~ bang, bang, bang. ~

  June had assumed that with his new dexterity, dodging a few drink cans shot out of a sentient vending machine would be easy. He was clearly mistaken.

  The machine didn’t just aim: it fired everywhere, with alarming speed and force, like a soda-fueled turret with unlimited ammo. Every time he tried to peek up from cover or take a step, another can slammed into him with the precision of a boxer’s jab, knocking him back and leaving fresh bruises along his arms and ribs. It hurt far more than he cared to admit. Biting his lip in pain and growing anger, June made a decision out of pure spite. He flipped a nearby table onto its side and crouched behind it, gripping the edge tight. The wood was cheap and splintered at the corners, but it was thick enough to absorb the hits. Bracing himself, he began pushing the barricade forward—inch by inch—marching through a storm of ricocheting soda cans like a soldier advancing through gunfire.

  “Stupid monster machine,” he muttered under his breath. “I just wanted a drink…”

  If the thing could jump, he’d probably have had to abandon the mall entirely. Thankfully, it was rooted to the floor, metal base bolted down, unable to chase after him. It was a turret, not a hunter.

  That alone saved him.

  Once he got close enough, June surged forward from behind the flipped table, ducking around the corner as the machine tried and failed to rotate fast enough. He swung the bat full-force into the side of the glass panel. The first hit bounced off. The second cracked it.

  The third hit sent a spiderweb of fractures rippling through the surface.

  “Die already!” he shouted, swinging with both hands now, pain and frustration building with each blow. The glass finally gave way, shattering in a rain of shards. The vending machine twitched violently, mechanical parts groaning. But June didn’t stop. He kept swinging, again and again, until the springs inside came loose and spilled out across the floor like intestines. The coin slot popped out. The digital screen split in half. The machine slumped inward, lights flickering and fading.

  Only then did the voice in his head finally speak up.

  [Hostile Entity: Vending Machine (Sentient)] – Dead]

  [5+ XP Gained]

  [1+ Radical Extracted]

  The machine let out one final sputter:

  “Thank you for your purchase.”

  “Enjoy. Enjoy. Enjoy.” (looping)

  The mechanical voice looped and glitched like a ghost of customer service trapped in a dying shell. The sound repeated again and again before fading into static before finally cutting out for good.

  June stood there in silence, chest heaving, sweat sticking to his skin and his hands still clenched around the bat.

  “All that,” he muttered, wincing as he rolled his shoulder, “for a soda.”

  He wondered what other monsters might be lurking in the corners of this abandoned mall, what other machines or objects might be biding their time, waiting to wake up angry.

  For the next fifteen minutes, he moved slowly through the food court, scanning every stall and bench, peeking behind counters and kicking at vending machines with just enough caution to avoid another soda can to the stomach. But nothing moved. No growls or ghostly voices. It seemed that the vending machine had simply been the last spark left in this place, a bit of leftover luck that had just now run out.

  Still, as June checked the latest numbers in his head, one Free Radical and five XP, his pain faded quickly. His irritation, already dulled by the thrill of victory, gave way to something almost like satisfaction. He didn’t feel bad anymore. In fact, he was kind of happy. He had earned something. And before he knew it, the day had slipped by. Somehow, the hours had passed so quietly, so naturally, that it startled him when he looked up and saw the sky through the shattered ceiling panels already shifting.

  The light dimmed to soft gold, then sank further into grey. The edges of the world blurred into evening.

  The final hours of daylight were spent with purpose. June returned to his little corner of the food court, where he had stacked supplies. He cooked with cautious hands, painfully aware of how little he knew about what he was doing, but still, he tried. Every step felt slow, clumsy, uncertain, yet determined. He measured flour badly. Spilled water. Burned his fingers on hot metal more than once. But by the time the sun dipped fully below the ruined skyline and the pale glow of the moon settled over the broken glass and abandoned signage, his dinner was done.

  He picked up the hard loaf from the makeshift fire he’d built using wood chunks he had chopped and broken from ruined tables earlier. It felt dense in his hands and heavy.. He gave it a knock, it echoed with a satisfying thunk, and when he tore it open, the inside looked fully cooked to his eyes at least. Warm. and Hard. And the smell… the smell alone made his mouth water instantly.

  “Hmm,” he moaned, just simply from looking at it.

  He slathered a little butter on it, paired it with some spicy chili oil he’d found in the storage behind a Chinese counter. The combination was unexpected, but it worked. By the time his stomach was full, the mall had fallen completely silent, the darkness outside now absolute. For the night, June returned to his corner and started assembling something safer.

  He spent the next hour dragging and stacking plastic and wood tables until he created a sort of makeshift shell, a crude fortress to sleep inside. Then, using some twine and bells he had found in a party supply stall, he strung together a basic security system, tying the string across his perimeter so any motion would jingle a warning. When he finally stepped back and looked at what he’d made, a quiet pride welled up inside him. It was genuinely such a genuine and self-satisfying feeling to just think ideas into existence

  And it felt… incredibly good.

  Finally, when night fully settled across the hollow dome of the mall, June felt the weariness sink into his limbs like lead. He unrolled the sleeping bag he’d scavenged and wriggled into it, his body folding tightly as he curled in.

  The bag was warm, surprisingly cozy.

  June's body stilled, his mind didn’t. The tangled mass of thoughts slowly gathered themselves into something strange and structured: a kind of invisible page filling itself inside his mind, displaying his status and information in quiet, glowing clarity.

  He still didn’t understand how or why it happened, or even what this… third voice in his head really was. Not his own thoughts, clearly. Not the echo of a memory like the others in the orphanage. Was it some other kind of sentient entity, similar to the dungeon itself? A remnant of something older? Something baked into this strange world’s rules?

  Was it meant to guide him? And if so… why him?

  Or maybe everyone else, given if there was anyone else alive in this world, had their own voice in their head, too. Was it the same one? Or did every person carry a different system, shaped by who they were? June had so many questions, and so few answers. But he was tired, and the weight of surviving left little energy for unraveling cosmic mysteries.

  He waved the thoughts away with a half-sigh and focused on what he did understand: his experience had increased by five points, and he had earned another free radical…

  :::[June]:::

  Level: 6

  Class: [Unassigned]

  Titles: [Preserved], [No Place Home]

  [PERSONAL RADICALS]

  [STR] Strength: 22

  [DEX] Dexterity: 22

  [VIT] Vitality: 15

  [INT] Intelligence: (Thinker)

  [WIS] Wisdom: 7

  [WILL] Willpower: (Brave Heart)

  [CHA] Charisma: 13

  [LCK] Luck: 9

  [EXPERIENCE]

  Total EXP: +[151]+

  Total Radical: +[5]+ WILL, +[1]+

  EXP Required for Level 7: 1529

  …

  Dexterity can wait for now, he thought, his reasoning already taking clearer shape. I can’t raise Intelligence or Wisdom, and I don’t really understand how to trigger their growth without conditions. So Strength—yeah. Strength makes the most sense for now....

  Without much hesitation, he allocated the radical. A familiar warmth spread briefly across his limbs, a phantom sensation of growing stronger, and then it passed.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  The mall was eerily silent in the dark, aside from the occasional gusts of wind that slipped through broken glass and shattered beams. The sound was high and thin, wailing faintly like a ghost stuck outside its home. June lay still, blanket pulled to his chin, but sleep didn’t come easily. Though he had spent most of his life alone, quiet, sidelined, slow, he had never truly been without people. Kevin was always there, even if distant in their bunk bed below. Other children moved through the orphanage halls. Sister Margaret existed like a fixed point in the background. There had always been someone to remind him he wasn’t the only thing alive in the dark.

  This… this was different.

  The silence felt absolute here. He turned over again, then again, eyes open in the dark, watching his makeshift bell-string security line in case it trembled. A part of him, small but sharp couldn’t shake the idea that something might sneak up on him while he slept, some monster, some ghost or some forgotten echo hiding in the cracks of the dream.

  It wasn’t far-fetched anymore, especially not in a world like this.

  Only when the night had worn itself thin and his eyelids gave in to exhaustion did he finally sleep, still clutching the bat close to his chest.

  ...

  The next morning arrived quietly and without incident.

  No bells rang. No monsters stirred. The world, still as ever, waited for him.

  June rolled up his sleeping bag, packed his things, and ate a modest breakfast of the bread he had baked the night before. He had made several loaves, and while they were dense and a bit rough, they were warm and filling. Water remained a precious resource, so as much as he wanted to clean himself, he ignored the itch at the back of his neck and resisted the urge to wash.

  Maybe later, he told himself. If I find more water, I’ll do it then.

  With everything packed and secure, he slung the bag over his shoulder, tightened the strap across his chest, and began his second day of exploration. He had already covered half the mall the day before, but there was still more to uncover, more food, hopefully. Maybe more supplies. But the biggest item on his mental list, the one he kept circling back to, was books.

  What he wanted now more than treasure or XP or even safety was knowledge.

  He needed to learn how to survive. Not just as someone scrounging crumbs from ruins, but as someone who could understand the rules of this world. Someone who knew what to do if society collapsed. Or if magic existed. Or if you accidentally wandered into a reality where everything you ever understood didn’t matter anymore.

  Maybe those kinds of books existed, he thought. And if they didn’t… I have time to look.

  And maybe, just maybe, if he looked long enough…

  I’ll wake up.

  He didn’t believe it fully. But he hoped anyway.

  After wandering the mall for the next three hours, June managed to scavenge a few more useful supplies from one of the big grocery store chains tucked away in the eastern wing. Almost everything on the shelves had either rotted or expired long ago, milk curdled to sludge, bread hardened into stone, but he still found several cans of baked beans, condensed soup, and a few bottled goods with unusually long expiration dates. Next he spent an hour transferring them to his temporary base.

  Meanwhile, he also quietly did simple math in his head. At least I won’t go hungry for a month.. he thought, nodding to himself. That was something.

  He continued on, weaving between display racks and crumbling freezer sections, until he stepped into the open plaza outside once more. And there, situated near a shaded corner partially covered in ivy, was a storefront that made his eyes light up instantly. A bookstore. A weather-worn wooden sign hung crookedly above the entrance, the letters still legible in faded gold: Page Turner.

  He didn’t even hesitate and dashed toward it, only stopping when he reached the entrance. The glass door was still intact. Untouched. The interior looked dim and quiet, with rows of shelves rising beyond the fogged windows like frozen sentries. Strangely, no one had looted it, and apparently, people really didn’t care for books at the end of the world.

  June narrowed his eyes and raised his bat. Just to be safe, he swung hard at the door, only to recoil instantly as the solid glass refused to break, sending a jolt of pain up his arm.

  “Ouch!,” he hissed, rubbing his wrist.

  ... lesson learned. Big blunt objects don’t work well on reinforced glass. Smaller, sharper things, rocks, maybe, would’ve been smarter. He mentally jotted that down. He scanned the ground, found a decent chunk of rubble, and after two well-aimed throws, the glass finally cracked and shattered. He pushed on the aluminum handle and, with a low groan, the door creaked open.

  That’s when the voice in his head returned.

  [VOICE IN HEAD]

  [You have entered: “Page Turner”]

  [Tier II Micro Dungeon.]

  [Classification: Historical Archive Dungeon Construct – Type: Public Knowledge Vault]

  [Dungeon Status: Semi-Awake]

  [Threat Level: Low - Moderate]

  “Knowledge devours the reader. Please return all borrowed books within the due date.”

  ...

  June blinked, shoulders slumping. “Ugh. Another one?” he muttered under his breath. “Why is everything a dungeon?”

  This one was semi-awake too, whatever that meant. But what puzzled him more was why no one had looted it. Was there some kind of time-delay to these dungeons forming? Did they grow into being over time? Or were they waiting for something or someone to activate them? He had too many questions, but no answers in sight.

  He hesitated at the threshold, torn between common sense and curiosity. Should I even go in? The danger wasn’t high, at least, not if the voice in his head’s threat level could be trusted. And compared to the orphanage, this dungeon seemed smaller, more focused. Two floors, a public vault, no indication of a hostile echo or animated furniture ready to bite his ankles. Probably. Plus, there was that cryptic phrase.

  Knowledge devours the devourer.

  Was that a warning? A system hint? A riddle? He scratched the back of his neck, deep in thought.

  It’s a Tier II, same as the orphanage, he reasoned. But the orphanage was more complex, twisted by the echoes inside it. This place? Books. Paper. Maybe enchanted. Maybe just old. And if this really is about knowledge, I should be able to handle any hostile entities inside, and it also gives me a chance to confirm some of my theories. Though what makes a dungeon tier 1 or 2?

  June fell into long contemplation, a theory forming in his mind. Finally, he decided to pull on the door handle, and a gust of stale air escaped, heavy with dust and the earthy scent of old paper.

  Yet the very next sight jerked June out of his thoughts and sent him reeling. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart launched itself like a hammer into his chest as his gaze landed on the rotted remains of a human skeleton collapsed forward over the front desk, its skull resting sideways against an open ledger. A brittle strand of long hair clung to what little remained of the scalp, and the faded scraps of a dress still clung to the bones. It took him a second to process what he was looking at.

  A body. A dead person. The first corpse he had ever seen in his life. The first human body in this entire dream world. The horror of it struck him all at once. His knees wobbled. His vision blurred. His lungs seized.

  He staggered backward, dropped to a crouch, and began to hyperventilate, hands trembling violently in front of him, the bat clattering to the floor.

  What do I do? What am I supposed to do?

  Deep breath. In… out… in… out…

  One-two-three-four-five.

  In… out… in… out…

  He repeated the rhythm until the tremor in his chest softened. It took full five minutes just to keep from gagging and another five before his heartbeat stopped pounding against the inside of his ears like a warning drum. Even then, he couldn’t look directly at it again, not at first. The body hadn’t rotted recently. The smell in the bookstore wasn’t foul or putrid, it was the dry, dusty scent of old paper and faded ink. Whatever had happened here had happened long ago.

  June forced himself to step forward, his entire posture tight with hesitation, muscles coiled like a trap, his hand gripping the bat again. He circled the body cautiously. The corpse definitely looked female—long hair, feminine clothing, shoes too narrow to be men’s. But it was the liquified flesh, pooled beneath the skeleton like melted yellow wax, that nearly made June gag again. It looked like someone had poured her into the floor. He closed his eyes and while gritting his teeth jabbed it lightly with the tip of the bat, but there was no reaction. It was truly dead, not a monster ready to jump or eat him, which gave him some relief. Thereafter, he resumed his attention to scanning the rest of the place. He immediately came to the conclusion that the hostile entities must be the books or tables or benches.

  He straightened, glanced around, and resumed scanning the room, trying to keep his thoughts from spiraling. It didn’t take long for him to come to the conclusion: whatever hostile entity existed inside this dungeon, it wasn’t the body.

  It must be the books… or the tables. Maybe even the benches. Something here is hiding teeth.

  The idea didn’t seem so absurd anymore. After all, the pattern had already shown itself. These entities, whatever they were never attacked first. Not unless he touched them. The doorknob, the blender, the Bible, the vending machine… all had waited until contact was made.

  Why? he wondered. Why don’t they strike first?

  Maybe it was some system rule. Maybe the dungeon itself operated on a trigger. He didn’t know. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense that he couldn’t just randomly pick up a book and start reading unless he was ready to lose a hand.

  A new plan then emerged in his head. He thought of making makeshift armor to keep himself safe from surprise attacks. He decided to exit and return, but of course, as his feet moved toward the door. But then the floor beneath him shifted. The doorway behind him, the same one he’d used to enter, folded into the wall like a disappearing trick, replaced by seamless brick. Gone. As if it had never existed.

  He stared at the spot, jaw slack, then took a slow step back. “Of course…”

  Of course he couldn’t leave once he was inside.

  Two theories surfaced in his mind immediately. Either he had to defeat the dungeon, like he had done with the orphanage or the dungeon itself would release him once some unknown condition was met, just as Sister Margaret had.

  But June wasn’t out of options yet.

  He set down his pack, unzipped one of the outer compartments, and pulled out a small silver canister of compressed gas, a fire-starting spray meant for emergencies. From his pocket came the lighter. He stared at the book loaded shelves, the rows of traps disguised as books.

  His eye twitched.

  “If I can’t read you peacefully…” he whispered, grinning with a cracked edge, “I can still burn you.”

  He shook the can lightly and tilted the nozzle forward.

  “Hehehe…”

  The smile that curled onto his face wasn’t entirely sane.

  He was going to burn the whole place down.

  Note: The bread was made without yeast—so please don’t come at me with sticks asking how yeast survived that long. :)