately. Selected survey parties will be tasked with: Mapping the floors. Documenting native monster behavior. Recording potential bosses and their abilities. Identifying any Essence Stones unique to this domain. Reporting environmental hazards or System anomalies"
He turned to face the two-hundred chosen scouts waiting near the gate. Inola felt her heartbeat quicken as his gaze swept over them.
"No adventurer is to enter unaccompanied. No Classless may proceed beyond the threshold, unless it's under certain circumstances that is deemed appropriate by either myself or the royal family. All findings are to be submitted to the Crimson Archive upon return. Scouting teams are granted a maximum of 72 hours (3 full days) within the Gate's internal time structure. Due to time dilation effects within Mythic-class dungeons, this equates to approximately 8 hours in external Araceli time. Failure to report within the stated time frame will be considered a loss, and backup teams will be deployed."
A silence fell again—this time heavy with reverence and dread.
The Marshal looked out over the crowd one final time.
"We do not forbid the brave. But we urge caution. The System does not show mercy. It only observes. And the Gate remembers every soul that passes through it."
A hand over his chest, he bowed deeply toward the scouts.
"May your blades stay sharp, your minds steady, and your returns swift. The fate of the kingdom—and perhaps more—may rest on what lies beyond this Gate."
"That is all."
The line moved at a crawl. It was going impossibly slow. The gates to the dungeon loomed ahead, dark red light signaling that it was a mythic tier grade. The very first one in over fifty years. Magic surged through the air, pulsing with the same deep crimson light that seemed to bleed into the sky above. The glow throbbed like a heartbeat.
The line curled like a serpent like a serpent across the marble Plaza, a living, breathing mass of tension and ambition. A scrawny fox kin girl with long midnight blue hair, creamy brown skin, and ruby red slitted eyes, stood somewhere in the middle, her patched cloak pulled tight against the early morning chill, her clawed fingers clenched around a black and golden ticket like it might vanish if she let go. Around her, voices rose and fell like waves. Snippets of gossip, bravado, progress, and poorly hidden fear.
Most of them were adults. Trained adventurers, nobles' sons and daughters with polished armor and glinting family heirlooms. Guild-affiliated mages with shimmering sigils and familiars perched on the their shoulders or sitting at their feet.
Inola felt so out of place with her baggy patched up clothes and the rusty old dagger she found in a dumpster. She was just your typical beast-kin from an orphanage run by a greasy baron with combover and a crooked smile, who made sure the kids knew the value of silence, obedience, and cheap labor.
If it wasn't for that elderly lady giving her this fancy looking ticket after Inola helped her cross the road, she wouldn't be here waiting in line to enter the newly discovered Mythic tier dungeon gate along with all these others.
"Hey, kid. You lost?"
A voice behind her startled Inola into turning slightly, ears twitching.
A man in silver-and-scarlet leather armor sneered down at her. A rapier hung at his hip like a fashion statement more than a weapon.
"That ticket's real, right? You didn't steal it from someone? Pretty sure orphans don't get into mythic-class dungeon trials."
Inola's tail lashed once. It was an instinctual warning.
"Didn't steal anything," she said flatly, chin tilted up. "Helped an old lady. She gave me the ticket."
"Sure she did. And I'm the King's bastard," he laughed, nudging the person next to him.
But before he could say more, a quiet pulse rippled through the air, like magic holding its breath.
The gates of the Mythic Dungeon shimmered in the distance. A colossal structure of veined obsidian and silver filigree, the dungeon entrance resembled a cracked mirror embedded in reality itself. Runes crawled across its surface like living vines, pulsing with colors no sane sky should hold.
Two armored gatekeepers stood at the edge of the portal, holding enchanted scrolls that glowed as they checked each participant's invitation.
One by one, the line advanced.
The chatter dulled.
Some stared at the gate like it was salvation. Others, like it was a death sentence.
Inola just stared ahead, focused. Her claws dug faintly into the ticket's edge, not enough to tear it. Her heartbeat was a steady war drum beneath her ribs.
"This is it..." she murmured. "No turning back now."
A woman two spots ahead was denied. Her ticket dissolved in flame. It was a fake. She let out a shriek, protesting, but the guards didn't flinch. A summoned barrier pushed her gently away.
The silver-armored man behind Inola fidgeted. He wasn't laughing anymore.
"Next."
Inola stepped forward, her boots light but her presence sharp. She handed over the ticket.
The gatekeeper's brows lifted the moment her fingers brushed the gold-inked surface. The scroll lit up—not with the pale blue of nobility, or the green of guild approval, but a flickering black-violet flame rimmed in gold.
The gatekeeper straightened. He narrowed his eyes and spoke softly.
"My apologies for the wait. You have been cleared by one of the members of the royal family. If we had known, you would have been first to pass."
He then bowed, startling Inola.
Inola blinked. Once. Twice. Her ears twitched, unsure if she'd misheard, but no. He was still bowed. People were staring. The line behind her rustled with whispers. She caught the word "royalty", followed by a panicked gasp and the sound of someone dropping their blade.
"Wh—what? I—no, you don't have to bow—!" she sputtered, tail lashing as her voice cracked. "I didn't ask anyone—I just… I only helped a—"
Her words tangled in her throat. She could feel eyes drilling into her from every direction. The nobles she had passed in line. The scouts who mocked her patched coat. Even the arrogant man with the rapier was silent now, his jaw slightly unhinged.
The gatekeeper raised his head, calm and respectful.
"The mark on your ticket bears the golden Pegasus, sigil of Her Highness Serenya Vaerindale. There is no mistaking the enchantment."
Inola's breath hitched. Her thoughts spiraled.
The old woman…? The one she helped across the rain-slick road?
Her knees suddenly felt wobbly.
The former Queen of Vaerindale... was that sweet old lady with the honeybread smile...?
The gatekeeper took a step aside and extended a hand toward the dungeon gate, which was now glowing brighter—responding to her presence.
"You may enter.
Inola hesitated only a moment longer. Then she nodded, jaw tight, and heart thundering.
"...Alright."
And as she passed through the shimmering veil, the whispers behind her rose again, now tinged with awe and confusion.
"Who is she…?"
"A beast kin… from the slums?"
"Chosen by the royal family?"
But Inola was already gone, swallowed by the crimson light.
==☪️==
The moment her foot crossed the threshold, the air shifted, like walking into a thick gust of wind. It wasn't painful, but it resisted her, pressing against her skin and clothes as if testing her shape.
For a second, she couldn't hear anything. The world beyond the gate was silent. No birds. No wind. No footsteps behind her.
The System flickered in her vision.
[Dungeon Signature Detected...]
> Name: The Eclipseroot Labyrinth
> Tier: MYTHIC (🔴)
> Theme: Fae Illusion / Memory Maze
> Monster Alignment: Unseelie/ Seelie/ Fae
> Estimated Layers: 4
> Boss Entity: [Lady Syrris, the Veiled Thorn]
[Syncing Essence Profile...]
> Player Essence Match Detected: 0/5
> Class Compatibility: Adjusting Internal Scaling...
Inola blinked as the interface dissolved from her vision like mist. Her clawed fingers flexed at her sides, brushing the old dagger still tucked into the leather holster at her hip. The crimson glow from the dungeon gate had already vanished behind her.
She stood in a square stone chamber, the air laced with the scent of dew, petals, and something more elusive. Vines the color of moonlight grew from cracks in the walls, winding like living veins across the stones. Flowers bloomed from them in clusters of impossible hues—colors that didn't belong to any known spectrum.
The walls were carved with fae script that danced when she wasn't looking at it directly. Names, perhaps. Or truths. Maybe lies.
"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one" said a voice—soft and unplaceable. "Will you drown in the madness? Or will you fight to stay afloat until you are dragged down by force?"
Inola whirled. No one stood behind her. Only the stairs.
Stone steps ascended beyond the chamber, lined with glowing thistle torches that burned with different colored flames. The walls pulsed with an indigo luminescence, veins of living quartz.
Inola closed her eyes and took a long deep breath to calm her nerves. She had one goal in coming here. And that was to gather 5 Mythic-tier Essence Stones and aquire a mythic-tier class.
"Nothing more, nothing less," she murmured to herself as she took her first step into the unknown.