Sera - A Dungeon Revival LitRPG

Haziel sat alone in a sparse room, perched on a wooden chair that creaked beneath her slight weight. The table in front of her was marred with scratches, and it was surrounded by the oppressive presence of iron bars that cast long shadows across the stone floor. The air was heavy, almost stifling, thick with the scent of damp stone and old wood, the kind of scent that seeped into one’s bones and settled there.

Soon, the door creaked open. A familiar figure stepped into the room, his presence commanding and imposing.

Chancellor Alistair was draped in a dark embroidered robe. His silver hair, meticulously combed back, framed a face that was both stern and calculating. His piercing blue eyes appeared to bore into the air itself, at the very least, it did make many of the acolytes flinch.

With a measured stride, the Chancellor crossed the room and took his seat beside Haziel. He adjusted his robe with a flick of his wrist before turning to her with an unreadable expression.

“You should be grateful that I’ve taken the time to visit you. Time, as you know, is a precious commodity for someone in my position.”

Haziel inclined her head slightly, “I understand, Chancellor. But may I ask why have you come to see me?”

The Chancellor’s gaze didn’t waver as he studied her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ve heard from the Inquisition that you were last seen in a flower shop, Why were you there?”

Haziel hesitated, absently tracing the edge of the table’s surface with a finger. “I just felt like going there."

A heavy sigh escaped Alistair’s lips “Do you remember what your mission is, Haziel?”

She furrowed her brow, trying to pull the fragmented memories together, but they slipped through her. After a moment, she shook her head. “I... I can’t remember.”

The Chancellor’s expression softened just a fraction, though it was more pity than compassion. Rising to his feet slowly, he placed a hand on her shoulder with a cold and impersonal touch. “Come with me, I think you’re simply exhausted. And I know just how to ‘fix’ that.”

His words lingered in the air as he turned towards the door, leaving Haziel with little choice but to follow. I hope whatever happens won't be too bad, I really don't want to hurt anyone.

Haziel followed Chancellor Alistair out of the sparse room as they walked down a long, dimly lit corridor. She had no idea where they were going, but an increasing sense of dread kept clawing at her mind.

Soon, they arrived at a heavy wooden door. Alistair pushed it open, revealing a room that was sterile, almost clinical, with gleaming white walls and a polished floor that reflected the harsh overhead lights.

Haziel took in the sight of various acolytes bustling about the room. Strange equipment filled the room, arcane instruments that buzzed and glowed with unnatural light, vials filled with swirling liquids, and bundles of herbs laid out in precise rows.

“Sit,” Chancellor Alistair ordered, gesturing towards a large metal chair at the center of the room. Thick, heavy straps dangled from the arms and legs, strong enough to restrain even the most defiant prisoner.

Haziel’s breath hitched as her eyes traced the contours of the chair. She felt a tremor in her hands but forced herself to move, knowing that hesitation would only worsen her situation.

With a final glance at Alistair’s unyielding expression, she lowered herself into the chair. The icy metal bit into her back, the sensation jolting through her body. It was hard and unyielding, the seat designed not for comfort but for control.

No sooner had she settled into the chair than the acolytes moved in. Their hands moved fast as they wrapped the thick ropes around her wrists and ankles. The fibers were rough against her skin, tightening with each pull until she was bound securely to the chair.

Still, despite it all, Haziel couldn't hold back her curiosity. "Is this all necessary?"

“It’s all for your own good,” Chancellor Alistair said. He stepped back, watching as the acolytes finished their work, adjusting the straps and checking the equipment.

Once they were satisfied, one of the acolytes, a stern-faced woman, approached Alistair and handed him a large, leather-bound book. He accepted it with a nod, coughing lightly into his hand before turning his attention back to Haziel.

“I’m going to speak certain words now. As I do, I want you to focus on remembering your true purpose. Do you understand?”

Haziel winced in pain for some odd reason she couldn't understand, but regardless, she answered “Y-yes.”

Chancellor Alistair opened the book, tracing the ancient symbols etched into its pages. The room seemed to grow colder, the air thick with an oppressive energy. The acolytes formed a silent circle around the chair, their eyes fixed on the Chancellor as he chanted.

“Rose, whisper, thunder, mirror, shadow, glass.”

The words seemed to linger in the air, each syllable vibrating with an unsettling energy. Haziel felt the sound wrap around her, a soft, insistent whisper that caressed the edges of her mind. A strange sensation followed, a creeping drowsiness that began to settle over her like a heavy blanket. It started at the edges of her awareness, a faint tug that grew stronger with every passing second.

Her eyelids fluttered, the muscles in her face growing slack as if they were no longer under her control. She blinked, trying to clear her mind, but it was like moving through thick syrup. Her thoughts were sluggish, each one coming slower than the last.

“River, flame, silence.”

Chancellor Alistair’s voice drifted through the fog, the words growing fainter with each repetition. They reverberated in her mind, bouncing off the walls of her consciousness before fading into the distance. The room itself seemed to pull away, the walls stretching into shadows that swallowed the light.

Haziel's breath hitched in her throat. But the pull of sleep was too strong, a tidal wave that overwhelmed her, dragging her down into its depths. Her body went limp against the restraints, the ropes holding her upright as her last bit of strength ebbed away.

***

Haziel stirred awake, senses gradually coming back to her like the slow blooming of a flower at dawn. She became aware of a series of gentle tugs on her clothes, each one persistent yet soft, as though something small and curious were trying to rouse her. The sensation reminded her of a kitten’s playful nudge, delicate but insistent.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw were several small faces peering up at her, their features blurred at first but quickly sharpening as her vision cleared. The children surrounded her, their wide eyes filled with both concern and curiosity.

They were of various ages, cheeks flushed a rosy pink from the cold. The children wore soft woolen sweaters, and threadbare scarves that had clearly seen many winters.

The smallest of the group, a little girl with chestnut curls that tumbled haphazardly around her face, was the first to speak. “Sister Haziel, are you okay?”.

Haziel managed a gentle smile, though she winced slightly as a dull ache throbbed in her temples. She reached up with one hand, massaging the side of her head in a slow, circular motion, trying to ease the tension that pulsed behind her eyes. “I’m fine, thanks. Just a bit of a headache, but nothing to worry about.”

The children visibly relaxed, their small bodies unwinding from the tense postures they had unconsciously adopted. One of the older boys who had a freckled face that seemed permanently set in a half-grin, stepped forward. He pointed to Haziel’s robe, his finger hovering just above the coarse fabric. “Sister Haziel, you’ve got something on your clothes."

Haziel chuckled softly. “Oh, Mark, I know you’re just trying to trick me again,” she teased, shaking her head. “You always love to pull my leg, don’t you?”

But Mark’s grin faded slightly. “No, really, Sister Haziel, there’s something there. You should get it changed."

The other children nodded in agreement, their faces reflecting the same sincerity. Haziel’s curiosity was piqued, and she glanced down at her robe, her fingers brushing over the rough, worn material. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but the children’s insistence was enough to make her pause.

“All right, all right,” she conceded with a light sigh. “I'll go get changed."

Mark’s eyes lit up, and he beckoned her to follow him. The other children clustered around as they led her out of the small room and down a narrow, drafty hallway. The floorboards creaked underfoot, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent halls.

When they reached another room, Haziel noticed a faint glow of candlelight spilling from beneath the door. The children were trembling with excitement for some reason. Haziel just shrugged as they pushed the door open. Why are they so excited?

The room was humble, its simplicity a reflection of the austere life led by those who gathered there. A few priestesses, priests, and nuns stood clustered around a small, worn table, their figures bathed in the gentle light of the lone candle that flickered at its center. The candle, slightly crooked in its holder, cast long, wavering shadows on the whitewashed walls.

A modest spread of food had been carefully arranged on the table. Two small loaves of bread sat beside a pot of steaming broth, and at the center of it all was a single, slightly lopsided cake, dusted with a light snowfall of powdered sugar. The cake was simple, yet it had been crafted with obvious care and love, a labor of devotion in the midst of a harsh winter.

As Haziel stepped into the room, the gathered clergy turned toward her, their faces breaking into soft, cheerful smiles. “Surprise, Sister Haziel!” they cheered all at once.

Her heart swelled with emotion as she took in the scene before her. The effort they had gone to, despite the scarcity of the season, touched her deeply.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she looked around the room, her gaze settling on each familiar face. She recognized the lines of worry etched into their brows, the way their hands were chapped from the cold, yet their smiles were genuine and full of light.

“Thank you,” Haziel whispered, her voice thick with emotion, the words barely able to escape the lump in her throat. “Thank you all so much.”

The modest celebration continued with a gentle, heartwarming joy that filled the small room. Haziel smiled as the children gathered around the simple cake. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow over their eager faces, making the modest feast feel more like a grand banquet in their innocent eyes.

The priestesses and priests joined in the quiet celebration, sharing stories and laughter that echoed softly off the stone walls. The cold air outside was forgotten for a time, replaced by the warmth of companionship and the sweetness of shared moments.

As the evening wore on, the children, now drowsy and full from the modest meal, were gently herded towards their bedrooms by the nuns. Their sleepy protests were met with soft, soothing words, and the gentle rustle of their footsteps echoed through the dimly lit halls. The room began to empty, the warm, familial chatter gradually giving way to the quiet of the night.

Haziel was about to retire for the evening when she felt a gentle tug on her sleeve. She turned to see a tall priest standing beside her. His weathered face, etched with deep lines from years of hardship, seemed softened by the dim candlelight, yet his eyes betrayed a deep-seated worry that could not be hidden. His hair, once a rich brown, was now streaked with silver, and his thin, worn robe hung loosely on his frame.

"Sister Haziel," he began, his voice low and tentative. “Might we speak for a moment?”

Haziel nodded, sensing the gravity of what he wished to discuss. "Of course, Father Donovan. Let’s find a quieter place."

Together, the two walked through the monastery until they came to a small alcove with a narrow window, the only source of light in the otherwise shadowed space. The window was frosted over, the intricate patterns of ice forming a delicate, crystalline lattice that obscured the view of the bleak landscape beyond.

Father Donovan paused by the window, his gaze fixed on the frost-covered glass. His breath misted in the cold air as he spoke. "The winter hasn’t stopped for nearly a year now. The snow just keeps falling, the cold growing deeper with each passing day. It’s as if the world itself is frozen, trapped in an endless cycle of darkness and cold."

Haziel reached out, placing a comforting hand on his arm. "Father, I know this winter has been hard on all of us. But we must hold on to our faith. The Lord Zephyro has not abandoned us. He will see us through this trial, just as He always has."

Father Donovan sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. "I want to believe that, Sister Haziel, truly I do. But the crops have failed, the animals are dying, and our people are suffering. This winter… it feels different, more than just a season. It feels like a curse, like something is deeply wrong with the world."

"Our faith in the Lord Zephyro will not be in vain, Father Donovan. We are being tested, yes, but we must remain steadfast. The Lord’s light will break through this darkness, I promise you."

"I pray you’re right, Sister. But it’s hard to see the light when the world is covered in snow and ice."

Just as Haziel was about to respond, a sudden chill swept through the alcove, far colder than anything they had felt that evening. It was a biting, unnatural cold that felt like it was ready to pierce through her very bones. She turned her gaze toward the narrow window, eyes widening as she noticed something deeply unsettling.

Thick layers of frost were creeping inward, seeping through the very walls of the monastery. The once intricate patterns of ice had begun to spread, their crystalline tendrils slowly but steadily encroaching on the stone walls. This is very bad.

Her fingers tightened around Father Donovan’s arm, the urgency in her grip pulling him away from the window. “Father, we need to move, something is not right here.”