A pulsing blue gate stood before them, its translucent surface rippling like disturbed water under the dull glow of the evening sun. The color signified a Rank 2 dungeon, a challenge but not an insurmountable one. The gate exuded a faint hum, a steady, rhythmic vibration that resonated deep within the bones—an ancient invitation and a warning all at once. Its towering presence warped the air around it, casting an eerie distortion as if the very fabric of reality struggled to contain what lurked inside.
The dungeon registry station was set up just a few feet away, a reinforced booth made of dark alloy with runic engravings that pulsed faintly. A heavy-set guard with weathered skin and tired eyes stood behind a console, lazily chewing on something as he gestured for them to approach.
"IDs." His voice was gruff, void of any enthusiasm. He barely spared them a glance as they each handed over their identification tokens.
With a mechanical click, the console scanned their essence signatures, verifying their eligibility. The screen flashed green, and a secondary device beside it hummed to life. It was a compact essence measurement tool, shaped like a metallic sphere with glowing sigils running across its smooth surface.
"Here." The guard shoved the device into Garrick's hands. "Once the dungeon is cleared, the readings will drop. If they don't, well… something's wrong." He exhaled and wiped his forehead. "Not that it should be a problem. This model only measures up to Rank 4, so if anything beyond that shows up—" he gave a dry chuckle, "—you lot are already dead."
The team exchanged glances, but Garrick merely grunted and tucked the device into his belt.
"Anything else we need to know?" Kaelin asked, fingers idly tracing the hilt of his sword.
The guard leaned back in his chair, yawning. "Yeah, don't die." He waved them off. "And don't try to smuggle anything ridiculous back. You know the rules."
With that, they turned towards the gate. Its ethereal surface rippled as if sensing their presence, the steady hum intensifying into a low, resonant thrum.
Garrick took point, stepping forward without hesitation. As he touched the surface, a cold sensation rushed over his skin, and then—
—the world twisted.
----
Inside the Dungeon: The Grassland Maw
A wave of warmth washed over them as they stepped into the dungeon, the stark contrast to the cool evening outside disorienting for a split second. The sky was a deep, cloudless blue, a painted illusion with no sun but an eerie ambient glow that provided light. A gentle breeze swept through the endless expanse of swaying golden-green grass, rustling with an almost whispering quality, as though unseen mouths murmured secrets carried by the wind.
The air was rich and earthy, carrying the scent of soil, grass, and something… wilder. A faint metallic tang lingered underneath, the unmistakable scent of blood, too faint to see but enough to make the skin crawl.
"This is different from what I expected," Roran muttered, adjusting his bow as his sharp green eyes scanned the open terrain. "More open than I like. No natural choke points."
Garrick, standing with his arms crossed, nodded. "Grassland-type dungeons are tricky. The terrain favors the disasters. They'll blend in, attack from unexpected angles. No walls to funnel them into a fight."
Kaelin ran his fingers through the tall grass, watching as the sharp blades parted around his hand. "Feels unnatural," he muttered.
Renji, adjusting his twin daggers, scoffed. "It's a dungeon. It's not supposed to feel natural."
Further ahead, a massive tree stood like a lone sentinel in the middle of the plains. Its ashen bark twisted in gnarled knots, and its canopy of crimson leaves cast dark shadows over the ground. It was the only major landmark in sight.
"I'll take a look from up there." Roran was already moving, his footsteps nearly silent as he approached the tree. He reached into his quiver, pulled out a thin black rope arrow, and notched it.
With a sharp twang, he fired. The arrow shot upward, embedding itself into the bark with a firm thunk. He tested the tension, then scaled the tree with practiced ease, vanishing into the dense crimson foliage.
Garrick watched him go before turning back to the group. "We need a clearing. Kaelin, do your thing."
Kaelin stepped forward, his long sword gleaming as he unsheathed it in a slow, deliberate motion. A faint blue essence pulsed along the blade's edge as he channeled his power, the air around him humming in response.
With a smooth, fluid motion, he swung.
The arc of his blade traced a perfect crescent through the air. A sudden whirl of wind followed, and the tall grass in a ten-meter radius around them was severed cleanly, collapsing in a perfect circle. The fresh scent of cut vegetation mixed with the dungeon's earthy aroma.
A brief silence followed.
Then—a rustle.
It came from the edge of the clearing, barely perceptible, but Denwen felt it before he saw it.
Something was there.
A blur of muscle and steel erupted from the grass, moving with terrifying speed. A Bladed Tiger.
It was a monstrous feline, its sinewy body covered in dark-striped fur, but what made it truly horrifying were the jagged, keratinous blades that jutted out from its front shoulders, extending in razor-sharp arcs. Its amber eyes burned with predatory hunger as it lunged—
—straight for Denwen.
A heartbeat passed.
Renji, the speedster, was closest. He could have intercepted.
But he didn't move.
Denwen's instincts screamed. His body, honed by endless drills, reacted. Brawler arts—fluid motion, precise execution.
His feet shifted, weight centered. His hands moved, not to block but to redirect.
As the beast pounced, he sidestepped, his arm snaking forward in an almost gentle touch against the tiger's leading paw—then he twisted, using the beast's own momentum against it.
A pivot. A shift. A devastating counter.
His knee shot up, slamming into the tiger's exposed throat with brutal precision. A sickening crack followed as the beast's trajectory was forcibly altered, its own weight slamming it face-first into the ground with bone-crushing force.
A moment later, it lay still.
A stunned silence filled the clearing.
Denwen exhaled, shaking the tension from his hands. The thrill of battle still pulsed in his veins, his muscles wound tight.
"Wait… Ren" Korrin's voice broke the quiet, his brown eyes wide with shock. "Was that… Brawler Arts?"
Denwen didn't answer.
But Korrin wasn't just surprised. He was stunned. Because he was a brawler too. And what Denwen had just done… wasn't basic.
It was an advanced combination of multiple martial forms—something that took years to refine.
Renji, meanwhile, was silent. His fingers twitched as he adjusted the straps on his daggers. He hadn't intervened. And yet, he didn't look pleased.
Garrick, ever the pragmatist, merely shook his head and glanced at the essence measurement tool on his belt. The number was still high, meaning there were more disasters ahead.
"This place is running dry," he muttered. "Not many mana crystals left. We're collapsing this dungeon for a reason. Let's finish up."
No one argued.
The hunt had only just begun.