Allen let go of the rod, allowing the blood that trickled down the steel to dye the soil with the blood of his foe.
He blinked, then his eyes quivered. A realization of what he had done spread over him like a comet.
He had crossed a boundary that was forbidden.
Taking the life of another.
Even though he felt the heaviness of the act weighing on his heart like an iron plate, Allen breathed in and out as calmly as he possibly could. Allen got off of El's body, using the edge of the metal table as leverage so he wouldn't fall.
"Huaahh..." He exhaled again, leaning against the metal table for support. He closed his eyes, calming down his heart, pressing down on the jitters that plagued him.
Opening them back up, he avoided glancing at the mess he made. Pushing off of the table, Allen picked up a new steel rod and urged himself forward.
Taking El's clothes, he soon arrived at the corridor, the heat of the torch blessing his fragile frame.
Despite his body wanting food, all Allen could think about was escaping.
Each step was fragile, his muscle fibers struggling to contract. Even keeping himself awake was bringing forth unimaginable effort.
But… giving up was not an option.
His fingertips grazed the rough stone walls beside him, using it to guide himself through the dungeon depths.
Going through the door that El came from, he arrived in the room that was surrounded by steel bars.
He crept along, his toes dragging against the soil. His toenails dug into the soul, the tips of his nail being dyed by the dark debris.
"H-help…"
Faint whispers echoed like ghosts, reaching his ears like a bad omen. His head turned, his gaze weak.
He saw a man shackled onto the familiar stone walls.
He turned to the side parallel, also finding a person strapped onto the wall.
Help… His mind wandered briefly, contemplating whether or not helping them be freed from the iron cuffs would be in his best interest.
However, this contemplation was soon erased.
TREMORRRRRR!
The ground, the walls, the bars—they all shook violently. Allen widened his eyes, a feeling of suffocation washing over him.
Crash!
He fell to the side, his body hitting the iron bar violently. Allen swiveled his head around, his eyes catching something in the air.
Mana.
A blue hue swirled like the ocean water, indiscriminately barreling and twisting like a lost puppy. Allen's violet eyes reflected off of the ethereal swirl, a piece of information thrashing inside of his head.
There were two different instances in where mana manifests into the air like this.
The first is if a person emits it.
The second is through the formation of a dungeon gate.
Allen looked around, seeing no immediate person using any sort of mana—his heart began to beat like a strike of lightning.
The distant blue hue began strengthen in color, the blue becoming deeper and more pronounced by the second; the tremors shook a beat longer, a pulling force slowly attracting him towards the hues of blue.
It grew larger—the stone walls began to exhibit weakness, as bits and pieces began to fall. The swirls of ocean blue began to crush and eat and devour the stone and iron bars that caged the two others around him.
Amidst the calamitous dungeon formation, Grace could hear the faint screams that rallied above. It was neither victorious or celebratory—it was the sound of destruction.
Allen tried resisting the force that pulled him in, but it drove forward, clawing his limbs like a beast.
Allen gritted his teeth, his eyes swiveling around his vicinity; everything was crumbling and the screams were getting louder.
No... the best course of action... it's to allow myself to be pulled in.
Weighing his options - or lack thereof - wasn't difficult.
Even if he managed to resist the dungeon's pull, Allen was certain that whatever was occurring above the dungeon would lead to a certain death.
However, regardless of his state and his ability—there stands a possibility for survival within that gate that was forming behind him.
Allen allowed his body to loosen, and his eyes momentarily looked at the two other prisoners.
They were free from their shackles and were trying to resist the force.
"Don't resist..."
Allen muttered before his body disappeared into the ocean hue abyss.
~~~
There is no such thing as an easy dungeon for those who walk an upward battle.
Regardless of the dungeon's difficulty, there remains a single constant that has been passed down for thousands of years.
Dungeons are stories.
They are the transcriptions of the universe.
They are the proof that universe is alive, breathing, much like humans and animals.
For each and every single ounce of ambient mana that gave birth to the dungeons that people seek and explore, are due to the universe "remembering" the amalgamations of history that coursed throughout time.
Crackle!
A strike of thunder and pellets of water made Allen jolt awake. He looked around, his vision surrounded by the vast ocean waters.
He was on a wood ship being swayed by violent waters.
Worst of all—
I'm back to being chained up... Allen groaned inwardly as he looked at his cuffed hands. They were not only mana restricting, but they were also well-tightened around his wrists. This made it so he couldn't do his little trick from earlier and escape like a cat.
He looked to his side, catching two familiar faces.
It was the two guys who were shackled in the dungeon, and was, too, now subjected to the same fate that he has found himself in.
They pulled themselves up as they looked around. Allen analyzed their figures--the one closest to him still held on to his muscle, showing not too many signs of muscle atrophy.
However, Allen could see that they were incredibly flat due lack of carbohydrates. His hair — a luscious brown — was short and matched his eyes and his bronze skin. And judging from where he stood, the man was an inch or two taller than himself.
The other was frail, almost as frail as Allen himself. Cheeks hollow to the point his cheekbones protruded like a knife's point. And he was almost a shade paler than himself, as well.
No one spoke a word.
And they weren't able to due to the door to the sailing ship flying open, and came rushing a multitude of men and women clad in — what Allen assumes to be — pirate gear of sorts.
They lined up like precious soldiers, seemingly awaiting for a new arrival beyond the door that they had just exited from.
Step!
Step!
Despite the bullets of rain that clattered the wooden floors, the steps that emanated from the room was loud enough to reach their ears. Allen and the two other captives looked as a tall man - marginally taller than the man next to Allen - appeared from beyond the door.
His beard was a stubble, his eyes sharp and filled with a navy-blue color. His body was clad in a black jacket that draped over his dirty linen shirt.
Truly, he looked like a pirate straight out of a movie in Allen's perspective.
"Captain Paren!" One of the men shouted loud enough beyond the rain to be heard. "What shall we do with these three?"
Everyone turned to them.
Paren looked at them.
His sharp eyes penetrated through their skin, becoming like prickly thorns from a cactus. A snort escaped his lips not too long afterwards.
"Ignore them. And chain them to the bow of the ship."
It didn't take long for them to be taken to the front furthest and the chains that hang from their cuffs being wrapped around the ledges of the ship.
And not too far away from them was the outline of a hatchet that would lead elsewhere.
They were ignored afterwards.
The pirates did their duties, watching the oceans despite the heavy rain. All that and Paren stood at the top of the ship, a bit beyond the helm, staring into nothing.
The chains rattled softly.
"The name's David. David Plor." His voice was neither too deep or too high-pitched. And he bore no discernable accent outside of a monotonous tone.
The paler individual's chains rattled the same soft hum.
"Miller... Turnet."
His voice was on a similar octave to David's, though the only difference being that his came out with a hint of introversion.
Allen blinked, their gaze turning to him with expectation.
His name.
Allen couldn't deny it—his name was something that he had placed some thought into throughout the short while he has been in this web-novel.
Who was he now?
Allen Hart?
Or Grace Walker?
His answer was ambiguous at first.
He had lived 20 long years as Allen, built so many relationships with people he cared for, and loved—his friends, family, coworkers, boss, acquaintances.
All of it had been taken from him.
But... even he could not deny that there was something that had shifted within him — not as Grace, but as Allen Hart — ever since he found himself chained at the depths of a dungeon.
The memories of anew had clung onto him, seeping into the deepest parts of his mind, settling. And something had sunk even further once he took the life of another.
Allen Hart was becoming more and more of a distant memory.
However, he couldn't help but continue to cling onto that "distant memory." Because regardless of the changes that was occurring within and around him, one thing remains true.
He had been happy living as Allen Hart.
But, now wearing the skin of a man that was foreign to him, he also knew that he could no longer live as "Allen Hart." For the world does not demand of "him," but the new man that he was now.
For survival, this was a necessity.
He closed his eyes, feeling the world in tandem with his memories. He did not smile, nor frown—he opened his eyes, his violet eyes shining behind the pellets of rain.
His lips parted.
"Grace Walker..."
Grace responded.