The Dungeon’s Shadow

Nathan trudged forward with the men flanking him, their torches bobbing like fireflies in the endless dark.

Somehow, in all his panic, he’d already barked at them to “lead me out.”

The words had come out sharp, commanding—
and to his horror, they obeyed instantly.

Boss.

They kept calling him Boss.

He wasn’t a boss. He was a recent BA grad who spent his days fetching coffees and wrangling schedules as a casting assistant in West Hollywood.

Most nights were swallowed by community theater rehearsals in some drafty black-box where half the cast forgot their lines.

On weekends—or the rare nights off—he’d stay up until two in the morning, logged into MMOs, running dungeons with strangers in different time zones, Discord pinging nonstop.

It was during those late sessions that a friend first pushed him toward light novels and manhwas.

He’d laughed at the tropes—truck accidents, reincarnations, overpowered heroes dropped into magic kingdoms.

Fun to read.

Impossible in real life.

Except… here he was.

Am I dead?

The thought blindsided him, squeezing his chest tight.

No. I didn’t die.

I wasn’t in an accident. A truck didn’t hit me. Nobody stabbed me in a club bathroom.

His pulse thudded in his ears.

I must be alive. I’m alive.

So then—where was this guy?

The brute whose face had stared at him through that floating tear.

The man whose body he was wearing now.

If Nathan was here, walking around in this nightmare…

where the hell was the other one?

He barely registered the questions being thrown at him.

“Boss, should we regroup at the hall?”
“Boss, did the ritual work?”
“Boss, are we moving camp?”

The words bounced off him like static. He wasn’t listening. Couldn’t.

His head still pounded, trying to reconcile Seoul neon with dungeon stone.

And then one word stuck.

Ritual.

His gaze flicked sideways, heart stumbling in his chest.

Ritual? What ritual?

The men didn’t seem to notice his lapse, still walking stiff-backed at his sides like bodyguards.

But Nathan’s mind spun.

A ritual.

That had to mean something, didn’t it? Something about the tear, the brute, about why he was here instead of home.

For the first time since waking up, he actually wanted to hear them talk.

And he realized, with a cold twist in his gut, that he couldn’t just blurt questions.

If they thought he was this Boss, then he had to play the part.

Listen first.
Watch.
Pretend.

Nathan blinked at them, forcing his voice to steady.

“So… where were you? You didn’t see anything?”

The men exchanged glances, one finally muttering, “Boss, you ordered us to guard the dungeon entrance. The chamber was sealed. We didn’t… we couldn’t…”

He hesitated, eyes dropping to the floor. “It had been hours. Too long. So we came to check on you.”

They didn’t know any more than he did.

Which meant—Nathan’s mouth went dry. Of course. Of course they don’t know.

The one scene where the side characters are supposed to dump all the exposition, and I get a bunch of blank looks.

He forced a nod, trying not to let his face twitch.

“Right. Yes. That’s… exactly what I told you to do.”

The man’s voice cracked as he repeated, “Boss, did the ritual… succeed?”

Nathan’s brain short-circuited.

How the hell am I supposed to know?

He opened his mouth, shut it again, then forced a slow nod like some kind of mob boss in a bad drama. “…Of course it did.”

The men exhaled in unison, relief loosening their shoulders.

One even muttered, “As expected of the Boss.”

Nathan kept his face stone-cold.

Great. Perfect. Me and the cosplay henchmen all in the dark here in the murder cave together.

Ten bucks says I’m the first one eaten.

Still… his chest tightened.

A ritual.

In the stories, rituals weren’t just spooky background noise.

They meant contracts, curses, power-ups.

Was that why these guys were looking at him like he hung the moon?

Nathan’s palms dampened around the torch.

No way. Powers? Him?

He couldn’t even keep a plant alive in his L.A. apartment, and now what—he was supposed to hurl fireballs?

He glanced down at his hands again. Scarred knuckles. Broad grip.

The kind of hands that looked like they’d crushed skulls, not highlighted scripts for a casting call.

But the thought wormed in anyway:

What if I did get something out of this?

His grip tightened on the torch.

Powers.
Magic.
Something.

That’s how it went in every late-night manhwa binge, right?

Big scary ritual.
New body.
Secret skills unlocked.

He cleared his throat, glancing sideways to make sure none of the men were watching him too closely.

They weren’t. Their eyes were all forward, torches held stiff like they were afraid even to breathe near him.

Nathan muttered low, barely moving his lips.

“…Fireball?”

He even flicked the torch like he was striking a match.

Nothing. Just a sputter of smoke.

He tried again, whispering through clenched teeth.

“Lightning bolt?”

He flicked his fingers at the floor like he was shaking off water.

The guy nearest him twitched, shooting him a nervous look.

“Boss?”

Nathan straightened instantly, plastering on a scowl.

“Nothing. Clearing my throat.”

He hacked out a fake cough for good measure.

The man flinched and looked straight ahead again.

Nathan waited a beat, then hissed into his torch hand,

“Come on, something cool. Shadow blade? Ice spear? …Pokémon, I choose you?”

Still nothing.

Nathan blew out a shaky breath, shoulders stiff.

Okay. No fireballs.
No lightning.
No magical Pikachu.

He glanced upward, half-expecting a glowing blue box to pop into existence.

Come on… status screen? Inventory? Quest log?

His eyes darted left, then right, like maybe it was AR—augmented reality, the phone-game kind—and he just wasn’t looking in the right corner.

Nothing.

Just damp stone, torchlight, and four terrified thugs pretending they weren’t listening to their boss whispering nonsense in a strange language like a lunatic.

“Great. Not only do I not get fireballs, I don’t even get the tutorial. Worst. Isekai. Ever.”

One of the men cleared his throat carefully.

“Boss, should we… check the perimeter first?”

Nathan jerked, nearly choking on his own spit.

Of course they’d catch him mid–crazy whisper.

He bobbed his head too fast, torch waving like a royal scepter.

“Obviously. Perimeter. That’s—uh, good. Do that.”

The men nodded sharply, scurrying ahead.

Nathan slumped a little as they went, muttering under his breath.

“No powers. No stats. Just a scary body and a bunch of guys calling me boss. Kill me now.”

For a few tense minutes, the only sounds were boots on stone and the sputter of torches.

The corridor stretched on forever, damp air pressing in, shadows twitching at the edges of the light.

Nathan tried to breathe evenly, tried to look like he belonged here—when really all he wanted was a convenience store soda and his bed.

Then came the noise.

A wet plop.

Another.

Nathan’s chest loosened as he pictured slimes.

Oh thank God. Slimes.

Cute little blobs. Easy starter mobs.

I could stomp these. Splorch. Tutorial complete.

The shadows shifted—

And instead of quivering blobs, hunched shapes shambled out of the dark.

Jagged teeth.
Filthy claws.

Goblins.

Nathan froze.

His stomach dropped straight to his boots.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The men snapped to attention, weapons half-drawn, waiting on him.

Nathan raised his torch like he’d been planning this all along.

“Well? Don’t just stand there. Take them down.”

The words came out sharp, commanding.

His stomach dropped.

Holy shit, that sounded cool.

The men roared and charged forward, blades flashing in the firelight.

Goblins screeched.

Steel clashed.

And Nathan… stayed exactly where he was, nodding grimly like this was all part of his plan.

Internally, he was screaming and trying not to vomit.

Then the ground trembled.

Something bigger pushed out of the dark.

Hulking, tusked, its shoulders brushing the corridor walls.

An orc.

Nathan’s throat locked.

Nope.
Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.

But his men faltered, glancing back at him, fear stark in their eyes.

Waiting. For him. Again.

His pulse spiked.

Why isn’t anyone stabbing it?!

Before his brain could stop him, his body lunged forward—torch first.

He charged with all the grace of a drunk giraffe, eyes squeezed shut, swinging fire wildly at the monster.

If this works, I owe every MMO dev an apology.

“Yaaaghhh—!”

It was supposed to be a battle cry.

It came out like a panicked karaoke note.

The orc bellowed, swiping at the flame, and Nathan stumbled, nearly eaten alive—until his hand finally smacked against the hilt at his hip.

The sword!

The stupidly heavy, solid sword that belonged in some museum exhibit labeled “medieval problem-solver.”

He hadn’t wanted to touch it, hadn’t even wanted to believe it was real—
but panic didn’t care.

Adrenaline surged.

Without thinking, he ripped it free and swung.

Steel met flesh with a sickening crack.

Something huge toppled.

Goblins shrieked and scattered.

When Nathan cracked one eye open, the orc lay sprawled on the stone, blood pooling, its head nearly caved in from one blind, terrified swing.

His arm buzzed like he’d just punched through concrete.

That orc didn’t die because I’m strong. That orc died because it was completely caught off guard and confused. Hell, maybe it died of secondhand embarrassment.

The men dropped to one knee, voices trembling with awe.

“As expected of the Boss…”

Nathan stood frozen, chest heaving, sword dripping in his grip.

Yeah. Totally planned. Next time I’ll juggle while I’m at it.

I’m going to puke.

Nathan almost shoved the sword back into its sheath, blood and all, just to get the damned thing out of his hands.

But one of the men stepped forward, cloth in hand, bowing his head.

“Allow me, Boss. The blade should be cleaned before it’s put away.”

Nathan blinked, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

Right. Cleaning. That was a thing people did with swords.

He loosened his grip and handed it over as smoothly as he could manage.

“See to it, then.”

The man took it carefully, wiping each inch with reverence, like it was holy instead of a murder stick.

Nathan jammed his hands into his pockets before they could start shaking.

Another man asked,

“Boss, shall we… return to camp?”

Nathan seized on it like a lifeline.

“Obviously,” he said, forcing his voice steady, “we regroup. Collect our things. Then we move out.”

Relief rippled through them like a wave.

They adjusted packs, and fell into step around him again—escorts leading a king.

Torches bobbing in the dark, the silence finally broke.

At first it was small things—muttered complaints, half-laughs, excuses that would’ve gotten them roasted back in any L.A. rehearsal room.

Nathan just listened.

He always had an ear for details, and now he clung to them like a lifeline.

One of them had lost dice in a tavern brawl—not even the expensive kind, just wooden ones, but apparently it had been a whole thing.

Another kept swearing he’d tripped on “uneven ground” earlier, and the others wouldn’t let him live it down.

Someone else claimed they could cook, though judging by the way the others groaned, that was a lie with a body count.

Nathan snorted before he could stop himself—the “uneven ground” excuse was just too pathetic, too obvious.

Gravity’s undefeated, my guy.

But instantly all four men froze, glancing at him like disciples who’d just witnessed divine approval.

Shit.
Oh god.

They think I’m blessing the murder-chef anecdote.

Fantastic. Now I’m the patron saint of bad cooking.

He straightened his face fast, letting the torchlight paint his scowl extra menacing.

Nathan sighed inwardly, ears still tuned to their chatter.

It was… normal.

Stupid, human, low-stakes normal.

The kind of background noise he thrived on—whispers in dressing rooms, gossip in Discord chats, strangers’ conversations drifting through coffee shop lines.

He tucked every scrap away, building little character sketches in his head the way he always did, almost without trying.

He didn’t know this world, didn’t understand these men, but he knew people.

And people complained, laughed, teased, exaggerated.

Listening to them now, he felt something in his chest unclench for the first time since waking up.

And then the shirt rubbed wrong against his skin.

Nathan frowned, tugging at the collar.

The torchlight caught just enough for him to glance down—
and his stomach flipped.

Dark hair curled thick across his chest.

Coarse, heavy.
Not his.

“Oh my god,” he mouthed, slapping the shirt shut again like he’d just seen a ghost.

“I have chest hair. Like… actual, grown-man chest hair.”

Heat crawled up his neck.

No way was he saying that out loud.

The guys were already terrified of him. No need to add manscaping meltdown to the list.

Later, he’d remember it was the man named Ronan who had stepped forward to clean his sword.

But in the moment, he just let their voices wash over him like a script rehearsal—comforting, grounding, even funny in places.

By the time daylight finally glimmered at the mouth of the dungeon, what seemed like a few hours had passed, Nathan almost felt steady again.

Almost.

The daylight hit him like a punch.

After endless torchlight, the sun was so bright it felt personal—like the universe had cranked up the contrast just to spite him.

Nathan squinted hard, one hand raised, stomach lurching.

Outside the dungeon, a small base camp sprawled—
a couple of tents, a fire pit smoldering low, and two more men in the same rough leathers who shot to their feet the instant he appeared.

Relief flooded their faces like they’d just been pardoned from execution.

“Boss,” they chorused, bowing so fast Nathan thought their spines might snap.

Great. More cosplay henchmen.

At least this time, there were horses tied to a post and, thank every pantheon, a wagon.

One of the men stepped forward, nervous.
“The Guild will want to hear from you, Boss. The Guild Master… he’ll have questions.”

Questions. Perfect.

Fantasy HR, calling him in for his quarterly—performance review.

He pictured himself sitting across from some beefy warrior in half-plate, filling out forms in triplicate, explaining why he accidentally killed an orc with the panic swing of the century.

Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering,
“Fantastic. Isekai and I still can’t escape middle management.”

The wagon caught his eye again, and he let out a breath of relief.
“Right. We’re taking that. Because if you think I’m getting on one of those horses—”

He trailed off when the men blinked at him like he’d just threatened their grandmothers.

“…Unless, uh, of course I decide to. Which I don’t. So the wagon. Obviously.”

Nathan’s gaze slid to the horses, their breath steaming in the morning air.

As he approached, one of them snorted, sharp and sudden, and he flinched before he could stop himself.

He straightened immediately, clearing his throat like that had been intentional.

Great. Real smooth, Nathan. Totally not afraid of livestock.

The two men waiting at camp blinked in surprise, trading a quick glance.

But the four who’d been with him in the dungeon didn’t even twitch at his reaction.

They’d already seen enough to know their Boss was… off.

Nathan’s stomach sank.

Great. Now the newbies think I’m weird, and the veterans have already filed it under new normal.

As the wagon rattled over cobblestone, the men muttered in low voices, thinking Nathan too lost in thought to care.

“…the Guild Master won’t be pleased if we show up late again,” one whispered.

Another scoffed under his breath. “Forget the Master. You know who’s waiting inside. Kieran.”

The name landed like a weight in the cramped space. The men fell quiet, eyes flicking nervously toward Nathan, then away again.

Nathan blinked, frowning. Kieran? Whoever that was, the name carried the kind of dread you only heard backstage when someone mentioned a director known for eating actors alive.

Great. Boss mode now had a final boss.

Beyond the walls, the town unfolded—narrow streets bustling with stalls, vendors hawking bread and fruit, kids weaving between carts, the sharp clang of a smithy hammer echoing through the air.

A guard station loomed to one side, armored men watching with that same don’t mess with us look Nathan had seen from bouncers outside L.A. clubs.

He barely had time to process any of it before the wagon jolted to a stop at a wide square.

At its far end, the Guild Hall dominated the space—
a hulking fortress of stone with banners snapping high in the wind, its sheer size daring the rest of the town to measure up.

And out stormed him.

Tall. Broad. Built like the walls had been raised just to frame him.

His cloak cracked behind him like thunder, dark hair curling damp at the ends as though he’d just stepped from a sparring ring.

The sunlight cut sharp across cheekbones, jawline, and a face so perfectly proportioned it felt almost unreal.

But his eyes—

Gray. Storm gray. The kind of gray that promised thunder still rolling somewhere above the horizon, dangerous and magnetic all at once.

When they locked forward, the air itself seemed to still.

Nathan’s brain short-circuited.

Gorgeous. Absolutely, unfairly gorgeous.

Not in the soft, idol-pretty way he was used to seeing back in Seoul, but in the brutal, unfair God got bored and sculpted a warlord kind of way.

His mouth tugged stupidly toward a smirk, cartoon hearts practically popping around the man’s head.

The man’s lips were moving, words thrown sharp across the square, but Nathan didn’t hear a single syllable.

He was too busy staring, cataloguing the impossible geometry of storm-colored eyes, strong jaw, broad shoulders.

“…Are you even listening to me?”

That snapped him.

Nathan blinked fast, dragging his focus back like a kid caught daydreaming in class.

Wait—was he supposed to answer?

His hand jerked up, pointing dumbly at his own chest before flicking sideways to Ronan.

The man gave the smallest, gravest nod.

Yes. You’re Mason.

Nathan’s stomach flipped.
Huh. Guess I am Mason.

He straightened, pasted on his best customer-service smile, and in his smoothest, most rehearsed assistant voice said, “I apologize — could you repeat everything you just said?”

Except it came out lower. Rougher. A voice that didn’t belong to him at all.

Nathan winced. Fantastic. I sound like a nightclub bouncer apologizing before breaking someone’s kneecaps.

His eyes went wide, eager, as if enthusiasm might smooth it over.

The man just stared—venom flashing in storm-gray eyes—like Nathan had sprouted antlers and announced he was here to tap-dance.

“Inside. Now.”

The command cracked like a whip.

He dragged both hands down his face, exhaled something between a growl and a sigh, then spun on his heel and stalked into the Guild Hall.

Only then did Nathan notice the rest—ten men flanking him, silent as statues, all turning in unison to follow.

Each one gave Nathan a look as they passed, the kind that said good luck surviving him, before filing in after their commander.

Nathan blinked at their backs, grin frozen in place.

“…So,” he said, voice straining for confidence, “I think that went well.”

He glanced at his own henchmen for backup.

They immediately avoided eye contact, studying cobblestones like their lives depended on it.

Nathan sighed.

“Yeah. Nailed it.”

Not exactly the impression he wanted to leave on his ideal man.

Nathan turned to his henchmen.

“Well, shall we?”

He waved toward the entrance.