Dungeons were not just a threat. They were also a business.
Beneath the veneer of danger, sweat, and blood lay a structured, lucrative world. For the Guild, noble houses, artifact merchants, and druids, these magical breaches were as much wells of gold as they were pits of death. Each dungeon had a frequency of appearance and a spatial signature. Those ranked D to C, common and unstable, were cleared by inexperienced adventurers. Dungeons ranked B to S were reserved for the elite—exploration squads or far more powerful adventurers.
But there was an exception. An anomaly.
The Misty Continent.
A wild territory with shifting geography and palpable strangeness, where even maps held no value and landmasses fluctuated. A land veiled in magical clouds, infested with evolving dungeons. Expedition 76 had been sent there the previous year—a renowned expedition of one hundred twenty fighters, twenty-three mages, healers, and even nobles of strong lineage. But it had gone wrong. Few returned. And those who survived… still bore the scars.
Daemon knew this world. He was nothing like those nobles in gleaming armor or the young heroes showered with glory before they'd even cast their first spell. He had only himself. And his mission to survive.
His boots crunched softly on the rough cave floor.
For several minutes, he'd been moving silently toward the glow. The stone was cold beneath his fingers as he brushed the wall. Yet a strange warmth emanated from the air, as if mana itself pulsed around him.
Finally, he saw it.
The portal.
A luminous oval, floating above the ground, bordered by arabesques of bluish energy. Daemon inhaled sharply.
"It's now."
This dungeon wasn't ranked A. It was S—the reason the Guild had sealed it off from the public and left it under the jurisdiction of River or Indivar.
But what he didn't know was that the presence of a Khaïbet—the relic of Nefertoum from the Hundred Years' War—at its core weakened everything within, including the monsters. The Khaïbet's aura altered their instincts, vigor, and sometimes their consciousness. Result: the boss, once ranked S according to portal evaluations, was now barely worth a D. The rest of the creatures? E, or even F.
But that was enough to kill an unprepared man—and Daemon.
Daemon stepped through the portal. An icy wave struck him instantly.
The scenery shifted abruptly. The sky turned milky. Snow fell silently on a hard, frozen ground that crunched beneath his feet. A snow-covered tundra stretched endlessly. A cold breeze bit his cheeks, and he quickly donned a long black coat lined with fur.
He knelt, opened a small vial, and applied an opaque lotion to his neck, wrists, and clothes.
A masking lotion. Body odor was often the first thing predators detected.
He took time to orient himself, observing the straight lines of trees, hills buried under snow, and the distant spiraling flight of an ice falcon, before mentally recording the topography, his speed, orientation, and possible escape routes—all part of the instinctive science inherited from his hunting experiences.
Far to the north, between two cliffs, he spotted smoke. An ogre village.
That must be it. The dungeon's core. And where the boss resided.
But more than the boss, Daemon had come for the sword. The Khaïbet.
The rest of the village was just an obstacle.
Daemon clenched his fists.
He had to avoid combat as much as possible. Direct confrontation wasn't an option with his negligible strength.
Sneaking was the right method.
He moved forward, hunched, fluid, avoiding overly exposed paths. He progressed between tree trunks and boulders, carefully evading sentries and stray wolves, sometimes pausing for minutes to observe patrols. He swallowed body-warming potions at regular intervals. The cold bit through his boots, and fatigue was already setting in.
In his mind, everything was calculated.
He had to reach the trunk of the giant tree at the center of the valley, a high vantage point to better analyze enemy movements.
From there, he could plan his descent into the boss's cave.
One hour passed.
Then two.
Still no confrontation. But he knew the next hours would be the hardest. If he was spotted during the approach, it was over.
The dungeon's sun—a bluish sphere suspended in the sky—began to decline, signaling the approach of night. He found a hollow tree trunk, settled in cautiously, and pulled a small loaf of bread and dried meat from his storage ring.
The meal was brief.
He rested his head against the bark and closed his eyes, just for a moment. A simple micro-nap to regenerate his reflexes. He couldn't succumb to sleep. Not here.
Thoughts cascaded, like an uncontrollable flow.
"Not like that, Ben," his father had said in a gravelly voice, marked by tobacco. "If you fidget, you make noise. And if you make noise, it'll run away."
They'd been hunting game then...
Now Daemon shook his head and refocused. Emotion had no place here.
He didn't care about his reputation, for his goal had never been Indivar's glory or recognition—what mattered was the power to survive, and for that, the Khaïbet was essential. His eyelids lifted slowly, his breath forming a fleeting cloud in the icy air.
In a few hours, he'd have to sneak into the ogre village, then into the cave where the weapon lay.
The plan was simple.
He gripped the horn of his bow, his fingers stiff from the biting cold, while the quiver weighed on his flank—each arrow coated in poison. A crack. Between the skeletal trees, a silhouette twisted. Glowing eyes, injected with gangrenous blue, fixed on him. The first wolf lunged, lips curled back over yellow fangs, strings of sticky drool dangling.
"Fuck if I die like this!"
The bow vibrated in his palm. The arrow whistled through the air before exploding the beast's eye socket. A spray of bloody vitreous fluid splattered the branches. The wolf reared, bones cracking under the poison's effect—its limbs already stiffening, its mouth foaming black mucus. It collapsed, legs twisted backward, while its entrails liquefied with a wet gurgle.