33. Nightmare (Patreon)

Darkness clung to him like wet tar, suffocating, heavy, all-consuming. Luke’s mind drifted in that voidless space, suspended between the edge of consciousness and the pull of something far older—something buried deep within him. And then, like cracks forming across a sealed vault, fragments of memory bled through.

The metallic stench of rusted iron was the first thing that hit him. Not the clean, sharp tang of freshly spilled blood—but old, dried, forgotten stains baked into concrete walls. The air was stale, suffocating, thick with dust and old cigarette smoke, swirling lazily in the beams of dying sunlight filtering through a cracked, grime-smeared window. He knew this place.

A shitty one-bedroom apartment. Peeling wallpaper sagged from the walls like shedding skin. Empty liquor bottles littered every corner, clinking faintly when the wind rattled the loose panes of glass. And there—on the weathered couch that looked more like roadkill than furniture—lay the familiar shape of a man Luke had every reason to hate.

His father.

He wasn’t drunk. Not yet. That was worse.

Luke—no older than ten in this memory—stood barefoot on the cold floor, the hem of his oversized shirt barely brushing his knees. His frame was thin, underfed, wiry not from effort, but neglect. His fingers curled into his palms unconsciously, short nails biting into calloused skin.

The man stirred. Unshaven, eyes sunken beneath heavy lids, bloodshot with a perpetual haze that only ever sharpened when anger replaced lethargy. And right now—those eyes were sharp. Sober. Dangerous.

“Tch.” The sound cut through the silence like gravel sliding over glass. The man's gaze landed on the boy standing hesitantly near the kitchen entrance. “What the fuck you starin’ at?”

Luke’s throat worked, but no words came out. It never mattered what he said anyway.

The man’s lip curled. “Still acting like a damn mute, huh? Think you’re better than me? That it?”

A scuff of movement. Heavy boots scraped against the stained floorboards as he rose, towering, shadow spilling over Luke’s smaller figure. Every instinct screamed at him to run—but that never worked. Running just meant worse later.

“You gonna eat that or not?” The man gestured lazily at the plate on the table—a pathetic heap of cold, clumped rice and something that might’ve been canned meat once. Luke hesitated a second too long.

Smack.

The back of a rough, calloused hand crashed against the side of his head—not full strength, but hard enough to rattle him. He stumbled back, the dull ache blooming over his temple like a slow ember catching fire. His ears rang.

“What, too good for food now, prince? Ain’t like I’m feedin’ some stray dog outta charity. I bust my ass bringin’ food here while you—” He sneered, gesturing at Luke’s scrawny frame. “—leech off me like some goddamn parasite.”

Luke didn’t cry. He hadn’t in years. There was no point.

He moved, silently, sitting at the table, picking up the cold spoon with shaking fingers. Every clatter of metal against ceramic felt like gunfire in the tense quiet. The man sat back down, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his thumb, exhaling a long, tired sigh of disappointment like that itself was heavier than his fists.

Minutes passed like hours.

Luke forced himself to swallow the tasteless food, every bite catching in his throat. Across from him, the man watched—not with concern, not even anger anymore—but pure, unfiltered resentment.

“You ain’t ever gonna be shit, y’know that?”

The words didn’t hurt like they used to. They were a mantra by now.

“Ain’t got the spine. Ain’t got the guts. You’re weak. Just like her.”

Her.

Luke’s grip tightened around the spoon. His mother. A memory so faded it felt surreal sometimes. He couldn’t even remember her voice anymore.

“Did me a favor, leavin’ you behind,” the man continued with a bitter chuckle. Smoke curled from his mouth like venom. “Wonder what she’d say, seeing her little brat sittin’ there all pathetic.”

Luke’s knuckles whitened, bone pressing against thin skin.

Someday.

He didn’t know when. He didn’t know how. But this wasn’t going to be his life forever. That spark—that ugly, seething ember in his gut—kept him going. Not hope. Not love. But raw, venomous refusal.

Someday, he was going to leave this behind.

Someday, he was going to be someone who mattered.

Someone untouchable.

The man stood with a grunt, lurching toward the fridge to grab another beer. “Clean that shit up when you’re done.”

Luke’s ten-year-old self sat there long after he was gone, staring down at the chipped plate, the cold food turning to mush in his mouth. His heartbeat was steady now—not from calm, but numbness.

That was the night it truly began. The coldness. The calculation. The decision to never let anyone hold power over him like this again.

And then—like a film reel burning at the edges—the dream began to collapse.

A flicker.

Cold.

Something wet. Something alien slithering against his cheek.

Luke’s brows furrowed faintly.

Another flick—this time against his nose.

A raspy groan tore from his throat as consciousness dragged him from the depths of memory, unwilling but inevitable. The sharp, mineral stench of stone and blood replaced the rancid smoke of his old apartment. His eyes cracked open, sluggish, aching.

The sight that greeted him was a pair of gleaming silver-slitted eyes.

Szeth.

The metallic serpent hovered barely an inch from his face, tongue flickering out, tasting the air—and incidentally, his master’s skin.

Luke exhaled harshly, pressing a trembling hand to his face. His palm dragged down over his mouth, muffling the bitter curse that threatened to slip out. It lingered there — the acidic taste of old fear and fresher hate — stuck like bile at the back of his throat.

He sat up slowly, wincing at the sharp pull of his sore muscles and the dull ache blooming across his ribs. Cold stone grated against his palms. For a long moment, Luke just sat there, elbows resting on bent knees, head bowed low beneath the weight of lingering memories.

Another dream related to him.

No — that memory.

He hated how vivid it was. How real it still felt. Like his body refused to forget even when his mind desperately tried to. Every second of it clawed at him — the stench of old beer, the flash of violence, the helpless weight of being that weak, scrawny kid again.

A bitter scoff escaped him.

“Pathetic,” Luke muttered under his breath, not at the memory — but at himself.

He wasn’t that kid anymore.

Never again.

Forcing the noise out of his head, he straightened up fully. The cold sting of the dungeon air bit sharper now that he’d stilled long enough to feel it properly. He cast a glance towards Szeth, who had already uncoiled himself but remained close, his reflective silver-black scales rippling faintly under the dungeon’s amethyst glow.

“...Thanks,” Luke muttered absently, his voice rough, frayed at the edges.

Szeth flicked his tongue once, a brief, unspoken acknowledgment before he slithered a short distance away — instinctively giving Luke space.

Right.

There was work to do.

Luke’s gaze shifted towards the center of the cavern — where Arachne’s towering, grotesque form had once reigned. Now, all that remained of the Obsidian Matriarch was fine, blackened ash scattered across the jagged crater like burnt silk. But in the middle of that wasteland...

Glinting.

Waiting.

His reward.

Slowly rising to his feet with a quiet grunt, Luke brushed stray dust from his armor, blue eyes narrowing with familiar, grounded focus. Whatever weakness lingered from the dream — whatever ghosts still clung to him — would have to wait.

There were more immediate things to deal with.

His gaze shifted slightly towards the empty crater ahead — the last place where Arachne had stood. The queen of this forsaken dungeon was gone. Only leaving behind a small pile of loot.

But more importantly... the notifications.

Luke exhaled slowly, bringing up his System window with a thought.

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You've killed the Boss Monster 'Arachne - The Obsidian Matriarch'!

Achievement Unlocked!
Kill any Beginner Dungeon's Boss Monster for the first time!
Rewards: Swiftness (Skill)

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Skill: Swiftness (Level 1)

Effect: Temporarily enhances the user's movement speed, allowing for faster sprints, quicker dodges, and improved mobility. Increases movement speed by 25% for the duration.

Duration: 15 seconds

Cooldown: 3 minutes

(As skill proficiency increases, duration and speed boost increase while cooldown decreases.)

------------------

His brows lifted slightly. Another skill. Always welcome. Especially one that increased his mobility.

But the next notification actually made him stare.

------------------

Achievement Unlocked!
Kill any Beginner Dungeon's Boss Monster solely using guns!
Rewards: Skill Upgrade!
'Double Round (Lvl 3)' → 'Triple Round (Lvl 3)'

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Skill: Triple Round (Level 3)

Effect: Upon activation, instantly fire two additional shots using the same type of ammunition as the previous shot without consuming ammunition. Works even for firearms that require manual reloading.

• The first shot deals 100% additional damage.

• The second shot deals 50% additional damage.

Cooldown: 4 minutes

(As proficiency increases, cooldown will decrease, and the damage of the additional shots will increase.)

------------------

"...Triple Round, huh," Luke muttered under his breath, the taste of satisfaction faintly blooming in his chest. 

And then came the true reward screen — the one he had barely registered before collapsing unconscious.

------------------

You've defeated the Boss 'Arachne - The Obsidian Matriarch'!
You've gained:
+1 All Stats
47 Gold
Medium Mana Stone (Lesser) x1
Arachnis Curve (Bow) x1

Reward Multiplier is in effect, multiplying the rewards!

You've gained:
+7 All Stats
329 Gold
Medium Mana Stone (Lesser) x7
Arachnis Weapons (Bow, Sword, Spear, Shield, Staff) x7

------------------

His heart skipped a beat.

+7 to all stats.

Every single stat.

That wasn’t just absurd — it was downright broken.

But the System wasn’t done yet.

------------------

Your Divinity stat has increased considerably. You feel closer to the Gods!

------------------

Your Luck stat has increased considerably. You feel lucky!
------------------

Luke slowly leaned back, staring at those lines in disbelief.

"...This is ridiculous," he whispered.

And yet... it was there. Plain and clear.

His fingers instinctively moved, pulling up his status window — almost afraid to see how much it had changed.

------------------

Luke Raynott
Alignment: Neutral
Title: None
Class: Gunner (Growth)
Specialty: Instincts of the Weak (Passive)

Strength: 27
Agility: 39
Intelligence: 14 (+2 Ring of Intelligence)
Divinity: 7
Luck: 8
Wisdom: 20
Dexterity: 44

Skills:
Triple Round (Lvl 3)
Gunner Craftsmanship (Lvl 2) (Sub-skill included)
Lock On (Lvl 1)
Far and Wide (Lvl 2)
Leap (Lvl 3)
Detection (Lvl 1)
Phantom Trigger (Lvl 1)
Swiftness (Lvl 1)

Overall Rating: Impressive

------------------

Luke stared at the screen for a long, long moment.

"...Holy shit."

There was simply no other reaction fitting enough.

His Dexterity was firmly in the forties now. His Agility was trailing just behind. Even Strength, his weakest physical stat, was pushing past the mid-twenties.

But what truly unsettled him — in the best possible way — was seeing his Divinity, Wisdom, and Luck stats. Seven full points. Dumped straight into stats that were, by all logic, almost impossible to raise through conventional means.

Divinity was for priests, paladins, those aligned to deities — gained slowly through rituals, prayer, abstinence.

Wisdom was for scholars, sages, or those who underwent intense mental growth — accumulated through breakthroughs or deep study.

And Luck... Luck was barely understood at all.

Most people could live their entire lives without increasing Luck by even one point.

And here he was. Sitting on +7. Flat. Free.

Luke ran a hand down his face.

“So this is the real reason why Boss kills are so damn valuable…” he muttered. He could feel it already — faintly but surely. The Divinity pulsing calmly in his chest like a steady heartbeat. His body felt... lighter. More composed. Less strained despite the ridiculous ordeal he’d just survived.

Fatigue still clung to him, yes — but it wasn’t as suffocating. His thoughts felt clearer. His breathing steadier.

His lips curled in dry amusement.

“Guess there really is no greater trainer than a life-or-death battle.”

He leaned back, exhaling deeply before glancing down at Szeth.

The metallic serpent was sitting patiently by his side, unmoving save for the faint rhythmic flicker of its tongue. Luke reached over, gently running a finger down the polished steel-like scales.

“You and me both, huh?” he murmured. “We’ve got a lot to unpack... but let’s finally get out of this shithole of a dungeon.”

Szeth let out a tired, almost reluctant "Beeh" — the faintest grumble-like sound that Luke had come to interpret as the snake’s version of agreement.

The serpent slithered up his arm in slow, languid coils, settling around his shoulders with familiar ease. But the moment it was comfortable, Szeth went still — completely and utterly dead asleep.

Luke snorted under his breath.

“Figures.” He chuckled, rising to his feet, the aches in his muscles gradually fading as he stretched out his limbs. “Worked you to the bone, didn’t I?”

He reached up, adjusting Szeth slightly to avoid jostling him.

“Sleep tight, buddy.”

Turning his gaze back towards the center of the crater, Luke’s eyes settled on the swirling green light now hovering just above the ground — the dungeon’s exit portal, summoned only after clearing a dungeon or its boss.

Its soft glow pulsed against the cavern walls, casting eerie reflections across the darkened stone.

Luke’s eyes narrowed faintly.

Time to go.