The Kingdom of Elaria was nothing like Ardentia.
Here, life thrived beneath dense forest canopies and bustling towns that never slept. Market squares overflowed with noise—merchants, mercenaries, thieves, and travelers alike filling the cobbled streets. And at the heart of it all stood the Adventurer's Guild: a sprawling lodge of wood and stone that buzzed with quests, coin, and quiet danger.
Paul pulled his hood lower and adjusted the scabbard of the steel-forged longsword he'd taken from Aurelion's armory. It was enchanted, though less radiant than before—the light magic within now clashed silently with the darkness coiled around his soul.
He approached the Guild's large oak doors, flanked by armored guards and a banner reading:
"Glory Through Trial."
Inside, the hall was warm with firelight and thick with the scent of smoke, ale, and worn leather. Dozens of adventurers huddled in groups, poring over mission boards or boasting loudly of beasts slain and dungeons cleared.
Paul made his way to the job board, scanning for anything—anything—that could lead to the second Seal Fragment. Luna had gone silent since Ardentia. That worried him.
Can't draw attention, he thought. Blend in. Investigate. Find the fragment. Get out.
"Looking for something specific?" asked a voice beside him.
Paul turned slightly to see a receptionist—young, bright-eyed, clearly new. He forced a tired smile. "Looking for a solo dungeon. Preferably off-grid."
She raised a brow. "Trying to make a name for yourself, huh? Well, we do have one. A few old-timers went missing in the Whispering Hollow. Supposed to be a Class-B ruin, but something's… off. Locals say it recently 'shifted.' That's usually a bad sign."
He nodded. "I'll take it."
She handed him a guild badge and the quest slip. "Bring back proof you cleared the core. Preferably not as ashes."
Paul made no promises.
---
Deep in Whispering Hollow
The dungeon's entrance was a cracked stone gate half-buried in moss and shadow. As he stepped through, Paul immediately felt the shift in magic. The air pulsed unnaturally.
Torches lit on their own as he walked. The place was eerily silent—until whispers started.
"You weren't there… they burned… they begged…"
He stopped.
Not real, he told himself.
The first chamber opened into a field of ancient ruins—a false sky above glimmered with ghostly stars. Constructs made of stone and bone emerged from the ground, hissing with broken magic.
Paul summoned his blade. He moved efficiently, silently, dispatching the constructs with elemental bursts—lightning coursing through runes, wind slicing through armor. No flair. Just survival.
At the heart of the dungeon was the real challenge: a spectral beast—part lion, part serpent, made of shimmering blue flame.
The Phantom Wyrm.
It roared, shaking the walls.
Paul steadied himself. "This isn't about glory. Just another wall to break through."
The fight was long, grueling. The Wyrm used illusions, conjured memories of his family—laughing, burning, screaming. He stumbled, nearly fell. But rage kept him grounded. And in a final clash of fire and frost, he brought the beast down with a summoned ice spear to the heart.
As it died, the dungeon dimmed.
At the altar behind it, he found something unexpected: a shattered seal shard—not a full fragment, but a piece of one. Alongside it, a parchment written in old script:
"The second fragment lies beneath the capital—buried in the ruins of the Fallen Throne, guarded by the Spectral Queen."
Paul pocketed both.
As he exited the dungeon, weary and bruised, he felt eyes on him.
The guild would know soon that someone cleared the dungeon alone. Whispers would grow. He couldn't stay long.
But he had a lead.
The Fallen Throne… it would be his next descent.