Under the crushing pressure of life and death, Lucas's mind grew eerily calm—sharper than ever.
Drop the sword. Force it to block.
His body jerked—one step, then a sudden stumble. He pitched forward like he'd tripped, flailing for balance.
The bait worked.
The War Shadow lunged, its hooked claws flashing—two streaks of black slicing straight for his throat!
"Haah!"
Lucas shouted as power surged through his right arm. His damaged, jagged sword shrieked against the enemy's blade, just barely deflecting the deadly strike.
The moment he blocked the attack, he kicked off the ground and leaned back nearly flat to the floor to put some distance between them—then, without hesitation, threw his broken short sword like a dagger at its head.
It was a feint with purpose: force the War Shadow to choose—block or chase.
Just as he'd predicted, instinct took over. The monster swung up to block.
Clang!
The short sword was sent spinning away.
But that one heartbeat of hesitation was all he needed.
Lucas's body steadied mid-lean, right index finger snapping up—aiming dead center at the War Shadow's mirrored faceplate. The gap between them was barely an arm's length.
"Scorch!"
The War Shadow didn't even have time to react before the flames burst to life.
Fwoooosh!
This time, those claws didn't get the chance to cut through his magic.
Orange-red fire bloomed and wrapped around its body, consuming it whole.
"Scorch!"
"Scorch!"
"—Scorch!"
The spell flared three times in rapid succession, no room to breathe between casts. Fire filled the chamber, painting the walls in flickering light before finally dying down—leaving behind nothing but blackened ash and the sharp, bitter stink of burnt flesh.
Only one figure remained standing amid the silence.
As the fight ended, the tension snapped. Lucas's legs gave out, his body folding backward and slamming onto the cold stone.
The impact jarred his spine—but that pain was nothing compared to the agony in his left arm.
He gasped for breath, every inhale tugging at the torn flesh, every exhale trembling with the taste of iron and survival.
"Hah… hah… hah…"
His ragged breathing echoed in the empty chamber, like a bellows wheezing on its last legs.
Sweat soaked through his undershirt, clinging to his skin. Warm blood trickled from his arm, pooling dark and sticky beneath him.
Alive.
The thought hit him with almost physical force. Relief crashed down, not as peace—but as exhaustion, dizziness, and a flood of shaking adrenaline.
It took a long minute before the pain dulled enough for him to think straight again.
He forced himself upright, groaning.
Crackle…
The sound of burning ash filled the silence. Lucas stared at it, chest heaving, trying to calm his frayed nerves.
He pressed a trembling hand over his heart—felt it hammering wildly beneath his ribs—and finally exhaled.
"…I won."
Special Entity: War Shadow
vs.
Lucas
Victor: Lucas
"Son of a bitch… this was only the seventh floor. What the hell's something like that doing here? Don't tell me Ouranos's prayers are just PR."
He laughed weakly, half-crazed. "Damn it. I barely survived six floors before hitting an Irregular… and this was supposed to be early-game content."
The thought sent a chill racing up his spine.
He couldn't even imagine what kind of monsters the high-level adventurers fought deeper down. Those guys must've been built different—thriving under pressure that would've crushed him flat.
Compared to them, he was still a newbie. Both in skill and in mindset.
"...Hah."
Even now, long after the fight, the memory of it made his heart hammer and cold sweat bead on his forehead.
He slumped against a nearby rock, grimacing as he fumbled for supplies. His left arm was a bloody mess.
"This healing bandage... been sitting in my pack for almost a year. Never thought I'd actually need it."
He gave a weak chuckle. The memory of the sly young saint who'd sold it to him flashed through his mind—how she'd insisted he remember the instructions. Guess she'd been right.
With clumsy hands and a lot of swearing, Lucas started wrapping the herb-scented bandage around the wound. Every pull of the fabric made him hiss through his teeth.
When he finished, he reached into his leg pouch and pulled out a crystal vial that glittered like a jewel. Popping the cork, he downed it in one gulp.
Item: [High Potion]
Origin: Orario – Dian Cecht Familia
Type: Potion
Effect: Greatly restores stamina and relieves fatigue. Can heal severe injuries, mend flesh and bone, and stop bleeding. Cannot regenerate lost limbs.
Description: A sea-blue liquid stored in an ornate faceted crystal bottle. Price: 50,000 Valis. Essential for any serious adventurer.
The potion burned warm down his throat. A gentle heat spread from his stomach, radiating through his entire body.
The stabbing pain in his arm began to ease. His strength trickled back, slow but steady.
"Not bad, High Potion. Worth every one of those 50,000 Valis."
Relief washed over him—then the ache of his wallet hit just as hard. "Damn it… that's gonna hurt."
Between the shredded armor, broken sword, and mangled gauntlet, the repair bill alone was going to bleed him dry. Not to mention the consumables he'd just burned through.
A rough estimate? Nearly 100,000 Valis gone.
"Ugh. That's days—weeks—of grinding…"
He winced, then shrugged. "Still. Better broke than dead. That 49,900-Valis light armor paid for itself today."
He glanced down at the battered black cuirass—scarred but intact—and couldn't help a satisfied smirk.
"Yeah. Worth every coin. No regrets."
After this, if anyone dared say "defense gear is overrated," he'd smack them twice and toss them naked into the Dungeon to learn firsthand.
Glug, glug, glug!
He chugged from his waterskin, cold liquid washing down the lingering heat in his throat. For the first time all day, he let himself relax.
"Alright… time to see if 'what doesn't kill me' really does come with some perks."
He pushed himself up and staggered toward the pile of ash where the War Shadow had fallen.
And there it was.
A golden treasure chest sat right in the center, gleaming like divine mercy.
"Holy shit."
"Loot box drop!"
"Jackpot!"
For a moment, composure flew right out the window. His grin nearly split his face.
But the excitement lasted only a second before instinct kicked in. His eyes darted around the room. Nothing moved. No footsteps, no shadows.
Safe.
In an instant, he dove for the chest, flipped it open, grabbed everything inside, and stuffed it straight into his pack without even checking the contents.
Then he turned to the lesser War Shadow corpses—now just piles of ash.
"Well, look at that. Guess that saying about 'fortune after disaster' really holds up."
His grin widened as he sifted through the ash, pulling out three razor-sharp claws glinting with cold light—War Shadow Finger Blades.
"Three of 'em! That's 150,000 Valis easy! Not only did I break even, I actually turned a profit! Damn, maybe my luck's turning around—"
He froze. Something in the special War Shadow's ashes caught his fingers—something different.
"Wait… what's this?"
Brushing away the dust, he uncovered a single jet-black claw.
Unlike the others, it didn't shine—it absorbed the light around it, cool to the touch and radiating a faint, unsettling energy.
Lucas studied it, heart skipping. The memory of it slicing through his Scorch spell flashed vividly in his mind.
"…A rare drop?"
Stat-wise, it probably wouldn't measure up to high-tier gear—not even within Level 1 range. But something about it felt special.
His gut told him it might be worth keeping.
He tucked the claw safely into his loot pouch, then cleaned up the area before heading out.
His wounds had stabilized, and he could still fight if cornered—but Lucas wasn't stupid. He decided to call it early.
A glance at his brass pocket watch told him the sun was still about an hour from setting. Perfect timing.
The return trip was smooth—barely any traffic from adventurers heading up.
Before long, he emerged at the base of Babel Tower, the grand plaza bustling with life.
"First things first—cash in the drops. Most of today's haul's going straight to the healers anyway."
He sighed and made his way to the ever-busy Exchange Office.
Clink, clink, clink!
A neat pile of Orario coins shimmered in the tray, cheerful as ever.
"Here's your Valis, sir. Please count it."
"Thanks."
He swept the coins into his pouch with a practiced motion, though his eyes flicked toward the corner—catching sight of a few shady figures pretending not to stare at him.
A smirk tugged at his lips. He pulled his hood tighter and melted into the crowd, vanishing after a few quick turns.
"Boss, aren't we gonna jump him? He just cashed out a ton!" one thug muttered.
"Idiot," the leader hissed. "You see how that guy moves? That's a veteran. You wanna find out what happens if he's packing a magic sword? Use your damn head. This city's full of sharks."
"Yessir! Boss is right!"
"Boss is the best!"
Lucas was long gone by then, rolling his eyes at the memory.
Every newbie learned that lesson the hard way. Anyone dumb enough to flash coin near the Exchange got "welcomed" fast.
He liked to call it Orario's brand of hazing—or, as he put it, Euro-style bullying.
Leaving the plaza, he headed northwest down Adventurer's Avenue, finally stopping across from the Guild Headquarters.
Before him stood a stately white-stone building, its emblem gleaming above the door:
Dian Cecht Pharmacy.
Run by the Dian Cecht Familia, Orario's premier medical organization.
Its patron god, Dian Cecht, was said to be a grumpy old man with a bad temper and a long-running feud with Miach, the deity behind the Blue Pharmacy.
Lucas pushed the door open. A wave of herbal fragrance and antiseptic air rolled out to meet him.
"Welcome, adventurer," a healer in pristine white greeted with a professional smile. "How can we help you today?"