Lunaria was still half-asleep when footsteps echoed through the dungeon corridor.
They were heavy. Confident. Careless in the way only people who believed themselves safe could be.
He stirred faintly, lashes fluttering as awareness returned in soft layers. Pain was still there—muted now, dulled into something manageable—but exhaustion clung to him like a veil. He lay against the wall where he had rested, posture graceful even in stillness, one leg folded slightly inward, hands resting neatly in his lap as though he had simply chosen to sit there.
The presence within him sharpened.
[Do not move yet.]
"I wasn't planning to," Lunaria murmured sleepily.
The voices grew clearer.
"…You're sure this place was empty?"
"Relax. It was F-rank. Even the cleaner's probably done by now."
Lunaria's lashes lifted.
Hunters.
A recovery team, likely sent to collect remaining cores or verify closure. They hadn't expected to find anyone alive—certainly not him.
He stayed where he was.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he didn't want to startle them.
Footsteps rounded the corner.
Three figures came into view, clad in reinforced gear marked with the insignia of a mid-tier guild. Two men and one woman. All armed. All alert—but not tense.
Their eyes swept the chamber lazily.
Then they saw him.
The woman stopped first.
"…Huh?"
The man beside her frowned. "What is that?"
Lunaria shifted slightly, straightening his back and lifting his head. His long moonlight hair slid over his shoulders in a smooth curtain, catching the dungeon's pale glow. Dried blood marked his clothes and skin, but the way he held himself—composed, delicate, almost serene—made the damage seem unreal.
"Oh," he said softly. "Hello."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"…Is that," one of the men said slowly, "a girl?"
Lunaria blinked once.
Then smiled.
It was gentle. Polite. Almost shy.
"I'm a dungeon cleaner," he said. "I think you're here for the inspection?"
The woman frowned, eyes narrowing as she took him in. "You're… alone?"
"Yes," Lunaria replied. "I usually am."
The second man snorted. "You shouldn't be. This place was declared cleared hours ago."
"I know," Lunaria said quietly.
He rose to his feet.
The motion was unhurried, elegant. Even injured, he moved with a softness that drew the eye—no wasted effort, no awkward angles. His long hair swayed with him, ribbon fluttering faintly.
The hunters stared.
"…Wait," the woman said slowly. "You're injured."
Lunaria glanced down at himself, as if only now noticing the blood. "Oh. Yes."
"That's not 'oh, yes,'" the first man snapped. "Who did this?"
"…The dungeon," Lunaria replied, tilting his head slightly. "It wasn't empty."
The men exchanged looks.
"That's impossible," one muttered. "Our sweep—"
"Five monsters," Lunaria said softly. "F-rank."
Silence.
The woman's gaze sharpened. "And where are they?"
Lunaria gestured gently with one hand.
Behind him, the bodies lay scattered—cleanly cut, precise wounds marking each kill. No wild slashing. No chaotic destruction.
The woman inhaled sharply.
"You killed them?" she asked.
Lunaria hesitated.
"…Yes."
"With what?" the man demanded.
Lunaria lifted his knife slightly.
The silence deepened.
"That's not funny," one of them said.
"I'm not joking," Lunaria replied gently.
The woman stepped closer, studying the bodies, then him. Her eyes lingered on his posture, the way he held the knife—not tightly, not aggressively, but with an ease that suggested familiarity.
"You're awakened," she said finally.
Lunaria's lashes fluttered. "I… think so."
One of the men laughed sharply. "No way. A cleaner? And looking like that?"
Lunaria flinched—just slightly.
[Ignore him.]
He nodded faintly, hands folding neatly in front of him.
"I didn't awaken before," he said. "It happened here."
The woman straightened. "Late awakening?"
"…Yes."
That drew attention.
Late awakenings were rare. Dangerous. Unstable. And often powerful in ways no one expected.
The man scoffed again. "Even so, you don't look like a fighter."
Lunaria smiled.
"I'm not," he said softly. "I just… move."
Something about the way he said it unsettled them.
Before anyone could respond, the dungeon trembled.
Not subtly.
Violently.
The floor shuddered, cracks racing across the stone as mana surged violently through the chamber. The wall crystals flared bright, then dimmed.
The woman swore. "Another monster?"
"No," the man said grimly. "Residual surge. The gate's destabilizing."
Lunaria's chest tightened.
[Danger.]
"I thought it was closed," he whispered.
[It is failing.]
The presence pressed closer, firm and insistent.
[Move away from the center.]
The hunters scrambled into action, shouting orders, but their movements were abrupt, hurried—inefficient.
The dungeon answered with a scream.
A fissure tore open along the far wall, mana spilling out like smoke. From it emerged something larger than the F-rank creatures before—still weak by hunter standards, but dangerous in its instability.
A malformed beast crawled free, its body uneven, pulsing with raw mana.
The hunters reacted instantly.
"Formation!"
Spells flared. Weapons rose.
The beast shrieked and charged.
Lunaria moved before he realized he was doing so.
Not forward.
Across.
His body slipped between the hunters like flowing water, steps light, precise, as though he were weaving through dancers rather than armed combatants.
"Hey—!" someone shouted.
He didn't answer.
He stepped into range, knife lifting.
The world narrowed.
The beast lunged.
Lunaria turned.
It was not a dodge—it was a spin, a graceful rotation of his body that let the monster's bulk rush past him. His long hair followed the motion in a pale arc, ribbon fluttering like a petal caught in wind.
He stepped again.
The knife traced a precise curve.
The beast convulsed as the blade slipped into a vulnerable seam of its unstable form. Mana leaked violently, the creature collapsing in on itself before detonating harmlessly into ash.
Silence fell.
The hunters stared.
Lunaria stood amid drifting mana dust, knife lowered, breathing calm.
He blinked once.
"Oh," he murmured. "That one was louder."
No one spoke.
The woman finally broke the silence. "What… was that?"
Lunaria tilted his head, expression gentle and confused. "Killing it?"
"That didn't look like killing," one of the men said hoarsely. "That looked like—"
"A performance," the woman finished quietly.
Lunaria's cheeks warmed faintly. "I didn't mean to show off."
[You did not.]
He glanced inward. "…I didn't?"
[You minimized movement and resolved the threat efficiently.]
"…Okay," he whispered.
The hunters exchanged uneasy looks.
"Name," the woman said finally. "And rank."
"I'm Lunaria Vale," he replied softly. "I don't have a rank yet."
Her gaze lingered on him. "You will."
One of the men frowned. "He's dangerous."
Lunaria looked at him, eyes wide and almost apologetic. "I don't want to be."
That only made it worse.
They escorted him out of the dungeon shortly after.
As sunlight touched his skin, Lunaria squinted softly, lifting one hand to shield his eyes. His movements drew attention immediately—people turned, stared, whispered.
Too pretty.
Too soft.
Too pink.
Bloodstains still marked his clothes.
Underestimation followed him like a shadow.
[Status.]
"…Status," Lunaria whispered.
[Level: 1]
[Experience Required to Level Up: 65 / 100]
He nodded quietly.
"So I need more," he murmured.
[Yes.]
"…Will it hurt?"
[Yes.]
He smiled anyway.
"That's fine."
As sirens wailed in the distance and hunters whispered behind him, Lunaria walked forward with quiet grace, moonlight hair shimmering, pink ribbon swaying gently at his nape.
They looked at him and saw fragility.
They saw softness.
They saw something easy to break.
They did not yet understand—
Pink was not a warning.
It was an omen.