An Unscheduled Update
"Zombies! A whole horde of zombies just came up!"
"H-Hold the line!"
Caught entirely off guard by the sudden assault, the Hunters scrambled frantically to stem the tide, but there were simply too many undead. Weak and sluggish though individual corpses might be, facing several hundred at once was another matter entirely. Cut down one, and two or three more lunged from the flanks. Without the choke point of the escalator—which had already collapsed under the initial surge—they stood no chance of keeping them at bay.
After a desperate, futile stand, the Hunters broke rank and fled for their lives. The shambling horde pursued them up toward the higher levels with agonizing, inexorable persistence.
Silence finally settled over the fifth floor after the protracted clamor died away.
True to the ferocity of the clash that had just unfolded, the floor was carpeted in rotting corpses. Scattered sparsely among the dead monsters were human bodies—fallen members of the Hunters, marked by the distinctive black skull tattooed across the back of each left hand. Their gear had already been thoroughly picked clean by their fleeing comrades, leaving the corpses clad in nothing but their undergarments.
"Shall we fan out and see what's left?"
"Sounds like a plan."
Bennett swept his gaze across the expansive floor. Though faded by years of dust and neglect, the polished black, gold, and silver accents still lent the space an unmistakable aura of luxury. Every boutique was equipped with plush, private lounges designed for high-end clientele.
"Feels like an upscale boutique floor reserved for the nobility," Bennett remarked.
Neither Bennett, Kyle, nor Edgar harbored particularly high expectations as they began combing through the shops. They were far from the first scavengers through the door, and the Hunters had already swept through the area once before them. Common sense dictated that anything of value would be long gone, but then—
"...There's actually quite a bit left here, isn't there?"
Perhaps it was thanks to the zombie swarm Bennett had funneled up, forcing the syndicate to cut their looting short. A surprising amount of merchandise remained untouched.
CHANEL
Small leather handbags bore unfamiliar inscriptions rendered in the incomprehensible script of the Dungeon Language.
The sort of dainty purse highborn ladies carry around town, Bennett noted internally.
Handbags, designer wallets, broken wristwatches, delicate gemstones—there were even pairs of luxury shoes, the very prize Bennett had contemplated securing earlier. Unlike the sturdy, utilitarian footwear found in the basement athletic shops, however, these were undeniably tailored for vanity and high fashion over practical survival.
Since Kyle and Edgar had each uncovered their fair share of valuable curiosities, there was no need to squabble over divvying the haul. A scavenger's golden rule held true: keep whatever you personally pry from the rubble.
"How much do you reckon these will fetch on the surface?" Edgar grunted, turning a piece of jewelry in his rough fingers.
"Hard to say until we get outside," Kyle replied, "but I'd wager a handsome sum."
"Now that's the first thing you've said all day that I actually like."
Watching Edgar crack a broad grin for the first time since their encounter, Bennett clicked his tongue in silent amusement. Money really does possess a miraculous kind of power. Then again, who on the continent was truly free from the grip of coin? Bennett himself carried burdens heavy enough to drain every copper he could ever earn.
"Are we heading up?" Kyle asked.
"We should," Bennett said. The scavengers lingering on the first and second floors would inevitably make their way up before long. Whether they would abide by their tacit agreements or turn on one another in a bloodbath over scavenged spoils was impossible to predict, even for an experienced mercenary.
"Found a stairwell over here leading straight to the sixth floor," Edgar called out.
"Well done, Northerner," Kyle praised.
"I keep telling you I'm not a bloody Northerner!"
Apart from the central escalators and the twin emergency stairwells flanking the building, there existed a separate, private staircase ascending solely to the sixth level. Bennett took the lead, guiding Kyle and Edgar up the steps with practiced caution. They paused near the landing for several long moments, listening intently, but no hostile sound reached their ears. Peering carefully past the doorframe revealed an empty corridor.
"Move in," Bennett said.
"Understood."
Without any formal discussion, Bennett had naturally slipped into the role of squad leader, and neither Kyle nor Edgar offered the slightest objection, following his cues to the letter.
VIP LOUNGE
The sixth floor was, as anticipated, dedicated entirely to high-society comfort. It featured a sprawling rest lounge absent on the floor below, flanked by exclusive luxury storefronts. A few stray zombies that had fallen behind the main herd lingered among the elegant armchairs.
"Allow me," Kyle said smoothly.
His longsword cleaved through the air in a blur, decapitating two shambling corpses in clean, effortless strokes. The swordsmanship was crisp, disciplined, and remarkably refined. It was nothing like the clumsy, desperate brawling common to sellswords; it bore the undeniable hallmarks of formal academy training. Bennett was no master swordsman himself, but ten grueling years in the mercenary trade had given him a keen eye for martial pedigree.
A former knight? Bennett mused, observing Kyle wipe his blade. Hard to believe with a demeanor that polite. Not all knights were insolent boors, but the vast majority carried an insufferable pride that manifested as open contempt toward commoners.
"Haaah!"
Refusing to let Kyle hog all the glory, Edgar charged into the fray, his heavy shield shattering one undead skull while his mace pulped another. Unlike Kyle's ambiguous origins, Edgar was an open book.
A counterfeit Northerner. He looked and fought like an authentic northern barbarian warrior, yet took mortal offense whenever someone called him one. He grumbled endlessly, but never shirked his duties, and beneath the irritable, attention-seeking exterior lay a man willing to throw his life away to protect a comrade. A dependable sort of eccentric, all things considered.
"Bennett-nim, the area is clear," Kyle reported, sheathing his blade.
"...Good. Let's search the place and see what's left behind."
"Yes, sir!"
With the stragglers eliminated, the trio set about thoroughly sweeping the sixth floor.
"May I ask how many dungeon incursions everyone here has survived?"
A heavy silence fell over the gathered scavengers on the lower floor, until one man finally spoke up.
"Ten runs on Easy."
Once the first broke the silence, the others chimed in one after another.
"I've done... four."
"Seven runs under my belt."
"T-This is my first time."
While greenhorns were present, the majority were seasoned survivors. The man who had convened the group turned his gaze toward the wide windowpane through which the unnatural blue luminescence had poured only moments before.
"Has anyone ever seen or heard of scavengers radiating a Blue Light from their eyes?"
All eyes immediately gravitated toward the veteran of ten expeditions. The middle-aged scavenger frowned deeply, his expression bleak as he shook his head.
"Never. Not even a passing rumor."
"That bodes ill," the organizer muttered.
An Easy tier dungeon was by no means a walk in the park with zero mortality, but compared to Hard difficulty, it was remarkably forgiving. Provided one avoided cutthroats, ambushers, and massive zombie swarms, the survival rate remained relatively high. For dungeons that materialized on regular dimensional cycles, scavengers had even established standardized clearance guides. Yet across countless recorded expeditions into Easy zones, a phenomenon involving glowing blue eyes had never once been documented.
"Could it be..." someone ventured hesitantly.
"Speak your mind," the leader urged.
"Could this be an Update?"
A stifling hush settled over the assembly. It was not because they failed to grasp the term, but because they understood its horrific implications all too well.
"Aren't Updates... strictly confined to Hard difficulty?"
"Y-Yeah, he's right! We're in an Easy dungeon!"
An Update—the dreaded term scavengers used to describe sudden, systemic overhauls within a dimensional zone. No one knew who had coined the word, but it had swiftly become an accepted fact of life among dungeon crawlers. In Hard dungeons, updates occurred without warning. Established maps became useless, terrain shifted overnight, internal architecture rearranged itself, and previously unseen monster species spawned from the shadows. Naturally, a dungeon immediately following an update became a slaughterhouse.
Yet such anomalies had always been exclusive to Hard tier zones. In all recorded history since the dimensional portals first appeared, an update had never once taken place within an Easy dungeon.
"If it isn't an update, then how else do you explain what we just witnessed?"
No one could offer a counterargument. The dreadful reality hung heavy in the air.
"Here is my proposition," the ten-run veteran said, stepping forward. "We prepare for the absolute worst. We assume that Easy dungeons can undergo updates, and we adjust our strategy accordingly."
Nods of grim concurrence rippled through the crowd.
"I agree. We might be competitors in here, but until we clear this zone and step back through the portal, our best shot at walking away alive is to cooperate—"
CRASH!
The sudden shattering of plate glass jerked every head toward the windows.
Perched on the sill stood an abhorrent, monstrous entity.
"W-What in the gods' names is that?!"
Weapons cleared scabbards in an instant as scavengers scrambled to their feet. The newly arrived aberration possessed a grotesquely swollen, misshapen abdomen—so massive and pendulous that it dragged along the tiled floor like a bloated sac. Its pale skin was damp, slick, and sickeningly clammy, while the translucent flesh of its belly stretched taut enough to reveal faint, writhing shapes churning within. Its spindly limbs were impossibly thin, looking far too frail to bear the crushing weight of its distended torso.
"...Step back slowly," the veteran whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "We have no idea what it's capable of. Don't provoke it."
"R-Right."
The scavengers began easing backward in tense unison. But before they could put any distance between themselves and the creature, its head snapped straight up toward the ceiling.
Its grotesque belly ruptured.
BANG!
"Scatter!"
"Dammit, get back—!"
Amid the frantic retreat, one scavenger suddenly froze rigid in place. Noticing his stillness, a party member reached out and tapped his shoulder in confusion.
"Hey, what's wrong with—"
The frozen scavenger turned around, and his comrade recoiled in sheer terror.
"W-What happened to you?!"
The man's mouth hung open in a slack, vacant drool, his eyeballs rolled completely back into his head, showing only chalky whites. Panic seized the comrade as he shouted toward the room.
"Someone help! There's something wrong with him!"
The man's frantic pleas abruptly died in his throat. His gaze drifted across the room, his eyes widening in mounting horror. It wasn't just his comrade. Every single scavenger on the floor—regardless of party, armor, or experience—stood slack-jawed with their eyes rolled entirely back. Beneath the surface of their skin, long, worm-like bulges rippled violently before vanishing into the muscle tissue.
Realizing that doom had fallen upon the entire floor, the lone survivor spun on his heel to flee.
"Ugh?!"
A sharp, needle-like prick stung his ankle. In frantic haste, he yanked up his trouser cuff, barely catching sight of a fresh puncture wound—and the tail end of an elongated, squirming parasite boring directly into his flesh. His instinct screamed at him to claw it out, but darkness swallowed his consciousness before his fingers could even reach the wound.
A chilling quiet descended upon the hall.
A moment later, the scavengers—their skin now pale, slick, and drenched in clammy moisture—began moving in unison. Like a colony of ants driven by a single will, they filed toward the stairwells, dispersing methodically toward the floors below and the levels above.