Will's party stood still, faces blank, bewilderment rolling off them in waves as they struggled to comprehend what they were looking at.
It was simple, really—the evidence was right in front of them—looking them in the eye. But that didn't make it any less shocking.
All seven of them felt like their eyes were playing tricks on them.
They had arrived at the end of Floor 10 to face off with the Naberus.
And they had found it.
But the problem was, the three-headed hellhound was already dead when they got there.
It lay on the ground, its massive body collapsed into a corpse.
The creature had been pulled apart at the seams, its spine jutting out, exposed.
One of its great tusks was missing from the leftmost head—and was now embedded into the skull of the right.
Fresh blood streaked across its tattered fur. Cracks ran all along its hide, and its eyes were void of light.
The Naberus was dead.
And that made no sense.
Sion was the first to speak, sweat trickling down his chin.
"Somebody slaughtered the floor keeper?!"
That led to the golden question.
"But who?!" Julius demanded. "Who could have done this?!"
Could it have been one of the other teams?
That was a very slim possibility. Even they, the supposed all-star squad, would've struggled to slay the beast.
And they were the only ones foolish enough to even try.
They were in the lead. The only ones who should've been down here.
No other team should've crossed paths with the beast.
There was a chance it could've been a teacher who caught the keeper's attention.
But this kind of carnage didn't look like the work of a mage.
It was far too... crude.
Before anyone could spiral further into speculation, Wignall tried to pull them back to focus.
"...There are still traces floating around. Whoever killed it… did so moments ago!"
Sure enough, they all noticed the black wisps of miasma seeping from the Naberus' corpse.
That was all the prompting their leader needed.
"Use Search! Check the area!"
Lihanna already had her wand pointed outward as the mages formed a circle—Will standing at the center, sword drawn.
Bwoom!
An invisible dome of magical energy spread outward from them like a radar, sweeping the area for any signs of life within its radius.
Will, on the other hand, closed his eyes and listened—searching for the subtle shifts in ki.
Mages could evade Search by casting Hide.
High-level monsters often possessed innate stealth abilities that allowed them to bypass the spell on their own.
The mages found nothing.
Patter. Patter.
Will's ears twitched at a faint vibration, and then his head snapped skyward.
At the top of the dungeon cave, he was met with darkness—until two eerie, circular white lights peeked out.
Lacking the Lyzance's night vision, it took Will a moment to register them as eyes.
His goggles, paired with inhuman senses and the ability to read ki, quickly clarified what he was looking at.
A ginormous monster—no, a demon—stood perched on a stalactite like a bat, dwarfing even the Naberus.
It loomed on impossibly long legs, its wings like strips of leather riddled with gruesome holes that added to its horror.
Each ragged edge framed a skull-shaped helm atop dual, horned brows.
Its skin was a mesh of sinewy ridges and shadowed grooves, muscles coiled beneath a surface that looked harder than stone.
Wicked spines jutted from its shoulders, while darkness outlined its monstrous form.
Jagged fangs curved from a maw that looked deep enough to swallow the abyss.
Its claws were twisted and vast, the perfect embodiment of the nightmarish prison they found themselves in.
Who the jailor was—and who the prisoners were—was suddenly very clear.
Will's pupils dilated in abject fear as his mouth parted in desperation.
"Guys! Above y—!"
The demon parted its jaw slightly.
Before Will could finish, it fired a beam straight down at him.
Purple light assaulted all their visions as Will, gripping his sword by both ends above his head, tried to block the inescapable blast.
The ground shattered beneath him under the force and pressure. His footing began to give way.
Borrowing leverage from a loose rock, he used it as a platform to fall backward out of the beam's path.
A massive hole exploded where he'd just been standing, the blast now uncontested.
"Will?!" Colette called out in shock.
But Will had no time to respond.
Rolling onto his stomach, his eyes snapped to the far side of the room.
"Wignall!!!"
The green-haired elf was caught off guard by his teammate suddenly screaming his name.
The confusion didn't last.
He felt why—painfully.
"Ggh?!"
The demon, now behind him and seemingly grinning, side-swiped him like it was swatting a bug.
Chk.
Wignall barely registered the sound of his arm snapping like a twig before he was launched across the room.
Boom!
He hit a dungeon wall hard, his body carving out a fresh crater as blood poured from his head and back.
The remaining mages froze in horror before pointing their wands at the demon in unison.
"Crimson–"
"Glace–"
"Stia–"
"Sagius—"
None of them finished casting.
The demon threw a punch—downward.
The ground cracked like glass.
And then it gave way beneath them.
They all began to fall.
Above, the demon loomed from its ledge, looking down at them as if mocking their efforts.
While the others were still falling, Will's eyes locked onto Wignall's limp form.
The elf was unconscious.
At this rate, he'll die!
Muttering an inward apology, Will leapt after him—using the crumbling debris as stepping stones—and reached out for his teammate.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Noelle paused mid-step.
She blanked as the projection over her ring lit up—Will was entering the 11th floor. Rapidly.
He's not allowed past the 10th floor—what is he doing—?
Her thoughts cut off as the feeling hit her.
Rumble.
Rumble.
The entire dungeon trembled. Cracking and crashing sounds echoed through the stone.
Noelle was at the end of the 6th floor, standing on a high cliff edge.
From her vantage point, she could see the Regarden Base Camp far below.
Then she heard them—screams.
Students were scrambling to evacuate as the camp was suddenly overrun by a horde of monsters, charging straight in her direction.
A stampede.
She lifted a finger to cast, but froze when a dark cross-shaped spell erupted ahead of the wave, incapacitating the entire monster group in an instant.
Her draconic eyes narrowed, honing in on the caster.
Her enhanced hearing picked up his voice issuing a command to the panicked students: the all-student praxis was over. Everyone was to evacuate immediately.
Edward Serfence...
She spotted him standing calmly at the center of the chaos, his presence unmistakable.
Beside him was another instructor—one Noelle knew to be Will's guardian and caretaker in the academy.
Together, the two teachers descended into the 7th floor without hesitation.
Noelle didn't follow. She barely even blinked.
Her focus had shifted to something else.
Among the fleeing students, one figure stood out.
A single boy with slightly messy blond hair and an androgynous appearance wasn't running away like the others.
He was walking.
Calmly, quietly, and completely unnoticed, he slipped through the scattering crowd—heading in the same direction Edward and Workner had gone, but along a different path.
Noelle glanced at her map.
That path was—coincidentally—the most direct route to Will's current location.
But Noelle didn't believe in coincidences.
"...Rosti Nauman…" she whispered.
And then she vanished, blurring out of sight just before the crowd of students flooded the area.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
I knelt on elven wood, surrounded by my clansmen.
They leered at me with cold, venomous eyes—dark glares paired with sneers, and whispers that weren't quite whispers.
No, they were exactly loud enough for me to hear.
"Wasting away in a school for mages, and you can't even produce a decent illusion?"
"Have you no shame?"
"A stain on our people."
They repeated the same words that had haunted me my entire life.
And I couldn't deny them—because they were true.
I, Wignall Lindor, was incompetent.
I, Wignall Lindor, was defective.
I, Wignall Lindor, was a failure.
I, Wignall Lindor, was a no-talent.
The disgrace of the elves.
And she made sure I understood it.
Ellenor Ljos Alf—once my sweet, beloved adopted sister—now sat above me, enthroned as a high elf.
Princess of our race.
Leader of Elleaf Canaan.
She looked down with eyes that used to hold adoration, now filled only with disdain, indifference, and disgust.
Please… not you.
I begged her silently, desperately.
I could take the hatred of our people. I could endure their scorn, their rejection.
But not hers.
She was my everything.
My reason for existing.
My precious little sister.
And now even she looked at me that way.
I wanted that look to change.
Back to how she used to look at me.
But what I wanted… what I needed… it never mattered.
It never mattered.
My vision blurred with tears as she delivered her judgment, her voice frigid and unfamiliar—like we were strangers.
"You dishonor your people. There is no place for you here."
I remained frozen—stiff, broken, hollow.
But somewhere inside me, something still resisted.
I surged to my feet, reaching out to her in desperation. Just one more chance. Just one last look.
"W-wait, Ellenor—!"
But I, Wignall Lindor, would be given no more chances.
"You won't be needing that useless arm of yours."
The last thing I saw before darkness took me… was my left hand being severed cleanly from where it should've been.
Not even blood spilled.
And in the end, my sister gave me something beautiful.
Something that brought nothing but pain.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
"Gaaaaaaaaahh?!"
Wignall shot upright, instinctively clutching at his left arm.
He exhaled deeply, relief flooding him as his hand confirmed it was still there.
The man who had raised and looked after him had reattached it immediately after Ellenor severed it. Even so, years later, it still felt like it had just been lost yesterday.
Such is the curse of a long-lived race.
Wignall gritted his teeth as pain surged through him again.
He gripped his arm tighter, flashes of his bone snapping fresh in his mind—until he paused.
His arm was wrapped, albeit crudely, in a makeshift cast.
He furrowed his brows, confused.
Then came a soft purr.
"Mreow…"
He looked down and blinked at the familiar cat-like creature resting near his feet.
A carbuncle… the no-talent's familiar…?
Which could only mean—
"Sssss…"
The dying hiss of a beast drew his gaze forward.
That's when he saw it.
Will Serfort stood above the decapitated remains of a monstrous serpentine creature—the deformis sepenet, a Class 9 credit monster.
Several other corpses surrounded him.
Will calmly wiped the blood off his blade, then sheathed it at his waist and turned to face Wignall.
Lowering his goggles to hang around his neck, he rushed over.
"You're awake!" he said, relief thick in his voice.
Wignall stiffened.
His hand clenched around his casted arm.
"You did this?" he muttered, voice low and accusing.
Will looked apologetic. "Yeah… sorry about that. The monsters interrupted me while I was trying to patch you up…"
Wignall's eyes widened.
Will held out a hand. "Come on, I'll finish the first aid now—"
Twack!
Will's hand recoiled as Wignall smacked it away, fury overtaking him.
"Don't touch me!"
"?!"
"Don't look so surprised! We already had this conversation—and you still dare to put your hands on me?! You Lyzance are truly classless—"
"Quiet."
Wignall froze.
His mind blanked.
What?
The usual kindness, compassion, and harmlessness that made Will seem like a pushover was gone from his eyes.
In its place was coldness. Indifference.
It reminded Wignall of her.
Huh?
Convinced he'd misheard—or that his eyes were deceiving him—he blinked hard.
"What did you just say to me—"
"I said be quiet."
Will repeated it plainly, raising a finger to his lips in a shushing motion.
Wignall was frozen again.
Will crouched, retrieved what remained of their supplies after the fall, and dropped the first aid kit at Wignall's feet.
Then shot him a flat, unimpressed look.
"Don't look so surprised. Take it, fix yourself, and listen. Quietly."
Maybe the third time was the charm.
Wignall slowly picked up the compact kit, his hand slightly trembling, and started unrolling the bandages to redo his cast.
All the while, he kept his eyes on Will—who hovered above him, looming, unmoved by the concept of personal space.
Will closed his eyes and drew in a long breath.
Control yourself.
He recited the thought, then reopened his eyes and spoke, voice quiet but firm.
"We're currently on the 11th floor."
Wignall went stiff.
The bandage slipped from his mouth mid-wrap and landed in his lap.
His pupils shrank in horror.
And rightly so.
The 11th floor and beyond belonged to the Tower and the Upper Institute.
Floors 11 through 15 were known collectively as the Nightmare's Maw.
A vast, reddish labyrinth teeming with monsters unknown to the upper floors—a new ecology of horrors academy students had no business facing.
From here on, it was classified as a danger zone.
Only high mages had any reason to come down this far, and even then, never alone. Most arrived in coordinated teams, packed with veterans of their rank or better.
For a student to wind up here… it was a death sentence.
Will nodded, as if reading Wignall's understanding through the dread on his face.
"Good," he said. "Then you understand. Keep yelling like that, and you'll attract the kind of attention that kills without even realizing it noticed you."
His words were blunt. His tone wasn't cruel—but it carried finality.
Wignall lowered his head and resumed tending to his cast, shame and self-loathing smoldering in his chest.
Will Serfort continued speaking.
His voice shifted—calm, measured—like the ones he'd heard from Mrs. Silva's elder brother in council:
Don't insult them. That only feeds resistance.
Speak plainly, speak firmly. Lead them to the truth without pushing. Then they'll have no choice but to follow.
"Most of our supplies are gone. The rations left won't keep us going more than a day."
Wignall tied off the cast and finally looked up again—this time without flinching—as Will posed a question.
"Our top priority is regrouping with the others. That'll mean some wandering. Exploration. You up for it?"
It sounded like a question.
But it wasn't.
And Wignall wasn't up for it.
"...When people get stranded in the dungeon, proper protocol says to stay in place and await rescue," he muttered, trying to seize back some control.
Will didn't let him have it.
"That protocol doesn't apply to this."
His tone sharpened like a blade drawn too fast.
"We need to move. Now. Or we die. That's the only rule down here."
Wignall's lips parted, a rebuttal ready on instinct.
But Will silenced it with a stare.
"Do you think anyone's going to reach us quickly," he said coolly, "with that thing still prowling the tenth floor?"
The memory of the demon—those eyes, that grin—froze Wignall mid-thought.
A chill slid up his spine.
He understood. This was Will's victory.
He lowered his head again.
Then stood.
And followed after Will, who had already turned and begun walking away.
As if he knew this was always how it would end.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.
Kiki's nose twitched as the carbuncle led the way, Will trailing close behind her, and Wignall lagging at the rear.
Sweat rolled down the elf's chin as his eyes darted along the corridor walls, alert and restless.
Bwoom.
A faint pulse rippled outward as Wignall activated Search, a dome of magic spreading from his core, scanning the area around them.
"..."
Will Serfort came to a halt.
He turned slowly to look back—not coldly, but without the faintest warmth.
That alone set off Wignall's temper.
"WHAT—"
He stopped himself short.
Will's gaze sharpened—icy and unreadable—and the elf bit his tongue, forcing his voice into a harsh whisper.
"What is it? Why do you keep looking at me like that?"
Will didn't blink. "You keep using Search."
The flatness of his tone deepened Wignall's frustration.
"Why of course I am!" he snapped, barely keeping his voice down. "What if there's another ambush?!"
He pressed on, cutting Will off before he could speak.
"This is the eleventh floor. We are stranded in a danger zone! Anything could happen—anything! I'm doing what I should be doing: casting advance detection to prepare for—"
"You're screwing us over."
Will's words landed without anger, but with absolute certainty.
Wignall stared, stunned.
Will stepped forward.
"Most monsters down here can evade Search. And they're hypersensitive to magical fluctuations. By casting like that, you're not detecting them—you're inviting them."
His voice was quiet. Controlled.
"You're telling every predator in this zone: Here I am. Dinner's served."
Wignall's mouth opened but no reply came. Then anger twisted in his eyes.
"Th-that's ridiculous! For all we know, they're already aware of us. Yes, Search isn't perfect, but it's better than doing nothing and walking blind through—"
"I told you to control your voice."
Will's words cut through him like a whip, and he stepped in again—now chest-to-chest with the elf.
Gulp.
Wignall swallowed hard, a dry lump catching in his throat. He stumbled back instinctively.
Will didn't follow.
But the irritation in his eyes was plain now, just beneath the surface, held barely in check.
And Wignall felt it.
He'd narrowly avoided something worse.
Will held up his pocket watch.
"Time doesn't matter when Search is involved. What matters is distance."
He snapped the lid shut and slid the watch back into his coat.
"Your range is wide, sure—but between me and Kiki, we've got enemy detection covered. She'll sniff them out. I'll handle the rest."
Will jabbed a finger forward, pointing just in front of Wignall's chest.
"You conserve your magic. Store it for emergencies. If things go bad, we'll need you to fight—or run. Preferably run."
Wignall opened his mouth to argue.
But the words died in his throat.
Today alone, Will had killed a deformis sepenet and several other creatures on the eleventh floor. And Wignall had seen what he did during the Grand Festival. His instincts told him everything he needed to know.
So instead, the elf lowered his wand with a clenched jaw and muttered bitterly.
"I don't get it... How can you be this calm in a situation like this?"
Will's expression flickered—just for a moment.
Then he shut his eyes, took a breath, and when he opened them, he looked like the same old Will again: sheepish, awkward, too nice for his own good.
He scratched the side of his face.
"If I want to climb the tower without spellwork, my only choice is to maximize writing and praxis credits. That means extra time down here."
Not to mention Shishō used to drag me around the lower floors… until two years ago. Then he stopped, without a word.
He pushed the thought away and forced a thin smile.
"I'm not proud of it, but… to stay enrolled, I practically lived in this dungeon. Being stranded? I've probably gone through it a hundred times already."
Will gave a half-hearted chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
Wignall didn't laugh.
Will's smile faltered. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"A-anyway, the point is—I just have more experience. That's all. So it's normal I'd know a little more about what to do down here."
But before Will could say anything more, his senses spiked.
So did Kiki's.
The carbuncle hissed sharply, eyes glowing.
"Mrow!"
Will's gaze snapped forward, his ki already flaring to match hers.
Something was coming.
A trio of grotesque, humanoid, boar-headed monsters emerged from the shadows—none of them had eyes.
Gergesas.
Eight-credit monsters.
They fanned out in a loose arc, encircling the group. Will shifted his stance and called out.
"Wignall, get ready."
The elf gritted his teeth.
I don't need you to tell me that!
Thump.
The mutated pigs—each one as wide as a boulder and twice as angry—stepped forward, thick drool hanging from their jagged tusks. The stench hit like a punch to the gut.
Will moved first.
Sword drawn, he lunged at the pair on the left without hesitation.
"I've got these two! You take the one on the right!"
Wignall's expression twisted.
Stop telling me what to do!
The largest of the three Gergesas let out a gurgling squeal and charged, its foul breath making dwarven ale smell like perfume in comparison.
Wignall raised his wand.
"Verdes Lana!"
A violent blast of wind erupted from the tip—like a sideways cyclone—slamming into the creature's chest and halting its charge. It staggered back, feet tangling in an unnoticed vine at its heel.
Thud!
It hit the ground hard, rattling the floor.
"Huff... huff…"
Panting lightly, Wignall turned to check on Will—only to freeze in place.
Will was weaving through the other two monsters like a phantom, his sword a silver blur. One Gergesa shrieked as its arm was lopped off at the shoulder, a geyser of blood spraying into the air.
It stumbled back, howling in agony.
Will didn't even blink.
He pivoted cleanly, blade already coming around for the next strike. No fear. No hesitation. No mercy.
Just cold, ruthless precision.
Like it was routine.
Like he'd done this a hundred times before.
Wignall couldn't tear his eyes away.
Will moved like a machine possessed—tracking, reading, adjusting to every shift in the monsters' attack patterns as if he'd fought them dozens of times before. Each motion was deliberate. Efficient. Lethal.
The so-called no-talent was using strange tools and unconventional tactics to compensate for his lack of magic—and winning.
The sight made Wignall's stomach churn.
No spells. No inherited bloodline gifts. Just pure technique, experience, and grit.
Is it really possible to grow strong like that…? Without talent? Without magic?
His grip tightened around his wand.
If I had worked harder… if I'd just tried… could I have met their expectations? Could I have—
He bit his lip hard, panic prickling beneath his skin.
C-compared to him, I'm just tr—
Thump.
The dungeon doesn't forgive hesitation.
It doesn't care about introspection or regret. It punishes distraction with brutal, instant cruelty.
And Wignall—spiraling into his own thoughts—committed a rookie mistake.
He hadn't finished the job.
That smell…
The pungent, greasy stench of the Gergesa hit him full-force, snapping his head up.
The same monster he'd knocked down earlier was back—towering over him, not a scratch on its bloated hide.
No!
Wignall raised his wand in a panic.
I need time to cast—!
"Gah?!"
Too close. Too fast. He couldn't squeeze a full chant out in time.
Think—!
In a split-second decision, he poured magic into his wand.
A smokescreen—! I'll blind it, stall it just long enough to—
A solid plan.
Any monster but a Gergesa, and it might've worked.
But he was facing a Gergesa.
"Nardrea!"
Will's head snapped around at the call, catching sight of Wignall raising his wand.
No—!
The illusionary flames flared to life around the advancing monster, just as Will recognized the spell.
"Wignall, stop! Those things don't—!"
He didn't finish.
The truth made itself plain as the Gergesa charged straight through the wall of fire, unfazed.
Of course. Beasts without eyes, only relying on their nose and ears… how could scentless, soundless illusions fool them?
"Aaaggghhh!"
Wignall shrieked as he hit the ground, scrambling back on his hands as the monster loomed over him, jaws yawning wide to bite clean through his skull.
Shit!
Will turned, slicing his last opponent wide open with a brutal, practiced slash. He didn't wait for the corpse to hit the ground.
In one swift motion, he grabbed a dagger from his belt and hurled it.
Thuck!
The blade slammed into the side of the Gergesa's head, throwing its charge off-course.
"Guh!"
The beast staggered. That was all Will needed.
In the next instant, he was there—blurring forward with terrifying speed—and brought his sword down in a clean, savage arc.
Shlk—!
The monster fell in two.
Will exhaled, wiping the blood from his blade before sheathing it.
But Wignall wasn't watching the monster anymore.
He was staring at Will.
His hands trembled slightly at his sides, but not from fear.
Not anymore.
Something darker—long buried—was clawing its way up his throat.
Years of frustration. Years of humiliation.
And it was about to boil over.
Will stared at him for a long moment, weighing his options.
Then he chose the hard approach.
"Use your head. How can something without eyes be fooled by that?"
His tone was sharp. Final.
"Illusions won't work."
Wignall didn't respond. Not immediately.
Then—he laughed.
A slow, bitter chuckle that bubbled up from the pit of something dark.
"Heh… haha… ha…"
It wasn't right. It was laughter soaked in acid—self-hating and cracked.
Will's eyes narrowed.
Did I… go too far?
He hadn't meant to break the elf.
Just check him—knock some pride off before it gets them both killed.
But this?
This wasn't good.
Confidence was oxygen down here. Doubt, on the other hand, was fatal. The three things that killed most mages in the dungeon were inferior ability, poor prep, or hesitation.
And Wignall was spiraling.
Will stepped forward, crouched down. His expression softened—gentle, even sheepish.
"Forget it. You're a talented mage. You'll get them next—"
"Wrong."
Will blinked.
"…What?"
"You don't understand."
Wignall's voice had gone quiet, almost childlike.
He slowly lifted his head—and Will froze.
Gone was the haughty sneer, the veil of perfection, the pride.
What looked up at him now was bare.
Ugly.
Raw.
"I'm not talented."
Will stared.
Wignall's voice didn't shake. That's what made it worse.
"I'm a failure."
Huh?
"I, Wignall Lindor, am a failure."
That name—once said with awe or envy, now sounded like a curse in the boy's mouth.
An elf. Second in their year. Top of the class.
Praised by students and teachers alike.
And yet…
He looked utterly hollow.
Will didn't know what to say.
For the first time, he was the one left speechless.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
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