Is It Wrong to Want Luxury in a Dungeon? [7]

Shadows in the Dark

Calista moved through the familiar stone corridors of the upper floors with an easy, almost lazy efficiency. Her spear flashed in smooth arcs, cutting through the weaklings that crossed her path—goblins, kobolds, and the occasional dungeon lizard. The lizards were more of a hassle than the others, their thick scales giving them just enough durability to be annoying, but they weren’t a challenge. A single well-placed thrust through the throat, and they crumpled like the rest.

She barely even slowed down.

The kills were effortless, mechanical. Thrust, step, pivot, repeat. It was an elegant dance, one that she had already mastered within her first few days in the Dungeon. She didn’t even glance at the bodies she left behind, their dull red eyes staring lifelessly at the cavern ceiling. She also didn’t bother cutting out the magic stones. Too much of a hassle.

The first time she had fought in the Dungeon, Raul had made her carve out every single stone, lecturing her on how adventurers relied on selling them for income. But what did she care? She wasn’t doing this for money. She wasn’t going to waste her time digging through monster guts like some desperate, two-bit scavenger.

And besides, it’s not like they were going anywhere.

She pressed forward, deeper.

The air began to shift as she approached the lower tunnels. The noise of the upper floors—the distant roars of kobolds, the screeches of goblins—faded into something quieter, heavier. The walls here felt different, the ever-present hum of the Dungeon growing denser, like the stone itself was aware of her presence.

Her grip on her spear adjusted slightly, her posture shifting.

This was better.

This was where she should be.

...

The descent onto the sixth floor came with an almost tangible shift in atmosphere. The air felt heavier, thick with something she couldn't quite name. It wasn't just the absence of noise—there were no distant screeches of goblins, no guttural growls of kobolds echoing through the tunnels. It was stillness. The kind that prickled at the back of her neck, making the hairs on her arms stand on end.

Calista exhaled slowly through her nose, rolling her shoulders as she stepped forward. This was good. This was what she needed. The weaklings of the upper floors weren’t worth her time. If the Dungeon was finally taking her seriously, she welcomed it.

Then—movement.

She stopped.

A flicker of green against the cavern wall, just outside her direct line of sight.

Her fingers shifted on her spear, grip tightening. Her gaze flicked upward, following the faintest rustle of shifting stone—

There.

Perched on a jagged rock ledge above her was a squat, frog-like creature, its single large yellow eye staring down at her, unblinking. Its pale throat pulsed once, twice, as if tasting the air.

It didn’t move.

Neither did she.

A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at her lips.

Finally.

The moment stretched, an unspoken challenge between predator and prey.

Then—it attacked.

A blur of motion—its tongue shot out like a whip, a sickening wet snap cutting through the still air. Calista barely had time to throw herself to the side, her boots skidding against the stone floor as the slimy appendage lashed through the space where she had stood just a breath before.

The tongue retracted with unnatural speed, coiling back into the Frog Shooter’s wide mouth with an audible schlup.

She exhaled, resetting her stance, muscles thrumming.

Fast.

But she was faster.

The creature shifted on its rocky perch, croaking lowly, its grotesque throat inflating as if in irritation. Then it launched another attack.

This time, she was ready.

She stepped left—only for the tongue to veer midair, correcting its trajectory in an instant.

Her eyes widened.

It could adjust its aim mid-strike.

There was no time to think. Instinct kicked in—she twisted her body, feeling the rush of air as the tongue barely missed her side, grazing the loose fabric of her sleeve.

Alright, that’s annoying.

She couldn’t just dodge forever. It had the high ground, the range, and the reaction speed to keep her at bay. If she wanted to take it down, she had to close the distance.

Her grip tightened on her spear.

Move.

The Frog Shooter launched another strike—she sidestepped, lunging forward before it could recoil. The beast let out a startled croak, its massive eye dilating as she closed the gap faster than it had expected.

Too late.

She thrust her spear upward in a sharp, decisive motion—the tip sank straight through its open mouth.

A wet gurgle, a violent spasm, and the creature went limp, its lifeless form slumping over the ledge.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she flicked the blood off her weapon.

Her pulse was quickening, her body humming with energy.

This… this was what she wanted.

Something real. Something worth fighting.

She grinned.

Then the Dungeon reminded her exactly where she was.

A gut feeling—behind her.

She turned, expecting another Frog Shooter.

Instead, a War Shadow melted out of the darkness.

Her breath caught.

It was tall, jagged, wrong—a living smear of darkness against the stone, its single glowing red eye locked onto her like a predator sizing up prey.

Her grip on her spear shifted slightly.

Then—another one.

Her stomach clenched.

Shit.

No time to think—the first lunged.

A blur of black rushed toward her, claws gleaming.

She threw herself back—too slow.

Air hissed past her throat. The bladed fingers carved through empty space, a hair’s breadth from tearing her open.

Her boots scraped against stone as she reset—but the second was already moving.

She twisted just in time—a slash aimed at her side. She barely dodged, the tips of the claws slicing into the loose fabric of her sleeve.

No wasted movement. No hesitation.

These things weren’t like goblins, weren’t like kobolds. They fought with precision.

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

They weren’t attacking wildly. They were cornering her.

Her grip on her spear tightened.

Fine. You wanna go? Let’s go.

The first War Shadow shifted—it was testing her.

She struck first. A sharp, direct thrust at its core—fast, clean, deadly.

It bent.

Not dodged—bent. Its torso snapped backward at an unnatural angle, spine bowing in a way that should’ve broken it in half.

Her spear missed by inches.

Her brain barely processed the movement before—the second one rushed her from the side.

Her instincts screamed.

She wrenched her spear back, spinning—but it was already on her.

Claws flashed.

She jumped—a desperate, last-second evasion.

The War Shadow’s strike sliced through her sleeve, close enough that she felt the air shift against her skin. A second slower, and it would’ve torn through muscle.

She landed, twisting—no time to counter.

The first one was already attacking again.

She barely raised her spear in time.

Clang!

Metal scraped against claws as she blocked—but the impact rattled through her arms.

Fast. Too fast.

She lashed out with a sweeping arc—a desperate attempt to push them back.

The spear bit into the first War Shadow’s side—just barely.

A thin gash opened across its torso.

It didn’t react.

Then, before her eyes, the wound sealed itself instantly.

Her chest tightened.

FUCK.

Calista backpedaled hard, spear swinging up to intercept another attack—metal clashed against claws, the force rattling through her bones.

They didn’t stop.

They moved like shadows, slipping through every gap in her defenses, pressuring her, pushing her. Every time she tried to create space, they closed it. Every time she dodged, they adjusted.

She swung—one slid under her guard.

A black clawed hand lashed across her thigh.

A sharp burning pain—then warmth.

Blood sprayed.

She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to keep moving.

She tried to retreat faster, but her boots skidded against loose stone—a half-second of instability.

They punished it.

One of them slashed her shoulder.

A flare of agony. More blood.

Her breathing ragged now, muscles burning. She was slowing.

They weren’t.

The second one lunged from the side.

Her arms moved on instinct—spear raised to block—too slow.

Claws carved straight into her ribs.

Pain exploded.

Her body jerked violently, feet slipping as she staggered.

Blood sprayed across the stone.

Her chest seized—she couldn’t breathe—

Then the second one struck.

---

A/N: oh no girlie... WHERES ADAM WARLOCK SHE NEEDS TO BE

BORN AGAIN