"Ten thousand dead once clawed at Elynthi's gates—until Ifo the Red Vanguard arrived, his blade 'Music' singing through the bloodied air.
With every swing, a lullaby was sung—not to comfort the living, but to lay the damned to rest. His sword style was no mere slaughter—it was a mercy. A final sleep, returned to souls torn from peace and bound to rot."
—The tale of the Red Vanguard
Fifteen days after the Nexus Ryze Event
Date: July 6th, 1188 N.A.
The season had not been kind.
The peak of summer had arrived like a tyrant, hammering the land with relentless sun during the day, then vanishing without mercy, letting the cold rains fall like arrows through the blackened valley come night. This was Western Elynthia, where Outpost III held fast like a splinter lodged between the cliffs and wildlands, with the great spires of Elynthi's Capital looming far to the east—untouchable, radiant, and cold in the distance.
But where cities stayed dry and dignified, the lands west of them wept beneath grey clouds, soaked in a never-ending chorus of rainfall. Mornings were scorched, afternoons damp and treacherous. The cycle had continued for days. The earth was swollen and slippery. Streams formed from nowhere, cutting paths through old roots and forgotten trails.
It was in this harsh terrain that the expedition party now climbed.
The Rank-Up
Mina adjusted the red sash around her waist, tightening it before it could catch in a gust of mountain wind. She kept her head down as they moved, water dripping from the hood of her Tropico uniformed coat, soaked at the edges. Beside her, Ashe walked in silence—his signature black-and-orange jacket layered beneath the regulation garb, its once-vibrant colors now dulled by mist and mud.
They were no longer the Dungeon Cleaners. That title, spat at them like a curse, was now behind them.
By Ferris' approval, they had been elevated—"Handlers," officially. Their role was still supplementary, not full adventurers, but they were no longer janitors of the forgotten. They were now responsible for support ops during exploratory missions. An important difference.
They still followed. But now, they mattered.
The Climb
The sound of gear clanking echoed along the slippery mountainside, punctuated by muttered complaints and squelching boots.
Their mission this time was no small one.
The objective was simple—neutralize and secure Dungeon #21E, codename: "Cuirassier."
Located within this elevated valley, Cuirassier had been flagged weeks ago after an associate guild under the Tropico Banner—tasked with overseeing the province—failed to contain it. Most of their fighters were fledgling rookies, enthusiastic but undertrained, and lacking the discipline to handle a high-tier crypt-type anomaly.
Initial attempts to seal the dungeon had failed. Repeatedly.
Now, the Tropico Guild had stepped in to reinforce the situation. Western Outpost III deployed Adventurer Parties 4, 5, and 7, with Parties 1 and 2 trailing behind as reinforcements in the event of escalation. It wasn't supposed to be a full-blown campaign—yet the tone of the deployment said otherwise.
The troubling part was the type of dungeon.
Dungeon #21E was classified as Undead-type, the most common category on record—rotted bodies risen by cursed mana, predictable shamblers easily dispatched with flame, light, or discipline.
But these undead were… different.
According to surviving scouts, the corpses within #21E weren't mindless. Many had begun to wear the gear and weapons of the fallen. Shields, leather, chainmail, scavenged spell scrolls. Even crude tactical behavior. The dungeon earned its nickname "Cuirassier" after multiple sightings of an unusually intelligent undead believed to be the Dungeon Master—a towering corpse in an enchanted steel cuirass, wielding a heavy sabre with enough precision to duel trained men.
"Undead… with memory?" Ashe murmured lowly, his breath fogging in the damp air as he walked beside Mina."Not memory," Mina replied. "Just imitation. Echoes."
But the doubt in her voice betrayed her.
They continued their ascent alongside the others.
Adventurer Party 5, now composed of Mina, Ashe, Trevus, Nira, Lotha, and their newest additions—Lauff and Colt— and a couple of other handlers were holding formation well despite the storm. Trevus led from the center, a walking tower of muscle and patience. Nira and Lotha remained sharp-eyed and silent. Colt stayed near the rear, one hand always hovering near his spell baton, while Lauff, for all his nervous chatter, hadn't misstepped again.
And at the front of the convoy, moving with calculated grace, was Seth Valcos, known as Valc—leader of Party 4 and a veteran of more campaigns than any man here dared count. His armor, dulled by rain but proud in form, bore the marks of both past glory and survived disaster. Every foothold he chose, every gesture he gave—it told the others where to tread and when to halt.
"Party 7, break off to the right flank. Party 5, remain centered. A Scar is less than a kilometer ahead. Formation tight," Valc called, his voice carrying over the wind like a blade drawn in silence.
Mina glanced toward the dark valley ahead.
The terrain dipped suddenly into a crescent—a gash carved through the mountain like the swipe of a god's claw.
The air was colder. Wetter. Hungrier.
And something… or someone… was waiting in the dark.
Dungeon 21E: Cuirassier — The Outer Fringe
The mountain air shifted again.
What had once been a heavy mist of rain and moss-drenched silence now became tense with something else—movement. Subtle at first. A crunch of gravel. The slow drag of boots, not living, but echoing the memory of a march.
Undead stragglers.
They were coming.
Just over the next ridge, where the shadows thickened and the air began to reek of cold iron and rot, the first of them emerged—half-armored husks of men and women, their eyes long gone, their lips stitched shut by time or curse. Yet they moved with the stubbornness of soldiers who still believed they belonged on a battlefield.
"Tch…" Valcos scoffed, steel in his breath. "Of course they're not waiting inside. Too proud for that, huh?"
The old soldier motioned once, sharp and precise.
Blades unsheathed in perfect response. Raincoats were drawn back, revealing the gleam of reinforced armor, the shine of polished obsidian staves, and the glint of Bladed Wands—strange magical weapons forged to both cast and cut. Many among Parties 4 and 7 carried these, remnants of a hybrid spell-fighter era.
"Party Seven," Valcos ordered, not turning around. "Clear the path."
They were already moving—Party 7, lean and fast, surged forward with sharpened silence. No words, no cheers. Just duty.
"Clem." Valcos called his aide.
A petite boy with a mage's mantle fluttering behind him stepped out from the rear of Party 4. He was no older than fourteen, and yet bore the composure of a man twice his age.
"Yes, Commander!" Clem chirped, raising his wand like a signal rod.
With a single breath drawn from the lungs of ritual, he chanted with startling clarity:
"Ignia: Flare."
A burst of heated mana exploded from the tip of his wand, spiraling into the sky like a comet.
A gleaming orange flare cracked through the storm-heavy clouds above, scattering ravens and drawing the eye from miles around.
It was the signal—contact confirmed.
Somewhere behind them, in the lower inclines of the valley, Taph Pantzir, the famed wind mage, lifted her eyes in awe. Her fingers trembled slightly over the pommel of her quarterstaff.
"They've engaged," she muttered. "Already?"
Beside her stood a mountain of a man—Julius Deterro, the Elite Adventurer of Outpost III, commander of Party 1. Raindrops flicker on his heavy armor and thick leather, and his one good eye glared up at the flare as if it had offended him.
"Hmph," Julius grunted. "Then we move when they bleed. Not before."
Taph's eyes narrowed. "You should have more faith in Valcos."
"I don't waste faith on survivors. It's so cynical."
"So are the corpses we'll be stepping over."
Back on the ridge—Party 7 was already engaged.
Their vanguard slammed into the first cluster of undead with a force more akin to a lightning strike than a military formation. Leading the front was a twin-dagger fighter named Ylza, a wiry woman with a mohawk and tattoos glowing faint violet with mana enhancement.
She slid low under a sword swing from a corpse-knight, driving both daggers into the thing's kneecaps before twisting her body and beheading it cleanly with a wind-enhanced jump.
Others in her squad moved with similar ferocity—staves spun like quarterstaffs, arc-blades tore through ribcages, and short, focused incantations cracked bones like dry wood.
The undead did not retreat.
They never did.
But something was off. Even in this opening skirmish, the undead fought with guarded aggression—blocking, repositioning, parrying.
As if they remembered.
As if they'd trained.
"Woah these guy's weren't kidding" Mina muttered, watching from the cliffside. "They're organized."
Ashe narrowed his eyes, he flicks his fingers as he casts out a light-stick—a temporary spell to enhance visual clarity through heavy rain.
"Gear's real too," he said grimly. "These aren't makeshift armors. That's militia-grade chainmail. That one's got a bandolier... and that sabre's a Legionnary design."
Mina's mouth tightened. "They're scavengers."
"How do they even think like that?" Ashe whispered.
Behind them, the remaining expeditionary force readied themselves. Party 5 would follow in after Party 7 secured the outer fringe. Party 4 would rotate to the side ridge for flanking. And when needed—
Parties 1 and 2 would arrive like hammers to crush whatever remained.
But in the back of everyone's mind—there was only one question now.
If this was the outer fringe… what was waiting inside Dungeon #21E itself?
The downpour thickened, splashing over stones and iron, drowning the mountain trail in cold sheets. The expedition line narrowed, boots pressing into mud, cloaks soaked and dripping as the vanguard advanced uphill beneath a horizon painted in gunmetal gray.
Then—A streak of shadow darted ahead.
"Eh?" Mina's voice caught in her throat, her hand rising instinctively to her sash. "Did you see that?"
Ashe narrowed his eyes, the rain sliding down his lenses. "Was that... Nira?"
They watched as a rippling pool of pure blackness, darker than even the overcast sky, expanded near the rear of Adventuring Party 7. From it rose a single, lean silhouette — Nira. Without a word, she launched herself forward like a phantom, twin daggers glinting in her grasp.
She had disobeyed orders. Again.
"Tch. That's the third time this week," Colt muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on his Spell-Baton.
Nira didn't look back.
One of the undead, donned in a rusted cuirass and half-shattered helm, swung its rotting blade — only for the strike to slice through empty air. Nira had already dropped low, sliding past with uncanny grace, blades flickering like tongues of black fire. She danced between blows like a specter, a one-woman storm.
With a click-clack of steel boots, Trevus — the musclebound vanguard of Party 5 — sprinted after her. His twin sabers unsheathed with a screech of steel.
"NIRA!!" he roared, slicing down a skeletal soldier that lunged at his side. "Get your ass back in line—!"
But she didn't stop.
She performed a clean Southern Maneuver — sliding low into the wet grass, carving out the knees of an armored corpse. The clatter of bones echoed as it collapsed backward, only to be impaled on both her daggers. She twisted them clean. Bloodless. Efficient. Cold.
Ashe stood still for a moment, lips slightly parted. There was a look in Nira's eyes — something was… broken.
"She's been acting strange," he murmured, watching as the rogue flicked blood from her blades. "Even more than usual."
Mina glanced over at him, concerned. "Is it just recklessness… or something worse?"
As if on cue, Trevus appeared beside them, panting, drenched in rain. "I've tried pulling her back—she won't listen," he said, teeth clenched.
"This isn't how she fights. She was never this aggressive. She didn't even speak on the way up. It's like she's just—angry. And I don't know why."
Ashe pressed further, brows knitting together. "Has anything happened recently? Did someone—?"
Trevus shook his head. "If I knew, I'd stop her. I've been her team lead for three years... and I've never seen her like this."
They turned to Lotha, the quiet priest who walked just behind them, her silver staff clinking softly with each step. She had a humble aura, a warmth that contrasted the chill in the air.
"She was closest to you," Mina said. "Has she said anything?"
Lotha lowered her gaze. "No. Not lately. She hasn't spoken to me at all... not even in prayer."
That silence said more than words.
Nira — the rogue who wielded Shadow Magic in its most dangerous form: Death Speaker — was beginning to crack.
It was a magic that allowed her to sink into shadows and store things beyond the material world. But each use… each invocation of the Shadow Realm came with a toll. Every dive into that infinite black threatened to draw her deeper, closer to the Matron of Shadows, the eternal warden of that cursed plane. Death Speaker was forbidden in many lands for a reason.
And now, she was slipping.
Mina stared after her, a pit forming in her stomach as the shadow rogue vanished again into the haze ahead — this time with no warning.
"It's probably something personal..." Ashe said softly.
No one responded.
Because sometimes... the loudest pain was the one that went unspoken.
At that moment, she leapt out from the shadow of a fallen branch, landed on the back of a fully-armored undead knight, and plunged both her daggers into its skull's eye sockets with a sickening crunch.
Mana leaked like vapor from its face. She inhaled it like cold steam.
"Too slow," she whispered, exhaling the last breath from its corpse.
"All of you are too slow."
One by one, the undead began turning toward her now.
Dozens of them.
Her shadows flickered. Her footing grew slick.
But Nira smiled.
"Let them try."
From above, Mina watched in horrified awe. "She's killing them faster than Party 7…"
Ashe didn't answer. He was counting her kills, her dips into darkness, and—most dangerously—her returns.
The Gates of Haiden
Twenty minutes
The forest trail had become a blur of roots, mud, and relentless downpour. The storm churned above like a beast refusing to rest. Rain slapped steel and bark. Capes flapped like banners in a hurricane.
But at last—they saw it— the expedition came upon their objective:
The Haiden Company Outpost.
The outpost loomed ahead, tucked between two rising hills. A wooden watchtower jutted from its center, half-collapsed. Lanterns flickered behind shattered windows. Barricades had been torn down. And the banners once flying under the guild known as Haiden Company, a subsidiary of the Tropico Adventuring Consortium, now hung in tatters.
But worse—
The outpost was swarming.
Dozens. No, hundreds of them. Undead.
Ripping through the outer fences. Lurking in the trenches. Crawling over rooftops. Even in the shadows of the trees, corpses waited — their pale eyes glowing with residual mana.
Valcos exhaled sharply, adjusting the clasp on his armored mantle.
"This isn't a dungeon crisis," he muttered, voice edged with disgust. "This is negligence."
"So this is how deep they let it rot..."
It was lost.
Valcos stopped just a few paces behind the ridge, staring down at the hellish scene. His cloak blew in the wind, rain pelting off his pauldrons
He turned to Clem. "The outpost was supposed to serve as a relay for Tropico-affiliated adventurers. But if the Haiden Company allowed this? This is not just negligence."
Letting a dungeon go unchecked was one thing. But this?
This violated the IHMA's Concord on Arcane Regulation and Safety (I.C.A.R.S.) — the fundamental doctrine that regulated arcane anomalies, dungeon sealing, and guild accountability. If a dungeon couldn't be cleared within its operational cycle, it was law to seal it. By Magic engineers. Mana pillars. Territorial wards.
Letting one overflow and reach a surface outpost?
"Gross misconduct. Criminal irresponsibility."
His jaw tensed. Haiden Company would be fined, no doubt. Possibly blacklisted from further guild operations. Letting civilians nearby suffer due to a failed lockdown?
Unforgivable.
But that anger could wait. He breathed deep. Centered his pulse.
"Clem," he barked. His aide snapped to attention, boots sloshing in soaked grass.
"Sir!"
"Run. Backtrack to Parties One and Two—find Julius."
Valcos's tone sharpened like drawn steel. "Tell him to dispatch reinforcements immediately. We've gone beyond exploratory engagement. This is a Zone Breach. And make sure someone escorts you. I want your legs in one piece."
Clem didn't argue. He nodded and disappeared into the storm.
Valcos turned to the rest.
He turned to the expedition.
"All units — shielded advance formation! Tighten into makeshift phalanx rows! Casters on the rear arc. Advance slow, strike faster!"
A dozen captains echoed the call.
A ripple of order spread through the expedition. Adventurers shouted commands. Shields were raised. Weapons drawn. The cacophony of undead growls echoed in the distance like thunder preparing to crash.
Amidst this, another drama unfolded.
"Nira!"
Trevus finally caught up. Mud splattered across his armored greaves. His chest heaved from the chase. But his arm was steady—firmly clutching the wrist of the rogue who had once again sprinted far ahead.
Nira yanked back, her drenched hair clinging to her face, the shadows still writhing beneath her boots.
"Don't start," she snapped. "I don't need you playing big brother."
But Trevus didn't release her.
Instead, he slowly raised one of his twin sabers — cold, steady — resting its flat edge just beside her neck.
His voice, once boisterous, was suddenly heavy with warning.
"You think this is about you?" he said quietly, eyes fixed on hers. "Whatever's eating you, I don't know it. I don't need to. But right now? This isn't about your pain. This is about all of us getting out alive."
Rain hissed as it struck his blade.
"This isn't just some crawl anymore, Nira," Trevus added. "It's a Provincial Crisis. Monsters leaking into civilian sectors is grounds for magical martial law."
Nira stood still.
He pressed the saber a little more.
"If you lose control, even for a second, people will die. You will get someone killed. Including yourself."
Nira's expression twitched — pain, rage, exhaustion… all clashing in a single breath. Her grip on her dagger trembled, but slowly…
The shadow around her feet flickered once. Then twice. And slowly began to fade. Her fingers unclenched from her daggers. The twisting void beneath her steadied — no longer writhing, but gently rippling like a shallow pond.
She didn't apologize. But her voice dropped.
"…I know."
Trevus lowered the saber.
She turned away, and for the first time in hours — she walked with the group instead of ahead of it.
They moved forward together, toward the fire-lit outpost drenched in undeath and decay.
But none of them knew:
This outpost was just the first.