They come in hordes of groups of four, sometimes as arrogant loners seeking fame and untold power. They all see me as the beast standing in the way of victory and vice, but none of them know the truth of what I am:

Their savior.

The treasure-seeking fools who spill out through my catacombs like rats in a maze, often falling prey to the shifting traps in the walls long before they meet my hellish pack, have no idea that their overeager adventuring is merely leading them to a fate worse than death. Worse even than a quick end from a werewolf’s jaws.

There is a small group about ten meters up ahead. At present, they’re cursing like sailors about having to file through the narrow passageway that leads into the northernmost tunnel. My most faithful servant, Cerberus, is usually at this post, but the last band of insufferable adventurers took him out with a range spell I’ve yet to encounter before, and it’s taken him twice as long as usual to regenerate. The four little rats scurrying toward me are the only ones plaguing my Catacombs at the moment, so they get me instead.

Backing into the shadows as the first emerges, I hold my breath and wait for all of them to squirm their way through the crevice. This is my favorite part. Watching them before they realize they’re being watched. Most people will only ever tell you who they are in two moments: when they think they’re alone and right before they die. For these four, those moments are going to be especially close together.

The first to emerge is an elven mage. The shock of orange hair visible underneath his armor is some recent fad. I swear, half the elves and halflings who come in here have bright orange hair or packs. It clashes something awful with the natural brown hues of their leather armor, but it makes them easier to spot, so who am I to complain?

The elf is nearly as tall as I am, most of them standing at around seven-and-a-half feet tall. His sinewy limbs will make him easier to fling when I clamp down with my massive lupine jaws, but I swallow the froth on my tongue and wait. Once the panic sets in, they’ll flee and I want them all through the neck before that happens.

The elf turns to help the second member of his party through, a little gnome who barely comes up to his knee. The gnome’s purple hair juts everywhere as if he was just electrocuted as he struggles to climb over one of the rocks between the gap and the relatively smooth tunnel floor. The elf grabs his forearm and hoists him up. With a high-pitched barrage of indignant scolding, the gnome reaches behind his head to pull out the well-worn battle-ax strapped behind the rest of his gear.

I eye them both as the third, a human, makes his way through the pass. The familiar numbers appear before me, hovering lazily over the intruders’ heads. I don’t know whether they come from some innate precognitive abilities within my own mind, or if they’re the result of some enchantment cast upon me long ago, but I do know that the numbers never lie. The first time I remember waking up within the center of this stone labyrinth of bones and relics, the numbers were soon to follow. I learned what each of them means with relative ease.

I focus on the elf first.

Level: 100

Then the human.

Level: 101

And the gnome.

Level: 100

So the human is looking like my first target. Good enough. I watch, swallowing an amused grunt that would probably sound more like a snarl if it came out, and certainly alert my prey before it’s time. The elf and the human are struggling to pull out the final member of their group, and judging from the bulging green muscles I see flailing and groping at the rock, it’s an orc.

“Geez, Mike, lay off the mead, will ya?” the elf grunts as he struggles to pull his companion through. It’s a birth from hell, into hell and the only thing waiting for any of them on the other side is darkness, but it’s better than the eternal nightmare they’d be living if they were to succeed on their quest.

Every last one of them wants the same prize: the Skull of Sir Marrok. Why they want the cursed artifact that condemned me to this hellish existence is beyond me. Do they not realize they’ll be trapped here, just as I am, to guard this “treasure trove” of bones and dust until a death that never comes?

When the orc finally stumbles through, his numbers become clear before me.

Level: 102

The mace at his side is smoking with dark blue light, but he won’t have his chance to use it. My target of focus has changed. 100 must be the minimum “level” of graduation from whatever school of swordsmanship and sorcery sends these idiots to my door. The highest I’ve seen is 137, and his death did not come easily. For a second there, I actually felt an inkling of hope that my dark tenure as this dungeon’s Lord was finally coming to an end. Then he fell just like all the rest and that hope died, along with everything and everyone else who comes here.

“How long do we have before Cerberus respawns?” the human grunts, looking uneasily into the darkness that cloaks me. “I say we shoot past the Hellhound in the next tunnel and blitz the Bitch Lord before he knows what’s comin’.”

The gnome squints into the distance, looking right through me. I freeze for a moment, thinking he’s somehow spotted me through an enchantment, or especially high perception, but instead, I realize he’s just gawking at the same invisible display they all seem to have the ability to call on at will. He scrolls through the air with an invisible finger, opening his mouth to answer. “If the Broker was telling the truth, we got another three minutes and —”

“Six seconds,” I offer, pressing my clawed feet into the cold stone for leverage before springing on the orc. He lets out a guttural scream that’s abruptly ended when my fangs dig deep into his veiny neck. An orc’s blood is hot and viscous, so I try to keep as little of it in my mouth as possible, turning my head sharply to tear out his throat and expose his windpipe.

[+650 Damage]

[Critical Hit!]

“Mike!” the dwarf cries, raising his axe over his head to charge me. A sharp pain in my calf raises another ghostly number, but I barely register it.

[+230 Damage]

The few drops of blood that went down my throat may have an acrid taste, but they bring a surge of power up through my core that makes the black fur all over my body stand on end.

The orc’s weapon clatters to the floor as he grabs a fistful of my fur, but before he can get a good hold, I bring my jaws down on his neck, crush down and tear until I feel the pop of his spinal column separating from his head. The elf screams like a banshee as the big green head goes flying in his direction.

[+1003 Damage]

[Target Death]

By the time I turn around, the elf has a fireball forming in his left hand, the same vibrant orange as his hair. With a cry of vengeance, he hurls it toward me and the blast singes the fur on the right side of my muzzle.

[Wareussen casts Firebright]

[+694 Damage]

I let out a roar that shakes the cavern and causes the loose rocks overhead to tumble, effectively blocking all but the gnome from retreating the way they came. I probably should have done that from the beginning, but what can I say? Even an ancient demigod can get a little hotheaded when it comes to mouthy brats trespassing on his territory.

“Shit!” the human rogue cries, dodging another batch of fallen rocks and dust.

“You guys are on your own!” yells the gnome. I can barely see him scrambling over the fallen rocks through the dust, but I snatch a gnarled hand out and luck into grabbing him. My hand wraps all the way around his midsection and it’s like slamming a jelly pod into the wall. His blood spatters the cavern and the numbers appear belatedly as he vanishes into a cloud of smoke.

[+1400 Damage]

[Critical Hit]

[Target Death]

An arrow hits me in the shoulder and while the initial strike is icy and painless, the crackling blue energy that courses over my skin is anything but.

[+360 Damage]

Damn arcane. I snarl and tear out the arrow only for another two to hit my chest, but as irritating as the elf’s arrows may be, they’re not enough to keep me from focusing on the target who represents a higher threat.

Not only is the human a higher level, but that blade in his hand as he frees himself from the rubble glints in the light, making it obvious that it’s made of silver. Holy silver, if I had to guess from the white light hovering caressing the edges of the blade.

The ore is rare and the enchantment to make it holy steel rarer still. Perhaps I’ve underestimated these troglodytes.

Before the human knight can fully stand, I go for the one weak spot in his armor and snap my teeth down on his wrist until I feel the metal plates snap. He lets out an anguished scream as another cluster of arrows hit my back, but he brought the wrong weapon if he’s hoping to do anything more than irritate me.

At least the knight had the foresight to come prepared, even if his execution was lacking. With another wrench of my jaw, the knight drops his blade and his hand comes clean off. I swallow the finger left behind as I spit it out and make quick work of the maimed human. The numbers cloud my vision, pushing each other out of the way as I slash my way through the man’s armor and into the tender flesh beneath.

[+569 Damage]

[+569 Damage]

[Critical Hit]

[+400 Damage]

[+400 Damage]

Another arrow hits me between the shoulder blades, but this one does more than sting. Blinding pain radiates through my back and grips my heart in agonizing paralysis.

A silver arrow.

I rip the offending arrow from my back and leave my near-dead prey where he lays to turn on the elf before me. The smug look on his face is wiped clean right before I grab his skinny throat and slam his head into the wall with another roar of victory. It explodes on contact.

[+3999 Damage]

[Target Death]

I drop the beheaded corpse to the cave floor and shake some of the excess blood off my fur as my wounded flesh begins to heal over. The darkness surrounding me snakes its way up my ankles and legs, forming a shadow cloak that accelerates the healing process, restoring me to almost full capacity.

That’s what I get for playing with my food. Even if they are low-level scum, I’d rather not lose my head due to arrogance.

The human is struggling to call a healing enchantment into his palm, but his breathless words are a poor imitation of the incantation he’s looking for. I’d be willing to bet he just opened the spell scroll this morning and headed right for the Catacombs with his newly Level-100 friends.

Some right of passage.

“Shit,” he breathes, his posture slumping against the cave as the magic goes out like a candle. There’s fear in his eyes, but more resignation as I approach. He doesn’t beg for me to spare his life. They never do.

Maybe they know it’s futile.

I reach out, willing to make his end relatively merciful with a snap of the neck. When something like amusement comes into his eyes, I hesitate.

“Guess it’s true what they say about you,” he scoffs.

The adventurers rarely speak to me. My days are monotonous and endless enough that I’m compelled to listen. After all, it’s not as if he stands a chance at escape. There’s but a sliver of life left in him at this point.

“You’re tough,” he continues, as if answering my unspoken question. “Figured the guy who killed Marcel Endry would be. We’ll see how you fare when the event starts and every player on the server is gunning for your ass.”

I turn my head instinctively. It’s probably the only trait in which I resemble the more demure canines that accompany some of the adventurers to their deaths. Marcel Endry? The name is vaguely familiar, but I’ve slain hundreds in the last month alone and rarely do I know their names. If there’s something about his friend that he expects will stand out to me, he’s wrong.

As far as I’m concerned, they’re all just insects at different stages of development. Time for this one to be squashed.

“By the way,” I say in a rumbling, sinister snarl that could hardly pass for a human voice as I wrap my hands around his neck. “It’s Beast Lord.”

With a sharp crack, the human falls dead in my grasp.

[Target Death]

I can already hear the scurrying sounds of a battle going on in the tunnel below. The shadow of Cerberus darkens the far corner as my victims’ corpses turn to ash.

A Hellhound screams somewhere a few dozen yards away, separated from me only by walls of stone. The humans are coming.

Time to do it all over again.