The Great Wilds didn't give a damn about Dante's resolve, but he'd carve his mark into them. He pushed through tangled undergrowth, leather armor creaking, adventurer's bag heavy on his shoulder. The black sword, its etched flames faintly pulsing, was strapped to his back, hidden beneath a tattered cloak. At Level 7, his Blade of Darkness and Flame class burned in his core, stats and skills—Ember of the Void, Ashen Reaver, Cinder's Grace—fueling his grind. Aetherion's Guild demanded C-rank to approach its gates, and Valewood's weak quests—hunting stray wolves, gathering herbs—had barely pushed him to Level 7. His stats edged up, a slow burn:
• Strength: 32
• Agility: 39
• Endurance: 24
• Intellect: 28
• Spirit: 32
Those pathetic tasks weren't enough. Dante needed blood, loot, real levels. The Wilds held F-rank dungeons—caves crawling with goblins, thick with Aether. His class and sword were his secret, guarded until he could prove his legend in Aetherion. For now, he'd grind, alone, forging his path.
A half-day's trek led to Goblin's Hollow, an F-rank dungeon gouged into a mossy hill. The cave mouth reeked of rot and blood, Aether humming like a storm's edge. Guild maps promised goblins, traps, and scraps—rusty blades, bone trinkets, maybe a low-grade Aether crystal. Dante was here for the kills, the experience to fuel his rise. He tightened his cloak, sword hidden, and stepped into the dark.
The cave was a foul pit, walls slick with slime, faint Aetheric glows pulsing in the stone. His boots crunched on broken bones, every sound sharp in the stale air. A skittering echoed—claws on rock, low hisses. Goblins. Three scrawny creatures slunk from the shadows, waist-high, green skin pocked, yellow eyes glinting. They clutched jagged knives and clubs, snarling.
Dante: "Move, you filth."
He drew his sword, its black blade catching the dim light. They charged, shrieking. His Agility surged, body a blur, sidestepping a knife aimed at his gut. He swung, Strength splitting the first goblin's chest, black blood spraying. It crumpled, choking. The second swung a club; Dante ducked, old scars twinging. He roared:
Dante: "EMBER OF THE VOID!"
Black fire erupted, slamming the second goblin. Its flesh melted, bubbling into steaming rot, bones charring as it wailed. The third lunged, knife scraping his armor. Dante cleaved its skull, brains splattering the wall. His stamina dipped, breath steady but sharp. The sword glowed, drawing Aether from the corpses. His stat window flickered—barely a sliver of experience.
Dante: "Damn weaklings. I need more."
The cave twisted deeper, air heavy with decay. Crude traps—tripwires, spiked pits—cluttered the path. His Agility let him weave through, eyes scanning shadows. The tunnel opened into a wide chamber, floor strewn with bones, rusted weapons, and a stench of rot, blood, and despair. Twelve goblins waited, led by a hulking Goblin Chief, nearly human-sized, clad in scavenged iron, gripping a spiked mace. Its red eyes burned.
Dante: "Finally. Let's see what you've got."
The goblins swarmed, shrieks and steel clashing. Dante moved, slashing two down, their blood soaking his boots. A knife grazed his thigh, pain sharp.
Dante: "Back off!"
He bellowed:
Dante: "ASHEN REAVER!"
Fiery shadows cloaked the blade, cleaving a goblin in half, guts spilling wetly. The sword drank Aether, its next strike heavier, lopping off another's arm, blood gushing. The Chief roared, mace crashing down. Dante dove, stone shattering, chips cutting his cheek.
Dante: "Damn it!"
The goblins pressed in, knives flashing. One stabbed his side, blood hot, armor tearing.
Dante: "Son of a bitch!"
Pain burned, but his focus was cold. He roared:
Dante: "CINDER'S GRACE!"
Fiery Aether glowed, wounds knitting enough to keep him fighting. Stamina drained, but he pushed on. He bellowed:
Dante: "EMBER OF THE VOID!"
Black fire consumed three goblins, their screams fading as flesh dissolved into ash. The Chief swung, mace clipping his shoulder, bone jarring. Blood soaked his armor, vision wavering.
Dante: "Fuck!"
He gripped his sword tighter, focus like steel. He saw his chance and roared:
Dante: "ASHEN REAVER!"
The blade, swollen with corpse Aether, tore through the Chief's chest, iron plates splitting, ribs cracking like dry wood. Blood sprayed, the brute collapsing in a steaming heap. The remaining goblins froze, then fled, shrieking. Dante pursued, cutting them down, blood painting the chamber red. Silence fell, broken by his heavy breaths, the floor a slaughterhouse of gore and ash.
A faint sound—human sobs—came from a side tunnel. Dante's heart lurched, grip tightening on the sword. He followed, boots slick with blood, and found a barred cage carved into the wall. Inside, four women huddled, clothes torn, bodies bruised, eyes hollow with fear. Chains bound their wrists, and the stench of despair hit him hard. Goblins had kept them as breeding slaves, a horror that twisted his gut, shock and rage rising. He stayed steady, serious.
Dante: "Gods… hold on."
He swung, shouting:
Dante: "ASHEN REAVER!"
The blade shattered the bars, metal screeching. The women flinched, but he knelt, calm despite the anger in his chest.
Dante: "You're free. I'll get you out."
He broke their chains, helping them stand, their steps shaky. They didn't speak, eyes raw with relief and trauma. Dante led them to the cave's mouth, pointing toward Valewood.
Dante: "Guild's there. Tell them what happened."
They nodded, stumbling into the dawn. Dante turned back to the dungeon, jaw tight. Those goblin scum didn't deserve to exist.
He scoured the chamber, finding meager loot—rusty daggers, a cracked bone necklace, a thumb-sized Aether crystal glowing faintly. He stuffed them in his bag, more for Guild proof than worth. The sword pulsed, Aether thick from the corpses. His stat window flared:
• Level Up! Level 10 Reached!
• Strength: 38
• Agility: 46
• Endurance: 29
• Intellect: 34
• Spirit: 38
The dungeon had pushed him to level up, but the women's haunted eyes lingered. He wasn't here to save anyone, but he'd be damned if he ignored that evil. More dungeons waited, tougher fights, better loot.
Dante: "World's gonna know me. And I'll do it my way."
He sheathed the sword, its flames dimming, and strode from the cave, blood dripping from his armor. The Wilds stretched ahead, more dungeons calling, quests and kills to fuel his rise. Alone, he'd forge a legend no one could touch.