The path to the Dungeon wound through the forest like a scar the land never quite healed. It's narrow, damp, and dappled with ghost-light where the canopy broke. Trees leaned in, ancient and gnarled, whispering secrets in a tongue made of creaks and rustle.
Kier Veyne walked it alone.
Birdsong faltered as he passed. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
His frame was lean, forged by hunger, harsh winters, and the kind of training you didn't survive unless you were desperate. Layers of worn leather clung close to his body, stitched dark brown over black, built for movement rather than protection. His long black sleeves kept multiple scars hidden from sight.
A black scarf hung around his neck, catching the breeze like a relic of some forgotten war. It clung to him like it knew what he was hiding.
His pants were fitted, reinforced with dull plating at the thighs and knees, the fabric faded from ash-gray to soot-black in places. Boots—well-worn, scuffed at the toe, and bolted with iron grips on the soles—dug into the dirt with quiet weight.
His hair, untamed and wild, gleamed white at the roots and bled into crimson tips, like frost bitten by flame.
But it wasn't just the hair that made people stare.
Moonlight Eyes.
Silver irises, threaded with pale blue veins that shimmered when the blood stirred beneath his skin. They caught the dim light like ice catching starlight, beautiful like winter. Cold. Sharp. The kind of beauty you didn't touch unless you were crazy.
He knew the whispers. He'd memorized the weight of people's fear. And yet—
"I still like them," he admitted, "which probably says more about me than I'm ready to unpack."
They were the one part of him that hadn't bowed to shame. The one piece untouched by regret.
He blinked. The glow dimmed, and his face fell back into shadow.
Ahead, the Dungeon rose like a wound in the world's memory.
It didn't look like a fortress. It looked like nature had tried to forget it existed, and failed.
Waterfalls spilled over moss-eaten ledges, vines strangled ancient stone, and wildflowers pulsed faintly with dormant mana like heartbeats lost in sleep. The structure was less a ruin than a secret the world had tried to bury.
Kier stopped at the crest of the hill and rested his hand on the axe across his back.
The dragon emblem carved into its grip was nearly gone now—rubbed down by use, sweat, and ghosts that refused to stay in the past.
"Even in a place this pure…" he muttered, "I still bring poison."
He closed his eyes. The air was thick with mana, wet grass, and something soft beneath it all…the scent of untouched beginnings.
It was beautiful.
And it made the weight in his chest feel so much heavier.
***
The plaza at the Dungeon's mouth unfurled like a stone lotus—wide and layered, carved into the forest's heart. Trees arched above like cathedral pillars, and old runes pulsed faintly along the stone underfoot, feeding on the ambient manalike roots drinking deep.
Hundreds of would-be Raiders packed the space, their voices rising and falling like tides against cliff walls. School colors flared like banners in a storm. Crimson and gold, storm-blue and ivory, deep green etched with spiritthread silver. Cloaks rustled. Armor gleamed.
And above it all, drifting through the morning haze like embers unclaimed by fire, were the spirits.
They hovered with the quiet grace of snowfall. Some were little more than glowing spheres, their auras pulsing in gentle rhythms of blue, gold, violet, and red.
"Basic spirits," Kier knew.
The most common kind. No mouths. No limbs. Just orbs of intent waiting for someone to draw them in.
But others…
He tilted his head as a second group passed overhead. They held a fairy-like shape, small wings and short limbs. Each one held the color of the affinity they represented.
"Intermediate class," he noted. "Probably drawn by the surplus of mana here today. There must be some good spirit users here."
Still rarer were the ones few noticed—true-formed spirits.
Only a handful drifted through the upper canopy, nearly invisible unless you knew what to look for. One resembled a glacial fox stitched from ice and sky-glow. Another, a serpent of silver flame.
Kier's gaze followed them, the weight in his chest pressing tighter.
"They always hovered near others. Never me."
"Guess glowing eyes and a bad reputation isn't exactly spirit-bait." He smirked faintly. "Go figure."
Still…some of the spirits didn't avoid him. Emphasis on the "some".
He passed through the crowd like smoke through cracks, he was seen, but not touched. His scarf trailed behind him like a shadow that forgot how to fade.
Voices chased his steps.
"Is that him?"
"White and blood hair. Silver eyes, with the blue veins…"
"I heard he drank blood as a child. Made a pact with a demon."
"No—he is the demon."
Kier didn't flinch. Didn't slow. Just kept walking with that too-calm posture that always made people more nervous.
He let the silence settle around him like armor.
"You'd think they'd get tired of whispering eventually. But I guess that's the fun of rumors."
Above, a stone balcony jutted from the Dungeon's face like a judgment throne. Mist swirled at its base. Morning light caught the twin figures standing atop it, casting long shadows onto the crowd below.
The first stepped forward.
Broad-shouldered. Crimson-trimmed armor that looked more ceremonial than practical. Close-cut white-gold hair. And a halberd on his back.
Sarn Ekros.
Kier's stomach tightened.
He'd never met Sarn. Didn't need to. Everyone in Lyveryn knew the name. Commander of the Redwake Knights. Kingmaker in armor. Smiled like a blade. Talked like a sermon.
When he spoke, his voice rolled through the crowd like thunder coaxing the sky to split.
"Welcome, Raiders… to the Raedari Trials."
Silence fell as if commanded.
"You stand at the edge of your future. Some of you will rise. Most will fall. And a few—if you're lucky—will learn what you're truly made of before the Dungeon decides for you."
He paused, eyes scanning the sea of faces. His presence was magnetic. Like gravity with sharp edges.
"As you all know, the Raedari Trials are open to anyone. No sponsors. No experience required. No guaranteed return."
He let that sink in.
"That's why we let you walk in blind. To see who truly understands themselves. Not just their magic. Not just their weapons. Themselves."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some stood taller. Others wilted.
"And this year," he continued, "we're doing something new."
Heads tilted. Kier raised a brow.
"If you reach Room Thirteen, you may challenge the Floor Boss. It's optional. But should you succeed… your name will be recorded. You'll be guaranteed recognition. Favor. Opportunity."
He let the final word echo.
"Or death," Kier muttered under his breath. "But sure. Favor sounds nicer."
Sarn's voice grew colder. "You are not to harm other teams. Violate this, and you will be removed. Or worse."
He raised a hand.
"There are observers on every floor. They will not assist you unless your life is truly at risk. If you are saved… you are disqualified."
Kier's hand drifted to the axe on his back.
"Not planning on needing help anyway."
"Some of you will scream. Some of you will run. Some of you will impress me. A very rare few."
He stepped back into the mist.
And then the second figure took his place. She didn't need to speak to shift the atmosphere.
Elsie Aynth. The Dragon-Slayer.
Silver hair flowed behind her like a river of starlight, catching every sunbeam in defiance. Her crystal-blue eyes shimmered in the sunlight, casting a spell over the boys in the crowd. Her armor shimmered with faint blue iridescence—dragon-scale, they said. From a beast no one else survived.
She stood with one hand on her hip and the other resting on the hilt of a sword that hummed against her back.
"I see fear," she said.
The words were soft. But they cut deeper than Sarn's thunder.
"Good."
She walked the edge of the balcony, pacing slow and sharp like a blade being unsheathed.
"This Dungeon won't play fair. Neither will the monsters. Neither will you, if you're smart."
The crowd was silent now. Not stunned, listening.
"You have three days to survive in the dungeon, and three days to prove yourself. You'll be cold. Tired. Alone. But that's where greatness starts. When nothing else is left, and you still move forward."
She stopped. Looked down. Right at them.
"At least one of you is going to shine."
Then she smiled.
Not a politician's smile. A survivor's.
"Make your fear your fire. Make your name something this Dungeon remembers."
The obsidian gates yawned open.
Not fast. Not slow. Just inevitable. Stone parted like the mouth of a slumbering titan. A rush of cold air spilled out, thick with the scent of moss, magic, and something older than both. Bioluminescent mushrooms blinked to life in the stairwell beyond, casting soft pulses of azure and sea-green like stars half-sunk in water.
Kier didn't move at first.
Not because he was afraid. Not exactly.
Just… quiet.
"This is it." His hand brushed the hilt of his axe. "The great redemption arc. Now featuring crippling anxiety and glowing fungi."
Around him, the crowd surged.
Teams shouted. Arms locked. Some prayed. Others cracked jokes louder than they needed to, as if fear could be beaten by volume alone. Spirits zipped between groups like curious fireflies, clustering near certain contenders and avoiding others entirely.
Kier watched them pass without bitterness.
He didn't expect any to land near him. He wasn't a "hopeful youth with a destiny." He was the shadow people pretended not to see until they couldn't ignore the chill.
Still, something about this moment settled oddly in his chest.
He waited until the last of the noise vanished down the steps.
Then he moved.
No fanfare. No squad. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been a smirk…or a grimace.
The Dungeon swallowed him whole.
The air shifted the moment Kier crossed the threshold.
Gone was the sunlit world of stone plazas and voices. The Dungeon's breath wrapped around him. It felt cool, ancient, and alive.
What lay ahead wasn't the usual still silence he experienced many times before. This time that peaceful but deadly silence was interrupted by the chattering of many Raiders in front of him. Some talked as they walked, others were messing around, a few of the students were checking their gear.
Kier knew he was out of place here, it was evident from the whispers. And the stares.
"So I'll just stay away. It's better that way." He mumbled to himself as he veered off to the left, going the opposite way of the main route.
The voices faded behind him, swallowed by distance and stone. Each step away from the main route brought a hush that settled over his shoulders like a worn cloak. Kier didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could still feel their eyes, hear their words even in their silence.
He let the main path fall behind him, choosing instead the winding trail to the left. It was rarely taken, half-swallowed by vines and time.
That path led to the Whispering Glade.
Lush moss blanketed the ground like a living quilt, soft beneath his boots. Saplings and sprouting flowers stretched from every crevice, drinking in the low-glow light of glowing mushrooms that grew along the stone outcroppings. Pale birdsong filtered in from somewhere unseen. The air was sweet with clover, wet bark, and spring rain.
It was… peaceful.
Kier moved slowly, his steps soundless. His scarf trailed behind him like smoke, and his Moonlight Eyes caught every movement, real or not. They pulsed faintly with blue light in the half-darkness, casting soft reflections in pools of water and damp stone.
A faint giggle danced on the air.
"Was that…"
He stopped. Looked around, but found nothing dangerous.
Just motes of light drifting lazily near a creek, flitting between fern fronds. They weren't fireflies.
At first, he thought they were motes of mana.
But they moved with too much grace. Too much intent.
Gladesprites.
They shimmered softly in the air. Luminous wisps shaped like slender figures with gossamer wings, their colors shifting through moonlit blues, soft golds, and pale violets. They drifted through the glade like dandelion seeds caught in an eternal breeze. Dozens of them hovered near the moss-covered trunks, clustered around glowing flowers, or nestled in the crooks of ancient branches.
Spirits.
But not the kind that sought out humans.
These were bound—permanently—to the Dungeon. Pact-sealed to its will from the moment they came into being. They would never leave its walls, never bond with a Raider. They were Dungeon-born and Dungeon-kept.
Everyone knew that.
And yet… they were drawn to him.
As Kier stepped beneath a low arch of vine-laced roots, several Gladesprites drifted from their nests above and began to circle him.
One twirled near his shoulder. Another hovered just over his bandaged palm, as if peering into it.
They lingered.
Longer than they should have.
"Well you guys seem curious…"
Kier slowed his steps, his Moonlight Eyes flickering as they caught the reflection of the Gladesprites' light. The silver-blue of his irises brightened faintly, veins within them rippling like moonlight across deep water.
The Gladesprites didn't flinch.
They should've.
All the spirits he's met avoided him, though they all had a pact with someone else. That meant they knew about him. But these spirits didn't. They didn't know he was seen as a walking curse.
They hovered like leaves held aloft by an unseen current, peaceful and… watching.
Kier turned away, quietly unsettled.
"Why are they still here?"
They couldn't form a pact. They couldn't follow him beyond this place. And yet they floated near him like he belonged here. Like he wasn't the curse everyone else saw.
"They're always like this with me, even when I accidentally stumbled in here before," Kier noted absently. "I guess I should be grateful they aren't afraid."
The idea didn't come with panic or pain. It just sat there. It felt quite, weightless, impossible to ignore.
"Strange how that matters more than I thought."
He walked on, not looking back.
The Gladesprites stayed a little longer, then faded back into the green, one by one, like echoes returning to the trees.
He kept walking.
The moss grew thinner as Kier neared the far end of the floor.
Soft footsteps echoed faintly ahead.
He slowed, instinct guiding him to the side of the path, slipping behind a low curtain of vines. Through the foliage, he saw them. A group of four Raiders, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Two boys, two girls. All in matching gear, school crests sharp and clean. Their armor still gleamed.
They weren't whispering.
They didn't need to.
"That's him," one of the girls muttered, slowing.
Kier didn't move.
"His eyes," another added. "Look. You can see them from here."
They didn't approach. Didn't draw weapons.
But none of them turned their backs.
He met their gaze through the leaves. Calm. Soft.
The first girl leaned close to the others. "Do you think he's following us?"
Kier sighed.
"Yes, I live to stalk underqualified high schoolers through moss. Truly, I am darkness incarnate."
He didn't blame them. Not really. Fear was easier than trying to make sense of someone like him.
One of the boys tilted his head. "He's probably just waiting to see who dies first."
That earned a nervous laugh.
Kier said nothing.
He stepped back onto the path and continued down the slope that led away from the safe route. Not deeper into Floor One.
Just away. Down. Toward the next floor.
Kier entered the second floor, and immediately set for a different path.
Mist wrapped around him like a second skin the moment he crossed the threshold.
Floor Two breathed differently—colder, wetter, threaded with the scent of wildgrass and distant fungal bloom. Pale vines dangled from the overhead canopy. The fog moved strangely, always curling toward sound.
Kier didn't pause.
Voices echoed behind him, probably Raiders entering the floor. Loud. Confident. Talking too much.
He veered off the main path, deeper into the fog.
"I need to stop being so mopey." He chided himself, "even if they think of me as nothing more than a monster. I know me. And I know Sylphy would be pissed if she saw me like this." He let out a soft laugh.
"Let's just live in the moment…at least as much as I can." Kier finished his thought with a slight smile. It was little, but a smile is better than a frown.
The terrain dipped into sloped wetlands and crooked roots. Fungal growths bulged from trees, their caps pulsing with faint bioluminescence. Shimmering lights blinked at the corners of his vision. More Gladesprites, curious but distant.
A Fumefox darted across his path.
He stopped.
The mist thickened. A second flicker of movement slid to his right—another one.
Then a low snort behind him. He turned.
Three.
The Fumefoxes stood still now, surrounded by a thin veil of illusion vapor that made their yellow fur ripple like a mirage. Slender, four-legged, with four tails that looked like smoke, and ember-colored eyes.
They didn't growl.
They moved.
Fast.
"Alright, let's go!" Kier shouted with a confident smirk. "Just let go of everything outside of you and the dungeon."
Kier's axe was off his back before they struck.
The first lunged. He sidestepped, brought the flat of the blade across its flank, and sent it crashing into a root wall.
The second came low. He slid forward, twisted, drove the butt of the axe into its ribs. It whined and dropped.
The third feinted—clever. But not clever enough.
He let it get close.
Then he spun, dropping low, and swept its legs with a single fluid motion. As it hit the ground, the edge of his axe stopped a hair from its neck.
It blinked at him.
He didn't strike.
The fox scrambled away, tail between its legs. The other two followed, limping.
And they were gone.
Kier exhaled slowly and stood straight. Not a scratch. Not a bruise. The axe never touched blood.
"Hah, that was…actually pretty fun." He said, putting his axe back into his back strap.
He walked in silence after that, deeper into the fog.
The mist curled around his legs like something half-sentient, clinging tighter the farther he moved from the main path. Water pooled in the dips of the forest floor—not deep, but muddy, loud. Every step required thought.
The stillness broke when a scream cut through the fog.
Sharp. Not childish, but panicked. Older teen. Male.
Then the crash of wood. Wet splashes. A voice shouting, cracking from strain.
Kier froze.
Then he moved.
He adjusted the axe on his back and sprinted toward the sound, weaving through the trees like instinct had drawn the map. The mist thickened again as if resisting him, trying to muffle the sound.
Another shout, closer this time. "Someone get these things off me!"
A faint blur cut through the fog.
Wings. Not birds.
Too fast. Too quiet.
Kier slid to a stop behind a broken root cluster and took in the scene ahead:
A lone Raider—probably sixteen, maybe seventeen—backed against a wide stump slicked with moss. He was swinging a short blade wildly, slashing at the air, but his movements were jerky and untrained. His foot was caught in a shallow sinkhole. Blood trickled from his shoulder.
Three Whisperwings circled above him. They were pale, moth-like creatures the size of wolves, with translucent wings and faces like sharpened petals. They didn't flap. They glided, weaving in and out of sight, their soundless movement designed to confuse. Beneath the fog, two Marshbound Lurkers stalked—hunched, frog-like beasts with long arms and slick skin that shimmered like oil. Their wide mouths twitched as if smiling.
The Raider struck again, but hit nothing. His blade passed through a Whisperwing illusion. One of the Lurkers moved in.
Kier didn't hesitate.
He stepped out from the fog, low and quiet.
The Lurker raised a claw.
Kier threw his axe.
The blade spun once, twice, then slammed into the creature's back with a dull crack. The Lurker staggered and screeched, collapsing into the water with a splash.
The Whisperwings froze mid-air.
The other Lurker turned just in time to catch Kier's boot to the side of its jaw. It reeled. Kier didn't stop moving. He yanked his axe free from the first beast's corpse, spun with the momentum, and batted the last Lurker across the swamp like a child's toy.
Silence.
Only the whisper of wings remained, three of them, now hovering directly above.
Kier narrowed his eyes. Then he smirked.
"All right. Bring it."
The Whisperwings struck in a swirl of movement, but Kier was already dancing through them. His eyes tracked each blur. He dodged the first, using the momentum to hit the second with a rising backhand strike that clipped its wing, and kicked off a stone root to grab the third by the leg mid-air.
It shrieked a warbled, high-pitched cry, and he slammed it into the ground.
The last two hesitated.
Kier's silver-blue eyes flicked toward them, faint veins glowing with restrained energy.
They vanished into the mist.
He stood straight. Exhaled. Adjusted his scarf. Then turned toward the boy.
The Raider had dropped to one knee, panting, eyes wide in disbelief.
"You… You're—"
"Yeah," Kier said, already walking past. "I'm that one."
He stopped just long enough to glance at the kid's leg, it was twisted, but not broken.
"Wrap it tight," Kier said. "Elevate it if you stop to rest. And stay out of the mist if you don't know how to read the movement."
The boy's mouth opened. No words came.
Kier didn't wait.
He disappeared back into the fog without another sound.
More voices echoed distantly. More Gladesprites shimmered near the Crescent Grove. Some of them staring at him curiously.
This time he waved back, and their curiosity made him feel at ease.
"Hey, not bad for the first part of trying to improve my image. But let's keep going."
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and reached the steps to Floor Three just as the mist swallowed the last of the voices behind him.
Above the Dungeon's Gates – Moments Later.
The crowd was gone. The cheers had faded. The obsidian gates had long since shut.
Mist curled around the upper balconies like a veil draped over the Dungeon's sleeping face. Wind brushed softly across the carved stone, stirring the silence—not enough to disturb it, only enough to remind the world it still breathed.
Elsie stood alone beneath the rising sun, silver hair catching gold and blue in its strands. Her armor hummed faintly with residual mana—echoes from a weapon not yet drawn. She did not look at the gates.
She looked beyond them. Toward the treetops and the faraway peaks. The sky stretched pale and quiet, like the forest itself was holding its breath.
"You didn't give your usual speech."
The voice came from behind her, low and earthen, like it had been carved into the mountain long ago and forgotten.
Elsie didn't flinch.
"I wasn't in the mood."
From the shadows stepped a figure both towering and still. Clad in beast-hide leathers and a mantle of shifting feathers that shimmered from jade to black. His presence didn't feel like pressure. It felt like weight. Like something primal had remembered its name.
His spear was long, wrapped in runes older than the Dungeon itself. It rested across his back like a coiled thing, asleep only out of patience.
Coren Kaelith. The Last Dreadfang.
One of the final wild-born Raiders that still walked as man instead of myth.
He joined her at the edge of the stone, eyes fixed not on the forest, but on the Dungeon.
"I felt a quake two weeks ago," he said. "Thought it was a cave-in. It wasn't."
"No," Elsie murmured. "It wasn't."
She exhaled slowly.
"A whole floor collapsed. Floor Forty-Six. Gone—like someone ripped out its spine from below. Three floors above and below were partially destabilized. Entire load-bearing structures turned to ash and noise. The survivors said they heard something like lightning…and deranged laughter."
Coren's brow creased. "Which floor again?"
"Forty-Six."
"Deep enough to be sealed," he muttered. "And close enough to matter."
She nodded.
"They described it as heat. Not flame. Not explosion. Just… heat. One of the scouts said it felt like standing too close to something that hated being looked at."
Coren didn't speak at first. Then his voice lowered.
"There was something else."
Elsie glanced at him.
"Floor Thirty-One. My team cleared it a few months back. When we returned… it was different. Stone turned to glass. The walls were reflective but not clean, like they'd melted and refrozen. And the Raiders who entered? They were found dead…but also smiling."
Elsie turned fully. "You never reported that."
"I didn't want to cause panic. At the time… it felt like a localized anomaly. A freak surge. But now—" he shook his head, "—I think something's moving."
"There's one more thing."
Her voice was quieter now. Tighter.
"A group from the ARI vanished on Floor Thirty-Seven. Two days ago. Not a single trace. No gear. No echoes. No manaresidue. Like they were… undone. One of the surveillance spirits drifted back and never spoke a word—like it had seen something that broke it."
Coren's golden eye narrowed.
They both fell silent.
Far below, the Dungeon entrance gleamed faintly—waiting.
"This isn't random," Elsie whispered. "It's a pattern. Something more than just the dungeon."
Coren grunted. "And we're still sending them in?"
Her eyes didn't leave the gate.
"We have to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one that matters right now," she replied, steel beneath her breath. "The Trials aren't just tradition anymore. They're a distraction. A light in the fog. The people are scared. The city is tense. Rumors are spreading faster than facts."
She looked down at her gloved hands, flexing her fingers.
"If even one of those kids shines… maybe it'll be enough. Maybe it'll lighten Lyveryn up again, like how it used to be…"
Coren was quiet again. He watched her the way a hunter watches the last leaves fall.
"You're not just talking about them," he said.
"No."
He looked at her. "You're going back in."
Elsie nodded once.
"I need to see it for myself. What's changing. What's breaking. I've fought beasts that eat fire. But this…" Her voice dropped, almost a whisper. "Whatever's down there… it's not a creature."
She looked at Coren then. Not as a subordinate. As a fellow survivor.
"I'm going to make sure these kids stay safe. And if anything happens down there, I'll stop it immediately."
He didn't argue.
"Do you think these are coordinated attacks?" Coren asked, staring into her ice-blue eyes.
"I…it's a good chance. But, if the two incidents really are connected…we're going to need to call Veilward Sentinels or the Embercrown. Maybe both."
"Agreed. Being able to collapse whole floors…that may be close to the Apex Reaver."
Elsie swallowed, steeling herself if she had to fight this thing.
"Even if I have to face that threat," she said, resolve burning in her eyes. Coren looked at her like she'd just won his approval. "I won't give up. I'll stake my life to protect those kids."
Elsie turned from the balcony, her sword humming softly as she walked toward the secondary gate entrance used only by high-ranking Raiders.
"I'll follow the main route. Watch from below."
Coren didn't move. Just watched her disappear into the stone. A smile on his lips, or possibly a smirk.
Then he looked back out over the forest.
And whispered to no one in particular—
"Let's hope something changes…because I know the guild covered up more than we know."
The path to the Dungeon wound through the forest like a scar the land never quite healed. It's narrow, damp, and dappled with ghost-light where the canopy broke. Trees leaned in, ancient and gnarled, whispering secrets in a tongue made of creaks and rustle.
Kier Veyne walked it alone.
Birdsong faltered as he passed. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
His frame was lean, forged by hunger, harsh winters, and the kind of training you didn't survive unless you were desperate. Layers of worn leather clung close to his body, stitched dark brown over black, built for movement rather than protection. His long black sleeves kept multiple scars hidden from sight.
A black scarf hung around his neck, catching the breeze like a relic of some forgotten war. It clung to him like it knew what he was hiding.
His pants were fitted, reinforced with dull plating at the thighs and knees, the fabric faded from ash-gray to soot-black in places. Boots—well-worn, scuffed at the toe, and bolted with iron grips on the soles—dug into the dirt with quiet weight.
His hair, untamed and wild, gleamed white at the roots and bled into crimson tips, like frost bitten by flame.
But it wasn't just the hair that made people stare.
Moonlight Eyes.
Silver irises, threaded with pale blue veins that shimmered when the blood stirred beneath his skin. They caught the dim light like ice catching starlight, beautiful like winter. Cold. Sharp. The kind of beauty you didn't touch unless you were crazy.
He knew the whispers. He'd memorized the weight of people's fear. And yet—
"I still like them," he admitted, "which probably says more about me than I'm ready to unpack."
They were the one part of him that hadn't bowed to shame. The one piece untouched by regret.
He blinked. The glow dimmed, and his face fell back into shadow.
Ahead, the Dungeon rose like a wound in the world's memory.
It didn't look like a fortress. It looked like nature had tried to forget it existed, and failed.
Waterfalls spilled over moss-eaten ledges, vines strangled ancient stone, and wildflowers pulsed faintly with dormant mana like heartbeats lost in sleep. The structure was less a ruin than a secret the world had tried to bury.
Kier stopped at the crest of the hill and rested his hand on the axe across his back.
The dragon emblem carved into its grip was nearly gone now—rubbed down by use, sweat, and ghosts that refused to stay in the past.
"Even in a place this pure…" he muttered, "I still bring poison."
He closed his eyes. The air was thick with mana, wet grass, and something soft beneath it all…the scent of untouched beginnings.
It was beautiful.
And it made the weight in his chest feel so much heavier.
The plaza at the Dungeon's mouth unfurled like a stone lotus—wide and layered, carved into the forest's heart. Trees arched above like cathedral pillars, and old runes pulsed faintly along the stone underfoot, feeding on the ambient manalike roots drinking deep.
Hundreds of would-be Raiders packed the space, their voices rising and falling like tides against cliff walls. School colors flared like banners in a storm. Crimson and gold, storm-blue and ivory, deep green etched with spiritthread silver. Cloaks rustled. Armor gleamed.
And above it all, drifting through the morning haze like embers unclaimed by fire, were the spirits.
They hovered with the quiet grace of snowfall. Some were little more than glowing spheres, their auras pulsing in gentle rhythms of blue, gold, violet, and red.
"Basic spirits," Kier knew.
The most common kind. No mouths. No limbs. Just orbs of intent waiting for someone to draw them in.
But others…
He tilted his head as a second group passed overhead. They held a fairy-like shape, small wings and short limbs. Each one held the color of the affinity they represented.
"Intermediate class," he noted. "Probably drawn by the surplus of mana here today. There must be some good spirit users here."
Still rarer were the ones few noticed—true-formed spirits.
Only a handful drifted through the upper canopy, nearly invisible unless you knew what to look for. One resembled a glacial fox stitched from ice and sky-glow. Another, a serpent of silver flame.
Kier's gaze followed them, the weight in his chest pressing tighter.
"They always hovered near others. Never me."
"Guess glowing eyes and a bad reputation isn't exactly spirit-bait." He smirked faintly. "Go figure."
Still…some of the spirits didn't avoid him. Emphasis on the "some".
He passed through the crowd like smoke through cracks, he was seen, but not touched. His scarf trailed behind him like a shadow that forgot how to fade.
Voices chased his steps.
"Is that him?"
"White and blood hair. Silver eyes, with the blue veins…"
"I heard he drank blood as a child. Made a pact with a demon."
"No—he is the demon."
Kier didn't flinch. Didn't slow. Just kept walking with that too-calm posture that always made people more nervous.
He let the silence settle around him like armor.
"You'd think they'd get tired of whispering eventually. But I guess that's the fun of rumors."
Above, a stone balcony jutted from the Dungeon's face like a judgment throne. Mist swirled at its base. Morning light caught the twin figures standing atop it, casting long shadows onto the crowd below.
The first stepped forward.
Broad-shouldered. Crimson-trimmed armor that looked more ceremonial than practical. Close-cut white-gold hair. And a halberd on his back.
Sarn Ekros.
Kier's stomach tightened.
He'd never met Sarn. Didn't need to. Everyone in Lyveryn knew the name. Commander of the Redwake Knights. Kingmaker in armor. Smiled like a blade. Talked like a sermon.
When he spoke, his voice rolled through the crowd like thunder coaxing the sky to split.
"Welcome, Raiders… to the Raedari Trials."
Silence fell as if commanded.
"You stand at the edge of your future. Some of you will rise. Most will fall. And a few—if you're lucky—will learn what you're truly made of before the Dungeon decides for you."
He paused, eyes scanning the sea of faces. His presence was magnetic. Like gravity with sharp edges.
"As you all know, the Raedari Trials are open to anyone. No sponsors. No experience required. No guaranteed return."
He let that sink in.
"That's why we let you walk in blind. To see who truly understands themselves. Not just their magic. Not just their weapons. Themselves."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some stood taller. Others wilted.
"And this year," he continued, "we're doing something new."
Heads tilted. Kier raised a brow.
"If you reach Room Thirteen, you may challenge the Floor Boss. It's optional. But should you succeed… your name will be recorded. You'll be guaranteed recognition. Favor. Opportunity."
He let the final word echo.
"Or death," Kier muttered under his breath. "But sure. Favor sounds nicer."
Sarn's voice grew colder. "You are not to harm other teams. Violate this, and you will be removed. Or worse."
He raised a hand.
"There are observers on every floor. They will not assist you unless your life is truly at risk. If you are saved… you are disqualified."
Kier's hand drifted to the axe on his back.
"Not planning on needing help anyway."
"Some of you will scream. Some of you will run. Some of you will impress me. A very rare few."
He stepped back into the mist.
And then the second figure took his place. She didn't need to speak to shift the atmosphere.
Elsie Aynth. The Dragon-Slayer.
Silver hair flowed behind her like a river of starlight, catching every sunbeam in defiance. Her crystal-blue eyes shimmered in the sunlight, casting a spell over the boys in the crowd. Her armor shimmered with faint blue iridescence—dragon-scale, they said. From a beast no one else survived.
She stood with one hand on her hip and the other resting on the hilt of a sword that hummed against her back.
"I see fear," she said.
The words were soft. But they cut deeper than Sarn's thunder.
"Good."
She walked the edge of the balcony, pacing slow and sharp like a blade being unsheathed.
"This Dungeon won't play fair. Neither will the monsters. Neither will you, if you're smart."
The crowd was silent now. Not stunned, listening.
"You have three days to survive in the dungeon, and three days to prove yourself. You'll be cold. Tired. Alone. But that's where greatness starts. When nothing else is left, and you still move forward."
She stopped. Looked down. Right at them.
"At least one of you is going to shine."
Then she smiled.
Not a politician's smile. A survivor's.
"Make your fear your fire. Make your name something this Dungeon remembers."
The obsidian gates yawned open.
Not fast. Not slow. Just inevitable. Stone parted like the mouth of a slumbering titan. A rush of cold air spilled out, thick with the scent of moss, magic, and something older than both. Bioluminescent mushrooms blinked to life in the stairwell beyond, casting soft pulses of azure and sea-green like stars half-sunk in water.
Kier didn't move at first.
Not because he was afraid. Not exactly.
Just… quiet.
"This is it." His hand brushed the hilt of his axe. "The great redemption arc. Now featuring crippling anxiety and glowing fungi."
Around him, the crowd surged.
Teams shouted. Arms locked. Some prayed. Others cracked jokes louder than they needed to, as if fear could be beaten by volume alone. Spirits zipped between groups like curious fireflies, clustering near certain contenders and avoiding others entirely.
Kier watched them pass without bitterness.
He didn't expect any to land near him. He wasn't a "hopeful youth with a destiny." He was the shadow people pretended not to see until they couldn't ignore the chill.
Still, something about this moment settled oddly in his chest.
He waited until the last of the noise vanished down the steps.
Then he moved.
No fanfare. No squad. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been a smirk…or a grimace.
The Dungeon swallowed him whole.
The air shifted the moment Kier crossed the threshold.
Gone was the sunlit world of stone plazas and voices. The Dungeon's breath wrapped around him. It felt cool, ancient, and alive.
What lay ahead wasn't the usual still silence he experienced many times before. This time that peaceful but deadly silence was interrupted by the chattering of many Raiders in front of him. Some talked as they walked, others were messing around, a few of the students were checking their gear.
Kier knew he was out of place here, it was evident from the whispers. And the stares.
"So I'll just stay away. It's better that way." He mumbled to himself as he veered off to the left, going the opposite way of the main route.
The voices faded behind him, swallowed by distance and stone. Each step away from the main route brought a hush that settled over his shoulders like a worn cloak. Kier didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could still feel their eyes, hear their words even in their silence.
He let the main path fall behind him, choosing instead the winding trail to the left. It was rarely taken, half-swallowed by vines and time.
That path led to the Whispering Glade.
Lush moss blanketed the ground like a living quilt, soft beneath his boots. Saplings and sprouting flowers stretched from every crevice, drinking in the low-glow light of glowing mushrooms that grew along the stone outcroppings. Pale birdsong filtered in from somewhere unseen. The air was sweet with clover, wet bark, and spring rain.
It was… peaceful.
Kier moved slowly, his steps soundless. His scarf trailed behind him like smoke, and his Moonlight Eyes caught every movement, real or not. They pulsed faintly with blue light in the half-darkness, casting soft reflections in pools of water and damp stone.
A faint giggle danced on the air.
"Was that…"
He stopped. Looked around, but found nothing dangerous.
Just motes of light drifting lazily near a creek, flitting between fern fronds. They weren't fireflies.
At first, he thought they were motes of mana.
But they moved with too much grace. Too much intent.
Gladesprites.
They shimmered softly in the air. Luminous wisps shaped like slender figures with gossamer wings, their colors shifting through moonlit blues, soft golds, and pale violets. They drifted through the glade like dandelion seeds caught in an eternal breeze. Dozens of them hovered near the moss-covered trunks, clustered around glowing flowers, or nestled in the crooks of ancient branches.
Spirits.
But not the kind that sought out humans.
These were bound—permanently—to the Dungeon. Pact-sealed to its will from the moment they came into being. They would never leave its walls, never bond with a Raider. They were Dungeon-born and Dungeon-kept.
Everyone knew that.
And yet… they were drawn to him.
As Kier stepped beneath a low arch of vine-laced roots, several Gladesprites drifted from their nests above and began to circle him.
One twirled near his shoulder. Another hovered just over his bandaged palm, as if peering into it.
They lingered.
Longer than they should have.
"Well you guys seem curious…"
Kier slowed his steps, his Moonlight Eyes flickering as they caught the reflection of the Gladesprites' light. The silver-blue of his irises brightened faintly, veins within them rippling like moonlight across deep water.
The Gladesprites didn't flinch.
They should've.
All the spirits he's met avoided him, though they all had a pact with someone else. That meant they knew about him. But these spirits didn't. They didn't know he was seen as a walking curse.
They hovered like leaves held aloft by an unseen current, peaceful and… watching.
Kier turned away, quietly unsettled.
"Why are they still here?"
They couldn't form a pact. They couldn't follow him beyond this place. And yet they floated near him like he belonged here. Like he wasn't the curse everyone else saw.
"They're always like this with me, even when I accidentally stumbled in here before," Kier noted absently. "I guess I should be grateful they aren't afraid."
The idea didn't come with panic or pain. It just sat there. It felt quite, weightless, impossible to ignore.
"Strange how that matters more than I thought."
He walked on, not looking back.
The Gladesprites stayed a little longer, then faded back into the green, one by one, like echoes returning to the trees.
He kept walking.
The moss grew thinner as Kier neared the far end of the floor.
Soft footsteps echoed faintly ahead.
He slowed, instinct guiding him to the side of the path, slipping behind a low curtain of vines. Through the foliage, he saw them. A group of four Raiders, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Two boys, two girls. All in matching gear, school crests sharp and clean. Their armor still gleamed.
They weren't whispering.
They didn't need to.
"That's him," one of the girls muttered, slowing.
Kier didn't move.
"His eyes," another added. "Look. You can see them from here."
They didn't approach. Didn't draw weapons.
But none of them turned their backs.
He met their gaze through the leaves. Calm. Soft.
The first girl leaned close to the others. "Do you think he's following us?"
Kier sighed.
"Yes, I live to stalk underqualified high schoolers through moss. Truly, I am darkness incarnate."
He didn't blame them. Not really. Fear was easier than trying to make sense of someone like him.
One of the boys tilted his head. "He's probably just waiting to see who dies first."
That earned a nervous laugh.
Kier said nothing.
He stepped back onto the path and continued down the slope that led away from the safe route. Not deeper into Floor One.
Just away. Down. Toward the next floor.
Kier entered the second floor, and immediately set for a different path.
Mist wrapped around him like a second skin the moment he crossed the threshold.
Floor Two breathed differently—colder, wetter, threaded with the scent of wildgrass and distant fungal bloom. Pale vines dangled from the overhead canopy. The fog moved strangely, always curling toward sound.
Kier didn't pause.
Voices echoed behind him, probably Raiders entering the floor. Loud. Confident. Talking too much.
He veered off the main path, deeper into the fog.
"I need to stop being so mopey." He chided himself, "even if they think of me as nothing more than a monster. I know me. And I know Sylphy would be pissed if she saw me like this." He let out a soft laugh.
"Let's just live in the moment…at least as much as I can." Kier finished his thought with a slight smile. It was little, but a smile is better than a frown.
The terrain dipped into sloped wetlands and crooked roots. Fungal growths bulged from trees, their caps pulsing with faint bioluminescence. Shimmering lights blinked at the corners of his vision. More Gladesprites, curious but distant.
A Fumefox darted across his path.
He stopped.
The mist thickened. A second flicker of movement slid to his right—another one.
Then a low snort behind him. He turned.
Three.
The Fumefoxes stood still now, surrounded by a thin veil of illusion vapor that made their yellow fur ripple like a mirage. Slender, four-legged, with four tails that looked like smoke, and ember-colored eyes.
They didn't growl.
They moved.
Fast.
"Alright, let's go!" Kier shouted with a confident smirk. "Just let go of everything outside of you and the dungeon."
Kier's axe was off his back before they struck.
The first lunged. He sidestepped, brought the flat of the blade across its flank, and sent it crashing into a root wall.
The second came low. He slid forward, twisted, drove the butt of the axe into its ribs. It whined and dropped.
The third feinted—clever. But not clever enough.
He let it get close.
Then he spun, dropping low, and swept its legs with a single fluid motion. As it hit the ground, the edge of his axe stopped a hair from its neck.
It blinked at him.
He didn't strike.
The fox scrambled away, tail between its legs. The other two followed, limping.
And they were gone.
Kier exhaled slowly and stood straight. Not a scratch. Not a bruise. The axe never touched blood.
"Hah, that was…actually pretty fun." He said, putting his axe back into his back strap.
He walked in silence after that, deeper into the fog.
The mist curled around his legs like something half-sentient, clinging tighter the farther he moved from the main path. Water pooled in the dips of the forest floor—not deep, but muddy, loud. Every step required thought.
The stillness broke when a scream cut through the fog.
Sharp. Not childish, but panicked. Older teen. Male.
Then the crash of wood. Wet splashes. A voice shouting, cracking from strain.
Kier froze.
Then he moved.
He adjusted the axe on his back and sprinted toward the sound, weaving through the trees like instinct had drawn the map. The mist thickened again as if resisting him, trying to muffle the sound.
Another shout, closer this time. "Someone get these things off me!"
A faint blur cut through the fog.
Wings. Not birds.
Too fast. Too quiet.
Kier slid to a stop behind a broken root cluster and took in the scene ahead:
A lone Raider—probably sixteen, maybe seventeen—backed against a wide stump slicked with moss. He was swinging a short blade wildly, slashing at the air, but his movements were jerky and untrained. His foot was caught in a shallow sinkhole. Blood trickled from his shoulder.
Three Whisperwings circled above him. They were pale, moth-like creatures the size of wolves, with translucent wings and faces like sharpened petals. They didn't flap. They glided, weaving in and out of sight, their soundless movement designed to confuse. Beneath the fog, two Marshbound Lurkers stalked—hunched, frog-like beasts with long arms and slick skin that shimmered like oil. Their wide mouths twitched as if smiling.
The Raider struck again, but hit nothing. His blade passed through a Whisperwing illusion. One of the Lurkers moved in.
Kier didn't hesitate.
He stepped out from the fog, low and quiet.
The Lurker raised a claw.
Kier threw his axe.
The blade spun once, twice, then slammed into the creature's back with a dull crack. The Lurker staggered and screeched, collapsing into the water with a splash.
The Whisperwings froze mid-air.
The other Lurker turned just in time to catch Kier's boot to the side of its jaw. It reeled. Kier didn't stop moving. He yanked his axe free from the first beast's corpse, spun with the momentum, and batted the last Lurker across the swamp like a child's toy.
Silence.
Only the whisper of wings remained, three of them, now hovering directly above.
Kier narrowed his eyes. Then he smirked.
"All right. Bring it."
The Whisperwings struck in a swirl of movement, but Kier was already dancing through them. His eyes tracked each blur. He dodged the first, using the momentum to hit the second with a rising backhand strike that clipped its wing, and kicked off a stone root to grab the third by the leg mid-air.
It shrieked a warbled, high-pitched cry, and he slammed it into the ground.
The last two hesitated.
Kier's silver-blue eyes flicked toward them, faint veins glowing with restrained energy.
They vanished into the mist.
He stood straight. Exhaled. Adjusted his scarf. Then turned toward the boy.
The Raider had dropped to one knee, panting, eyes wide in disbelief.
"You… You're—"
"Yeah," Kier said, already walking past. "I'm that one."
He stopped just long enough to glance at the kid's leg, it was twisted, but not broken.
"Wrap it tight," Kier said. "Elevate it if you stop to rest. And stay out of the mist if you don't know how to read the movement."
The boy's mouth opened. No words came.
Kier didn't wait.
He disappeared back into the fog without another sound.
More voices echoed distantly. More Gladesprites shimmered near the Crescent Grove. Some of them staring at him curiously.
This time he waved back, and their curiosity made him feel at ease.
"Hey, not bad for the first part of trying to improve my image. But let's keep going."
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and reached the steps to Floor Three just as the mist swallowed the last of the voices behind him.
***
Above the Dungeon's Gates – Moments Later.
The crowd was gone. The cheers had faded. The obsidian gates had long since shut.
Mist curled around the upper balconies like a veil draped over the Dungeon's sleeping face. Wind brushed softly across the carved stone, stirring the silence—not enough to disturb it, only enough to remind the world it still breathed.
Elsie stood alone beneath the rising sun, silver hair catching gold and blue in its strands. Her armor hummed faintly with residual mana—echoes from a weapon not yet drawn. She did not look at the gates.
She looked beyond them. Toward the treetops and the faraway peaks. The sky stretched pale and quiet, like the forest itself was holding its breath.
"You didn't give your usual speech."
The voice came from behind her, low and earthen, like it had been carved into the mountain long ago and forgotten.
Elsie didn't flinch.
"I wasn't in the mood."
From the shadows stepped a figure both towering and still. Clad in beast-hide leathers and a mantle of shifting feathers that shimmered from jade to black. His presence didn't feel like pressure. It felt like weight. Like something primal had remembered its name.
His spear was long, wrapped in runes older than the Dungeon itself. It rested across his back like a coiled thing, asleep only out of patience.
Coren Kaelith. The Last Dreadfang.
One of the final wild-born Raiders that still walked as man instead of myth.
He joined her at the edge of the stone, eyes fixed not on the forest, but on the Dungeon.
"I felt a quake two weeks ago," he said. "Thought it was a cave-in. It wasn't."
"No," Elsie murmured. "It wasn't."
She exhaled slowly.
"A whole floor collapsed. Floor Forty-Six. Gone—like someone ripped out its spine from below. Three floors above and below were partially destabilized. Entire load-bearing structures turned to ash and noise. The survivors said they heard something like lightning…and deranged laughter."
Coren's brow creased. "Which floor again?"
"Forty-Six."
"Deep enough to be sealed," he muttered. "And close enough to matter."
She nodded.
"They described it as heat. Not flame. Not explosion. Just… heat. One of the scouts said it felt like standing too close to something that hated being looked at."
Coren didn't speak at first. Then his voice lowered.
"There was something else."
Elsie glanced at him.
"Floor Thirty-One. My team cleared it a few months back. When we returned… it was different. Stone turned to glass. The walls were reflective but not clean, like they'd melted and refrozen. And the Raiders who entered? They were found dead…but also smiling."
Elsie turned fully. "You never reported that."
"I didn't want to cause panic. At the time… it felt like a localized anomaly. A freak surge. But now—" he shook his head, "—I think something's moving."
"There's one more thing."
Her voice was quieter now. Tighter.
"A group from the ARI vanished on Floor Thirty-Seven. Two days ago. Not a single trace. No gear. No echoes. No manaresidue. Like they were… undone. One of the surveillance spirits drifted back and never spoke a word—like it had seen something that broke it."
Coren's golden eye narrowed.
They both fell silent.
Far below, the Dungeon entrance gleamed faintly—waiting.
"This isn't random," Elsie whispered. "It's a pattern. Something more than just the dungeon."
Coren grunted. "And we're still sending them in?"
Her eyes didn't leave the gate.
"We have to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one that matters right now," she replied, steel beneath her breath. "The Trials aren't just tradition anymore. They're a distraction. A light in the fog. The people are scared. The city is tense. Rumors are spreading faster than facts."
She looked down at her gloved hands, flexing her fingers.
"If even one of those kids shines… maybe it'll be enough. Maybe it'll lighten Lyveryn up again, like how it used to be…"
Coren was quiet again. He watched her the way a hunter watches the last leaves fall.
"You're not just talking about them," he said.
"No."
He looked at her. "You're going back in."
Elsie nodded once.
"I need to see it for myself. What's changing. What's breaking. I've fought beasts that eat fire. But this…" Her voice dropped, almost a whisper. "Whatever's down there… it's not a creature."
She looked at Coren then. Not as a subordinate. As a fellow survivor.
"I'm going to make sure these kids stay safe. And if anything happens down there, I'll stop it immediately."
He didn't argue.
"Do you think these are coordinated attacks?" Coren asked, staring into her ice-blue eyes.
"I…it's a good chance. But, if the two incidents really are connected…we're going to need to call Veilward Sentinels or the Embercrown. Maybe both."
"Agreed. Being able to collapse whole floors…that may be close to the Apex Reaver."
Elsie swallowed, steeling herself if she had to fight this thing.
"Even if I have to face that threat," she said, resolve burning in her eyes. Coren looked at her like she'd just won his approval. "I won't give up. I'll stake my life to protect those kids."
Elsie turned from the balcony, her sword humming softly as she walked toward the secondary gate entrance used only by high-ranking Raiders.
"I'll follow the main route. Watch from below."
Coren didn't move. Just watched her disappear into the stone. A smile on his lips, or possibly a smirk.
Then he looked back out over the forest.
And whispered to no one in particular—
"Let's hope something changes…because I know the guild covered up more than we know."