"I'm digging in."
Lucas moved with practiced ease, slicing into breakfast with knife and fork, chewing slow and steady until every bite was gone. He cleaned the wooden dishes, washed up, and went through his morning routine.
Thanks to blessings and advanced Magic Stone technology, life in Orario wasn't much different from a modern city. Even his little rented home had running water—no small luxury.
Once he'd finished combing his hair, he did a full gear check: potions, rope, Magic Stone lamp, food, rations, whetstone—everything in place.
Then came the outfit.
Black combat shirt and trousers, worn under a set of lightweight black armor. It had cost him 49,900 Valis—a painful price, but worth it. He'd managed to snag the set on a lucky break at the Hephaestus Exclusive Workshop, and it was still his pride and joy.
The armor came with a gorget, chestplate, pauldrons, vambraces, gloves, and greaves. A fitted leather vest underneath sealed the gaps, covering every vital point.
Built for slash resistance and forged by one of Orario's top smiths—probably as scrap practice work—it was lightweight, breathable, and didn't restrict movement in the slightest.
Next came the adventurer's belt and leg pouches, crafted from durable monster-hide Drop Items. Rugged, sturdy, and ready for abuse.
He checked his shortsword and dagger, sheathed both at his sides, slipped on gloves, and pulled his black hooded cloak tight to dampen his presence. A few final adjustments, a deep breath—
"Another hopeful day in paradise."
He stepped outside.
—
"Morning, Lucas! Heading out early?"
"Sure am, Uncle Rita. See you later."
"Hold up, kid! Your aunt made fried potato balls—cream-filled. Take a few!"
"Oh? Don't mind if I do."
He waved thanks, grinning as he passed through the narrow backstreets. Every few steps, someone called out a greeting. It was a small neighborhood, but it felt alive.
He turned onto the main road and joined the morning crowd, heading toward the Babel Tower in the city center.
He didn't need to restock supplies today, so instead of taking Adventurer's Avenue in the northwest, he cut through the shorter route—arriving earlier than usual.
At this hour, every main road—West Main Street, Adventurer's Avenue, and the rest—was jam-packed.
Dwarves in heavy armor lugged massive shields and axes. Amazonesses strode boldly in half-armor that looked one wardrobe malfunction away from scandal. Beastmen and Pallum adventurers rushed past in light leathers, while elves in embroidered robes glided by with staffs in hand. Porters, haulers, and supporters loaded down with weapons and gear wove through it all.
The streets of Orario were alive.
Lucas kept his hood low and moved with the flow, slipping toward the plaza that surrounded the Dungeon's great opening.
Then—something caught his eye.
Gold and silver hair flashed through the crowd, bright even in the morning light. Both women were tall, elegant, and moved with the effortless grace of trained fighters.
"Elves?" he muttered. "Sword and mage combo… yeah, I'd remember them if I'd seen them before. Kinda familiar though…"
He frowned, thoughts flickering as he descended the spiral staircase leading underground. By the time he reached the first-floor plaza, he'd shoved the curiosity aside.
A quick glance revealed a few familiar groups loitering by the entrance—regulars who liked to camp the spot, hoping for a miracle find.
Lucas smirked under his hood. "Jackpot eggs from Mister Lucky? A million Valis prize? Yeah, good luck with that, idiots."
He slipped into the Dungeon's shadowed tunnels.
—
At his current Stats, Lucas could handle the fifth floor easily.
Only when ten or more monsters spawned at once did things start to get hairy.
His usual solo tactics were simple: if five or more appeared together, retreat immediately, break formation while kiting them, then pick them off one by one.
Safe, efficient, and perfect for a loner. Less gear damage, fewer injuries, more control over the battlefield.
The golden rule?
"The Dungeon is alive."
He lived by that.
One mistake, one lapse in focus, and this living labyrinth would crush you without a hint of mercy.
Especially when you were tired, distracted, or cocky—the Dungeon had a way of reminding adventurers what despair really meant.
"WAAAGHHHHHH!"
The moment he stepped onto the fifth floor, the greeting committee arrived.
Freshly spawned Goblins, their shrieks echoing through the tunnel, eyes glowing red as they charged with crude knives and clubs.
Lucas grinned. "Sorry, boys. I don't do melee with trash mobs anymore."
He drew his short sword in reverse grip, steadying his stance. His right hand extended forward, index finger raised slightly, palm relaxed.
Mana surged through him, thrumming like a living current. Threads of blue light flickered across his vision.
Then he whispered, voice calm and precise:
"Scorch."
A single word. The trigger.
Fire exploded out of nowhere, engulfing a goblin mid-charge.
"GYA—!"
The monster's scream was short, raw. Flames hissed and popped as its body burned from within.
"Scorch."
Another incantation—another burst. This time the goblin's head went up like a torch, its shrieks ending in smoke and ash.
Even with both writhing on the ground, it took them a few seconds to die. Too slow.
Lucas frowned. Damage output's weak.
He adjusted instantly.
"Scorch!"
The third target went up in flames. Lucas hopped back a few steps, widening the gap as he invoked his Skills.
Demon Lord's Crest, activate.
· Doubles Endurance and Magic.
· Increases total mind by one hundred times.
· Continuous mind regeneration and higher casting efficiency.
Heart of a Scholar, activate.
· Refines techniques, enhancing precision and visual quality of spells.
· Improves performance and appearance of equipped gear.
True Essence of All Magic, activate.
· Super Magic: Allows charging spells for massive amplification.
He inhaled slowly, eyes gleaming. "Scorch!"
This time, the world roared.
Flames detonated outward like an erupting furnace, devouring everything in front of him. The goblin's scream cut off instantly, body collapsing into blackened bone.
Silence followed. Only three faint whimpers remained.
Lucas strode forward, blade flashing once, twice, three times—finishing the job.
When it was over, he stood among four charred corpses, scowling.
"Too weak," he muttered.
He crouched, poking one of the corpses with his sword tip, analyzing the result like a scientist.
"The burn spreads too slow. The flames look intense, but the lethal damage takes time to kick in. Delayed kill window—not good."
He sighed. "Lucky they were goblins. Anything tougher—Orcs, Silverbacks—they'd just get pissed and hit harder."
Two instant casts just to kill a goblin. That wasn't sustainable.
He ran the numbers mentally. "Base Magic's under 400. Even with Demon Lord's Crest and Heart of a Scholar, that's the upper limit of what I can do instantly."
The damage ratio? Probably not even 0.5x.
It wasn't really an offensive spell—it was a setup move, a burning debuff to amplify other fire-based Magic.
Lucas exhaled through his nose. "I'll need at least 500 Magic, or a short charge time, to make it one-shot capable."
Any real mage seeing him use Scorch as a primary attack spell would've laughed themselves stupid.
Still—data was data.
He pried out the Magic Stones, jotted a few notes in his small leather journal, and made his conclusions.
"About one-third of a second of charge time is the sweet spot," he murmured. "It's a ranged spell—plenty of room to kite. Standing still to channel would be idiotic."
He reviewed his battle flow mentally, noting improvements.
Thanks to his Skills, he didn't need parallel chanting or long incantations. No risk of backfire. He could move and cast seamlessly.
A perfect solo build.
He finished his notes, then smiled faintly. "Round two."
—
"Hey, did you hear that scream earlier?"
"Yeah, what the hell? Who tortures monsters on the fifth floor? Just stab it and be done!"
"Who knows? Maybe some freak with a fetish. It's Orario—there's all kinds down here."
"…Gross."
The two adventurers passed by, their voices echoing down the tunnel.
Lucas's eye twitched. Torturing monsters? I'm experimenting, dammit.
He sighed. No, the fifth floor's too cramped. Narrow tunnels, slow respawns, way too many people around. Resources are a joke.
And if someone caught him testing instant-cast spells, it could draw the wrong kind of attention.
He wasn't strong enough to deal with that kind of trouble. Not yet.
"…Guess I'll head deeper."
The thought lasted exactly 0.001 seconds before he started walking.
The difference between the fifth, sixth, and seventh floors might as well have been different worlds.
New monsters, higher spawn rates, deadlier environments.
Especially the seventh floor—the Newbie Graveyard.
Adventurers called it the First Death Line for a reason.
Because down there, the Dungeon stopped forgiving mistakes.