Life in the dungeon continued.
Compared to how it was in those first few days, it had gotten considerably better.
But it was lonely.
Incredibly lonely.
The only solace he had was during battle. Whenever his battles ended, he would be forced to face his loneliness once more.
He found himself in a state where he sought constant stimulation. Without it, he would truly go mad.
When it wasn’t battle, it was training, when it wasn’t training, it was anything else he could think of.
Even after so long, his fear didn’t completely go away.
And even though it had been quelled for the most part, he still needed to cope with his current situation.
It had reached a point where he forgot about everything other than the dungeon.
His life was the dungeon and the dungeon was his life.
Was there a way to stave off the insanity that threatened to consume him?
He found himself reminiscing.
Not about people nor about events from his past. Instead, he reminisced on characters he used to read about.
People who would end up in similar situations as he was now.
But they weren’t the same as him.
They weren’t pathetic trash on the inside.
They braved every danger with pride and cool indifference. They challenged the heavens as if it was the most natural thing to do.
He wanted to be like them.
He wanted to become them.
Who was he?
What was his identity?
A sense of identity was incredibly important. Without it, he would be no different than any other beast in the dungeon.
He had already somewhat become one of them.
He had his own territory on the 20th floor.
No beast dared to challenge him.
Even if he descended, there were still many beasts that didn’t dare come close after sensing his aura.
But at the same time, there were beasts that wanted to contend with his hegemony.
Naturally, he fought these beasts. And he indiscriminately slaughtered every other beast on the floor afterward.
If he had to give a reason?
For strength.
To kill. To eat. To evolve. This was his life.
So without a sense of identity, without anything to keep him human, what would he be?
His end goal was still to leave.
To escape. To go home. To get revenge. To cure his mother.
How long had it been since he was stranded in the dungeon?
Enough time had passed that the flimsy will he had originally built up had blossomed slightly. He was at least able to clearly delineate his goals.
But if he wanted to return to society, could he?
In his current state?
It was impossible.
He needed to become human again.
He needed to become those characters he would fervently read about in the past.
His days changed.
When he needed stimulation, he went and slaughtered hundreds and thousands of beasts.
When there were no beasts left on a floor, he would return to training.
And when he wasn’t training, he acted.
He stood in front of a massive beast that was crawling on the floor.
Blood stained his skin and leaked from that beast’s body.
“This Young Master has shown leniency. Take it as a grace from one above you.”
His words were arrogant.
He didn’t feel like himself when he spoke them.
No, he didn’t feel like himself when he spoke.
He was alone.
When was the last time he spoke at all?
His voice was hoarse even as he tried to put up an arrogant front.
“This is the fate of those who have eyes but can’t see.”
The phrase was one he had seen many times before. It had become something of a joke on earth.
But he spoke it with utmost seriousness.
This was a character.
He needed to play it well.
Until he could become that character.
And regain his humanity.
What was humanity?
It was a question he asked himself plenty of times. He had been seeking his humanity ever since he came to the realization that he had lost it.
What defined him as a person?
What used to define him as a person?
He could answer the second question easily.
Struggle, weakness, the inability to grow stronger.
But that old version of him had perseverance. It was one of the only admirable traits he used to have.
But that perseverance disappeared when he was stranded in the dungeon.
He had become a weeping mess.
He complained about everything he could complain about.
He resented people who didn’t deserve to be resented.
He pushed the blame onto others so he could avoid his own weakness.
But the dungeon didn’t allow him to avoid it.
It laid his weakness bare in front of him.
It forced him to acknowledge the fact that he was pathetic.
And it almost killed him multiple times in the process.
And so, what was he now?
He had strength. That was what he had been chasing after for so long. That was the ultimate goal he had ever since the World Awakening.
Why, then, did it feel so empty?
Why did it feel like his strength didn’t matter at all?
What was he missing?
That missing piece, he had judged it to be his humanity.
He had become no different than a mindless beast.
He killed, he ate, he evolved.
What else did his life constitute? What did he look forward to every day? What did he work towards?
His overarching goal didn’t matter. He didn’t have a method to escape. He didn’t think he would find one any time soon.
How long would he be trapped in this dungeon?
Perhaps, by the time he exited, his mother would’ve long succumbed to her illness without his support.
Perhaps, the target of his revenge would’ve become a figure that even with his newfound strength, he couldn’t touch.
He felt like his thoughts should drive him to work harder, to try harder to find an exit to the dungeon.
But it didn’t work like that.
For such determination to be born, the prerequisite was hope.
Hope that the chance of success existed.
He didn’t have that hope.
He didn’t have humanity either.
The only thing he had was the dungeon.
To kill, to eat, to evolve.
He didn’t have any other thoughts in his head.
Well, there was one.
Blood.
He had become addicted to it.
Sometimes, he found himself unable to sit still if he didn’t feel the blood of beasts on his skin for too long.
He didn’t question this feeling. He just went out and hunted to quench his thirst for blood.
It was then that he realized something was wrong. Something inside of him told him that he should be questioning his sanity.
But why question it?
If there was nothing else to do besides killing, shouldn’t it be a good thing that he enjoys it?
At least that way, he wouldn’t get bored of the monotony of his life.
But he still ended up questioning it.
He wanted to regain a semblance of sanity.
Perhaps that wish alone meant that he was on the right track.
He hoped so.
He hoped.
It was a good thing that the concept of hope had come back into his life.
He was becoming more like those characters he emulated.
But he hadn’t become them yet.
If he had done his job properly, he wouldn’t be questioning himself anymore.
He would act as he saw fit, and he would do so with confidence.
It was still uncomfortable. To speak, to act, to show consideration for those around him, it didn’t feel like he was himself when he did it.
But he would continue without fail.
Until it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore.
Until he became what he was pretending to be.