By the time we finished all the forms, the sun had dipped below the artificial skyline, casting long shadows across the tiles of the lobby floor. Outside, I looked at it in wonder. I could sort of understand how they created a dungeon dimension with a city inside it, but an actual sun in the sky was on another level entirely. There were fewer people and animals in the streets, and more noise spilled from restaurants and taverns.

I slumped back against a nearby wall and rubbed my eyes. “Wasn’t our dungeon slot for today?”

Mahya blew out a breath and rolled her shoulders. “No, it’s sometime tomorrow morning. They tell you to come a day earlier for processing.”

I let my head thump back against the wall. “That was the worst experience of my life. Is it like this with all registered dungeons? It’s insane.”

Al rubbed the bridge of his nose, then gave a slow nod. “It is not as bad in Leylos, but a level of bureaucracy is involved. We have to protect ourselves from misplaced retaliation.”

“We?” I asked, squinting up at him.

“The royal house.”

Mahya stretched her arms over her head and gave a small grunt. “It’s not like that everywhere, but it’s common. We saw less of that in the higher mana levels, 65 and above. But yeah, this level registration is common. Of course, each world has its variations—how it’s done and the forms you have to fill. This one’s a bit extreme, but not the worst I’ve been through.”

I just stared at her. “There’s worse?”

Mahya nodded as she started walking. “Oh yeah. Once, we had to undress completely, even our underwear, to prove we didn’t have storage items. They didn’t believe the detector.”

I froze mid-step. “I’m sorry, what?”

She glanced over her shoulder, casually dodging a guy carrying a box of something. “They took us to a private room, but it was still embarrassing. The mage working the detector was terrified of the tank because of his size and level, so he called four enforcers to come in with us. So there I was, completely naked, with four uniformed enforcers standing in the corners, arms crossed and glowering like I was smuggling forbidden spells. Meanwhile, the rest of the party just stared at the ceiling, trying very hard to pretend they weren’t in the room.”

I shuddered and sped up to keep pace with her. “Next time, we’re wearing one of my storage rings and declaring it.”

“If we’d brought a storage ring, we’d have had to fill out at least one form for every single item inside, and pay tax on each one we took out of the dungeon. And if the ring were empty when we went in or came out, they wouldn’t believe us. They’d run a full search to ensure we weren’t hiding anything.” She hopped over a loose cobblestone and pointed down a side street. “Trust me, it’s better without a ring. And the tax? Sixty-three percent.”

I stumbled. “How much?”

“Sixty-three,” she repeated, calm as anything.

“Are they nuts?”

“Just greedy.” She shrugged, slipping past a group of armored adventurers coming from the other direction. “I’ve never seen a place with less than 35 percent. Most are in the fifties. But here? Extra greedy.”

“But we paid a mithril each!”

Beside me, Al shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat. He wasn’t even trying to hide his discomfort now.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What?”

He hesitated. “Leylos also has a fifty percent tax.”

I just shook my head, mystified, as we turned down a quieter street lit with blue-glowing stones embedded in the walls.

Mahya reached back and gave my shoulder a quick pat. “You’ll understand inside. Dungeons on high-mana worlds are different.”

We spent the night in an adventurer’s inn called The Plucky Spearman. The food was nice. Nothing fancy, just a common meat stew with fresh bread that hit the spot after a long day of fighting paperwork. The rooms were okay, too. Not like the fancy hotel outside, but they were clean enough, with mattresses filled with some kind of soft stuffing instead of straw, which didn’t stab me, and only one weird stain on the ceiling.

The real highlight was the atmosphere. It was exactly like in all the books I used to read: rows of long wooden tables, people clinking mugs, ale sloshing everywhere, and someone in the corner strumming an instrument out of tune. Shouting drifted in waves from table to table, a kind of loud camaraderie that made the whole place feel alive. A couple of fights broke out, but nobody pulled weapons, and the staff barely glanced up.

Even Rue got caught up in the vibe, tail wagging as he watched a small guy and a huge woman try to outdrink each other. I half expected someone to stand on a table and start singing about dragons and lost treasure.

It was AWESOME.

In the morning, after a hearty breakfast that left me pleasantly full and slightly sleepy, we headed back to the dungeon monstrosity. Inside, Mahya spoke with the Intake guy for about a minute. He barely looked up, just pointed toward a door at the far end of the lobby.

Two men stood on either side of the door, each holding a wand. They scanned the armbands we got yesterday. The door hissed and slid open, and I immediately staggered back a step. The wave of sound that hit me was overwhelming. It wasn’t just loud. It was everywhere, crashing into my skull like someone had wired an auction house to a megaphone.

It took me a few long seconds, maybe even a full minute, to dial down my hearing sensitivity enough to function. My brain finally stopped screaming, and the world came back into focus. Mahya and Al each pressed a hand over one of Rue’s ears. My poor boy was whimpering, tail tucked, clearly not a fan of whatever nightmare we’d just walked into.

The door had opened onto an enormous hall, at least five times bigger than the already absurdly large lobby. It might’ve even been bigger than a football stadium, bleachers and all. The space was packed wall to wall with merchant stands, and every single seller seemed to compete in some kind of unholy vocal endurance competition.

They all shouted about their merchandise at the top of their lungs like their life depended on it. Enchanted swords! Portable breaching tools! Mana-threaded boots! One guy was trying to auction off a “gently used” healing wand that looked like it had been through a shredder.

It was pure chaos. We crossed the place as fast as we could, dodging shouting vendors and weaving through the thick crowd. A few times, we almost bowled people over, but didn’t slow down. We had to get out of there. It was pure madness.

We passed through the door at the far end and stepped into another hall. It was smaller than the last one but still big enough to feel impressive. The space was less crowded, with two distinct groups of people.

One group was made up of adventurer parties—you could spot them instantly. They were bristling with weapons, decked out in every kind of armor imaginable, and more than half had familiars by their side. The lizards were the clear winners. I counted over thirty of them, most with saddles, lounging around like miniature dragons waiting for their cue. A few cats and birds were scattered through the mix, but the lizards definitely dominated the room.

Most parties consisted of three to five people, who stayed close together and spoke quietly. One guy, though, stood off to the side alone, like he didn’t need backup. Apparently, he brought a zoo instead. He had three cats, two lizards—one with a saddle and the other barely the size of my forearm—a bird perched on his shoulder, another balancing on one of the cats’ heads, a furry brown frog-adjacent thing, a creature that looked suspiciously like a koala but five times the size, and a red hedgehog sprawled across the koala’s head like it was a throne.

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The second group looked like guards. They stood in formation before a large iron gate, each holding a polearm. To the right of the gate was a counter, and behind it sat a clerk who looked so bored he might have been asleep with his eyes open.

Mahya headed over and spoke to the clerk for a minute. I couldn’t hear what she said, but there was some head-nodding and paper-shuffling involved. Then she came back, looking satisfied, and pointed toward two of the adventurer groups ahead of us.

“Them and them go in first,” she said. “Then us.”

To pass the time, I started identifying the surrounding groups to get a sense of the general levels. One party of five all had riding lizards. Four of them shared the same class—Tundra Rider—and the fifth was a Healer. Their levels ranged from 31 to 36. I couldn’t help but wonder if they killed monsters by just riding them to death.

Another group had four men and a woman, and their classes were more varied. The woman was a Divine Mender of the Star Song, level 11. Probably a healer? The rest were two Bowmen, one Prism Caster, and a Crystalline Brawler, all with levels somewhere in the thirties.

Other parties were smaller, but every single one had a healer, or at least someone with a class name that sounded like one.

The big gate creaked open, and a man stuck his head out, gave a quick scan of the room, and waved the next group in. About half an hour later, another group went through. Finally, after more than an hour of waiting, it was our turn.

The other side of the gate led into yet another oversized hall. Right in the middle stood a massive tree, with the portal of doom embedded in its trunk. But for some reason, this portal looked a little less doomy than usual. There was no swirling black vortex—just a flat, dark grey shimmer. More guards stood around the portal.

I looked up and understood the height and width of the building. From the outside, I was sure the upper floors were offices. But now, looking at the tree, I got the size and realized I was wrong. The tree was at least ten stories tall, with a canopy that extended a few hundred meters in each direction. Those were only estimates. The tree leaves were so dense that I could only guesstimate its actual size.

On both sides of the room were what could only be described as medical stations. They looked nothing like Earth’s sterile clinics. No white tiles, stainless steel trays, or harsh fluorescent lights. Instead, the stations were built from pale yellow stone with curved walls. Shallow basins and rune-etched shelves lined the back walls, stocked with neatly arranged vials, bandages, and tools that exuded faint wisps of mana. You didn’t need a sign to know what they were. Everything about the layout screamed “medical," and the healers stationed there confirmed it. Most lounged in chairs, flipping through books or scrolls, and looked bored out of their minds.

The portal of doom gradually darkened, the grey deepening until it turned pitch black, and then the swirling began. The guy stationed by the portal waved us over, and we handed our key tokens and stepped through. With all the buildup, I was dying of curiosity. At that point, I just wanted to get inside and finally see what all the fuss was about.

The moment I stepped inside, a text box appeared and blocked my vision. It looked a lot like a system message—same layout and size—but with a few slight differences. The grey background was solid instead of transparent, and the white letters didn’t glow. But the biggest difference was how it felt. It didn’t come from the system. I was sure of it. It felt alien, like something layered over everything else, superimposed and wrong. It came with an oily sensation that clung to my thoughts and left behind it a slimy residue.

✨ THE TRAGEDY OF THE LORD OF LIGHTNING ✨

As recorded in stormscript, preserved in the crystal memory of the Tempest Choir, and entrusted now unto you, O Saviors of the Fractured Realms.

In the twilight hush of the Age of Shattered Crowns, when kings ruled from thrones built of prophecy and steel, there strode one sovereign whose name rolled like thunder across the heavens: Valen Thalor, first and final bearer of the title Lord of Lightning. Crowned not by lineage, but by the trembling hand of Fate herself, he was the storm's mercy given form. His rain healed the sick, his thunder warned off evil, and his lightning carved paths through darkness like celestial blades of goldfire.

His reign was not of conquest, but of balance. His people thrived beneath skies stitched with silver clouds, their fields lush from rains summoned with a whisper. Children laughed in storms. Soldiers sheathed their swords when thunder spoke.

But peace, as ever, is a candle set too close to an open window.

In the infamous War of Seven Betrayals, an enemy cloaked in shadow and sealed in envy wormed his way into the royal court. He did not wield steel. He carried no poison. Instead, he whispered a curse sharp enough to unmake a soul, ripping the life from Valen’s only daughter, the joy of his reign, the light in his every storm. She did not fall. She dissolved, as if joy had never been hers to hold.

The King wept, and the skies wept with him. Then they screamed.

His sorrow shattered him like glass beneath the boots of titans. What remained was not Valen, but a howling wound in the shape of a man. He vanished into the heart of a storm no map could chart, and from its eye emerged something unholy and unbound:

The Living Storm. The Screaming Sky. The Bringer of Endless Midnight.

He was no longer a king, but a god of vengeance clad in thunder. And in his new divinity, he awakened a curse so vile it bent the laws of soul and sanity: the power to drag your nightmares, your most secret fears, into flesh that claws and shrieks.

He does not merely haunt the mind. He harvests it.

No phobia is too small. No dread too absurd. If ever a flicker of fear lived in the corners of your childhood room, if ever a monster crouched just outside the reach of the nightlight, you will meet it here. And it will know your name.

Now, his realm exists as a wound in the fabric of reality, sealed within a dungeon so twisted, it defies maps and mocks logic. The skies above it have forgotten the sun. Lightning dances endlessly across the bones of the past.

⚔️ But all is not lost. ⚔️

For in every age of madness, there comes a reckoning. And it arrives not on gilded wings, but in the steady steps of those chosen by divinity, tempered by will, and burdened with destiny.

You, brave soul, are no mere adventurer. You are the oathbound, the flame against the endless storm. You are salvation wrapped in armor. You are the final verse in a song too long denied its ending.

To you falls the divine duty of ending his reign, of silencing the storm, and returning nightmare to its rightful grave in Oblivion. Do not falter. Do not fear. The gods watch. The realms whisper your name in hope.

Go now, Saviors. The storm awaits.

“What the hell?” I exclaimed, blinking at the floating message.

No one answered. I frowned and tried to close the window with my mind like usual. Nothing happened. It took me a couple of seconds to figure it out. I couldn’t will it away like a normal system screen, but had to swipe at it, as if it were some kind of magical touchscreen.

When it finally vanished, I looked around.

Mahya was staring at me with raised eyebrows and a look that clearly said she was waiting for something. Al, on the other hand, was beaming. A wide, very-pleased-with-himself smile stretched across his face from ear to ear.

“What?” I asked, glancing between them.

They didn’t answer. They just kept looking at me, like I was supposed to do something.

I waited.

They waited longer.

After what had to be over a full minute of awkward staring, Mahya finally let out a dramatic sigh. “Nothing to say?”

“I did say what the hell, didn’t I?” I said, throwing up my hands in frustration. “And why are you both looking at me like that? What’s going on?”

She slumped. “I thought you’d say it doesn’t make any sense. I bet fifty gold on it. Al said you’d be confused and ask what’s happening.” She shot a glare at Al. “At least he didn’t win either.”

“I disagree,” Al said, tilting his nose up. “What the hell is a distinct expression of confusion and a request for clarification. I claim victory.”

“No, it’s not!” Mahya snapped, pointing a finger at him. “That’s just a generic reaction!”

Al turned to me. “What do you think?”

I paused, then gave him a slow nod. “I think Al won the bet.”

Mahya narrowed her eyes at me, lips pressing into a flat line. The stink eye she leveled my way could have peeled paint off a wall.

I grinned back, matching Al’s smug expression, even adding a slight tilt to my head for extra effect. “You didn’t answer me. What the hell?!”

Mahya huffed, flicking her fingers at me like I was annoying. “Just a stupid flavor text. Ignore it.”

I squinted at her. “What about the whole part where he drags up our nightmares and weaponizes them?”

She just shook her head and turned away.

I turned to Al. “Seriously?”

He gave a calm shrug, hands tucked neatly behind his back. “We did not buy the information package. Too expensive, and Mahya does not like spoilers.”

For the first time, I actually looked around. We stood in a medium-sized cave, empty except for mana crystals embedded in the walls. The light from the crystals was faint, like twilight, and painted everything in shades of blue and violet.

Mahya didn’t waste a second. She pulled out a pick and went straight to work, chipping away at one of the crystal clusters.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“We paid for resources,” she said without looking up. “Mana crystals are resources.”

“I do not believe the payment included the light crystals in the entry chamber,” Al said mildly.

That earned him a full-power stink-eye from Mahya.

We joined her in the mining project. It was easier than arguing. When the cave dimmed too much to see clearly, I cast Light Ball and sent it drifting overhead. The light bounced between the crystals and reflected off the walls, making the entire cave look like the night sky. It was beautiful and unique, and for a moment, I flinched because we were ruining it. Then I reminded myself it was a dungeon and fair game.

As I mined, I tried to figure out how I felt about dungeons in high-mana worlds. So far, I’d been hit with a message that made me feel like I’d been dunked in magical slime and then put straight to work with a pickaxe.

I was not impressed.