Zane crouched behind his waist-high wall of rocks, every muscle tensed as the timer hit zero.

The next wave had begun.

He heard them before he saw them—soft, rapid squeaks carrying through the tall grass. The sound made his skin crawl. Then came movement.

A shadow darted between the blades of grass, and a moment later the creature burst into view — the largest rat Zane had ever seen. It had to be at least sixty centimetres long, not including the tail, and if he had to guess, weighed around four kilos.

The thing's fur was patchy, its yellow teeth glinting as it chittered and sniffed the air.

A system message flickered into view.

Zane kept one eye on the rat, scanning the message with the other.

Wave 3 Giant RAT Hord—

The second line garbled suddenly, twisting into unreadable symbols that made his eyes ache just looking at them. His whole body shuddered in pain, a sharp buzz filling his ears like a dying capacitor inside a computer.

Then—pop.

The pressure vanished, replaced with a single updated line:

Giant RAT Scouting Party

Zane swore under his breath. "Well, shit. Really hoping a Scouting party is way smaller than a horde."

The lone rat hadn't moved, but that small mercy didn't last long.

Zane tightened his grip on his machete, adrenaline washing away the fear. "Alright," he muttered, settling behind the boulder. "Let's dance."

From every direction came the rustle of grass. Eight more beady eyes glinted in the sunlight. The first rat squeaked once, short and sharp, and then the field came alive.

The rest of the scouting party had arrived.

"Only five total? Nice," Zane hissed, stepping back to the waist-high rock wall he'd built earlier. "Perfect."

the first rat burst from the undergrowth—fur bristling, teeth bared, eyes glowing red. The thing was fast—too fast.

He swung instinctively. The blade caught the creature mid-lunge, shearing through its shoulder. It squealed, high and wet, before tumbling across the dirt.

The rest of the giant rats spread out, circling, their long pink tails whipping through the grass.

Zane exhaled slowly, raising his shield. Defensive Stance.

A faint shimmer rolled over his body, the world sharpening around the edges as the system magic engaged. The next heartbeat came with motion—two rats lunging at once.

He blocked the first, feeling the jarring impact travel through his arm as yellow teeth scraped metal. The second came in from the side—Zane twisted, barely clearing the snapping jaws. Alpha Wolf Armguard (Unique) Small chance to dodge incoming melee attacks triggered, and the creature's bite missed by a cm, its fangs sinking into the edge of his shield instead.

Thank you, System, he thought grimly.

He countered, slamming his machete down in a brutal arc. The blade split fur and bone. Blood sprayed his arm, hot and sticky, but he didn't have time to flinch.

The other three rats were already coming.

Zane kicked one of the larger rocks from his wall, pivoted, and brought his shield around like a hammer. The rock smashed down, crushing another rat into the dirt with a crunch that made his stomach turn.

Something slammed into his leg from behind—sharp pain lanced up his thigh as teeth sank in. He roared, twisting and slashing downward, the machete biting deep into the attacker's spine. It convulsed, screeched, and went still.

The fourth rat was on him before he could pull the blade free. It hit his chest, knocking him back against the boulder. Claws raked his arm, scraping through his vest. He felt the leather tear but not his skin. +2 Defence had just paid for itself.

"Not today!"

He shoved it back with his shield, then drew his spare machete from the Bag of Holding in a blur of movement. The new weapon appeared in his off-hand mid-motion, as natural as breathing.

The two blades crossed, forming a steel X that caught the rat's next charge. He twisted, letting the creature's own momentum drive it straight into his waiting strike.

One left.

Zane's breath came ragged, his muscles trembling. His Defensive Stance had ended; he could feel the ache of every impact, the slow trickle of blood down his calf.

The final rat crouched low, hackles raised, tail lashing like a whip. It was the biggest of the lot, and smart enough to know it was alone.

It feinted left, then darted right. Zane almost missed it—but his new Dexterity paid off. His body moved before his mind did.

He sidestepped, dropped low, and swung for the head. The blade hit clean. The rat jerked once, then fell limp.

Zane stayed frozen for a long moment, chest heaving, waiting for another movement in the grass.

Nothing. Just the soft buzz of insects and the copper tang of blood.

He exhaled, lowering his machetes. "Five points in Dexterity," he muttered, a shaky grin tugging at his mouth. "Best decision I've ever made."

Then, because the System always had perfect timing, a message blinked to life in front of his eyes:

Wave 3 Complete Bonus: XP (Applied Globally) Everyone on Earth +1 Level upon induction

Shop Access Unlocked Next Wave Begins in: 45:00 Minutes

Do you wish to leave the Dungeon?

YES/NO

Zane let his head rest against the boulder, the faint glow of Create Light hovering above him like a tired guardian star. "Forty-five minutes," he muttered. "And I didn't even level up. Perfect. Plenty of time to regret my life choices."

He wiped the sweat and grime from his face, then dug through his Bag of Holding for the small first-aid kit he'd stashed early on. Cleaning his wounds with bottled water and antiseptic cream wasn't fun, but it beat bleeding out. The cuts along his arms stung, his thigh still burned from a rat bite, and his ribs ached with every breath. Still—nothing fatal. Not yet.

Once the worst of the blood was wiped away, he began checking the ground for loot. A few small piles of silver coins shimmered faintly under the orb's light, and something else caught his eye—a crude necklace made of leather cord and two oversized rat teeth.

"Well, that's not creepy at all."

He used Item Appraisal, holding his breath as the blue text appeared.

Necklace — Bite of the Rat +2 to Bite Damage

"What the—how does this help me?" Zane blurted, staring at the floating text. "It's not like I go around biting things!"

He looked at the charm again, half-expecting it to start glowing or whispering curses. Nothing happened. With a defeated shrug, he slipped it over his head. "Fine. Maybe it'll keep the other rats away or something."

Counting the coins next, he came up with 23 silver—not enough for another HP Potion unless he sold something valuable. He eyed his Alpha Wolf Armguard (Unique) and the spare machete sitting beside him. Selling either would give him the silver he needed…but both had already saved his life more than once.

Zane sighed and leaned back against the rock, letting the night sounds of the dungeon creep back in—the low hum of unseen things moving, the whisper of air through unseen tunnels. "No," he said quietly. "They stay. I'll heal the slow way this time."

The glowing orb flickered, dimming slightly, and Zane closed his eyes for a moment of rest, knowing the peace wouldn't last long.

The late afternoon sun hung low over Ben Gurion Airport, painting the tarmac in gold and shadow. The heat shimmered off the asphalt, the scent of jet fuel clinging thick in the air. Yosef Cohen adjusted the strap of his worn duffel bag, feeling the rough canvas bite into his shoulder. His uniform, though freshly laundered, still carried the faint scent of dust, sweat, and gun oil—a soldier's perfume, impossible to wash away.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He had been waiting for this moment for four years. Four long years since he'd last seen Yael, his daughter. She was eleven now. The last time he'd held her, she'd been a bright-eyed seven-year-old clutching a stuffed fox, waving goodbye at the gates. She'd promised him she wouldn't cry. He had promised he'd come home soon. Both promises had been broken.

Yosef reached the final checkpoint, handing over his passport. The woman behind the counter smiled absently, scanning it with mechanical precision. "Tel Aviv to New York, yes? Final destination Boston?"

He nodded. His voice felt caught somewhere in his chest. "Yes."

"Safe travels, sir."

Safe travels. He nearly smiled.

As he made his way down the long, echoing corridor toward the boarding gate, a faint unease began to worm its way up his spine. It wasn't nerves. It wasn't excitement. It was instinct—the quiet, primal whisper that had saved his life more times than he could count. A sense honed through endless patrols along tense borders, through ambushes and raids and long nights listening to the desert breathe.

Something's wrong.

He slowed. His boots made a dull sound on the tiles. Passengers passed around him in waves—families with children, tourists dragging suitcases, a young couple arguing in low tones. Everything looked perfectly normal. Too normal. His pulse quickened, though he couldn't say why.

His mind began its old, automatic calculations. Lines of sight. Points of cover. Exits. That tall man near the gate—nervous, maybe just late. The unattended bag by the bench. The woman crying quietly into her phone—grief or farewell?

He'd been trained to trust this feeling. He'd survived because of it.

And yet—he could see her face.

Yael.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded drawing. The colours were faded now, the paper creased and thin. It was a picture of the two of them: him in his uniform, her sitting on his shoulders, both smiling. In her handwriting across the bottom were the words: Abba, come home soon.

"Boarding for Flight 217 to New York is now commencing. Please have your tickets ready."

He stared at the gate. His heart was thundering, two forces tearing him in opposite directions. The soldier in him screamed to stop. The father in him whispered to go.

He could almost hear his commanding officer's voice: Trust your instincts, Cohen. They'll keep you alive.

But what good was survival without something to live for?

He took a breath, long and slow, like before entering a combat zone. "It's fine," he muttered under his breath. "It's fine. You're just tired."

When the flight attendant scanned his boarding pass, he hesitated only for a second before stepping forward. The scanner beeped green.

The air inside the jet was cool, sterile, safe. Or at least, that's what he told himself.

As he found his seat near the middle of the plane, Yosef pressed his hand to the small window. He could see the fading skyline of Tel Aviv, the city that had shaped him, scarred him, made him. And somewhere across the ocean—his daughter, waiting.

He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes.

You did the right thing, he told himself. You're going home.

But even as the engines roared to life and the plane began to move, the soldier in him—the part that had survived four years of chaos and blood—sat upright in his mind, watching, waiting, whispering the same warning over and over again.

Something isn't right.

And Yosef, for the first time in years, prayed that his instincts were wrong.

Zane rebuilt his wall—this time making sure the top was lined with easy-to-throw rocks—then finally sat down to eat. He pulled out a couple of sandwiches from the Bag of Holding and a full, cold bottle of Coke. After that Coke had saved his life when he'd nearly bled out in the kitchen, he'd insisted they stockpile as much as possible during their little shopping sprees.

The sandwich was good. The Coke was better. He even laughed when he realised it was easier to bite into the bread while wearing the Rat Necklace. "Guess it does do something useful," he muttered.

The forty-five minutes vanished faster than expected. Then the faint chime of a System Message froze him mid-sip.

Wave 4 Incoming Enemy Type: Troll Clan — Mixed Class, Lowest Level 15 Estimated Count: 42 Prepare for Engagement.

"What the actual fuck?" Zane shouted, then half-whispered the rest. "No modifier? What am I supposed to do against level-fifteen plus trolls?"

Panic flared. He immediately pulled up the previous system notification, fingers trembling.

Wave 3 Complete Bonus: XP (Applied Globally) Everyone on Earth +1 Level upon induction

Shop Access Unlocked Next Wave Begins in: 45:00 Minutes

Do you wish to leave the Dungeon? YES / NO

"Yes—YES!" Zane clicked, whispered, even thought the word as hard as he could.

Nothing happened—until a new message blinked across his vision.

Wave 4 has already started. You may not leave until the wave is completed Or System Initialisation is finished.

Zane froze. Then he heard it—the distant, ground-shaking rhythm of footsteps. They weren't close yet, but the sound was wrong—too heavy, too slow, like mountains learning to walk.

"Big. Definitely big," he muttered, heart pounding.

He didn't wait to see them. He vaulted over the rock wall he'd built and started running full tilt in the opposite direction.

Is this why the system gave forty-five minutes between waves? he thought, boots crunching on loose gravel. To stall until the world finishes initialising? I just need to hold out till midday. Just hold out till—

A roar cut through the Mountains, deep enough to make his bones hum. Zane didn't look back. He just ran faster.

James had parked the hired truck just far enough up the hill to get a clear view of the school gates. From where he sat, the whole thing looked almost normal.

The private school's banner flapped lazily in the morning breeze—Annual Fair—all bright colours and cheerful lettering. Beyond the gates, rows of stalls and food trucks shimmered under the early sun. He could hear the faint hum of laughter, the distant pop of balloons, and the shrill whistles of teachers trying to corral kids who were already running wild.

He checked the clock on the dash. 8:53 a.m. Seven minutes until Lily's deadline.

The fear and confusion that had knotted his gut earlier that morning were gone, burned away by something steadier—purpose. His hands rested on the steering wheel, calm and loose. Everything he could think of that might help was packed neatly behind him: jerry cans, first-aid kits, spare clothes, food, a half-dozen makeshift weapons, even that ridiculous metal pipe he'd turned into a staff.

It had all seemed insane when he'd loaded it up. Now, sitting there, watching the families file through the gates, he wasn't so sure.

He watched a mother kneel to fix her son's shoe, a father laugh as his daughter dragged him toward the pony rides. It all looked so fragile, like a photograph—something that could be snatched away in an instant.

James leaned back in the seat and drew a slow breath. Lily… you better know what you're doing.

The clock flipped to 8:55 a.m.

The engine of the truck rumbled softly. The hum of life from the fair carried faintly on the wind, mixed with the distant song of magpies and the thud of his heartbeat.

Almost time.

Oscar was running late.

He'd tried to get there on time—he really had—but there was always something. The morning had turned into one long list of interruptions, even more chaotic than his usual routine as the new manager of the largest Bunnings in the state. Phone calls, the coffee machine dying halfway through brewing, and then the call from his wife—complaining that the grocery store run had taken twice as long as it should have.

She'd gone on and on about Bell Rider—how she was supposed to be dying, and now she'd apparently stripped the store shelves clean yesterday. And that, of course, had reminded him of Zane Rider.

The crazy guy had nearly emptied two full aisles—snatching up rope, farming tools, and water filters like the world was ending tomorrow. He'd muttered something about "the system coming online" before cramming everything into a hired flatbed truck, leaving Oscar double-checking the POS printout to make sure it was all paid for—and wondering what the hell that phrase was supposed to mean.

Now, weaving through light traffic in his SUV, Oscar checked the time on the dashboard clock. 11:52 a.m. Not ideal, but he'd still make it before lunch and the cake cutting. The Mayor would be thrilled, the twins would be grinning ear to ear, and Oscar could finally stop worrying about looking like the only local businessman who didn't show up to support the community.

As he turned onto the tree-lined road leading up to the property they'd apparently converted into an airsoft battlefield, he could already see bright banners strung between the trees, the shimmer of cars parked along the verge, and the faint echo of music drifting down the hill.

He smiled, easing his grip on the wheel.

Not too bad, he thought. Still plenty of time to make an appearance, shake some hands, and eat some free cake.

As he pulled into the first free space, he could find the radio crackled.

Static first—then a single, flat pop, as the engine stalled.

The sun was already burning through the haze as Corporal James "Jimmy" Harrow trudged down the cracked street, his rifle tucked into his shoulder, eyes scanning every shadow. The dust of Kabul clung to everything—his uniform, his boots, the inside of his throat.

It had been two days since the blast. Two days since a truck packed with fertilizer and nails had torn through the marketplace, not three blocks from their forward operating base. The ringing in his ears had only just faded, but the tension—that stayed.

The locals watched them from shuttered windows and narrow alleys. Kids, usually running barefoot through the streets, were nowhere to be seen. The city felt like it was holding its breath.

"Eyes up," murmured Sergeant Doyle over comms, his voice steady but clipped. "No one daydreams today. Not after what happened."

Jimmy glanced to his left. Private Langley's face was hidden behind mirrored goggles, but his knuckles were white where they gripped his rifle. To the right, Patel was sweeping his sector, the man's lips moving soundlessly—a quiet prayer under his breath.

The squad advanced slowly through the narrow street, boots crunching on gravel and broken glass. The sound was unnervingly loud. Every rustle of fabric, every flutter of a curtain, made Jimmy's heart rate spike.

They reached the open square. The fountain in the center had long since stopped running, half-buried under sand and debris. The blast site was still cordoned off with faded tape, and the smell—burnt fuel and iron—still lingered in the heat.

Doyle raised a fist. The squad froze. Movement, two rooftops up.

Jimmy's rifle came up instantly, sights fixed on the shadow. Sweat ran down his temple, stinging his eyes. The shape didn't move. A trick of the light? A bird?

Doyle gave a subtle hand signal, and Langley nodded, adjusting his scope. A moment later, the young soldier relaxed. "Just laundry, sarge," Langley whispered. "Some poor bastard's blanket flappin' in the wind."

No one laughed.

"Keep it tight," Doyle said. "We finish this route and we're back to the FOB. No detours."

They kept moving, the heat pressing down like a weight. Jimmy's radio crackled with bursts of static as they neared the far edge of the patrol zone. The road curved past a low wall, painted with slogans he couldn't read but had learned to recognize—the kind that meant keep out.

He tried not to think about home. About his wife, Sarah, and their baby boy who'd be nearly two by now. Tried not to think about what she'd said before he shipped out—that she hated the silence after he hung up.

His focus slipped for half a second. That's all it ever took.

"Contact front?" Doyle hissed.

But there was nothing. Just the hot wind, tugging at the edges of his uniform.

False alarm. Again.

After another twenty minutes of tense, silent walking, Doyle finally called it. "Patrol complete. Head back."

Relief washed through the squad like a shared breath. The tension didn't vanish, but it eased enough that Jimmy could feel the weight of his pack again, the ache in his shoulders.

As they made their way back to the base, the low rumble of a generator came into earshot. The high walls of the compound rose ahead, topped with coiled wire and watchful sentries.

They passed through the gate one by one, checked, cleared, and safe—at least for the moment.

Jimmy exhaled and pulled his helmet off, running a hand through sweat-damp hair. Langley grinned faintly, the kind of grin that said we made it again.

"Tea time, yeah?" Langley offered.

"Yeah," Jimmy said, forcing a smile. "Tea sounds bloody perfect."

That's when the background noise of the city, the cars, the trucks, the music floating on the air all just stopped.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.