Avan crouched before the temple’s dried-up well, head throbbing like someone had taken a hammer to his skull, the aftershock of his *Celestial Dungeonheart* awakening still pulsing through him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping onto the white marble as he rocked back and forth, fighting the mental strain. “Arghhh…” he groaned, voice raw, clutching his temples, the *Seed of Origin* in his chest humming wildly—golden threads laced with silver and violet sparking beneath his skin. The headache wasn’t just pain; it felt like his soul was being rewired, the dungeon’s energy merging with this new world’s rules.
Twenty minutes dragged by, the agony relentless, until it finally ebbed, leaving him sprawled on the stone, arms flung out, chest heaving. “Ouch…” he muttered, voice hoarse, staring at the alien sky—two moons faint against the morning blue. That was unnecessary as hell. Never felt anything rip me apart like that. Soul included. He breathed slow and deep, *Origin Healing* (Lv. 3) passively soothing his cramped muscles, the golden warmth dulling the soreness as he lay there, too drained to rant aloud.
After a few minutes, he sat up, running a shaky hand through his hair—and froze. What had been black was now translucent white, flecked with gold, shimmering like starlight against a clear dawn. “Of course,” he sighed, voice dry, not even surprised anymore. Magic world, magic bullshit. He twisted a strand between his fingers, admiring its purity, the way it caught the sun. “Not bad, though,” he mused, struggling to his feet, boots—enchanted, rune-stitched—gripping the marble steady. “Doesn’t shock me after goblins, wolves, and that damn Core. If I squint, it’s almost see-through—pretty cool.” Could sell it for a fortune if it weren’t attached. He chuckled, the sound rough but genuine.
Then it hit him—a shift, subtle but overwhelming. His perception expanded, a flood of sensations washing over him, sharper than sight or sound. He didn’t just see the garden; he knew it—every blade of turquoise grass, every buzzing insect, the moisture in the air, the marble beneath his feet, all within a perfect ten-meter sphere around him. His *Celestial Dungeonheart* pulsed, ambient mana tingling in his core, feeding him awareness of every living thing in his domain. “Whoa…” he whispered, voice stunned, rooted to the spot as his mind scrambled to process it, the wholeness dizzying, like he’d plugged into the world itself.
Minutes passed before he wrestled it down, focusing until the flood dulled to a quiet hum in the back of his head, manageable but ever-present. *Identification* (Lv. 1) flared instinctively, no effort needed—just a thought, and details streamed in:
[White-horned Rabbit]
A small, peaceful creature with snow-white fur and a single horn. Native to Eos, these rabbits are mundane prey, their bright coats making them easy targets for predators.
[White Marble]
Mined from the Dragon Peak Mountains in northeastern Eos, prized for its pristine whiteness and durability.
“Okay, that’s… new,” he muttered, voice awed, stepping toward a rabbit grazing nearby, its location clear in his mind without looking. He knelt, spear propped beside him, and stretched out a hand. The rabbit sniffed, wary but calm, then resumed eating. Avan scratched behind its ears, grinning at the velvet-soft fur. Cute little bugger. Almost a crime not to keep it. A chime interrupted his thoughts, bold and mechanical:
[Do you wish to domesticate the White-horned Rabbit as a Dungeon creature? Yes/No]
“Ohhh…” he mumbled, voice low, eyes widening. Dungeonheart, right—I’m the anchor. Makes sense. He willed a “Yes,” and the system responded:
[White-horned Rabbit has joined you as a Dungeon creature!]
Dungeon creatures draw sustenance from your ambient mana within your sphere of influence. They evolve with your progress as a Dungeonheart and remain loyal. Should they perish, their essence lingers for potential resurrection at your discretion.
A new connection clicked into place—not painful, just strange, like a thread tying him to the rabbit. He sensed its calm, its health, a silent bond he could command. “Hey, I’m Avan,” he said, voice quizzical, half-expecting a reply. Silence. Yeah, dumbass, it’s not talking back. “Fine, you’re Horny,” he snickered, lifting it gently, noting its obvious maleness. Puns for days—sorry, buddy, you didn’t protest. He set it down, testing the bond. “Horny, hop to the fountain,” he said aloud. The rabbit wriggled free, darting to the well in a flash, then turned, staring back with expectant eyes.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Success,” Avan grinned, voice light. Nonverbal next—quiet’s better in a pinch. He focused, willing: Come back, Horny. The rabbit strolled over, nibbling grass at his feet. “Perfect,” he muttered, satisfied, the bond intuitive, seamless. He glanced around the ruins, his sphere revealing nothing new—rotted wood, cracked stone, the garden’s fruits already claimed. Shouldering his backpack, he stepped out, Horny trailing behind, instinctively staying within his ten-meter domain. “West, I think,” he said, voice uncertain, heading back into the forest.
The pair moved steadily, Horny pausing to munch on a *Cinth Mushroom*—Edible, mildly energizing, his sphere confirmed—while Avan savored the forest’s calm, a breeze rustling the beech trees. No wolves today, just horned rabbits and ribbon-tailed birds, the sky mostly clear save for fleeting clouds. Don’t jinx it, idiot, he chided himself, spear in hand, daggers sheathed at his belt. A deer-like shape flickered in the distance—Maybe—but he let it go, focused on the path.
A screeching grind shattered the peace—metal on metal, sharp and close. Horny’s fur bristled, a quiet growl rumbling from its throat, eyes locked ahead. Avan crouched, unsheathing his daggers, their blades glinting in the sunlight, *Origin Energy Manipulation* (Lv. 3) tingling at his fingertips. “Here we go,” he muttered, voice low, creeping through the underbrush with Horny at his heels. Seconds later, he saw it—a green, pox-ridden *Fodder Goblin*, one meter tall, hacking at adventurer corpses, its rusty cutlass scraping leather armor, blood dripping as it devoured chunks of flesh.
Avan gagged, hand clamping his mouth, horror twisting his gut. Jinxed it, of course—nice one, dipshit. *Identification* flared: Fodder Goblin—Level 5, weak but vicious, vulnerable to precise strikes. It smacked its lips, claws licking blood, oblivious to him. Anger surged, drowning the nausea, his grip whitening on the daggers. Disgusting bastard. He circled through the brush, Dexterity—10—keeping him silent, aiming for its back—until a twig snapped underfoot, loud as a gunshot.
The goblin spun, shrieking gibberish, cutlass raised. “Shit!” Avan cursed, lunging, daggers slashing for its throat. It dodged, quicker than expected, claws raking his right arm, a deep gash stopping at bone, the cutlass slashing at his gut. *Steady* (Lv. 1) kicked in, keeping him upright as he twisted, dodging the belly strike, pain flaring hot and sharp. *Pain Resistance* (Lv. 1) dulled it enough to move, adrenaline pumping. He ducked under its arm, slashing—one dagger grazing its throat, the other ripping a wide gash across its poxed stomach.
The goblin screeched, stumbling back, furious—but before it could leap, a white blur struck. Horny launched, horn piercing its left eye, a wet crunch ending its cry as it collapsed, brain pulped. Avan panted, glancing at his companion cleaning itself nonchalantly. “Thanks, buddy,” he rasped, voice strained, clutching his bleeding arm. He dropped his pack, splashing water from his flask over the wound, wincing as *Origin Healing* (Lv. 3) began sealing it, slow but steady. Cutting a strip from his sleeve with a dagger, he tied it tight, grimacing.
Chimes rang, bold and insistent:
*Chime*
Pain Resistance has reached Level 2!
Pain Resistance (Lv. 2): Pain tolerance increases, dulling discomfort further.
*Chime*
Identification has reached Level 2!
Identification (Lv. 2): Range and detail of analysis expand slightly.
*Chime*
You have defeated 1 Fodder Goblin!
*Chime*
Congratulations! You have reached Level 10!
For leveling up, you gain 5 free stat points.
Please check your character interface to distribute your free stat points.
*Chime*
Passive Skill Gained: First Aid (Lv. 1)
First Aid (Lv. 1): You can crudely bandage wounds on yourself or allies using clean cloth. Does not heal negative status effects. Keep it clean—masochism’s fine, but infection’s a killer.
“Close call,” Avan muttered, voice shaky, swiping the windows away, Horny glancing up smugly. Smug little hero—saved my ass. He pulled up his interface:
Name: Avan
Level: 10
Class: Celestial Dungeonheart
Element: Celestial
Subclass: None
Stats:
- Strength: 15
- Dexterity: 10
- Vitality: 15
- Intelligence: 10
- Wisdom: 5
- Spirit: 5
Free Stat Points: 15
Skills:
- Identification (Lv. 2)
- Origin Energy Manipulation (Lv. 3)
- Origin Healing (Lv. 3, passive healing effect)
- Origin Energy Shield (Lv. 1)
- Origin Energy Projectiles (Lv. 1)
- Origin Language – Runescript of the Origin (Partial)
- Pain Resistance (Lv. 2)
- Steady (Lv. 1)
- Celestial Affinity (Lv. 2)
- First Aid (Lv. 1)
Primary Resources:
- Health: 125
- Stamina: 125
- Ambient Mana: 75
Currency:
- Copper: 15
- Silver: 8
- Gold: 1
- Platinum: 0
“Too slow,” he grumbled, voice firm. That thing nearly gutted me—need speed. He dumped all 15 points into Dexterity, feeling his muscles refine, movements sharper. Stats updated: Dexterity 25. He stretched, testing it—quicker, smoother. “Better,” he said, voice satisfied, though brooding lingered. Can’t be that sloppy again.
He scanned the clearing—three mangled corpses, chunks missing, blood pooling. Kneeling, he searched, finding a necklace with a woman’s picture and coins: 14 silver, 56 copper. “Standard currency, huh?” he mused, pocketing them, updating his tally: Copper 71, Silver 22, Gold 1. Missed coins last time—dumbass. The goblin’s cutlass lay nearby—Rusty Old Cutlass, dull, useless—and he kicked it aside, sticking to his sharper daggers.
A cavern loomed across the clearing, its entrance sloping down, two meters wide, reeking of blood and filth. Its den? He sniffed, frowning, then paused. “Light first,” he muttered, voice practical, rummaging his pack for flint and knife. Collecting sticks and resin from nearby trees, he crafted a torch, wrapping it with a scrap of cloth from a corpse. Striking the flint, he lit it, the flame steady in his hand, *Origin Energy Shield* (Lv. 1) tingling as a backup. With Horny at his side, he descended into the dark, spear ready, the dungeon’s lessons sharp in his mind.
I am happy for each silent lurker out there. There is no need to do anything.