Is it wrong to have a Celestial Grimoire in the Dungeon ?

–

"You have blue hair," Ouranos said, eyeing the young man in front of him.

The visit was unexpected—he hadn't anticipated seeing Almus this late at night. But from the panicked expression on his new child's face, something was clearly wrong.

Almus was sweating, his eyes darting to every shadow in the room like he expected something to jump out at him. He looked genuinely shaken.

"I have blue hair?!" he blurted out, reaching up to check for himself but obviously failing to see it.

"Yes," Ouranos confirmed, watching him carefully. "What happened to you, child?"

Almus took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "I was attacked in my dream… by a servant of Tzeentch. Do you know who that is?"

The name meant nothing to the old god. He searched his vast memories but found nothing.

"No," Ouranos admitted. "I have no knowledge of this being. But I do remember seeing the name on your Falna—you bear his mark."

Almus nodded, frustration and fear still evident on his face. "Yeah… and in my dream, his servant tried to turn me into some kind of slave or follower or whatever. But I fought back—and I killed him."

"And now you're afraid to sleep," Ouranos said, his expression turning serious. "I've never heard of someone being able to attack others through dreams. Perhaps it's a curse… but I have no power over the realm of dreams. I'm sorry, child."

Almus let out a shaky sigh, still visibly unsettled as he looked at the god. "Would Fels have any idea?"

Ouranos shook his head. "He isn't here right now, but I wouldn't get your hopes up. Fels' expertise doesn't extend to dreams or magic tied to that realm." His tone was firm, final.

Almus looked down for a moment, his expression clouded—until something shifted. A strange resolve took over his features.

"Then if no one can help me, I'll help myself," he said, turning on his heel.

Ouranos watched with quiet amusement as his child straightened his back, determination burning in his eyes.

"I'll get stronger," Almus declared. "And then I'll come back and kick Tzeentch's ass!"

The god's calculating gaze followed him as he left, a small smile tugging at his lips. Then, as the room grew still, the air around him darkened. A breeze stirred, and the light flickered, dimming as power surged within him.

"This Tzeentch…" Ouranos murmured, his ancient eyes glowing for a brief moment before the chamber was swallowed in darkness.

"How dare he lay a hand on my child."

–

Almus kept cutting, slicing through monster after monster, his blade never stopping. What drove him forward? Fear.

Unlike normal adventurers who fought to grow stronger, to become heroes, or simply to test their limits, Almus fought for one reason alone—survival.

A goblin leapt at him, but the moment its feet left the ground, his blade was already there, cutting clean through its body in one swift motion. He moved like a machine, precise and relentless, carving through anything that got in his way.

Everything felt sharper—too sharp. Every crevice, every shadow, every flicker of movement stood out in perfect clarity. His senses were heightened beyond anything he had ever experienced, pushing him into a state of absolute focus.

And he kept going.

He pushed deeper. What was the point of cutting down weak monsters that fell too easily? So he descended—second floor, third, fourth. It was all the same. A relentless storm of slashes.

Beowulf, once a blade of beauty, had become an instrument of pure slaughter, its once-pristine steel now dripping with the blood of countless monsters.

Finally, he reached the fifth floor—the place where adventurers truly started to die. And he knew it. He had read about it.

War Shadows and Killer Ants now joined the monster pool, and the respawns were faster, relentless. This was where the real test began.

A bolt of magic shot from his fingertips, striking the lizard that had leapt from the wall behind him. It burned away in an instant, reduced to nothing but ash.

The Lore of Tzeentch was terrifyingly efficient. So many possibilities. So many utilities. So many ways to kill.

Almus stopped, his breath steady, his expression unreadable. He glanced around, taking in the scene before him. A massacre. The kind of carnage straight out of the worst horror film he had ever seen.

And yet, he felt nothing.

No fear. No satisfaction. No guilt.

Just cold, clinical observation.

His mind didn't dwell on the bodies, the blood, or the sheer brutality of what he had done. Instead, he analyzed. How long had he been here? How many had he killed? Two hundred? More?

His movements had become too efficient. Too precise. Each attack executed with mechanical perfection, like a well-oiled machine built for slaughter.

He muttered under his breath, barely registering his own words. "No hesitation. No wasted movement. Just kill. Again and again. Over and over."

His fingers twitched slightly, itching for the next strike.

There was no emotion left in the act. Just execution. Just results.

And that scared him more than anything.

How had he changed like this? Had he always been like this? No… his first dive wasn't like this. So what happened?

Was it the Falna? Maybe, but he'd never heard of it altering someone's mindset like this. No, this had to be his perk.

Tzeentch.

Fuck Tzeentch.

If his magic wasn't so damn effective, Almus would be cursing that bastard god to the ends of the earth. Actually—screw it, he was going to do it anyway.

'Fuck you,' he thought with a small, almost amused smile.

A goblin lunged at him, and without missing a beat, he sidestepped and drove his blade straight through its chest.

His eyes widened in an instant. Instinct kicked in, and he jerked his head to the right just as two shadowy fingers sliced through the air where his head had been a moment ago.

A sharp sting ran down his cheek—blood dripped from the shallow cut.

He jumped back, eyes locked on his attacker. A shadowy figure loomed before him, its form shifting unnaturally, a single glowing red eye staring right at him.

And then he noticed—three fingers.

He had gotten careless.

First rule of an adventurer—never let your guard down in the Dungeon.

A sharp exhale left his lips as he steadied himself, tightening his grip on Beowulf. "Oh, you glorious bastard," he muttered, eyes locked onto the shadowy figure.

Electricity crackled around the blade, flickering like restless spirits. The sparks twisted and grew, morphing into roaring blue flames that licked hungrily at the air.

With both hands gripping the hilt, he swung.

The shadow let out a shriek as the blazing strike tore through it, vaporizing it in an instant—along with everything that had been behind it.

Almus was sure he had heard monster noises coming from that direction before. Now, all that remained was scorched earth, the only trace of the War Shadow reduced to nothing but ash.

He exhaled, still gripping Beowulf tightly. That thing had taken him completely by surprise. No sound, no warning—just an attack from the darkness.

His prescience had saved him, but it wasn't enough. He needed more than just instincts to rely on. Maybe if he had some kind of detection ability, something to keep track of his surroundings at all times, he wouldn't have been caught off guard.

Something to work on, he thought, rolling his shoulders.

He still had a long way to go.

Let's get this Falna updated, then I'll dive even deeper, he thought, his brow furrowing as he turned to leave.

Unbeknownst to him, a familiar figure, cloaked in dark robes, stood in the shadows—watching him intently.

The figure pulled out a small red stone, which suddenly lit up as he brought it to his lips.

"Lord Ouranos, it seems he has changed. Perhaps we should assist him a bit more. I'm going to look into the matter of his dreams."

"Very well, Fels," came the god's calm reply. "I will do the same."

Ouranos watched the images of the carnage unfold before him. It wasn't unheard of—The Sword Princess had done the same. But this was different.

He was his child.

And that meant Ouranos cared.

It was his responsibility to keep him safe, to make sure these strange gifts he received didn't twist him, didn't lead him down a dangerous path, didn't attract the wrong kind of influence.

But who was he to stop him? He wasn't a tyrant. If Almus believed he needed more power—if he chose to keep diving deeper, pushing further, maybe even seeking to end the Dungeon itself—then Ouranos wouldn't stand in his way.

As long as Orario remained safe.

The old god closed his eyes as he waited for his last child to arrive.

But Tzeentch… 

Ouranos would see him dead. 

He had made a vow.

–

Very small chapter today, I was freaking tired after work.

Hope you liked it.