Caelan sank to the ground without a word. The tension simply drained from his legs and he dropped heavily onto the stone floor, bracing himself with his hands behind him and dragging in deep, ragged breaths,like someone who had crossed a line he'd always known was there, but had never been forced to touch before. Around his body, a thin layer of protective magic flickered erratically, tearing and fading for split seconds at a time. Each lapse let the dungeon's heat slam into him far harder than before, making his shoulders and neck tense with pain and discomfort as he clung to the barrier out of sheer instinct rather than any real protection.
Rethan didn't spare him more than a glance.
His attention was where it had needed to be all along,at the center of the chamber, where, amid cooling stone and shattered fragments of armor, what remained of the boss lay twisted and broken. It was so deformed that, at first glance, it was hard to recognize it as something that had been moving and fighting only minutes earlier. And yet, as Rethan stepped closer, he noticed faint tremors. An uneven motion deep inside the mass,something that could only be called breathing if you'd seen enough of this before.
It wasn't natural respiration,just a slow, stubborn circulation of heat and mana, keeping ruined flesh functional long past the point any living creature should have failed.
He didn't hesitate.
He raised his sword, feeling the weight in his shoulder and the stiffness in his fingers, and with one clean, simple motion severed what remained of the neck.
The resistance was minimal. Whatever structure had once held the creature together was already collapsing inward, as if the dungeon itself had stopped investing in it.
No dramatics and no words. This wasn't a moment for emotion or ceremony, just for ending it in a way that left no room for doubt.
Only then did he let himself take in the room.
The chamber looked like a collapse site. Columns of fused stone lay cracked or toppled. The floor was torn apart in dozens of places by fire circles and impacts. The air was still heavy with dust, the smell of burnt rock, and that faint metallic tang that always lingered after large-scale dungeon fights.
Six adventurers' bodies were scattered across the arena where death had taken them. Some were barely recognizable. Others lay frozen in unnatural positions, melted or shattered weapons beside them. Rethan saw it all clearly,every detail, every loss,because those images never faded just because the fighting was over.
For a moment, the urge rose in him to say something. To unload all the anger and bitterness that had been building since the first minutes of the expedition. The cost had been too high. The way it had happened was too familiar.
But when he looked at the three mages standing together,pale, exhausted, their mana reserves empty and that earlier certainty gone from their posture,he understood that no words would change anything now.
Caelan still sat on the ground. Dorian leaned against a pillar, barely upright. Lysand stood with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, breathing hard. All three looked like men who had finally paid a price they'd never wanted to acknowledge.
Rethan closed his eyes for a brief moment and allowed himself one slow, steady breath. Then he opened them and spoke quietly, without anger or triumph, like someone closing out another entry on a long list of obligations.
"It's time to go back."
Everything that remained of the expedition was contained in that single sentence.
Dorian and Lysand walked over to Caelan without hurry. None of them had the strength for quick movements or conversation. Caelan pushed himself up only on the second attempt, bracing on one knee before straightening his back. The three exchanged brief, almost workmanlike nods,the kind used when words would be wasted effort,then turned and began making their way toward the exit of the boss chamber, their steps careful, fatigue evident in every movement.
Rethan followed close behind. Not because he wanted to keep pace with them, but because it was his responsibility,so that if some stray creature attacked, they wouldn't blunder into more trouble.
As he passed the center of the chamber, his gaze lingered for a moment on the dungeon core, still hovering above its pedestal. Calm. Beautiful. In a way that always stirred conflicting feelings in him. With one decisive act, it could be destroyed,ending the dungeon for good, stabilizing the weather outside, cutting off the threat that had already spread far beyond its boundaries.
He also knew it wouldn't happen.
House Halven would never allow the core's destruction until everything of value had been wrung from this place: monster remains, rare minerals, fused stone, even the dungeon's own energy. That meant more expeditions. More changes to the surrounding land. More suffering for ordinary people, animals, and plants that had no say in any of it.
He sighed quietly, the weight of that thought heavier than his exhaustion. He was leaving this expedition with nothing that could be called profit,and the losses were impossible to ignore.
He glanced at his arm, burned and swollen, barely responding to commands, pain intensifying with every second as the adrenaline finally ebbed. Then at the other injuries: the scorched calf that flared with every step, promising weeks of trouble if it didn't get proper treatment.
His breathing grew heavier,not just from heat and dust, but because the pain was catching up in waves, asserting itself with every movement he'd made without thinking only minutes earlier.
They passed through the boss gate. Behind them, the chamber slowly quieted, the dungeon's pulse settling into a more subdued rhythm. They moved into the corridors leading back toward the portal, walking in silence broken only by footsteps on heated stone and the uneven breathing of people who had survived something that would leave its mark for a long time,spoken of or not.
***
More than an hour passed before the corridors finally straightened and the familiar, cool distortion of air appeared ahead, signaling the exit portal. The time dragged not with drama, but with physical exhaustion. Each step was taken out of habit rather than strength, and the pain in Rethan's body steadily spread to places adrenaline had held in check before.
They went through the portal one by one, without haste. No one had anything left to prove.
On the other side, cooler night air hit them, almost cold after the dungeon's heat, along with the sight of a dark sky and the campfires burning in the encampment set up before the dungeon entrance.
Dozens of adventurers were there,sitting by the fires, leaning against crates, weapons, and wagons. People who had been waiting for hours for any sign at all. When the portal rippled and silhouettes began to emerge, the camp stirred instantly. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Several people sprang to their feet, moving closer with visible tension.
"They're coming out," someone murmured.
"How many?" another asked.
When Dorian and Lysand emerged first, followed closely by Caelan,clearly exhausted, dust-covered, but without obvious critical injuries,a collective breath of relief swept through the camp. Not joy. Just release.
"They're alive," someone said quietly.
"Look mostly intact," another added.
"So he managed to pull them back," an older adventurer muttered, shaking his head. "Must've finally convinced them to retreat."
"Or the boss went down," someone behind him said. "Otherwise they wouldn't be back."
The mages continued on without stopping. Their silence didn't raise alarms,after hard runs, no one expected conversation.
Then Rethan stepped out of the portal.
The camp froze.
Several people moved toward him almost at a run. The difference was impossible to ignore: scorched sleeves, a blackened leg, pieces of armor melted and torn, a weapon that looked barely fit for use. His face was drawn tight with exhaustion, jaw clenched as if every step cost more than he wanted to show.
"Rethan!" someone called. "By the gods,are you alright?"
"What happened in there?" another asked, coming closer.
Rethan stopped. He took a deeper breath that clearly hurt, then nodded slowly.
"Minor stuff," he said hoarsely, more out of habit than conviction. "I'm still standing."
A few people exchanged looks. Anyone who'd ever been in a dungeon knew that "minor injuries" from Rethan rarely meant anything small. But no one pressed him.
They were waiting for something else.
For the rest of the team.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
The portal rippled quietly, stable and empty. No one else came through. Conversations in the camp faded, as if the world's volume were being turned down one notch at a time, until only the crackle of fire remained.
After about ten seconds, someone finally dared to ask the question that had been hanging in the air since Rethan emerged alone.
"Rethan…" said the man standing closest, carefully, without accusation. "Where are the other six adventurers?"