When monstrous invaders tore through the veil of reality, Earth was plunged into chaos. Dungeons erupted across the globe—gateways to nightmare realms filled with beasts immune to modern weaponry. Cities fell in days. Nations collapsed in weeks. Humanity teetered on the brink of extinction…
Until the emergence of the Raiders—humans who awakened powerful Talents, unique abilities granted by mysterious forces. Armed with magic and superhuman capabilities, these chosen few turned the tide. With every dungeon cleared, with every monster slain, humanity reclaimed ground—one corpse at a time.
But survival was only the beginning.
The monsters were no longer just threats—they became resources. Flesh, bone, and arcane cores were harvested, refined, and sold. Dungeons were no longer doomsday zones—they became gold mines. What began as desperation turned into domination. An economy rose from the corpses of the fallen. Raiders became celebrities, soldiers, gods among mortals.
And just like that, the end of the world became a business.
Drip… drip… drip…
Rain fell in slow, heavy droplets from the broken ceiling above, slipping through cracks in shattered stone and ruined archways. It rolled down jagged masonry like blood from old wounds, pooling into dark puddles that mirrored the grey, overcast sky above the dungeon entrance. What once may have been a proud stronghold now lay in silent decay—an ancient, crumbling fortress lost to time, buried beneath the earth, and repurposed by the world's new terror: the Dungeons.
Vines crept over walls like veins on a dying beast. Moss clung to fallen pillars. The occasional gust of wind whistled through the gaps in the cracked stone, carrying the distant howls of things that did not belong to this world.
Then came the noise.
Clang.
Steel slammed against steel.
CLANG!!
A louder impact followed, then the crash of something heavy hitting the ground.
"Another one down!" a cocky voice echoed through the wet stone corridors.
Footsteps, careless and bold, splashed through puddles. Boots stomped down ancient hallways with the confidence of seasoned predators.
Three of them. Raiders.
Their armor gleamed with modern enchantments—etched with faint blue veins of mana that pulsed like living circuitry. One wielded a long, curved blade crackling with arcane lightning. Another carried a wide cleaver nearly as tall as he was, its edge serrated and bloodstained. The last held a staff, and with a flick of his wrist, torches on the walls lit up with green fire, casting long shadows across the ancient rubble.
And there—on the ground—lay the remains of a Living Armour. A shattered helmet, a twisted breastplate, and a limp chainmail arm, still faintly moving.
"Oh, these things again?" the one with the cleaver groaned, his voice thick with boredom. "E-Rank trash. Barely worth the mana."
"Think we'll get any decent drops?" the staff-wielder asked as he nudged the fallen Living Armour with his boot.
Clank.
The hollow metal scraped across the stone floor, lifeless.
"Nah," said the swordsman, stepping up with a grin. "These guys are just here to pad stats. XP fodder. Good for low-tier weapon testing, though."
He raised his blade and brought it crashing down.
SHRRAANG!!
Steel shrieked. The blade tore through the chestplate, splitting it in two with a loud screech. The shattered pieces bounced once, twice, then rolled to a stop near a broken staircase.
More lay ahead.
Dozens of suits of animated armor stood along the cracked stone corridor like lifeless sentinels. Most were already falling apart, rust eating away at joints, swords held in trembling hands, their eyes—if they had any—dim and empty.
The Raiders laughed as they advanced.
They cut them down one by one. Each time a Living Armour fell, the sound echoed through the halls: the sick crunch of bone-less metal, the clatter of helmets striking the floor, the occasional spark of weak magical resistance flaring up before dying out instantly.
"They look so proud, don't they?" said the cleaver-wielder, stepping on one of the fallen. The breastplate dented beneath his boot. "Like they're guarding a king's tomb or something."
"You mean trash guarding more trash," the staff-wielder chuckled. "This dungeon's a joke. I don't even know why they keep respawning."
The sword-wielder paused.
"Guess even trash gets recycled eventually," he said, his eyes narrowing as he stepped on another, harder this time. The helmet caved slightly, the metal groaning.
Beneath his foot, the eyeslits of the Living Armour flickered.
Not with light. Not with emotion. Just… motion.
Like something buried in the deepest layer of instinct twitched in the silence.
But the Raiders didn't notice.
They moved on, laughing, talking, mocking.
Drip... drip... drip...
The rain outside thickened. Water slithered down the stairs leading into the castle, forming small streams that ran along the edges of the cracked floor. Somewhere far off, thunder grumbled—low, threatening.
The Living Armour did not move.
It lay there, face half-buried in gravel, body torn apart. Pieces of itself scattered like forgotten relics.
Yet it lived.
In a sense.
It had no mind to form thoughts. No voice to cry out in pain. No soul to beg for mercy. It only knew one thing, in the same way fire knows to burn or stone knows to fall: it existed. It endured. And every time it was destroyed, something forced it back together. Time and again.
The dungeon remade it. The magic of this cursed place reset its broken form. And every time, it would stand again. Only to be torn apart again.
It had no name. No reason. No hate. No fear.
But the echoes of each death—each stomp, each slash, each scornful laugh—they remained. Not as memories. Not as thoughts. Just impressions. Scratches in something deeper than memory.
The castle groaned with age. In the distance, a rusted chandelier broke free and collapsed from the ceiling, smashing into the floor with a tremendous crash. Dust rose in great clouds. Small spirits of mana flitted through the air like fireflies, drawn to the disturbance.
And still, the dungeon went on.
Still, the Raiders farmed.
Still, the Living Armour endured.
Near the back of the hall, beyond where the latest trio had gone, several other suits stood unmoving beneath the shadow of a great, crumbled throne room. Banners long since faded flapped limply in the draft. A broken crown lay in the rubble, snapped in half, tarnished and forgotten.
It had once been a throne fit for kings.
Now it was just another room to clear.
More steel clashed. More laughter rang out. Another Living Armour fell.
But amidst the pile of discarded metal, one piece—a cracked, dented helmet—shifted slightly. Not in defiance. Not in fear. Simply because it could.
A gauntlet twitched beside it.
And the rain fell harder.