They stepped through the portal.
The world shifted—like stepping through water without getting wet. One blink, and the armycamp of Duskhollow vanished behind them. Another, and they were elsewhere.
The first thing Nerion noticed wasn't the heat—it was the silence.
Thick, suffocating, unnatural silence.
The air felt wrong, not just heavy with magic—but thick with decay, as if the world itself had forgotten how to breathe. Every breath clung to the inside of his throat like smoke. The forest around them was no forest at all—it was a graveyard masquerading as one.
Black, bone-pale trees curled skyward like twisted ribs of some ancient beast. Their bark was cracked and oozing a sap that hissed faintly against the ember-laced wind. No leaves. No birds. No life. Just rot. The ground pulsed faintly beneath their feet, a bloodless, grey-red soil that squelched with each step.
Above them stretched a sky that didn't move. Burnt orange and bruised crimson swirled like old blood, trapped under glass. No sun. No moon. Only a dull light that never shifted. Floating embers hung in the air—not rising, not falling. Just… suspended, as if time itself had grown bored.
It was a place that shouldn't exist.
Seraphine stood a few paces behind him, arms crossed, one hip cocked in a casual lean. Her eyes didn't blink. Didn't twitch. She stared at him like he was a performance—part test, part entertainment.
"This is your fight," she said, voice low, smooth, and edged with amusement. "I won't help. Unless you start crying. Then I might clap."
Nerion didn't answer. Just stepped forward, jaw tight.
The air was gnawing at the edge of his nerves, unfamiliar and alive in the wrong way. His gut screamed that the world around them was watching. But he held onto the rhythm of his breathing, grounding himself in the grip of his weapon.
No armor. No squad. Just his Soul Weapon—black steel with veins of flickering white
He glanced around, the oppressive stillness wrapping tighter the further they walked into the dead grove.
"Is this… what all dungeons look like?" he asked finally, voice low.
Seraphine didn't look at him. Her gaze was scanning the canopy—or what passed for it.
"No," she said. "Dungeons don't have rules. Some are ruins. Some are beasts. Some are made of ice, wind, or nightmare. This one…"
She reached out and ran her finger along the bark of a nearby tree. Her nail came away coated in a dark, red-black substance that hissed and evaporated instantly.
"This is a minor world born from concentrated mana," she continued. "A pocket realm. Some dungeons are artificial. Others are echoes of dead realities. Fragments. And some are natures own creations."
She turned to him finally.
"Whatever this place used to be… it rotted long before we got here."
Nerion's fingers tightened on the hilt of his soul weapon.
And something in the forest moved.
Not loudly. Just enough.
But it was the kind of sound that wasn't supposed to exist in silence.
The first sound was a low, chittering scrape—like claws dragged across wet stone.
Then came the screech.
Dry. Jagged. Like bones being chewed in the dark.
From the gnarled shadows between the trees, they emerged—five of them. Crawlers.
Thin, emaciated things with skin like rotted parchment stretched too tight over a frame of jagged bone. Their limbs moved with a twitching, insect-like rhythm. Each finger ended in an elongated claw that clicked against the dirt. No lips. Just teeth—yellowed and cracked—exposed in a permanent snarl.
Their eyes glowed with dull amber light, pulsing like dying embers. Not rage. Not hunger. Just hatred. Old, mindless hatred.
Nerion didn't wait.
Couldn't.
He dropped into a stance, muscle memory kicking in over fear. His Soul Weapon flared to life in his hand, threads of mana pulsing into the blade like a heartbeat.
The first crawler leapt.
He met it mid-air.
Mana surged through his arms, down into the edge of the blade. A clean arc of motion—steel singing against rotten flesh.
The head split from the torso with a wet snap of bone. It thudded to the ground, still twitching.
One down.
They were fast—but light. Too easy. Like wild dogs with claws. Not soldiers. Not monsters. Just animals wearing corpses.
Another came—Nerion pivoted, slashing low and upward.
Guts spilled.
The crawler folded around the wound like a broken hinge and collapsed.
Confidence swelled in his chest. His sword felt lighter. His movements sharper.
He could do this.
But then—
The third one didn't charge.
It skittered. Low. From the side.
Too fast.
He turned, but too late.
The claws raked across his side—ripping through his cloak, his shirt, and then his skin.
Tearing.
Three deep gouges scored into his ribs, blood bursting out in dark jets. Heat and pain exploded across his nerves like fire. He staggered, breath catching in his throat.
The crawler's weight slammed into him, knocking him sideways into the trunk of a tree.
His vision flared white for a second. The bark tore into his back. Blood ran freely down his hip, warm and wet beneath his clothes.
Still—he didn't scream.
He bit down, hard enough to taste copper.
"Sloppy," Seraphine said behind him.
Not mocking.
Not even annoyed.
Just… honest.
Nerion snarled, kicked the crawler off him with raw force. It shrieked as it skidded back, claws carving the dirt.
The other two hesitated.
He could feel it. They smelled his blood.
Good.
He fed mana into his blade again ,too much this time. It burned along the edge in streaks of golden, flickering light. Not flame. Cracking the air around him like glass.
"Let's see how much of that you bastards can take."
He charged this time.
Steel met flesh.
And this time, it ripped.
The crawler tried to block—his blade carved straight through its arms, splitting muscle and bone like wet wood. It didn't even get to scream. Just dropped in pieces.
The fourth lunged, catching his arm. Its claws dug in—skin tore, blood poured—but Nerion didn't stop. He twisted, dropped low, and drove his blade through the thing's gut, pinning it to the ground.
Then he twisted.
The crawler thrashed violently, bile and viscera splattering across the dirt. It died gurgling, jaw snapping blindly.
Only one left.
The last one looked at him.
Paused.
Then turned to run.
Nerion raised his sword, flicked the blood from the edge, and stepped forward.
"You started this," he muttered.
The blade hummed in his hand, and his mana flared once more.
One step. One slash.
The crawler's legs gave out as its spine was severed mid-lunge.
It died clawing at the dirt.
Nerion stood, panting, blood-soaked—his own and theirs. The wind blew, hot and metallic. The forest watched in silence.
Seraphine spoke again, quieter this time.
"…Better."
Nerion staggered back, breath sharp in his throat. Blood still leaked from the gashes along his ribs. The pain hadn't dulled yet.
Seraphine stepped up beside him, wordless. She pulled a small, dark vial from the folds of her coat and handed it over.
He took it without asking. The glass was warm to the touch.
"One gulp," she said.
He uncorked it, tilted it back. The liquid slid down like silk, but heat exploded in his chest almost instantly. It spread fast—through muscle, through bone. Nerves stitched themselves together under pressure. Torn flesh knit like thread winding through skin.
Within seconds, he could breathe without grinding his teeth.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You're not," she replied, brushing past him. "But you will be."
He followed, wiping blood from his side. The forest didn't change. It still loomed like a graveyard built from bones. The trees creaked like they remembered dying.
They walked in silence for a while, boots crunching over black moss and dead ash. Then, finally—
"Power's good," Seraphine said, not looking at him. "But using it well? That's better."
He glanced at her. She didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.
"You're strong, Nerion. Talented, even. But don't confuse that with experience. Fighting foes isn't just about hitting harder. It's about reading. Predicting. Controlling the pace."
He stayed quiet. Let the words sink.
"Those things?" she went on. "Crawlers. They're bottom-rung. Weakest of dungeon spawn. Unawakened, in human terms. No real tactics. Just instincts and hunger ."
"…Unawakened," he muttered, frowning. "How was it so fast?"
"Because they weren't human."
She paused, crouched beside a fallen crawler. Her blade tapped gently at its chest. "See this?"
The cracked skin split with ease. Nestled between its ribs was a dull gray stone—jagged and pulsing faintly with light.
"A half build mana core," she said.
Nerion's brows lifted. He knelt beside her.
"They use these instead of channels. While humans store mana in the heart, lungs, liver—creature-kind just grow a core. One dense point. Efficient. Brutally so. It means they don't tire. Don't bleed out the same way. Everything's focused."
He stared at the gem, studying it. The pulsing was slow now. Fading.
"Can humans grow cores?"
"We can," she said. "But we're not built for it. For a human to form one, they'd have to burn alive—bathe in pure mana pressure until their body collapses and reforms around a nucleus."
"That sounds…"
"Suicidal? It is." She stood again. "Only a few survive it. Most lose their minds. Turn into manaless husks. Or worse—into ferals. Mindless zombies full of raw power."
Nerion nodded slowly. The burned forest, the creatures, the emptiness—it all felt heavier now.
"But other species," she continued, "they're different. Beasts, dungeonborn, some Tower races—they're born with cores. No strain. No sacrifice. They don't think like us, though. Most don't have our intellect. Just instinct."
She looked at him again—really looked, her eyes narrowing.
"But there are exceptions. Alninos, for example. Everywhere. And some of them… think better than we do."
Nerion held her gaze.
"I need to learn faster."
"You will. That's why you're here."
Then she turned, wordless again, walking deeper into the skeletal forest.
He followed, sword in hand.
Somewhere ahead, something watched them.