I brought a book to the dungeon. In my defense, I'd been given a long litany of instructions in advance, everything from what to wear, how to behave, and when to arrive, but I hadn't been told not to bring a book. And yes, I checked. Besides, I might not have any practical experience with dungeons, aside from that one terribly traumatizing time with Hellsfell, but I'd read lots of relevant literature, and I knew Starting Dungeons were limited to Construct-type minions incapable of leaving the dungeon. Um, that is, so long as monsters hadn't already happened to move in, or worse than monsters, or...

Ahh, morbid as the subject matter could be, it was all so incredibly interesting!

Speaking of which, my book was related to said subject matter and maybe to the current situation. But then it was at this point, reading diverging theories on the rising number of new dungeons -- just fascinating stuff -- that I realized I wasn't alone.

A hand suddenly descended into my vision and covered the next words. I shrieked, snatched the book back to clutch against my chest, and looked up... and up... at an adventurer.

At least, I assumed he was an adventurer, given the heavy and well-used set of armor, the egregious number of pointy weapons, and all the muscles. The intimidating figure stared right back, looking incredulous. "Excuse me, miss? Are you lost?"

I shook my head. The force of his presence pressed down on me, suggesting he was at least Gold-Rank. Certainly strong enough to crush my skull barehanded. Not that he would!

Thankfully, he didn’t seem hostile, just puzzled. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah... yes." I cleared my throat. "I'm here for the dungeon."

He continued to stare for several seconds. Admittedly, a less likely candidate for dungeon-diving might be difficult to find. At least I wasn’t wearing my white scholar's robes, but the long buttoned coat my mentor had procured me wasn't exactly armor. Coupled with my neatly combed waist-length dark hair, my dainty features, and my solemn gray eyes, I looked ready for tea or a stroll, an improvement over my usual cloistered habits but liable to perplex the prepared adventurer.

When it became clear I had nothing to add, he asked, "Any weapons?" and looked me up and down hopefully, as though I might be hiding a knife in my book.

"No... not as such."

"But you can cast [Fireball], yeah?"

"Just Fireball, with a few minutes in a casting circle," I admitted.

I heard a slight gasp from behind him and discovered his team had sometime arrived, or again, who I assumed to be his team given the obvious outfits marking their roles: the tall, curvy woman with the ponytail was clearly equipped as the archer, based on the telltale bow and full quiver; the elegant woman in rune-laden robes carrying a staff was the mage, probably ice-focused judging from her not-inconsiderable aura; and the shifty-looking man with his slightly hunched posture and piercing gaze had to be the rogue.

That left the fighter facing me, who pressed, "Any combat Skills?"

I could feel myself shrinking under the four sets of judging eyes and wished my adventurer-friend Bessie were here. "I can cast [Mana Shield]." The mage looked at me pityingly while the rest waited, probably for a corresponding offensive Skill, and kept waiting. Half-desperately, I offered, "I have [Universal Translation], so if any minions can communicate..."

I paused awkwardly, guessing the adventurers would kill first, talk never. Better not to mention my [Intermediate Empathy], through which I could feel their condescending mirth. Despite her blank face, though, the ice-mage twinged with slight curiosity. Bolstered, I finished, "And I'm mana-sensitive with [Advanced Appraisal], but guessing you have your own methods for detection, so I doubt it will be useful unless we find something rare inside."

That was it, my whole Skill Set but for [Meditation] and [Scribe]. But the team looked -- and more importantly, felt -- mildly impressed. "Huh, an Advanced Skill's nothing to scoff at," the spokesman said, eyeing me thoughtfully, then just shook his head. "Let me ask again. What are you doing here?"

"Ah," I said, this time picking up on what he meant. "My mentor in the Scholar's Guild thought I should gain more real-world experience... and um, sometimes leave the library."

"A Scholar told you to leave the library?" This from the archer. "Wow, you must be an unbelievable bookworm."

"I am," I spoke without hesitation.

For some reason, my proud affirmation brought a round of chuckles and mirroring wash of warm amusement. "Well, can't say we were expecting you," the fighter said, "Though mind you're not unwelcome. We asked to check the new dungeon and were told to also escort a VIP. Thought that meant the usual fare babysitting a noble."

"Hopefully this task won't be as troublesome, thankless, or dangerous," the archer put in.

"Wait, dangerous?" I said, trying not to sound unduly alarmed.

The muscly adventurer scratched his head. "Eh, less from the dungeon. More if we lose the VIP." Somehow, I did not feel reassured. "It shouldn't be a problem with a dungeon this new, but never, ever take one lightly. Not if the whole thing's been cleared and the only minions are rats."

I would have thought they were trying to pull one over on the newbie if I couldn't feel the grim undercurrent and genuine concern, at least from everybody but the impatient rogue. As if confirming my thoughts, the fighter said, "I don't want to scare you." Whoops, I could feel his insincerity, there, but at least it seemed well-meaning. "Realistically, this should be a walk in the park for Gold-Rankers, but even the weakest, most inexperienced dungeon in the world can kill the untrained or unwary. Are you sure you still want to be here?"

Truth be told, I wasn't. I had to take deep breaths and remind myself I would probably never again have such an opportunity to actually enter a dungeon, much less a new one in relative safety, surrounded by Gold-Rankers reasonably invested in my survival; this venture was a calculated risk, with a supremely low expectation of surprises or heroics, but it would hopefully help me come out of my shell; and in the worst case, I had an emergency teleportation scroll (expensive, but painstakingly Scribed by myself) and invisibility potion (even more expensive, but gifted by my mentor) I wasn't foolish or trusting enough to admit I was carrying.

I took another deep inhale and said, "Yes. I think."

The lead adventurer was polite enough not to mention my dithering. "In that case, I expect you to follow my instructions like your life depends on it. Stay in the middle. When the attacks start, don't panic. Definitely, whatever you do, don't leave the center. If it's a Planar Dungeon, I will call an instant retreat. Again, do not leave the perimeter." He probably translated VIP into Very Incompetent Person. How many different ways could he repeat the same information, as though maybe the last one would stick? "Move with us at all times." Ah, that was one more. "We should be able to tell if something seems off while we're near the entrance, but I may ask you to wait outside. I'm not playing around. Hesitating or arguing may cost you your life. Are we clear?"

I knew the statistical improbability of finding a Planar Dungeon, so I was genuinely impressed by his ability to preemptively scare his VIP into shape before even getting or giving any names. On cue, we made a quick and hasty round of introductions. Despite my eidetic memory when it came to reading words, I was seriously awful at remembering spoken names, so the only part that stuck in my mind was when I said, "Rowena Loress, call me Rena," which was less than helpful. I decided to stick with my mental labels for them: Fighter, Archer, Ice-Mage, and Rogue.

Then we headed for the dungeon. I was, as prompted, in the middle, with Rogue in front, Fighter and Archer on my two sides, and Ice-Mage in the back. From the outside, it appeared a simple cave entrance, except I could Appraise minuscule motes of mana drifting from a bluish sheen marking its border. Even my [Advanced Appraisal] couldn't see within: the passage curved away immediately, which was apparently standard for all dungeons, including between each of their rooms. A study of the sometimes illogical or seemingly impossible layouts of dungeons could and did take up a whole book. Most concerning here was that we would have no way of knowing what we were in for until we were inside.

As soon as I stepped through the entranceway, clutching my book, I felt it. The difference in mana density was like the blast of heat from a furnace, or the humidity of a rainstorm, or the hair-raising sensation of somebody walking over my grave and staying there. I nearly stepped right back out.

"You have high mana sensitivity," I heard Ice-Mage say behind me and could feel her approval. "Good for spellwork."

"Thanks," I managed while circulating mana in an effort to stabilize. To distract myself, I watched Rogue as he leaned so far down his nose nearly touched the ground… and was he sniffing? He caught me staring and looked away with a hint of unease. His teammates didn’t react, outwardly; inwardly, I could sense them bristling protectively and wisely chose to keep my mouth shut.

Rogue abruptly straightened. "Incoming, two common dire rats."

I stiffened, but around me the atmosphere perversely relaxed. I got a good look at dog-sized rats with long, vicious molars when Rogue stabbed forward through the eye of one and Fighter in a single, smooth stroke decapitated the other. The whole thing took less than two seconds, not even enough time to work up a proper panic.

"Not Planar, thank mana," Fighter said. "Should be fine, but don't let your guard down."

My heartbeat finally received the memo to slow back down. Honestly, that felt slightly anticlimactic for a first dungeon encounter. Again, not counting Hellsfell. Which I didn't.

On second thought, that was perfect for a first encounter. Same for the second, involving three efficiently dispatched rodents.

On the third encounter, we finally attracted enough attention to trigger a swarm. My crowning achievement was managing not to scream, cower, or flinch violently. Any flinching was conducted in moderation. I did cast [Mana Shield] in the face of the chittering, toothy wave, before realizing the Skill only covered my front. I even attempted to re-cast to cover my back, forgetting for a moment double-casting required separate Skills, and then stood there, stupidly, bemoaning the lack of time to manually cast.

Thankfully the Gold-Rankers handled the swarm with the same ease as the previous two encounters. Either they didn't notice, or they expected and so didn't react at all to my Very Incompetent Person.

"That should be all of them," Fighter said, his steady, rumbling voice suddenly sounding more reassuring. "Shouldn't yet have had the time for more or smarts to hold any back. But guards up."

We turned the corner, and there it was, the unguarded Core. Or at least, despite actively straining my senses, I could not feel any other presences. The Core was just as described and illustrated: a glowing pure-white orb set into the farthest wall at roughly eye-level height. Because I was so hyper-focused on it, I instantly felt the strange but subtle shift within as we approached.

When I expressed this, the adventurers didn't seem surprised. "It was probably sleeping and just woke up," Archer said. "That's typical for Starting Dungeons, always exhausting themselves running out of mana."

I was fascinated. I had known Starting Dungeons slept more often than human babies, of course, but I hadn't connected that textbook fact with the consciousness stirring beside me. In another situation I might not have identified it as a consciousness, it was so foreign, reminding me of a mix between an immature beast, an enhanced golem, and a semi-sentient artifact, and if that sounded confusing that's because it was.

"Well," Fighter said, "Here's your chance to communicate."

He was joking, I could tell, but I was eager to try anyway.

At first there was nothing, or something unidentifiable, like trying to grab fistfuls of saltwater while standing underwater. But I remembered the oddness, that slightest shift in waking, and was determined if there was a will, I would see a way. I kept pressing, straining, fine-tuning, reaching out with a metaphorical hand...

...But it was like grasping the space midway between us. I thought I had a better sense of the dungeon, but its metaphorical back was turned to me.

Subdued, I watched as Fighter pulled intricately inscribed runic bindings from a storage item (super ridiculously expensive). "What will those do?" I couldn't resist asking.

"The standard." He began to carefully wind the links around the Core. "Eh... Not sure what that is."

[Advanced Appraisal] helped me identify the individual runes within the complex weaving. It would take longer than I had to decipher everything, but starting with the most obvious: "A mana limiter?"

"To stop the dungeon from starving itself by accident," Ice-Mage spoke up. "There should also be limits on its horizontal expansion and downward growth, no more than three levels I think."

"There's probably a prohibition against contacting the Underworld," Archer said.

"And an alarm to warn of tampering," I noted.

Here I'd thought dungeons should be bound to try and prevent them from killing people, unleashing monsters outside, or dominating us into thralls. The reality seemed less civic-minded. I was always happy to learn new things, but not exactly happy to learn this one, as my former master would say.

Fighter finished at that moment, the mana surging and settling into tight wrappings around the Core.

If the dungeon hadn't understood our words, it definitely understood it strongly disliked being bound. I flinched as I felt its reaction, or what I could've sworn... perhaps I only believed I sensed it, I was projecting, a visceral reflex like I had to the memory of chains snapping into place -- outrage, horror, denial, fear, despair -- an instinctive, heartfelt (Core-felt?) response that was just so terribly, intimately familiar. Unforgettable, that moment of freedom's loss, even after all these years and improbably regaining mine.

I instinctively reached out again... To comfort? To commiserate? Or merely to confirm I must be imagining things?

...and something reached back.

It was like water finding a break in a dam. Information rushed through, too much, all at once, my mind reeling as knowledge flooded of what I'd sensed earlier -- that reeling anguish and terror of bondage -- but also of , of , of my presence filling my territory within which were five s, five s, five s, and I staggered back, not just mentally but physically, nearly bumping into Ice-Mage.

In a burst, [Intermediate Empathy] ascended into [Advanced Empathy].

"...you all right?"

I looked up, dazed, to find Archer steadying me. When had she moved there? "I... I can feel it," I said. "It's, I wouldn't call it communication, exactly..."

Then I paused. I was distracted, off-balance, nearly overwhelmed with excitement, not to mention the sensations projecting off the Core, but I was also especially sensitive right now to my newly-upgraded Empathy.

And what I picked up from the party wasn't simple doubt, which I should have expected. The adventurers gave off a general feeling of confusion, exasperation, and concern, but they weren't uncertain whether I'd sensed something. They were stone-cold certain I hadn't, their reactions ranging from pitying to dismissive. Rogue was even eyeing me with irritated dislike like I was an attention-seeking child deliberately wasting their time.

The insight made me shut my mouth, my cheeks burning, feeling like I'd just been slapped in the face with cold water. "Ah, sorry," I said. "I thought... but I must have been mistaken."

Archer laughed easily. "Can you imagine, a newbie dungeon that could speak?"

It wasn't speaking exactly, more shedding emotions like a trapped wild animal, but I kept my own counsel. Some ingrained instincts stayed, despite no longer wearing a collar.

Yet at the same time, I couldn't just callously ignore the equivalent of psychic wailing from the dungeon. I swallowed around my constricted throat and forced myself to say, with an attempt at levity, "It... um, doesn't it seem pitiful?"

I was rewarded with four sets of uncomprehending, disbelieving stares. "Don't waste your sympathy, sweetheart," Archer said. "It's a serial-killing, monster-spewing, man-eating respawner."

Trying not to show the pain I could feel from its nonstop stream of earsplitting howls, I ventured, "But it doesn't know any better."

"Trust me, the moment it learns better it'll apply that new knowledge to killing better."

In the face of their united, absolute confidence, I nodded weakly. "So what happens now?"

"Now? We leave and collect our thanks and paychecks," Fighter said, as Rogue took the lead once again.

"Boring," Archer sighed. "Nothing exciting ever happens on our jobs anymore."

continued in the background.

Fighter: "What did you expect from a Starting Dungeon?"

Archer: "Still, bet the paranoid nobles will demand Gold-Rankers keep guarding."

"Think they'll pay more than compliments?"

"You know how it is. The filthy rich can afford the privilege of not paying."

As we traveled back the way we'd come, but with significantly more chatter and cheer, I tried to ignore the ongoing emanation of distress trailing into the distance. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but... it sounded remarkably like a baby crying.