Prologue
To most, this world was everything they could've asked for.
A resounding roar rang throughout the bright cavern, the high and solid stones reverberating from the force. In the distance, dull tremors shook the ground and lingered into an ever present thrum.
Each day was ripe with adventure, peril, and wonder—and life was never dull for the bold. Such was the ancient and tested labyrinth city of Orario—a hodgepodge filled to the brim with all walks and talks of life, both mortal and divine. A bustling city that catered to every want and need, even to a hunger for magic—or otherwise.
"They're coming," said a man clad in plate armor. He was standing with a group of various races also armored and armed with various weapons, and together, they stood shoulder to shoulder. Humans, hobbits, chienthropes, runarls, werewolves, hume bunnies, war tigers, boaz, elves, dwarves as well as a half-spirit of all things, all stood as brothers and sisters in arms. They formed a punitive force of eighty strong, rallied under a banner of a sinister clown.
Their major export consisted of: prime cut magic stones harvested fresh out of the dungeon; exotic raw materials of which adamantite was its chieftest trade; and major badasses from all races of all ages, sizes, and even orientations. While they had the ancient and near chthonic dungeon for tourism—and a major source of livelihood.
"Clash!" shouted a hobbit standing in front of all of them, and waved the banner they banded under in his hands with a sweeping motion. A series of thumps sounded out as the punitive force readied their arms.
"Prepare!" he shouted again.
The dungeon fed the city, and the adventurers fed the dungeon—but it wasn't always like that. Only after the descent of the gods did things start looking out for mortals as a whole—but even before, people adapted just the same. It just so happened they—I guess, we had a bigger advantage now compared to back then.
Well, people still die by the dozen anyway.
Separate from the main army, a group of seven stood out—eight, counting the hobbit with the banner.
A dwarf with an axe as tall as he, at about four feet long and two wide for the blade. An elf with a staff brimming with the richness of the elements, the unmistakable glow a sign of the powers it harnessed. A werewolf with silver hair and just as silver boots. An amazoness with a weapon as impressive as the dwarf's, a too thick double-bladed sword. Another amazoness with a belt of knives and twin short swords. A human girl with a single blade with a striking blue hilt. And, a young man, also human, wielding just a round shield and a sizeable bag.
Magic existed and persisted the whole world over, but there was only one place where crystallized mana could be harvested from—hence, Orario's overwhelming presence. Despite the countless perils, the lure of treasures still brought in adventurers—dungeon raiders. The rewards more than paid for the trouble it took; but, thanks to the mountains upon mountains of idiots who practically offed themselves, the horrible stigma remained: Orario was a death trap anyway.
Fed up with all the bad publicity—not to mention the intense demand for magic—a group eventually emerged to guide the lost sheep from the death trap that was a lack of common sense. The beginnings of the Guild installed themselves atop Orario's then growing town—led by one of the city's founding gods—and published three platitudes from the accounts of their own explorers and those wise enough to make it back up in an effort to stymie the high mortality rate.
People dying never bode well for business and security after all.
The three rules went: light was always present no matter how deep.
Hidden by the cliffs, a twisted shadow grew to the same height as the cavern's walls, its berth just as large. The ranks huddled closer together, watching for any unexpected developments. The light was always there, but so too did light deceive like the shadows.
The floors grew larger the lower one went.
Another roar issued, followed by piercing shrieks. The inhuman sounds echoed through the expansive space—more monsters joining the fray, born from the dungeon's walls and floors and ceilings and hidden corners.
And, monsters were always waiting just around the corner.
The thrum grew in intensity, and the shadow shuddered with the periodic tremors. Another roar sounded, an arm extended from the massive image, and it swung. A moment later, a boulder came crashing down towards Loki famiglia's front line.
Simple, easy to remember, but not very effective—people still kept dying—but for the sake of what it was intended for, it worked anyway.
If there was always supposed to be light, then just avoid where there isn't. Always remember that floors got bigger and plan accordingly. And, when in doubt whether there'll be another few monsters waiting for you at the end of the hall and subsequently lead you into a death trap—it's most likely gonna be what'll happen if you don't turn back asap.
It was how it was.
The werewolf jumped forwards and met the tumbling rock, smashing it to pieces with his now burning silver boots. Cheers broke out as the warrior landed, though he still put on an annoyed look. "Weaklings," he said, and made his way back within the ranks.
"As always," said the dwarf with the axe, while the elf with the staff sighed.
"Let it slide," said the youth with the shield. The amazoness with the double-blade nodded to his words, while the human girl's hand went white knuckled at her grip on her weapon.
The dungeon was just that, an insatiable maw—not minding the pot calling the kettle black with the just as prolific greed of modern progress. People come in, raid the dungeon, some people die, they go back up: an endless cycle fueled by a mixture of need, curiosity, and sheer greed for a majority of the commerce type exploration familias.
The same hobbit shrugged, then struck his banner against the ground and gathered everyone's attention.
"Standard formation," he said, "shield, bow, staff." The entire familia barked in affirmation. "Chant and loose on my mark, cast on my next mark." Another bark. "No one dies today." Cheers broke out once more.
Satisfied with his orders, the hobbit turned to the group standing with him, and said, "Lead the attack, and make sure Balor doesn't reach us,"
"Yes captain," they all answered.
"On my mark!" the hobbit raised the clown banner high, the sounds of stretched bow strings filling the air. Together, ancient murmurs of all tongues accompanied the motion, the scent of magic dispelling the earth's musk.
All who came to the dungeon knew of the price of their dreams—hence the waiver forms prior to registering nowadays—but even the threat of death could not deter the strongest of souls.
The trembling of the earth came louder as a cloud of dust appeared within sight.
"Hold!" the hobbit shouted, while the spells in preparation grew in power.
From the cloud, a horde of monsters—beasts with the bodies of primates and the horns of a goat, the fomoires of the forty-ninth floor—reared their ugly heads.
"Hold!" the hobbit shouted once more, the mass of magic nearing critical. He raised his flag as the air charged with more power, and the bows wound tighter. "Hold," he raised his voice louder.
This was life in Orario, and by extension, life with the dungeon.
No sooner had a second passed when the fomoires appeared in view when the same beasts crossed the distance of a hundred metres—half the length to the Loki familia. Their roars came sooner, the thrums even stronger.
The hobbit swung the flag down. "Loose!" On release, the air shook as a hundred arrows whistled towards the monsters, all flying straight and true. A beat later, screams rang out with the roars as flesh and muscle were torn from the beasts.
"Cast!" the hobbit shouted, bringing the flag down a second time, and the Loki familia released roaring wave after wave of light, fire, ice, wind, and all the other elements in between; and those caught in the onslaught were maimed, burned, pierced, frozen and all such, but the horde of monsters stayed their path.
Of all these characters though, there were the greatest aberrations: the lost ones.
Rather, the lost one, since I was the only one I knew of who came from a different dimension—not counting the gods.
"Shields!" shouted the hobbit, raising his flag, and a line of warriors planted themselves in front of the familia with their shields. "Spears!" Then two rows of spears lined themselves up with the wall.
A deeper resounding roar sounded out, shaking the air.
"He's coming," said a different dwarf, this one holding up a shield as large as he. Behind him was a runarl with a spear, and behind the two men still was a chienthrope girl with a staff. Together they formed a basic unit, one of the many innovations proposed by the familias new executive a year ago.
"Just like two months ago," the runarl said, and laughed. Then, a gigantic furred arm dispelled the dust cloud from a distance, revealing a titanic fomoire, its single eye a bright red. "Oh, exactly, two months ago."
"Not again," mumbled the deflated magician.
The hobbit turned to the earlier group, the elites of the familia, and said "Go."
The seven leapt forwards into the fray, weapons out, and charged towards the horde.
My name is Thomas Sedley, and I never asked to end up in this—oh the irony—god forsaken world.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
ArcMeow
ArcMeow Hi all,
Like my Douluo Dalu fic, this is also another crosspost that started off in SpaceBattles forums then to FFnet and now to here. I really much prefer the organization system here, though I don't know so much about the stats. And frankly, I couldn't care any less any more about them.
If a story is popular, then great. And if it isn't, meh, it sucks no doubt, but write on anyway.
Write for yourself and the people who enjoy your stuff!
ArcMeow
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