The pedestal hissed as the loot appeared. A pouch jingled weakly when Bert scooped it up.

  He shook it once. Coins clinked inside. He poured them out into his hand.

  Five.

  Bronze.

  Pathetic.

  The crystal pulsed smugly:

  Currency Acquired: 5 Coins. Equivalent Value: Sad.

  “That’s it?” Harlada croaked, clutching her bleeding shoulder. “Five coins? I almost died for five?”

  “You did die,” Leo corrected, pressing a trembling hand against his ribs. “Statistically, it was temporary.”

  “I am still at one hit point!” she shouted.

  Bert tucked the pouch into his belt. “Five coins is enough for one potion. One. And I’m not wasting it.”

  Harlada glared at him. “Not wasting it? I can barely stand!”

  “Exactly,” Bert said. “You’re still standing. Which means no potion needed.”

  The crystal pulsed again:

  Dungeon Shop: Healing Potion – 5 Coins. Special Offer: Your Party Is Dying.

  Leo coughed, adjusting his broken glasses. “Correction. We are not dying. We are… statistically fragile.”

  Harlada threw up her hands. “We need a healer!”

  Leo cleared his throat delicately. “…I can heal.”

  Both of them stared.

  “You what?” Bert barked.

  Leo adjusted his notes with offended dignity. “Warrior archetypes are granted a minor restorative capacity. Once per level, I may restore three hit points.”

  “Three?” Harlada repeated. “That’s it? We’re both at one! That barely gets me to ‘still dying but not instantly.’”

  Bert squinted. “Wait. You’ve been able to do this the whole time?”

  Leo sniffed. “It did not seem statistically relevant until now.”

  Harlada groaned, sparks sizzling in her hair. “We are doomed.”

  “Incorrect,” Leo said, placing a trembling hand on her shoulder. A faint shimmer pulsed. Her wounds closed slightly, bruises fading.

  “Hey… that actually helped,” she admitted, blinking. “I’m at four. Barely alive is still alive.”

  Bert folded his arms. “Fine. We keep the coins. Save them for something real. Like a bigger cleaver.”

  “Or,” Harlada snapped, “we buy potions so I don’t bleed out next fight.”

  “Bigger. Cleaver,” Bert repeated, jabbing a finger at her.

  The crystal pulsed smugly:

  Party Consensus: None. Progression: Delayed.

  They groaned in unison.

  ***

  They finally slumped toward the far wall, waiting for the next set of doors to rise.

  Nothing happened.

  The chamber just sat there, torches flickering weakly, slime dripping from the ceiling. No pedestals, no glowing archways. Just silence.

  “…Where’s the door?” Harlada asked.

  Leo frowned, scribbling in his half-burnt notes. “Statistically, a new dimension should be available. Trial completed, reward dispensed. Door generation is a fixed system.”

  “Then where is it?” she snapped.

  The crystal pulsed, text spilling smugly into the air:

  Reminder: Only one in three doors grants progression. The other two regress. There are no hidden gems this time. No secret exits. No pity doors.

  Bert’s grin faltered. “…Wait. So the only way forward is back?”

  “Correct,” the HUD chirped.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  The three of them groaned in perfect unison.

  “I hate this dungeon,” Harlada muttered.

  “I hate statistics,” Bert added.

  “I hate both of you,” Leo said primly.

  The crystal pulsed again:

  New Choice Pending: Regression Required. Please return to door selection.

  They trudged back, dripping blood and sweat, toward the previous chamber.

  They trudged back, dripping blood and swamp muck, into the chamber they had entered from.

  Two doors pulsed there, runes glowing smugly in the gloom.

  The first was carved with leathery wings spread wide, a faint screech echoing through the cracks.

  The second bore a jagged stinger, stone dripping venomous green light.

  The crystal pulsed helpfully:

  Reminder: One of these doors grants progression. The other is regression. Choose wisely. Attempt: 5.

  “Bats or scorpions,” Harlada muttered. “Great. Love these options.”

  “Statistically,” Leo began, flipping to a fresh page in his ruined notes, “bats are swarm-based, aerial, and disorienting. High probability of attrition damage.”

  “Translation?” Bert asked.

  “They’ll bite us a lot.”

  Bert nodded sagely. “So… scorpions.”

  Harlada grimaced. “Big armored pincers, stingers full of poison, glowing green venom. And you want scorpions.”

  “Better than being nibbled to death by rodents with wings,” Bert shot back.

  The adventurers shoved the stinger-marked door.

  It groaned open, spilling a hiss of dry air across their faces. The crystal pulsed smugly:

  Path Chosen: Scorpions. Sensory Handicap Enabled: Touch Disabled. Attempts: 6.

  They staggered forward.

  “Wait,” Harlada whispered, flexing her fingers. “I don’t… feel the floor.”

  Bert blinked. “I don’t feel my cleaver.” He raised it anyway. “Looks fine. Just… not there.”

  Leo tapped his notebook against his palm. “Statistical adjustment: no tactile feedback. No pain, no weight, no texture. Our proprioception is—”

  “English, professor,” Harlada groaned.

  “We’re fighting numb,” he translated.

  The crystal pulsed cheerfully:

  Good luck. This will be hilarious.

  ***

  From the far wall came a dry scrape. Then another. Then three more.

  Scorpions poured into view, claws snapping, stingers dripping neon green venom. Their shells clattered like stones rattling in a bucket.

  “Formation!” Leo barked. “Zap, switch, strike!”

  They tried.

  Harlada’s sparks lit the chamber in bursts, showing where the scuttling shadows moved.

  Leo’s webbing pinned one claw to the wall.

  Bert swung with reckless abandon, cleaving a shell clean in two.

  It worked. The monsters fell one by one. Their screeches cut short as their bodies dissolved into mist.

  ***

  Panting, they stood in silence.

  “See?” Bert puffed his chest. “Scorpions are nothing. We stomped ‘em!”

  Harlada narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Why don’t I feel tired? Or my shoulder wound? Or anything?”

  That’s when Bert staggered. His grin faltered.

  “…Guys?” he croaked. “Why is the room… spinning?”

  They turned just in time to see green venom foaming at the corner of his mouth. The stinger had caught him mid-swing, and he hadn’t felt it.

  “Poison,” Leo said grimly. “Neurotoxin bypassed the handicap. Statistically fatal.”

  Bert collapsed onto one knee, skin pale. “Potion. We need… potion.”

  Harlada grabbed his arm. “You’ll make it! Right, professor?”

  Leo hesitated, then placed a trembling hand on Bert’s back. “Correction: he will survive… at one hit point.”

  The crystal pulsed smugly:

  Rogue Bouldering Bert – HP: 1. Status: Pathetic but Alive.

  ***

  A pouch shimmered on a pedestal of stone. Coins clinked inside when Harlada picked it up.

  “Six more,” she muttered. “Barely enough for a potion.”

  Bert groaned, sweat dripping down his brow. “We’re buying it. No more arguments.”

  “Agreed,” Leo said tightly.

  Then they noticed.

  No pedestal. No glowing archway. No door. Just silence.

  The crystal pulsed once more:

  Reminder: Only one in three doors grants progression. Please return to door selection.

  Harlada buried her face in her hands. “We’re farming.”

  Leo scribbled furiously. “Correction: we are wasting statistical probabilities.”

  Bert, pale but still upright, growled weakly: “We’re buying that potion.”

  The dungeon rumbled, laughing.