The air hasn't even finished cooling from the fight before the second meltdown starts.
"You pushed him!" one boy yells, voice shrill with guilt.
"No I didn't! The goblin was after him anyway!"
"We should've stuck together!"
"There's no way we survive this!"
And just like that, the illusion of teamwork cracks like a G-Rank shield.
Mira—the girl with the survival-scorched glare—snaps at someone trying to hog all the bread rations. Elyse is muttering prayers into her bracelet like it's a confessional. Rovel has curled into himself, whispering the square root of numbers that don't exist. Tarven tries to say something inspirational but chokes halfway through it. Literally.
Then one of the kids panics. Sprints for the open tunnel with the grace of a goose on fire.
"Wait!"
Too late.
Something moves in the darkness. A blur. A snap. A scream.
Then silence.
His bracelet drops to the floor. Glowing red. Cracked.
The rest of the group falls into horrified stillness.
Perfect.
This is my moment.
I step forward slowly, raising my voice just enough. Not too loud. Just enough to cut the fog of panic.
"He died because we weren't together. We don't need heroes right now. We need to survive. And survival takes coordination."
I pause. Let it sink in. The silence stretches, taut with tension.
Tam straightens. Mira squints at me like I've grown horns. A few others lift their heads. One stops shaking.
"Follow my lead. You don't have to believe in me. Just don't get in my way."
I say it with conviction. Theatrical gravity. Movie-trailer timing. The kind of voiceover you hear while the camera zooms through falling debris.
Nothing happens.
Then—a soft blue shimmer in my bracelet. A single ping.
MC Moment Triggered: "Team Rally Spark"
+1 INT, +1 LUCK
(Triggered by: initiating group cohesion under threat, assertive leadership tone, compelling delivery)
Not a full stat dump.
But something.
And that something is enough to make me smile.
I've seen the script now.
And I'm ready to rewrite it.
The group is staring at me like I just said something profound.
Which, to be fair, I did. On purpose. I even timed the last sentence to match the flicker of torchlight for cinematic effect. If there were a slow zoom-in camera and swelling strings, this would be the emotional highlight reel.
But now? Time for the follow-up. The real hook. The bait for the system.
I take a slow breath, raise my head, and give them the full Main Character treatment:
"I don't know if we're chosen. I don't know if this place is fair. But I do know one thing—"
Dramatic pause. Let the silence simmer. Let them lean in.
"If we stand alone, we die alone."
I swear I hear a sting of background music in my brain. Elyse gasps. Tarven nods like I just explained gravity and invented fire. One of the sobbing kids even stops mid-sniffle. Rovel uncurls an inch.
And then, with all the force of a stage actor in a bad opera who trained under a drunken Shakespeare ghost, I draw my weapon (read: bloodstained rock), lift it high, and say:
"Together, we move. Together, we live."
MC Moment Triggered: "Cliché That Hits Anyway"
+2 INT, +2 LUCK
(Triggered by: emotionally resonant monologue delivered at peak narrative tension with visible group impact)
My bracelet glows. A pulse of light. Subtle, but unmistakable to anyone watching closely.
Most of them don't notice.
Except Mira.
Her eyes flick from my face to my wrist. Narrow. Calculating. Suspicious.
Damn.
She doesn't say anything, but that look? That's the look of someone who knows an algorithm when she sees one. The girl's got predator vision for hidden mechanics.
I smile. Not a big one. Just enough to register as humble leadership instead of evil genius. I bow my head slightly. Let the glow fade naturally.
Let them think I'm noble.
Let Mira think I'm cheating.
Both can be true.
We march forward, and I pace myself just ahead of the group, because that's what leaders do. Or at least, that's what people expect heroes to do.
And expectations, in this world, are the true currency.
Time passes in the way only dungeons allow—nonlinear, inconsistent, and calibrated by trauma.
Maybe it's hours. Maybe minutes. We move through chamber after chamber, most filled with little but dust, old bones, and the occasional statistically appropriate goblin. One chamber tried to trap us with collapsing spikes. Another hissed gas that smelled like burned cinnamon and made Rovel start quoting his childhood diary.
The low-tier monsters are growing bolder. The traps more creative.
One guy—Nico, I think his name was—almost lost a leg to a floor tile that summoned bees. Not a swarm. One. Singular. Exploding. Bee.
I barely stopped him from swatting it. We've now renamed him Bombbait.
Still, somehow, we survive. We stumble and squabble and scrape through each cursed hallway. Bread rations are split. Prayers are whispered. Mira kills a goblin by impaling it on her elbow. I don't ask.
And then—we find it.
A wall of old stone. But not like the rest.
It's clean. Too clean. Carved with looping glyphs that shimmer in pale light, humming like the inside of a spellbook having a migraine. It pulses slow and steady. Rhythmic. Deliberate.
A sealed tunnel mouth yawns at the end of the wall. A stone gate, shaped like the entrance to something older than the system. Something that predates genre.
We stop. The entire group halts like a string was pulled.
"What is it?" someone whispers, afraid to breathe too loud.
"A checkpoint?" Tam offers. He's trying to be helpful. Trying to hope.
"No," I say. "It's something worse."
They look at me. The would-be leader. The idiot with a glowing bracelet and a suspicious lack of dying.
"It's the next chapter."
And just like that, tension coils in the air.
No one wants to move. Even Mira hesitates.
The glyphs brighten. The door begins to vibrate, just a little.
One kid steps back. Another lowers their weapon. The confidence is fracturing again. Just like before.
I step forward.
Because that's what the protagonist does.
Because the system likes it when you act like the story matters.
I place my hand on the glyphs.
Warm. Buzzing. Hungry.
The glyphs flash white-blue. The floor shudders beneath us. Somewhere deep beyond the wall, something massive begins to groan. Like stone gears rolling. Like the dungeon itself just woke up and said, "Wait, who let this guy in?"
I smirk.
"Let's see what happens," I whisper, just loud enough for Mira to hear, "when a glitch tries to rewrite the patch notes."
The gate opens.
Darkness yawns beyond. Deeper than the torchlight. Bigger than the map.
And more story waiting to be hacked.