Morning slipped through the cracked windows of the eastern zone when Fleck, Drakar, and Rogar crossed Valebris's outer limits. No symbols. No banners. But there was certainty in their steps, rhythm in their glances, and a tension in the air no guard dared interrupt.
Drakar walked ahead, long strides, axe strapped to his back with thick leather. Rogar followed in the center, shield wrapped in a coarse cloth, eyes scanning like a silent watchdog. Fleck closed the formation, hand near the hilt of his blade, eyes tracing tracks, broken leaves, scents, and shifts in the wind.
Their destination was a place whispered about in taverns: the ruins of Tir Drakonn, where a wild dungeon had reemerged.
Unlike Agency-stabilized zones, wild dungeons weren't anchored by cores. They were alive, shifting. Creatures emerged as mana fluctuated. Inside, walls bent, paths shifted, and time became distorted. No reports. No supervision. But those who survived… came back stronger.
And they were willing to risk everything.
By noon, they reached the base of the ruins. An old monastery carved from gray stone lay half-sunken beneath roots and vines. Shattered dragon statues lined what used to be a ceremonial path. The wind whispered forgotten names.
Fleck knelt and touched the ground.
— "Unstable mana pulses. It's alive."
Rogar nodded.
— "The rift opened less than three days ago. We might face first-cycle creatures."
Drakar scoffed.
— "Good. That means they haven't claimed the territory yet. Easier to kill."
— "Not necessarily less dangerous," Fleck muttered, eyes fixed on the dark entrance.
None of them hesitated.
They entered.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, the temperature dropped. The darkness wasn't empty—it was thick, layered with magical tension. The air smelled of damp stone, rotting flesh, and burnt mana.
The first enemies came without warning: three short, hunched beings with bloated eyes and side fangs. Not goblins—but corrupted variants, shaped by mana instability. They moved erratically, like broken predators.
Fleck struck first. A low spin, clean and fast, targeting the exposed knee joint of the first creature. Black blood sprayed, and his blade pulsed blue for an instant. Drakar followed, smashing the second one into a pillar with the haft of his axe. Rogar caught the third's charge with his shield and slit its throat with a forearm blade.
Fast. Precise. Silent.
They didn't speak.
They advanced.
In deeper chambers, they faced shadow-beasts with glowing eyes and thorned limbs. Drakar led the charge, Rogar held the flanks, and Fleck weaved between shadows, slashing vital points with surgical calm.
But the mana… began to react.
Walls grew damp. Doors they'd passed through vanished. A hallway dissolved behind them and reformed elsewhere.
— "The dungeon's core is adapting," Rogar muttered. "If we linger, it'll seal us inside."
— "Then we carve a path," Fleck replied.
They reached a wide gallery filled with slanted pillars. At its center stood an altar choked with roots. Above it pulsed a crystalline orb—green-blue, unstable. Guarding it was a creature… no. A construct. Bone, scale, and raw mana shaped into a winged serpent. Its eyes burned with fractured awareness.
— "A Guardian," Drakar whispered. "First-generation."
— "If we defeat it, the core will collapse temporarily. We can extract pure essence," Rogar said.
— "And level up."
Fleck stepped forward.
The battle was savage.
The construct spewed magical acid, melting stone and burning air. Drakar dodged, but some of it splashed across his arm. Skin and leather hissed. He screamed—but didn't fall. Instead, he turned the pain into fuel and slammed the serpent's jaw.
Rogar moved like a tactician—shielding, deflecting, repositioning. His shield cracked from impact but never dropped.
Fleck felt time slow. Every movement from the beast was readable. His breath aligned with each strike. The blade began to glow brighter—blue, then violet, then white.
He saw the flaw: three fused vertebrae beneath the jaw. An unstable point.
He struck.
Three slashes. A spin. A vertical leap. The blade cleaved mana and bone. The orb pulsed violently. The creature shrieked—and then collapsed.
Silence.
Then:
You have defeated a Guardian-class creature.
+312 XP
Total XP: 512 / 500
You have leveled up!
Level 5 achieved.
Class Unlock Available.
Analyzing combat pattern…
Assigned Class: Arcane Swordsman
Description: A warrior who fuses blade and unstable mana. Prioritizes speed, precision, and control. Attacks carry arcane properties and chain effects. Can channel life force into consecutive strikes.
Hidden Passive Ability detected.
Error: Information inaccessible. Name and effect hidden.
Fleck breathed hard. Blood dripped from his chin. But he smiled.
— "Arcane Swordsman…"
Drakar approached, arm still sizzling.
— "Your blade. It was glowing white. What the hell was that?"
— "I don't know. But it worked."
Rogar watched the crystal, now flickering.
— "Let's extract what we can and leave. The core's destabilizing. The dungeon will try to rebuild."
Fleck nodded.
— "And next time… we come back."
— "Already thinking ahead?" Drakar muttered.
— "That was just the beginning."
Rogar gave him a long look. Then surveyed the broken creature, the shattered altar, and the mana fragments swirling like dust.
— "Clans are built through choice. Through instinct. Through survival."
Drakar stood.
— "Then maybe we're already one."
Fleck looked at them both.
— "No name yet. No emblem."
— "But we've got combat," Rogar said.
— "And the will to win," Drakar added.
Outside, the sun had begun to rise.
Three figures climbed the ruins.
For the first time, as one.
For the first time… as a clan.