The Dungeon Diary
Isel picked up the glass vial. Day 1. No tears came. Friendship, ability, dreams, status—everything she had as a hero was stripped away, yet strangely, not even tears would flow. Day 2. What would happen now? A day had passed, but nothing occurred. Tears simply poured endlessly. Day 3. Hunger gnawed at her. With no food or water, her lips cracked dry, and her stomach rumbled incessantly. It was the first true hunger she'd felt since arriving in this world. Day 4. Still, nothing happened. Fear began to creep in. Would she die so pointlessly? Her stomach fell silent now, aching sharply inside. Day 7. This must be death, she thought. Her mind grew hazy, sleep crashing over her. She bit her lower lip. The metallic taste of blood jolted her awake. She screamed for help, but only hollow echoes answered. That night, she caught and ate a bug crawling on her body. She didn't even know what kind it was. Biting its hard shell released a bitter fluid inside; she tried to swallow it but ended up vomiting. With nothing in her stomach, only empty bile came up, the poor thing she'd hoped would bring some fullness. Day 8. Hope and will were gone. She couldn't tell if this was reality or delusion. She hated the injustice of dying like this, but living this way was worse. Then, the underground dungeon corridor door creaked open, a sliver of light piercing the darkness—like the descent of the divine. But the figure beyond the iron bars, gazing at her, was neither god nor savior. It was the torturer. Day 15. She survived on rubbery jerked meat and water as the torturer inflicted cruel torments day after day. Skin tore, molars cracked from enduring the pain, blood vessels burst in her eyes until the world turned red. Whippings, water torture, sleep deprivation—every method ravaged her body and mind. Sleep denial drove her truly mad. It felt like endless nightmares all day long. Day 17. Alone again. She thought it might be a break at first, but the fear of when the next torture would begin kept her from sleeping a wink. Sometimes, she even wished it would just start. Day 20. The worst was not knowing when this hell would end. The mere sound of the torturer's footsteps made her soil herself. In her eyes, horns sprouted from his head now, fangs like a vampire's, skin tinged reddish. What had happened while she wasn't looking? Heh heh, he looked like a horned demon. Day 30. Even the torturer seemed tired; he'd come for torture, chat idly, then leave. She didn't know why he was weary. She didn't even know why she was being tortured. He hadn't demanded any answers from her yet. Heh, fools. She'd outlast them. Day 50. She'd learned to pick out tasty bugs by feel—or even by sound alone. Crunch, crunch. You're delicious. Oh, more? Did you bring friends? Wanna be friends with me too? Day 55. Guilt plagued her for eating her "friends."
But... you're just too tasty, hee hee. Bring different ones today. That one with the long antennae last time was good. Miss it. Day 60. No sense of time anymore. Felt like a year had passed. The torturer's visits grew longer apart. Ah... am I abandoned even by him now? He was starting to feel like a decent guy, our rhythm syncing up. Hee... torture got familiar after a while. Didn't die, right? So she could catch and eat these tasty bugs... Day 65. Finally, two sets of footsteps echoed in the dungeon. She soiled herself and gnawed at nails that were long gone. They stopped beyond the bars: King Brikal with the torturer. He asked if she confessed to treason. Hee, who cares now. She admitted it readily. Yes, traitor, guilty, deserved punishment. Day 67. She finally left the dungeon, feet touching earth. Warm sunlight enveloped her. Eyes blinded, but that gentle warmth made her think... Mom, Dad... I miss you.
"Hic!" Isel jerked her head up suddenly. Chirp chirp—a sparrow trilled by her ear. A fresh sound after so long. Blinking drowsily, she turned to the window, where brilliant sunlight poured in. "..." Had she dozed off mid-bite? Her right hand clutched half-eaten bread. She wiped tears from her eyes with her left. She'd thought her tear ducts were bone-dry, but apparently some remained. She chewed the bread stuck between cheek and gum, like ruminating. Soaked in amylase, it was surprisingly edible despite being plain, crumbly stuff without jam or seeds. "..." Suddenly, she recalled the grilled red salmon from dawn. So delicious. She'd eaten it hundreds of times since coming to this world, but that morning's was the best—paired perfectly with the radish. As her master said, the head maid here truly had otherworldly culinary skills. "Want more..." Swallowing saliva, Isel finished the bread in her hand. She rose, leaning on the wall, body hunched from overnight. Wobbling, legs weak, she steadied on the windowsill and peered into the garden. The gardener trimmed trees and bushes with giant shears; koi swam in the pond. Butterflies like rape flowers fluttered about. Spring come early? The garden brimmed with vibrant life. "Hey! You there!" "Nyah-nyah~ Catch me if you can~" "Roden! You're dead if I catch you!" "Pfft, if you catch me, I ain't no knight aspirant!" "Ugh, fine! I'll tell Daddy!" Hwaaang! Looking down, two kids tussled. The girl, furious, burst into tears. Rosy red twin braids framed a cute face; her clothes and features screamed nobility. The boy had choppy black hair sticking up, clothes plain by comparison. "W-why are you crying? No need for that, Silia." "Hwaaaang...!" The boy called Roden shuffled apologetically toward her. Silia's wail could fill the whole garden—quite the voice on her. "Hey, hey, sorry. Stop crying. What kinda duke's lady cries like this?" The bawling child, shedding tears like chick peas, was none other than Rosel's adopted daughter, Silia. "Hwaaang! Meanie! Roden!" But as Roden patted her shoulder, Silia's face flipped. She hooked his leg and slammed him grassward. Thud! "Kuhk!" Roden, perfectly suplexed, groaned and rolled. Silia blew her bangs away with a puff and dusted her hands. "Knight aspirant who can't even dodge that? Gonna protect me? Pfft, our house dog Poppi does better." "Urk... c-cheater..." "Cheater? Nah, you're just dumb. Idiot." Isel watched, astonished. Silia, maybe ten-ish, spoke with precocious poise, cunning tricks, and flipped a heavier opponent flawlessly. ...
Duke's lady means the master's daughter. A daughter meant married. Even ignoring decorum, buying a sex slave for 500 gold? Her eyes hadn't lied about him. Gazing at Silia. But... no duchess in sight. Duchesses resided in manors or castles, managing house affairs while husbands were away. They rarely left except for salons or balls—especially guarding the home in absence. No sign on the master's return meant dire straits or widowhood. Slave auctions didn't scream "dire." Widower, maybe... Roden rubbed his back, staggered up, brushed his butt. "Ow... hurts. Girls ain't s'posed to be that strong." "Underestimate girls? I'm gonna be a cool lady hero like Emilia someday. You? Pathetic." Isel's heart plummeted at Silia's words. Dreaming of the next generation after seeing the last hero's惨 end? She wanted to scream, abandon that delusion—but the kids' talk stole her breath. Roden snickered. "Lady hero? Hilarious. Heard she got thrown in the dungeon for treason?" "I don't believe that crap." "What? The king sentenced her himself! Say that loud, you and the duke get hurt! Shut up before I tell him!" "Don't believe it! Won't till I hear it myself! Emilia the hero wouldn't! And Daddy thinks the same!" Silia shot back, echoing Isel's own defense. They didn't know the hero Emilia lurked here as sex slave Isel. Straight to seclusion on arrival; butler chief, head maid, Demian—all silent. Though Madeleine's blabber would spill soon. Isel stared, then fled the window, backing away. Shame burned. She wanted to hide—from the girl who believed in her. Legs buckled; she collapsed. Emerald eyes wide, trembling. "..." A nameless girl cheered her on, believed the truth, fought lies in her stead. "...
Hic... h-heuk..." Isel knelt, forehead to floor, hands over eyes—but tears flowed unchecked. Cruel reality. Kids thrived freely in the world she'd saved, on lush grass. She, the savior, caged as slave. The gulf crushed her. She'd thought she'd left resentment, rage, sorrow in the dungeon. Delusion—or buried deep. "Hic... h-heuk..." Thus, Isel wept endlessly.Sniffle. No clue how long she cried. Eyes swollen from bitter sobs, Isel remained knelt, prostrated. Clank—the lock clicked. She lifted her head toward the door. "..." "...
Has it subsided now?" It was Rosel. He'd waited outside an hour, till her cries eased, before cautiously entering. Seeing her red-rimmed eyes, his chest ached; he drew two deep breaths. Her grief had seeped through the door. He didn't ask why. He knew—or couldn't not know. "...
S-sorry..." Isel bowed, apologizing for showing emotion. Slaves weren't human here; no feelings allowed. "Cry freely here if you must. Sometimes tears smother sorrow." Rosel comforted flatly. But her eyes still glistened. Unable to meet them, he averted gaze, entered. Isel flinched instinctively. "Fear not. As yesterday and today, I want nothing from you." "...
Then why keep me..?" Did sincerity reach her? She didn't shut down, trembling as she asked. Curious why he'd spent 500 gold yet left her two days untouched. Rosel shrugged. "Why buy a slave? Wanted you. That's it. If more, I'd have taken it already." "..." Isel stared blankly. His intentions baffled. After such expense, demanding value now seemed natural. "Then why..." To her question, Rosel smiled faintly, placing something on the oak table: two glass vials with contents. "Curious why I'm like this?" "...
Yes." Isel knew dungeon terror: unknown horror anytime. Rosel didn't seem torturer yet, but nobility—vicious, patient hunters who savored traps, prey collapsing exhausted. She hadn't escaped that fear. Rosel eyed her pitiful state, lifted a vial. "Scars forcibly revive pain. Yours from torture abound; ordinary magic won't erase them." "...?" Isel frowned puzzled. Dungeon known, but torture? Only King Brikal and torturer knew. "Ah... in the carriage, you suddenly bared your top. So many scars—I inferred torture." "Ah... yes." She dropped suspicion; Rosel's face flushed faintly. Carriage memory resurfaced. He'd glanced up quick, but her pale nudity lingered vividly. Embarrassed, he lifted the vial, explained. "..
First, apply cream from this green vial, wait ten minutes, then the red one. If scars vanish, I'll answer your question." "...
Pardon?" "Why I bought you." "The reason...?" "These creams cost a fortune from the healing tribe Neoelves. Apply carefully; don't break the vials." Finished, Rosel shrugged, set vials back on table. Five gold each—ten years' pay for a tenant farmer."..." Her master Rosel explained the vial creams, then left. As he said, nothing happened today. What was this? Why? A strip show she'd understand, but untouched sex slave? Curiosity swelled. She was captured prey. Nobles endured watching exhaustion, but not this long. "...
What is it." Isel picked up the vials on the oak table. At least he kept promises; she scooped cream, applied to body. "...
Smells awful..."