He didn't know how long he'd been asleep. But when the sirens hit, there was no hesitation. Hall call. Mandatory. Half-dressed cadets filled the corridor, eyes heavy, minds lagging. Instructors, too—just as tired, just as quiet. Kaelen wasn't an exception.
No one asked why. Everyone knew. Sometimes they trained them by showing what survival looked like in real time. Not in simulation. Not behind glass. But from the frontlines—live feeds, audio, raw terror.
Not everyone came back from dungeons. And tonight… they were going to remember that.
"…this is Lysa Corven, reporting live from Sector 3-R. We are currently witnessing one of the most devastating dungeon breaks in recent history."
"Casualty reports are coming in nonstop—over one thousand confirmed dead, and 2,349 injured at the time of this broadcast."
"The break was sudden. No warning. Initial analysis indicates mana output rivaling record-breaking catastrophes."
"Emergency protocols failed. Local forces were overwhelmed in under four minutes."
"Several elite guilds, including Obsidian Wake, Titan's Gate, and the Crownbreakers, have been mobilized."
"The situation is… unstable. We advise all non-combatants to remain in shelter until further notice."
"…repeat—this is not a drill."
The camera feed flickered. Static. Smoke. Screaming. And then—a glimpse. Not of a person. But something scaled and massive, slamming through concrete towers like they were made of paper. Only the lower half was visible—claws dragging across the street, tail snapping through debris, building after building crumbling in its wake.
The sound wasn't a roar. It was impact. Repetition. Collapse. A wall of muscle and scale—moving with purpose.
Around him, the cadets whispered.
"Last Hero…"
"He's actually there."
"No way he survives that."
"Bet he solos the whole thing."
Kaelen didn't speak. He didn't need to. The tension in their voices wasn't fear—it was excitement. Like they were watching a show. Like this was a game.
He stared at the screen. It was still cracked and frozen on the image of crumbling steel and dust.
They were smiling. He wasn't.
In the lower corner of the feed, a status bar glitched in and out—active mana saturation: off the chart. There wasn't even a port anchor listed. That was the part most of them didn't understand.
There was no escape route because no one had ever mapped this site. No mana gate. No return anchor. No support portal.
This wasn't a training sim. It wasn't even a real dungeon.
It was a rupture. Unplanned. Untethered. Undocumented. No dungeon core had ever been retrieved from that zone. And if the surge was real—if what they saw was more than just overflow…