In just one day, Lucas had gone from cautious newcomer to moving through the sixth floor like he'd been born there.
His attacks flowed smoother, his reaction time sharper—he was finally getting into the rhythm of the floor.
"Scorch!"
The air sizzled.
But instead of a burning monster, the spell just fizzled against empty space. The War Shadow was untouched, flames licking harmlessly past it.
"Tch."
Lucas instantly closed the distance—five meters—and fired again.
"Scorch!"
This time, the fire hit true. The shadow creature shrieked and burst into smoke.
Lucas lowered his hand, staring at his palm. "Missed by ten meters. Tight fight like that, my aim went to hell."
Realization hit.
"It's not the spell—it's me. I've never actually trained ranged accuracy with Magic."
He groaned. "Great. So now I've gotta learn magical marksmanship too."
Memories of endless sword drills flashed through his mind—his cramped hands, his aching shoulders, the nights spent swinging until dawn. He sighed, looking down at his short sword.
"I need a staff. This thing's getting benched soon."
A proper staff was everything for a mage—focus, amplification, stability, precision, efficiency. The difference between bare fists and a loaded gun.
"Problem is," he muttered, "mage gear costs a fortune."
He shook his head. Not worth worrying about yet.
Right now, what mattered was maximizing potential. Every battle refined his Stats and stacked his experience. If he kept pushing himself, his Skill would multiply that gain. The smarter he trained, the less Valis he'd have to burn later.
After a short rest, he moved on—quill and notebook in hand, sketching the tunnels as he walked.
Sure, the Guild's archives had maps of the upper and parts of the middle floors, but every adventurer knew better.
The Dungeon was alive. It changed. Shifting tunnels, collapsing chambers, new monsters. You couldn't rely on old data.
Handmade maps were gospel.
He reached a wide, open cavern and stopped, scanning the space with narrowed eyes. "Northeast chamber, huh? Good spot. Plenty of room to farm."
As if answering his thought, the walls began to tremble.
Crack.
Dark shapes clawed out of the stone—freshly spawned War Shadows.
Lucas grimaced. "...Guess I jinxed it."
Then his eyes caught something odd. One of them—smaller, thinner—lurking behind the others, trying hard to stay hidden.
That's not normal.
His hand tightened on the hilt of his short sword, mind racing.
Body's off-ratio. Not a mutation… no signs of cannibalism, so it's not an evolved type either. A special variant?
His pulse quickened. No way. On the sixth floor? That's an Irregular if I've ever seen one.
He crouched, keeping his breathing quiet, eyes locked on the shadow pack.
Nine regulars, one special. Room's big enough for kiting. Space advantage is mine. I can handle half that number easily—this should be fine.
He wasn't bluffing.
From his testing, he could handle twenty War Shadows at once with Scorch before things got dangerous. As long as he didn't get surrounded, the sixth floor was his playground.
He raised his hand.
"Scorch!"
No charge—just raw, instant release.
Flames exploded across the chamber.
The small War Shadow shrieked, the pack turning on him in unison. Crimson gleams flared in their mirrored eyes as they rushed him.
Lucas backpedaled fast, chanting in rhythm.
"Scorch! Scorch! Scorch!"
Each cast lit up the cavern in bursts of fire and smoke. Shadows fell one after another, collapsing into ash.
Perfect execution—clean, efficient, lethal.
He kept moving, hugging the walls, circling the horde, burning through them like a human turret. Fire chased motion, motion chased instinct. The cave became a storm of heat and light.
After two volleys, he stopped, catching his breath.
For the first time since becoming an adventurer, he felt it. Real danger. Real thrill.
This was what adventure meant.
At a safe distance, he watched the burning bodies crumble. Within seconds, only one remained—the smaller War Shadow, still twitching in the fire.
"…"
Lucas didn't move. Something felt wrong.
He kept his stance low, eyes sharp. Five meters—his tested precision limit.
He raised his hand again.
"Scorch!—"
The word froze on his tongue.
The monster moved.
The "struggling" War Shadow suddenly went limp… then vanished into a blur of motion. A black streak shot across the ground, closing five meters in an instant.
"What—"
He didn't even finish the word. The creature was already in his face.
For one split second, he saw his own wide eyes reflected in its mirrored head.
Then the claws came.
"Shit! It was faking it!?"
Instinct took over. He threw his left arm up just in time—
"Magic Guard, Magic Blessing!"
"SHNK—!"
Agony ripped through him. The claw tore straight through his gauntlet and bit into his forearm.
"AAAH—DAMN IT!"
The impact nearly dislocated his shoulder. But that one instant of resistance saved him.
Roaring through the pain, Lucas slammed his knee into the creature's chest, forcing it off balance. Then—elbow strike, pivot, kick back—distance!
"Scorch!"
The spell went off point-blank.
The tunnel flashed white.
Flames surged—and then a shadow burst through the inferno, claws still glowing red-hot.
"Shit… it cut through my spell?"
Blood dripped from his wounded arm, splattering onto the stone. His breathing came ragged, each exhale sharp as a knife.
'It shredded my Magic, faked a death, and waited for me to lower my guard… That's not normal monster behavior.'
A chill ran through him.
'That's intelligence. That's malice.'
He clenched his teeth, pain screaming up his arm. 'This thing's not supposed to exist this high up… if I hadn't noticed its body size earlier—I'd already be dead.'
Sweat ran cold down his face.
'Cunning bastard.'
They stood facing each other in the flickering dark—one man, one shadow.
His left arm hung useless, blood soaking the glove. Thank the gods for Demon Lord's Crest, Heart of a Scholar, and Magic Guard, Magic Blessing—without those buffs, he'd have lost the arm entirely.
His mind raced.
'Only one good hand left. Short sword or Magic—I can't use both. And it's too fast to cast safely…'
The War Shadow tensed. Its body blurred—then vanished, rocketing across the floor like a bolt of darkness.
"Fuck!"
Lucas didn't think. He drew his sword and met it head-on.
"CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG—!"
Steel clashed against claw again and again, sparks flying in every direction. Lucas twisted, deflecting, countering, parrying on pure instinct.
'Too fast! Dual claws—each one sharp as hell. If not for my endurance advantage, I'd already be shredded!'
But even with one arm gone, he held his ground—barely. His light armor screamed under the relentless strikes, gouged with deep scratches.
He was losing ground.
'Can't keep up forever. One slip and it's over.'
The thought knifed through his mind like lightning.
'I need to flip the script—draw it in. Force an opening.'
He gritted his teeth, ignoring the blood, the pain, the fear.
One shot.
That's all he needed.
He just had to make it count.