Fenrir stood at the edge of the dungeon, the air thick with mana and tension.
The moment he stepped through the gate, his senses lit up—not because of the dungeon's monsters, but because of the oppressive weight of gazes on his back.
His instincts screamed a warning: he was being hunted.
He didn't turn around. Didn't react.
Just walked forward slowly, pretending not to notice the silent footsteps that followed behind.
But his eyes were narrowed and sharp.
His senses, honed through countless battles and enhanced by his potions, picked up at least a dozen presences trailing him.
Close enough to observe, far enough to avoid suspicion. Professionals. Or obsessed lunatics. Maybe both.
"They're trying to confirm it. Whether I'm really Mr. 'X' or not."
He muttered to himself, glancing at the jagged rocks and twisted roots ahead.
He knew this would happen eventually.
