Eri had known something was wrong. Not here. Not in the dungeon.
Before.
Back at the teleportation gate, as the parties were stepping onto the runes, he had caught it—the flicker of a motion, a hand-off between the four dark-cloaked figures. Something wrong passed between them. Too fluid. Too rehearsed.
He thought he was the only one who noticed. But then he saw the kid—the storm-eyed one. Lucian. His gaze had snapped to the same moment, his expression tightening. Interesting. Eri made a note to toss the kid a pointer later.
When they passed through the Veil, he landed hard, but wasted no time. His first sweep told him what he needed. The brute, Durn, was nearby. The two kids—Lucian and the blonde aristocrat girl—weren't too far either.
Good.
He would let them handle themselves.
He had hunting to do.
His path through the dungeon was silent, swift. Vines curled overhead like veins in the sky, and strange fireflies blinked like stars. The Aether here shimmered on his skin like fogged glass, thick enough to weigh on the lungs but not enough to choke. Yet.
Then he found them.
A group of adventurers. Dead.
Their bodies lay as if frozen in their final expressions. Confused. Surprised. No signs of magical wounds—just rapid, surgically precise cuts. Too fast for a response. Too sharp for hesitation.
A dagger.
An assassin?
No… more.
Peak warrior. At least.
Martial ranks were simple in theory, hard in practice.
Novice—find your weapon and get a "feel" of it.
Warrior—fight, refine, bleed with it.
By mid-warrior, a style emerges. A pattern, a rhythm.
By peak, your mana blends with it, enhancing both you and your weapon. Battle aura. Weapon aura.
These corpses had been carved in an instant—every strike executed with such aura and precision that Eri could almost hear the rhythm left behind in the air.
Then he found another party after five hours. Fresher blood. Still warm.
He tracked it by scent.
And it led him here.
Two figures stood in the glade.
One—burly, broad-shouldered, an axe on each shoulder. His aura bristled with hunger, as if itching for war.
The other—leaner, younger, clutching a crossbow with white knuckles. His eyes twitched to every shadow.
Eri didn't waste time.
"I'll make it clear," he said, stepping out.
He adjusted his grip on his weapon—an obsidian-forged spear, dark as a starless sky. Runes flickered dimly along its length, and the head gleamed with jagged sharpness, shaped like a broken fang. A weapon not built, but shaped—as though carved from the spine of the dungeon itself.
With a whisper of breath, he released his aura.
It surged around him like a silent tempest—crimson-violet and cold. The unmistakable weight of a Peak Warrior. The ground near his feet cracked lightly, as if reacting to the pressure.
"Tell me your plan," he said, voice low. "And I'll make your deaths quick."
His gaze flicked between them.
"Or die knowing I'll carve it from your comrades."
Bee grinned.
Muscles tensed. He rolled his neck. "Finally," he said. "Some fun."
His aura flared, wild and raw, barely contained. A half-step below Eri, but still deadly.
Aa muttered a curse and scrambled into the canopy, seeking cover.
And then—
The moonlight filtered down, filtered through the warped canopy of the dungeon—split and refracted by the Veil above. It painted the clearing in streaks of green and silver, making Eri's mask shimmer with spectral sheen.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He just said softly, "Come, then."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They had moved camp just before dusk—away from the choking pressure of the dungeon core. Here, near the outer shell, the Aether wasn't as dense. The air still shimmered faintly with green haze, but the oppressive weight had lessened.
Lucian sat in the clearing with a dozen other adventurers. Scarred men, twitchy mages, and one boy who couldn't stop clenching his dagger.
The fire crackled, casting warped shadows on the mossy trunks.
People spoke in low voices—first about the mutated bugs, then the elementals, then… the bodies.
Not all the wounds looked natural. Some corpses were cleaved clean through—others were crumpled like paper. One man whispered about a group they found with not a mark on them… except for a faint burn in the center of their chests.
MURK Level 1 creatures didn't do that.
Lucian listened silently. He read about it. Dungeon-induced paranoia. The slow, creeping madness born from fear, fatigue, and Aether exposure.
Insanity bred from isolation...
His eyes trailed across the flickering circle.
Cordelia sat just beside, hugging her knees, a half-eaten fruit resting in her lap. Her staff lay beside her, unlit for once. For all her bravado earlier, she looked drained.
No one had eaten much. The plants in the dungeon were Aether-tainted—bioluminescent, twisted. Some could be edible, but no one volunteered to find out.
Lucian sighed and leaned back against the tree behind him. His muscles ached, and mana trickled into him like syrup.
So this is what suppression truly feels like…
He closed his eyes, meditating again. Drawing in mana. Smoothing his mind.
And slowly, his thoughts drifted back—to his sword on his lap.
Even when his mana faltered, the blade had never left him. When everything twisted, it had stayed.
The sword gave him clarity.
He breathed in.
And opened his eyes.
Cordelia was staring at him. Her face was unreadable—tired, guarded, but beneath that…
"…You think Durn's dead?" she asked, quietly.
Lucian paused. "No."
She blinked. "You're sure?"
He shrugged, "That man looks like he needs your permission to die."
That almost earned a smile. Instead, she looked down at her hands.
"…You scared?" she whispered.
Lucian looked at her for a moment. Then mirrored the question back. "Are you?"
She scoffed and puffed her cheeks. "Of course not. Please. What's there to be scared of? Pfft. Aether? Darkness? Creepy whispers in the trees?"
Lucian raised a brow. "Creepy whispers?"
She hesitated. "…Forget I said that."
He smiled faintly.
Then—
BOOM.
The sky shook.
A ripple of wind surged through the trees—strong enough to kick dust and scatter embers.
The fire died instantly. Gasps and cries could be heard from the crowd.
Cordelia yelped and instinctively grabbed him, clutching his arm in a white-knuckled grip. Her breath was ragged.
Lucian's heart was already pounding, Arcane Attunement sparking.
Cordelia whispered, "What was that?"
Lucian stared into the trees, eyes narrowing.
"…A fight."