Azazel sat on the bed, rubbing his eyes. "A magic bag, huh. That's the thing that stores all the junk inside, right?"
She nodded. "It's enchanted. You could fit a wagon's worth of gear inside. But it costs a hundred gold."
"Figures" he muttered. "Guess we better start Hustle."
The Adventurers' Guild was alive with the morning crowd. Hunters, mages, and mercenaries filled the hall, their chatter echoing against stone walls.
Azazel walked up to the quest board with Reginleif at his side.
Most of the parchment slips were low-ranked — exterminations, escorts, gathering materials. But they needed quick money, not glory.
"We'll take as many as they'll allow" he said.
Reginleif glanced at him, half-impressed, half-worried. "You sure you can handle that pace?"
He smirked. "I've been running from worse things."
They handed the stack of quests to the receptionist. She blinked, clearly unsure if they were serious, but stamped each sheet anyway.
Their first hunt began outside the city walls.
Kobolds again — but larger, faster than before.
Azazel led the charge, his movements sharp and deliberate. The sword he'd sold had been replaced by a more balanced longsword — lighter, cleaner, easier to control. His strikes were fast, brutal, efficient.
Reginleif's Wind Mythic sliced through the air beside him, her blade following like a whisper.
Together, they moved in sync — an unspoken rhythm of survival.
One quest ended, another began.
They cleared a group of goblins in the eastern field, chased off bandits harassing a caravan, and scouted a forest for missing travelers.
By the time the sun started to dip, their blades were dull, their clothes caked in dirt and blood.
And yet — the fire in Azazel's eyes hadn't dimmed once.
Eight quests.
Eight different contracts, all completed within a single day.
The guild hall was quieter by the time they returned.
Azazel dropped a bloodstained pouch onto the counter. "done."
The receptionist stared, wide-eyed. "A-all of them? In one day?"
Reginleif sighed, stretching her shoulders. "please don't ask about it."
A few adventurers turned to look. Whispers spread — silver armor clinked, mugs paused midair.
The guild's clerk counted the reward money with shaking hands, then handed them a heavy pouch.
Azazel weighed it in his hand — one hundred and twelve gold pieces. Enough.
He met Reginleif's gaze, and for a moment, neither spoke. Just a quiet nod of understanding.
Then came the call from the back.
A man in standard guild robes — likely an officer — stepped forward. His face unreadable, tone formal.
"You two," he said, glancing at their completed forms. ,"Multiple successful contracts, same day, clean execution… The guild has decided to promote your rank. From Bronze to Silver."
Reginleif bowed slightly. "Thank you sir"
Azazel only gave a short nod.
No cheers, no smiles. Just a quiet sense of seriously that's all the money.
They left the guild and headed for the merchant district. The air was thick with smoke and spice, hawkers shouting over each other, the scent of metal and oil hanging over every street.
Azazel handed over most of their earnings to buy what they needed —
Healing potions, dried food, torches, rope, spare knives, and a small map of the region's known dungeons.
When they reached the magic bag vendor, the old lady behind the counter simply said,
"Hundred gold. Kiddoz."
Azazel looked down at his coin pouch — only 104 gold coins left
Azazel give the pouch to Reginleif "negotiate with this hug"
Reginleif proceeded to buy the magic bag "alright we're done here let's go to the inn I am starving"
That night, back at the inn, the city's lights glowed faintly through the window.
Reginleif had already fallen asleep, her dagger resting by her side, the fire's glow tracing soft lines across her hair.
Azazel sat cross-legged on the floor.
His eyes were closed, his breathing steady.
The air around him trembled faintly.
Inside his mind — the Mythic Tree stirred.
Darkness pooled like ink, branching upward into twisting roots that reached for unseen skies. He felt the flow of something ancient, distant, but alive.
Not power — not yet — but presence.
A reminder that whatever this force was, it had chosen him. Or maybe cursed him.
His breathing slowed. The sound of the world around him faded into a single, rhythmic pulse.
Mythic... Tree...
He didn't understand it yet. But it was there, deep inside, whispering in a voice that wasn't quite human.
When he finally opened his eyes, the fire had burned low.
His reflection in the window looked sharper, colder — the eyes of someone who'd already walked through hell once before.
He looked toward the window, where the faint outline of Fortress Cong's walls shimmered in the moonlight.
Beyond them, the dungeon waited — an ancient labyrinth of stone and shadow.
Tomorrow, they would descend into it.
Not as wanderers, but as Silver-ranked adventurers of this world.
Azazel exhaled slowly.
"Alright" he murmured to the empty room. "What the hell you've got waiting for me."
The candlelight flickered once, then went out.
The Next Day
The heavy stone door groaned shut behind them, sealing out the last sliver of daylight. The air grew cold and still, smelling of wet rock and ancient dust.
So this is the entrance Azazel thought, his voice a silent echo in the cavernous gloom.
Their footsteps were the only sound as they descended into the first floor of the dungeon. The silence was broken soon enough—not by a roar, but by a wet, squelching sound. Slimes, pale and gelatinous, oozed from cracks in the walls. From the shadows above, the flutter of leathery wings signaled the arrival of bats, while the guttural snarls of dungeon hounds echoed ahead.
The fight was messy but efficient. Reginleif's blade flashed, dispatching the bats with precise strikes, while Azazel's longsword carved through the hounds. The slimes were more of a nuisance, their acidic bodies sizzling against their boots until a few well-placed kicks shattered their cores.
After the skirmish, a small alcove revealed their prize: a weathered treasure chest banded with tarnished iron.
Azazel nudged his chin towards it. "Hey, Reginleif. Your turn. You're the thief, after all."
Reginleif gave a quiet snort but didn't argue. She knelt, pulling a small roll of leather from her belt—her lockpicking kit. Her hands moved with a practiced, delicate precision, the faint *click-clack* of her tools the only sound in the quiet chamber. After a moment, there was a solid pop.
The lid creaked open.
Inside lay three silver coins and a single, dull gemstone the color of mud.
Azazel let out a short, derisive breath. "Wait, that's it? What a damn letdown."
"Chill, dude,' Reginleif said, scooping the meager loot into her pouch. "It's the first floor. The further we go, the better the rewards."
"Yeah, whatever," he muttered, his eyes already scanning the dark passage ahead. "We're only going three floors down today. I'll try to map this place. We can come back later."
"Okay," Reginleif agreed, her tone all business once more. "Dude."
The descent to the second floor was a tighter spiral, the air growing colder. The creatures here were different. Bat monsters with sharper claws swooped in swarms, and suits of animated armor, their metal shells scraping against stone, clanked forward with relentless intent.
"Wind Cut" Reginleif whispered, her hand outstretched. A sharp gust of compressed air shot forth, slicing through the bat swarm and staggering the armored figures.
"Now!" she called.
Azazel's eyes narrowed. He felt the familiar, cold pool of energy in his gut. "Darkness Pause.
Tendrils of shadow, like living ink, erupted from the floor at his feet, wrapping around the legs and joints of the armored monsters. They strained against the bonds, their movements slowing to a grinding halt, immobilized.
It was all the opening Reginleif needed. Her blade became a silver blur, finding the gaps in the frozen armor, striking with lethal efficiency.
As the last suit of armor clattered uselessly to the ground, Azazel looked down at his hands, the lingering shadow energy dissipating like smoke.
The dungeon was testing them. And they were just getting started.
The second floor yielded no treasure, only more grinding combat and the slow, steady consumption of their torchlight. The air grew heavier, the silence more profound, broken only by the scrape of metal on stone and their own steady breathing.
When they reached the third floor, the chamber opened into a wider cavern. Their light glinted off a half-dozen suits of walking armor, their movements synchronized and hostile. Behind them, a Great Slime pulsed, a massive, translucent mound of gelatinous matter that quivered with each step its armored guards took.
"We clear the room" Azazel said, his voice low. Reginleif nodded.
The fight was a brutal dance. Azazel's longsword sparked against enchanted metal, parrying and striking with controlled fury. Reginleif's wind Mythic howled, carving gaps in the armor's defenses for her dagger to exploit. One by one, the animated suits clattered to the ground, inert.
Only two remained. But as Azazel moved to strike the final armor, the Great Slime surged forward. Instead of attacking, it enveloped the metal suit, flowing into the joints and seams. The armor groaned, swelling in size, now coated in a shimmering, acidic gel. A single, malevolent red eye blinked to life within the helmet.
Azazel and Reginleif leapt back.
"Wait…" Azazel muttered, his mind racing. "I've read about this. In bestiaries. Sometimes monsters adapt to the situation to survive."
"Yeah, well, reading about it and seeing it up close are two different things," Reginleif shot back, her eyes fixed on the fused abomination.
They attacked in unison, but their blows were futile. Azazel's sword slid harmlessly off the slime-coated plate, and Reginleif's wind blades were absorbed by the gelatinous mass. The monster lumbered forward, its defense seemingly impenetrable.
"Azazel," Reginleif said, her voice tight with strain. "Got any plans on how to beat this thing?"
"Isn't this the third floor?" he grunted, dodging a heavy, slime-covered fist. ,"It's supposed to be easy, right? Right?"
"For a party of four, you idiot!"
A grim smirk touched his lips. "Don't worry. A duo like us can pull this shit off." His mind worked faster than his blade. The slime is liquid. Freezing it is the right choice. But I need to get through to the armor core... the Great Slime regenerates. My darkness can damage it, but it's too slow. New choice... I have to freeze it. Completely.
He closed his eyes for a split second, reaching into the abyss within. The Mythic Tree's presence was a cold, vast expanse—an endless, starless night. He understood it now. It wasn't just absence of light; it was the absolute cold that came with it, the deep freeze of the void.
His eyes snapped open, burning with a pale, cold light. "Black Ice."
The air itself seemed to crackle. A wave of pure, absolute cold, darker than midnight, erupted from his outstretched hand. It wasn't frost; it was solidified shadow. The fused monster was encased in an instant, trapped within a prison of jagged, jet-black ice, its malevolent eye frozen mid-blink.
"Reginleif!" Azazel's voice was a sharp command, a slight tremor of exertion in his tone. "Your turn! Show me what you got!"
She was already moving. She dropped into a low stance, her dagger held reverse-grip. A vortex of emerald wind spiraled around the blade, compressing into a single, blinding point of energy.
"Now! **Piercing Feather!**"
She thrust her dagger forward. A needle-thin lance of concentrated wind shot forth, screaming through the air. It struck the black ice with a sound like shattering glass. The projectile didn't just break the ice; it pierced straight through the frozen slime, through the armored chest plate, and obliterated the monster's core hidden within.
The black ice exploded outward in a cloud of dark, frozen mist. The frozen monster shattered into a thousand pieces, leaving only a single, pulsating core that clattered to the stone floor, rolling to a stop at Azazel's feet.
The cavern was silent once more, the only sound the ragged pull of their own breath...