Level Up Legacy

Chapter 1192  Dungeon of War

"And an even more unnecessary sacrifice," said Oriole as he groaned and checked on Caleb. He was still alive after the teleportation. "I would choose a possible death for us all than a certain death for a comrade."

"…fool," said the knight as she rose, but a smile played on her lips. As she looked around to study the surrounding, her brows furrowed. "A safe house?" the Knight of Courage murmured, her voice low. "Seems Saint Ai assigned this dungeon as the destination for the crystal I used during the teleportation."

While Oriole's experience with dungeons was steeped in exploration and loot, this place felt different. A war-zone outpost, born from necessity, not profit. The scent of sweat and stale air spoke of constant vigilance, not the adrenaline-fueled rush of adventurers.

Oriole ran a hand over a crude map tacked to the wall. Runes marked two cities – names unfamiliar, yet a visceral sense of opposition radiated from their placement. Then there were the markings beyond their defined borders: outposts, skirmishes, something labeled "The Breach."

"We've landed between warring factions," he said, dread curdling in his gut. His role wasn't the adventurer now, but an unwitting pawn in someone else's conflict. n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

A crash outside jolted them. Shouts, the clang of metal – the lull had ended.

"They'll be expecting scouts back," The Knight of Courage said, her voice grim, "If we're discovered…"

"It might be too late," Oriole interrupted, "there is no reason for us to fight them, anyway. If they are human, then we can reason with them," He didn't want to fight, not anymore. Not unless he absolutely had to.

The makeshift door splintered inwards, revealing heavily armed soldiers. Their eyes widened with shock, then narrowed with suspicion. "Spies!" one barked, his weapon raised.

Oriole, hands open in a gesture of surrender, took a step forward, speaking clearly amidst the chaos. "We're not spies, we're… lost. We just need to find a way out of this dungeon. Can you help us?"

The Knight of Courage, with a flicker of surprise, followed suit. There was no pride in this surrender, only a calculated risk. To leave, they likely needed these desperate people as much as they needed them.

The soldiers were hesitant. The battle raging around them was no place for outsiders. Yet, something in the two disheveled figures standing before them didn't fit the usual mold of their enemy.

The lead soldier lowered his weapon fractionally. "Lost? In this gods-forsaken maze? Heh, well, you picked a fine time to be sightseeing. Come on then – to the command post. They'll decide what to do with a couple of wayward adventurers."

Arrested, but not attacked. A sliver of hope – if they could find this 'exit' the dungeon promised, it might be the only way to save not only themselves, but those trapped in this perpetual conflict. With a final look at the crudely drawn map on the wall, Oriole allowed himself to be herded out of the safe house.

Their roles had shifted. No longer kidnappers, but potential prisoners within this brutal, manufactured war. It was terrifying, yet maybe the only way to break free of the relentless pursuit that had driven them to this desperate gamble.

They marched through surprisingly grand streets. Weathered stone buildings rose around them, their carvings hinted at forgotten glories. It felt wrong – this beautiful city shouldn't exist in a dungeon. Oriole couldn't shake the feeling he'd wandered onto the wrong stage.

Fear warred with curiosity inside him. These people...they weren't desperate survivors, but heirs to a war they likely didn't understand. Were they unknowingly trapped in a conflict born from his own imagination? The thought sent a chill down his spine.

Finally, they were shoved into a throne room that only deepened the unsettling feeling. Polished marble floors, faded murals...it could have been the heart of a lost empire, if not for the rough-hewn throne and the armed figures flanking a leader whose armor seemed impossibly clean against the worn grandeur.

"So," the lord's voice boomed, silencing the whispers that had followed them. "Spies, or… something else entirely?"

Oriole stepped forward, the Knight mirroring his movement. He held his head high, trying to look confident. "Neither, my lord. We came here from a world beyond this dungeon, running from a powerful enemy."

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then, laughter rippled through the room – from advisors to soldiers, their eyes sparked with cruel amusement. Oriole felt his face flush, but he didn't back down.

"Where did you come from?" the lord asked, his tone deceptively mild. There was a glint in his eyes, though, a spark of something more than just the scorn of his court.

"Earth," Oriole replied, "A world unlike anything you've ever seen."

The laughter exploded again, crashing against him. Everyone here knew the name 'Earth', but as a myth, a madman's dream, not a possible reality.

The Knight of Courage stepped forward, her powerful voice slicing through the mockery. "Cowards laugh in their ignorance. We came here for aid, but if our lives are forfeit for merely existing, then we shall fight!"

Her words were a gamble, Oriole knew, but he couldn't allow them to be dismissed.

The lord held up his hand, silencing the laughter. His gaze swept between Oriole and the Knight, an intense look burning behind his eyes. "Very well. You wish to fight, outsider?" He didn't sound mocking, just calculating. "But battlefields care little for fantastical origins. Show me proof of your strength."

A murmur rippled through the court. The Knight of Courage shifted beside Oriole, a battle-ready glint in her eyes.

The lord gestured to a towering figure in burnished armor standing amongst his guards. "Roland, my champion. Best a knight of Earth, and perhaps I shall grant you an audience later."

A cruel excitement ran through the room. Oriole's stomach clenched. He wasn't the warrior here – the Knight was. Yet, to refuse was to condemn them instantly. "We accept your challenge," he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

The Knight of Courage stepped forward, her ice-wrought sword glinting in the dim light. Roland, unfazed, drew a greatsword that looked more fit for a giant than a man.

The duel was a whirlwind of steel and ice. The Knight was not the brute Roland was, but her movements were fluid, her experience echoing in every parry and counterstrike. Marble dust flew as they clashed, and Oriole held his breath with each desperate exchange.

Finally, with an explosive burst, the Knight drove Roland to a knee, her sword at his throat. The room stilled, the courtiers' mockery frozen on their lips.

The lord sat forward, his stoic façade cracking. "Impressive…too impressive." A glint entered his eyes, not of admiration, but of something far more dangerous. "Earthborn warriors with such skill…You're not refugees. You're an invading force!"

"My lord, please—" the Knight of Courage began, but the lord cut her off.

"Guards! Seize them! These outsiders are too great a risk! Prepare them for execution!"

A cry of protest rose from the back of the throne room. A frail figure, hunched with age, hobbled forward, leaning heavily on a cane. "Wait, my lord!" It was the scholar, his voice surprisingly strong. "There are records…old texts…They speak of those from Earth! Not spies, but lost souls appearing amidst the chaos of the First Breach."

The lord glared at the scholar, but hesitation wormed its way into his expression. "Those are children's tales, old man."

"The tales say they were treated as heroes!" the scholar insisted, his voice cracking slightly. "What if…what if they can offer us hope?"

The lord fell silent. The room crackled with tension. Then, the lord slowly rose, his eyes never leaving Oriole and the Knight. "Very well. They have bought a stay of execution…for now. Take them in shackles, scholar. We shall see if these 'heroes' have anything to offer."

They weren't led to the squalid cell Oriole had dreaded, but a chamber high in the city's old heart. Though barred, a large window offered a glimpse of the bustling city below – a constant reminder of the freedom they'd lost.

The Knight paced like a caged animal, her once-proud demeanor laced with a helpless fury. Oriole, however, sank to the surprisingly comfortable cot, exhaustion threatening to drown him. Even their victory had led to this. Yet, in their despair, a flicker of hope appeared.

The aged scholar arrived as twilight painted the sky, a guard trailing him with a tray of surprisingly decent food. "My apologies for the accommodations," his voice was reedy, but held an unwavering strength. "The lord...he is a man of war, not wisdom."

With trembling hands, he placed the tray between them. Though ravenous, Oriole hesitated. They were still prisoners, a meal could easily be poisoned.

Sensing his suspicion, the scholar chuckled, a surprisingly warm sound. "Eat, friends. While our lord sees threats, I sense…opportunity. But to understand, I must hear your tale. This Earth – tell me what kind of world bore warriors such as yourselves."