Chapter 3
Three days later…
The apartment room was drowned in shadow. Heavy curtains smothered the windows, sealing out the sun's rays and leaving the air dim and muted. The faint scent of dust lingered, mingling with the stale stillness of a place left undisturbed for days.
In the center of the room, a thick sandbag swayed faintly from a chain bolted into the ceiling. It was massive—dense, heavy, the kind of bag a grown man could wrap his arms around and still not cover more than half its width. Its surface was worn smooth in places, cracked in others, bearing the marks of countless impacts.
Baam.
Baam.
Each sound landed like a muffled gunshot, echoing dully in the enclosed space. Blood stood before it, bare fists colliding against the coarse fabric in a steady rhythm. His strikes weren't wild or fueled by rage—they were precise.
Every movement was calculated, his shoulders turning just enough, elbows folding and locking into place, wrists snapping forward with the precision of a craftsman. The strength wasn't scattered through the blow—it was compressed, focused, released in a single, devastating point of impact.
If this had been his original world—Earth—such a punch would have been enough to fell a world-class boxing champion. It wasn't raw strength that made it deadly, but the way it was condensed, refined, like a bullet molded into the shape of a fist.
And yet, his mind wasn't on the bag.
It was on her.
Alyssa Ethereal.
More specifically—
Chantless Spell.
The memory of that moment three days ago replayed with relentless clarity: her body glowing with multicolored light, ten magic circles spinning in perfect harmony, the seamless casting of spells without a single syllable uttered.
That was no ordinary magic. It was a Cosmic Ability—he was certain of it—one that allowed her to bypass chanting entirely. But it was more than just skipping the words. She could summon, aim, and fire a spell in the blink of an eye.
Which meant… instant magic.
But how?
Did she possess a second Cosmic Ability—one that complemented her magic? If so, he had seen no sign of it. Her energy consumption had been too low for that.
The problem gnawed at him. Even the First Hero of the Kingdom—renowned as a master of magic—had never achieved something like that. Two magic circles at most, from one Cosmic Ability. Alyssa had conjured ten.
How was that even possible?
He struck the bag again, harder this time, but the question lingered.
Eventually, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles.
"So… Cosmic Abilities can be used like that," he murmured to himself. He had always dismissed his own Blood-related Cosmic Ability, thinking its uses limited.
But perhaps he'd been thinking too small. Perhaps there were applications beyond the obvious.
The thought made him pause mid-motion.
He stepped away from the sandbag, crossing the dim room until he reached a small wooden desk shoved against the wall. A drawer slid open with a muted scrape, revealing rows of neatly arranged papers, pens, and a few scattered notes.
At the center sat a glass jar, its lid pierced with several small holes.
Inside, resting motionless against the glass, was a mosquito. Its body gleamed faintly crimson, as if its veins carried liquid rubies instead of blood.
Blood looked down at it, his expression unreadable.
Blood Devouring Mosquito.
A Blood-related Cosmic Spirit. His Cosmic Spirit.
And perhaps the key to pushing beyond the limits he thought unbreakable.
Blood's lips curved into a faint, almost dangerous smile. Without hesitation, he reached for the glass jar. The cool lid turned beneath his fingers, releasing a soft metallic click as it came loose.
Inside, the crimson mosquito stirred. Its delicate wings shimmered faintly in the dim light, translucent yet tinged with the deep red of fresh blood.
He pinched the fragile creature by its wings. It writhed for an instant, its needle-like proboscis twitching in protest. Then—
Crack.
Its tiny body crumpled between his fingers.
A ripple of light bloomed in the air where it had been. From the crushed remains rose a translucent image—its soul. It mirrored the mosquito's physical form, but its entire being was etched with intricate divine runes.
They glowed with a steady brilliance, each sigil pulsing in rhythm like the heartbeat of the cosmos itself. Faint tendrils of cosmic light drifted from the runes, illuminating the surrounding shadows.
Blood closed his eyes. His consciousness surged open like a door flung wide, and he drew the mosquito's Cosmic Soul inward. It flowed into him in a stream of liquid radiance, sinking past flesh and bone until it touched the deepest reaches of his being.
There, he began the refining process.
Slowly, deliberately, he assimilated the Cosmic Soul into himself. It was like weaving a new thread into an ancient tapestry—every strand of his essence adjusted to accept the presence of this alien yet familiar energy.
A deep thrum filled his veins.
His heartbeat quickened.
When the final trace of the Cosmic Soul fused with him, he opened his eyes. A strange sensation washed through his body—a boundless vitality, sharp and unending, like an ocean without shore.
It was intoxicating.
"So… this is Cosmic Energy," he muttered, the corners of his lips twitching. A click of his tongue followed, sharp in the quiet room.
He tightened his right fist, and the newly awakened energy obeyed his will. It coiled within his arm, condensing in his knuckles until they felt as if they could pierce the world itself.
Swoosh.
His body moved on instinct.
The punch struck the sandbag with surgical precision, no wasted motion—only compressed force unleashed in a single devastating point.
BAAM!
The impact rattled the chains above and sent the sandbag swinging wildly. The floor itself trembled under his feet, a deep vibration running through the walls.
He let his arm drop, staring at his fist in silence.
What a destructive power…
A bead of cold sweat traced down the side of his temple. He now fully understood the arrogance he'd carried three days ago when he'd faced a Cosmic Master without hesitation.
The true terror of a Cosmic Master wasn't merely their array of abilities—it was the Cosmic Energy they commanded. With it, they could slice through iron like paper, collapse buildings into rubble, and, if they wished, rebuild them as though nothing had happened.
Cosmic Energy was no ordinary force. It was said to be a terrestrial manifestation of Universal Law and Order itself.
Legends whispered that even a single drop of it could resurrect the dead… or create an entire universe from nothing. Whether those tales were truth or fantasy, no one had ever confirmed.
But even the possibility was enough to command fear.
He exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing.
"…Maybe I should try entering a Dungeon."
Dorothea—this frontier town of barely ten thousand souls—was little more than a border outpost in the grand scope of the Kingdom. A thousand soldiers guarded it, their loyalty sworn to the local Baron, the Ethereal Family. Beneath the Baron's authority, three powerful guilds shared influence: the Phoenix Guild, the Godly Sword Guild, and the Wargod Guild.
Dorothea was one of the Four Southern Frontiers of the Kingdom located in Valhalla: Solomon, Dorothea, Mu Myung, and Deathbed. Together, they faced the constant pressure of the Empire's Valhalla from the opposite side of the border.
The frontiers formed the land of Valhalla—the meeting ground of eight borders, four belonging to the Kingdom, four to the Empire. It was a place where warriors met their eternal rest, remembered for their courage and sacrifice.
Among the Southern Four, Solomon stood as the foremost—a duchy ruled by the Solomon Family, home to the strongest man on the Southern Border.
If Blood truly wished to explore a Dungeon, he would have to leave Dorothea and travel to the Valhalla Axis, where Kingdom and Empire borders converged.
Only there could one find the three great Dungeons of the region:
Godless Dungeon, deep within Solomon's frontier.
Graveyard Dungeon, under the shadow of Deathbed's defenses.
War Zone Dungeon, lying between Dorothea and Mu Myung.
The War Zone Dungeon, however, was not under Kingdom control alone. On the Empire's side, the Barbarian and Divine Frontiers also shared access to it, making it a place of constant tension.
Reaching it would take him two full days on horseback—and he wouldn't survive a Dungeon alone. He would need to join an exploration party.
That much was certain.
Blood leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, his mind sifting through the countless possibilities.
A Dungeon…
It wasn't just the thought of treasure that stirred him, though the lure of rare artifacts was undeniable. Perhaps he might stumble upon a relic from the old world, or even—if fortune favored him—a rare Cosmic Spirit that could change his fate.
But there was something else. Something far more enticing.
Research materials.
That was what he truly sought. Knowledge that others might overlook—arcane patterns, traces of ancient magic, forgotten remnants of civilizations swallowed by the endless conflict between Kingdom and Empire. To others, such scraps were meaningless. To him, they were stepping stones.
His decision solidified.
Blood rose from his chair and crossed the dimly lit apartment. The air inside was stale, tinged faintly with the scent of dust and faint iron from the earlier training. Without hesitation, he entered the small shower room.
The hiss of water filled the space. Steam curled upward, clinging to the mirror and softening the edges of his reflection. He stood under the stream, letting the heat wash away the lingering sweat from his training. Each droplet rolled down the lines of his shoulders, tracing the scars hidden beneath his skin—marks of battles won and lost.
When he stepped out, his hair was damp, clinging to the nape of his neck. He dried himself methodically, his movements unhurried, as though preparing for a long journey demanded a certain ritual.
He dressed in a full-body crimson cloak, the heavy fabric settling over him like a second skin. It was unadorned, plain in design, but practical—woven to shield him completely from the harsh glare of the sun. The hood draped low over his brow, casting deep shadows over his face.
From the small table by the wall, he picked up a crimson mask. It was simple—oval-shaped with only two narrow holes for his eyes. No embellishments, no markings. A mask that concealed without speaking of its wearer's identity.
He pulled it on, the faint rasp of cloth against skin the only sound in the room. Through the narrow eyeholes, the world seemed more focused, the periphery swallowed by shadow.
Last came his sword.
The familiar weight settled at his hip as he fastened the worn leather scabbard to his waist. The weapon was the same he used in the hunt—its grip molded perfectly to his hand from years of use. It carried the faint scent of oiled steel, the memory of countless battles lingering along its blade.
He paused for a moment, gloved fingers brushing against the hilt.
This outfit was nothing like his hunting gear. There were no reinforced plates, no hidden compartments, no tactical embellishments—only the simplicity of cloak, mask, and sword. A traveler's garb. Unassuming. Easily forgotten by strangers.
Yet, simplicity had its own power.
He exhaled quietly, pulling the hood over his head until the mask's crimson surface was swallowed by shadow.
The room around him remained still, the muted light filtering through the drawn curtains painting the air in shades of grey and red. Beyond the door lay the streets of Dorothea.