Mixarnt had gathered 30 items out of the 50 required for his quests. "The dimensional pocket is really handy for this," he muttered, scanning his list. "Next up is... huh?"

Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed the massive, dungeon looming before him. Only now did he take in the eerie sight.

"Well, might as well check it out," he said, stepping forward—until the stench of rotting corpses and blood hit him. Grimacing, he quickly covered his nose.

As Mixarnt ventured deeper into the crumbling prison, the foul stench of decay and rot clung to him like a heavy, suffocating cloak. Skeletons and rotting corpses littered the grimy hallways, their hollow eye sockets seeming to follow his every move.

The air was thick with the lingering echoes of pain and suffering, the whispers of countless tormented souls carried on the damp, stale breeze. Each step Mixarnt took echoed through the empty halls, the only sound in a place that felt like a tomb of broken dreams and lost lives.

Yet, despite the overwhelming sense of dread that filled the prison, a spark of excitement burned in Mixarnt’s chest. The promise of hidden treasures, long-forgotten secrets, and the challenge of conquering such a grim place pushed him forward. His determination remained unshaken, even in the face of the eerie and unsettling surroundings.

Reaching the deepest part of the prison, Mixarnt saw a man chained up. He had black hair and golden eyes.

"Hey dude, who are you?" Mixarnt asked curiously.

Carlos, who had been sleeping, lifted his head and saw a kid around 11 years old standing before him.

His golden eyes, framed by dark lids, widened slightly as he noticed the young intruder. His face stayed calm, hiding the emotions swirling inside him. Years of harsh imprisonment had taught him to keep his feelings hidden—a skill needed to survive in a place where showing weakness could be dangerous.

After a brief pause, Carlos’ lips twisted into a dry, humorless smile. "Well, well. Looks like the rats have found a new toy," he said, his deep, smooth voice carrying a tone of weariness and bitterness.

Carlos’ eyes scanned Mixarnt’s small figure, taking in his bright clothes, wooden sword, and the confident attitude that seemed so out of place in such a grim environment. He could almost hear the questions running through the boy’s mind: Who are you? Why are you here?

Mixarnt didn’t understand what Carlos meant by his words and wondered if he was a pervert, which might explain why he was imprisoned. "Well, whatever. This place is empty as hell," Mixarnt said, not bothering to ask more questions. He sliced the chains binding Carlos with his wooden sword, setting him free.

Carlos’ gaze lingered on the wooden sword, impressed by Mixarnt’s skills, resourcefulness and bravery in such a grim place. As the chains fell to the ground, freeing him from years of confinement, Carlos stood up with smooth, deliberate movements.

He held out his hand to Mixarnt, palm up, in a silent gesture of respect. "You’ve got guts, kid. But you shouldn’t be here. This place... it eats away at you, body and soul. Trust me, I know."

Carlos studied Mixarnt’s young face, trying to gauge the boy’s understanding and determination. Despite the odds stacked against them, a sense of camaraderie sparked between the hardened prisoner and the inexperienced adventurer—a bond born from shared isolation and the unspoken need for connection.

"I see. So why were you tied up over there, old man? Are you some kind of pervert? Did you come to an abandoned dungeon just to chain yourself up?" Mixarnt asked innocently, giving Carlos a pitiful smile. Carlos was stunned, completely baffled by Mixarnt’s conclusion.

"P-pervert!? Old man? Me!?" Carlos exclaimed, bewildered. He was only 28, yet the kid was calling him an old man. What’s more, Mixarnt didn’t even realize this place was a prison—though abandoned now, it had been raided by Kaelzar, who took all the prisoners under his command.

"Well, you didn’t answer when I asked who you are, so I’ll just call you old man," Mixarnt said casually.

A mix of amusement and disbelief crossed Carlos’ weathered face at the boldness of the nickname. Despite his frustration, he couldn’t help but chuckle, his voice rough from lack of use.

"Oh, you cheeky brat," Carlos said with a wry grin, shaking his head. "Fine, I’ll accept the 'old man' title for now. But let’s focus on getting out of this cursed place first."

His eyes shone with determination, a fierce will to survive and escape the prison that had held him for so long. As they moved through the crumbling hallways, the unlikely pair navigated the dangerous, decaying structure. Together, they formed an uneasy alliance—built on trust, necessity, and a touch of childish humor.

As they left the prison, Mixarnt told Carlos about a nearby village. "To be honest, I plan to rest there. I’m on a gathering quest right now. Oh right, I also didn't know that place where we came from was a prison haha." Mixarnt said casually with a grin. Carlos’ expression softened as he listened to Mixarnt’s cheerful chatter, a refreshing change from the grim place they had just escaped. The young adventurer’s optimism and energy were like a breath of fresh air, rekindling a sense of hope and resilience in Carlos that he hadn’t felt in years.

As they neared the village, Carlos found himself drawn to Mixarnt’s lively spirit. His laughter and stories painted a picture of a world free from the darkness that had consumed Carlos’ life. For a moment, the weight of his past—his loyalty, his duty, his losses—seemed to fade, replaced by a desire for the simple joys and connections he had long missed.

With a sigh, Carlos pushed aside his somber thoughts, focusing instead on the present and the chance to rest in the village with his new companion.

As they entered the village, they saw sad, somber faces, ruined houses, and people trying to rebuild or living homeless. "Hey, what happened here?" Carlos asked a woman, who squealed, blushed, and ran away. Carlos was left dumbfounded.

"Probably because you’re not wearing a shirt. Here," Mixarnt said, handing Carlos a shirt. Carlos put it on, but it was far too small for his muscular frame, making him look like he was wearing a fitted crop top.

Mixarnt burst out laughing, clutching his stomach at the sight.

Carlos’ eyes narrowed, his face a mix of embarrassment and irritation as Mixarnt laughed at his exposed torso. The shirt Mixarnt had given him was ridiculously small, clinging tightly to his muscular frame and leaving little to the imagination.

With a muttered curse, Carlos tried to adjust the shirt, attempting to cover his abs and chest. "Kid, once we’re out of this place, I’m teaching you some manners. Women shouldn’t run away screaming just because a man isn’t wearing a shirt," he said, half-serious.

Despite his annoyance, Carlos couldn’t help but smile slightly at Mixarnt’s infectious laughter and carefree attitude. It was a welcome change from the darkness that had filled his life for so long.

As they walked through the village, Carlos couldn’t ignore the somber mood around them. The signs of struggle and despair were everywhere—in the crumbling buildings and the tired, worn faces of the villagers.

When they reached the inn, the landlord was surprised to see visitors in such a ruined town. "Two rooms, please. Also, sir, what happened here?" Mixarnt asked innocently.

The innkeeper explained that their village had been attacked by criminals two weeks ago. Carlos immediately knew it was Kaelzar and the prisoners he had freed from the prison.

Carlos’ jaw tightened as he listened, anger and determination surging through him. "Those responsible," Carlos growled, his voice low and fierce, "will pay for what they’ve done. Mark my words, kid. We’ll make sure they face justice, no matter what it takes." He turned to the innkeeper, his expression softening slightly. "Please, tell us more about the attack. Any details you can share might help us track down those responsible."

As the innkeeper began recounting the village’s ordeal, Carlos listened carefully, his mind already working on plans for the challenges ahead.