They smell weird, everything tries to kill you, and there’s always some ancient spirit wailing about a curse that “should never be lifted.” Yeah, yeah—boo hoo. Try paying rent in the slums of Lirath and then talk to me about curses.
So there I was, waist-deep in muck, surrounded by suspiciously symmetrical walls, and with a talking katana complaining about the acoustics.
“Your boots squish too much,” the katana said, sounding genuinely offended.
I sighed. “You’re lucky I didn’t sell you to that creepy merchant. He offered me three goats and a piece of the moon.”
“You should’ve accepted. At least the moon doesn’t smell like failure.”
This was my life now. A cursed katana, the vague status of “Chosen One” (by accident), and a dungeon that looked like someone hired a depressed architect with a symmetry fetish.
The system interface buzzed in my vision.
[Dungeon Discovered: Vault of the Whispering Kings]
[Danger Level: Unreasonably Stupid]
Comforting.
I pushed forward, stepping over what looked like a pile of armor. Then the pile groaned.
“Oh, great,” I muttered. “Let me guess. You're not dead.”
The corpse turned its head slowly, one eye glowing a faint violet.
“No,” it croaked. “I’m undead. There’s a difference.”
And then it collapsed again.
“Well, that was dramatic,” the katana said. “You two should start a theater troupe.”
I poked the body with the blade. No reaction.
“Guess he wasn’t important,” I said. But as I turned away, a hollow whisper echoed from the walls.
“He was the last guardian of the seal.”
“Of course he was,” I muttered. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
Then the floor dropped.
Literally. Like a bad carnival ride.
I fell for what felt like forever, the system glitching around me like a drunk hologram.
When I landed, it wasn’t gracefully. It was face-first, into what I sincerely hoped wasn’t bat guano.
I groaned and rolled over. The katana, now glowing faintly blue, pulsed with annoyance.
“You could’ve landed on your feet.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you fall thirty meters without warning? No? Then shut up.”
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As I got up, a new message blinked into my view:
[You have entered: The False Vault]
[Mimic detected. Warning: Extremely hostile and passive-aggressive.]
Passive-aggressive?
That’s when the chest in the middle of the room sighed.
Yes. Sighed.
“Another one?” it grumbled. “They just keep coming in, touching me without permission. No one knocks anymore.”
I blinked. “You’re… a talking mimic?”
“Talking? Of course I talk. I have thoughts. Dreams. Dental problems.”
“Chests have teeth?”
“Have you met a mimic before?” it snapped.
I paused. “Touché.”
“Stab it,” the katana said. “Just a little.”
The mimic growled. “You always go straight to violence. That’s why no one invites you to dungeon brunches.”
“You’re a literal monster!”
“Labels! I identify as ‘selectively carnivorous storage’.”
Okay, that was enough. I drew the katana, which gleamed like a disco ball of doom, and took a step forward.
“Wait!” the mimic shouted. “I’ll make a deal.”
I stopped. “I don’t trust you.”
“I don’t trust you either, but let’s be adults.”
We stared at each other for a moment. The mimic didn’t blink—probably because it didn’t have eyelids—but the vibe was intense.
“Fine,” I said. “Speak.”
“I’ll give you access to the real vault. But you have to promise me one thing.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What?”
“Say I’m beautiful.”
…
“…what?”
“You heard me.”
“Why.”
“Because I never get compliments, okay? People scream, stab, and steal. No one sees me. Just another ugly box in the corner.”
This was, by far, the strangest boss negotiation of my life.
But I needed access to that vault. I sighed.
“You are the most stunning, majestic storage unit I have ever laid eyes on.”
The mimic purred.
Literally. Purred.
“I hate everything about this,” the katana said.
The wall behind the mimic shimmered, revealing a doorway made of bone and glowing sigils.
[Secret Passage Unlocked: Vault of the Whispering Kings – Inner Sanctum]
I stepped through.
It was dark, cold, and somehow smelled like judgmental incense.
“Cool,” I whispered. “Spooky treasure chamber. Just once I’d like to find a vault full of puppies.”
“That would be horrifying,” the katana said.
There were statues lining the walls—dozens of them. Kings, priests, warriors… all looking vaguely disappointed in me.
One of them, a skeletal figure in royal robes, turned its head.
“Who disturbs the sleep of the fallen?”
I raised my hand. “Hi. Accidental Chosen One. Just here to loot and not die.”
The king didn’t seem impressed.
“You carry the Blade of Echoes. And the scent of chaos.”
“That’s just the bat guano.”
He stepped down from the pedestal, bones creaking.
“Prove yourself, interloper. Or perish.”
And that’s when the statues started moving.
I braced myself. This wasn’t going to be fun.
But then I remembered something important: I’m a cheater.
With a grin, I opened the Alchemy of Chaos interface and mixed two unusable junk skills:
[Skill Fusion: “Molten Peasant Kick” + “Scroll of Static Itch”]
→ New Skill Acquired: “Thunderfoot of Confusion”
I activated it.
Lightning surged through my boot, followed by a disco sound effect.
The first statue slipped on an imaginary banana peel and slammed into two others. The skeletal king raised his staff, only for a burst of static to zap him in the royal pelvis.
I dodged between attacks, laughing like a lunatic.
“THIS IS PEAK COMBAT!” I shouted.
“This is why no one respects you,” the katana grumbled.
Eventually, the last statue crumbled. The king lay twitching, muttering something about arthritis.
I looted the chamber quickly—gold, old scrolls, and something that pulsed with ominous energy: a cracked gemstone in a silver cage.
“That’s a Soul Anchor,” the katana said. “Dangerous. Rare. Dumb to touch.”
Naturally, I picked it up.
Immediately, the system screamed.
[You have acquired a Corrupted Anchor. Alignment shift: -15.]
My vision blurred. Whispers echoed.
“You will never be free…”
I shoved the gem into my pouch.
“Yeah, yeah. Add it to the list.”
As I exited the vault, the mimic waved a pseudopod.
“Come back soon! I’m doing renovations.”
I didn’t look back.
Outside, the sky had changed color—purple clouds, swirling wind, and the distinct sense that someone upstairs was reworking the code of reality.
“You just broke something important,” the katana said.
“Good. It probably deserved it.”