Catgirls And Dungeons (Yuri)

That god, or the being that called itself god…

With just a snap of his finger…

We were no longer in the throne room.

Without warning, reality itself bent—folded inward like a page being turned—and we were torn from that golden palace. The marble floors, the towering columns, the oppressive radiance of the divine… all of it vanished in an instant.

Now, there was only this.

An endless battlefield.

"What the fuck…?" people muttered in shock.

"Where the hell are we?"

"What's happening?"

Panic surged.

Because the place we now stood in could only be described as a realm of hell.

We had entered countless dungeons before, but none had ever felt as eerie and chilling as this.

We stood on a plain of ruin that stretched beyond sight in every direction. Above us loomed a sky soaked in blood—a red, apocalyptic dome that churned with clouds like torn sinew. There was no sun, there was no moon, nor any star guiding us. There existed only a twilight that never ended: too dim to bring warmth, too bright to bring rest, an eternal sky caught in the final breath before nightfall.

It's like this was a realm untouched by time, a world just moments before its destruction.

As we looked down…

The ground beneath our feet was black and cracked, fissured like shattered bone, and cold as forged steel. Dust and ash floated through the air in lazy spirals, drifting like the remnants of something ancient burned to nothing. And the silence… the silence was total. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of a graveyard. The kind that makes your heartbeat sound too loud in your ears.

Then, suddenly, the sky ripped open.

No warning, no thunder, just a sudden tear—like the heavens themselves had been clawed apart. Rifts split the sky, jagged and gaping, like wounds carved by something monstrous. It looked as though a beast the size of a world had raked its talons across the cosmos, leaving behind gashes that bled darkness.

And from those wounds, it came.

Black muck.

Thick, viscous, and smelled like rotten flesh!

It poured from the sky like tar, writhing as it fell. When it hit the ground, it didn't just splatter, it slithered, twisted, crawled.

And then, it began to change, forming some sort of creature.

The ooze shifted, growing limbs and spines and maws, shaping itself into forms that should not exist, into shapes that defied logic!

Monsters, hundreds of them.

All creatures that only belonged to the most hellish nightmares!

Their existence was blasphemy to creation and life itself!

Some were small, no bigger than children, but fast and twitching like giant bugs. Their limbs bent in unnatural angles, their claws pointy and long, their eyes wide and unblinking, mouths split too far, filled with jagged teeth that clicked hungrily.

Some others were colossal, so big they were literally towering titans of flesh and bone, their bodies like walking cathedrals of horror. Muscles swelled beneath armor-like hide, tendrils lashed the air like whips, and their mouths—Gods, their mouths—gaped across their chests or spiraled down their backs, screaming in voices that didn't belong in this world.

Every one of them was wrong.

Each and every one of them burned with eyes like pale, dying stars, soulless and hungry.

And then they screeched.

The sound shattered the stillness, sharp enough to cut into the soul. A moment later came their roars—deep and thunderous, shaking the ground itself.

Many of us collapsed instantly in sheer terror and dread, all fighting spirit drained—some trembling uncontrollably, others frozen like statues.

But many others gritted their teeth and endured, steeling their will to fight.

And then… they charged.

A flood of monsters, a storm of teeth and claws and pure, undiluted madness rushed towards us!

The earth buckled beneath their stampede as they rushed toward us, mindlessly, mercilessly, relentlessly!

And so we fought.

Gods help us, we fought!

Every adventurer, every mage, every warrior from every guild formed ranks in desperation. Spells ignited the dark. Steel flashed. Screams and battle cries filled the air. There was no time to think, no time to plan, only reflex and instinct!

Fight or die.

It was just that simple!

And so we fought. Again. And again. For hours. Days. Then Weeks. Then Months! Maybe longer!

Nobody knew exactly how long we had to survive there, since the concept of time existed so blurrily in that place. The sky never changed. The fatigue never came. We did not hunger. We did not sleep. We did not stop.

There was only battle.

Only blood.

Only endless slaughter in a realm that demanded we earn every breath.

And yet, each time we survived a wave, each time we pushed the darkness back, the god rewarded us.

Sometimes it was gold, appearing in neat piles and then sucked into our given mysterious inventory. Yes, we were all given a magical ring to store our rewards, with the promise that we could take them home if we passed the trial.

And sometimes it was strength, in the form of new abilities, new magic that complimented our mana attributes, or it could also be single-use items or surges of divine power that made us faster, stronger, tougher for a brief period of time.

Thanks to those rewards, we felt ourselves evolve, grow and change.

But so did the monsters.

With every wave, they returned more twisted, more impossible—shapes born not from nature, but from madness itself. They were crafted from nightmares, stitched together by some divine cruelty that understood exactly how to break a human mind. Their forms defied logic: eyes where there should be none, limbs that split and reformed mid-motion, mouths that whispered in languages not meant for mortals to hear.

Just looking at them too long was dangerous.

Some adventurers fell before they were even touched—paralyzed, screaming, driven mad by the sight alone.

It was brutal.

It was hell.

And then—sometimes—just when the screaming stopped, just when the battlefield grew still and the air was thick with blood and silence…

He would appear again.

The divine being.

Floating high above us like a star that had no warmth, no mercy, just radiant and untouchable, watching us as if we were pieces on a game board.

And then his voice would descend from the sky like announcements from heavens, telling us how pleased he was, how truly magnificent we were, and how our desperation was all… entertaining.

He said it like a compliment, but the smile in his eyes betrayed the truth.

There was no pride in it, there was no compassion.

Only amusement—cold and gleaming.

Amusement at our pain, at our struggle.

At the endless, pointless violence.

To him, we were not warriors, we were just actors on a bloodstained stage.

But it didn't matter.

Entertainment was what he wanted.

So entertainment was what we gave him.

—---------------------------

By the time the ninth challenge began, only thirty percent of us remained.

Thousands had entered the divine trial.

Now, barely a fraction clung to life.

The battlefield had taken everything from us—our pasts, our names, our memories of the loved ones outside. Whatever lives we'd lived before... they were like half-remembered dreams, distant and fading slowly into the abyss.

All that mattered was survival.

All that mattered were the trials.

And somehow—somehow—my siblings were still alive.

Kerth, Carmien, Kailene… still fighting beside me. They were still breathing, still refusing to fall, even as wave after wave tried to bury us. We had become something else by then. Less than human, more than desperate, bound together by blood, by grit, by the sheer refusal to die.

And then, finally…

The ninth trial came like the rest.

At its center stood a final boss.

A behemoth.

Wings of bone and shadow stretched wide, blotting out the red sky. Its body was a fortress of flesh, sheathed in plates of cracked, living armor that pulsed with molten veins. It moved with slow, awful grace—too massive for the earth to bear, yet somehow it stood.

When it raised an arm, entire hills buckled.

When it swung, it could hurl mountains into the air like dust.

It was the end, given form.

And we faced it.

Together.

Every survivor, every last adventurer, gathered for one final stand. We screamed. We struck. Steel met hide. Fire met shadow. Spells carved light across the battlefield as we gave everything we had—every last drop of magic, every ounce of strength, every scream left in our lungs.

And against all odds…

We won.

It fell.

The behemoth let out a final, shuddering roar that seemed to shake the fabric of that world, then collapsed into ash—its wings disintegrating, its fire extinguished.

And in that moment—the moment silence returned—

The sky split open, the world twisted, and we were torn from it.

The battlefield vanished in the blink of an eye, and we were back.

Back in the golden throne room.

The silence was suffocating.

The light, blinding.

And on the throne, waiting as though he had never left… was him.

The god, smiling now, gazed down upon us with a wicked grin—like he was already scheming something.

Suddenly, a chill ran down my spine.

It was strange.

Wasn't the trial already over?

Then… why the hell was I feeling so uneasy?