The wealthy play at war while the desperate carry their burdens. In the depths of an unstable dungeon, the line between hunter and prey begins to blur.
A Private Mission
The Silver Wolf Guild was bathed in artificial light that gave every face a sallow, almost corpse-like tint. Kael waited in the main hall. He sat on a cold metal bench with his porter's pack placed between his legs like a pathetic shield. Holographic screens played a continuous loop of the latest hunting statistics, featuring the smiling faces of high-ranking Awakened posing before their monstrous trophies.
Mara Konstantin finally appeared. Her heels clacked against the marble floor with the natural authority of a guild coordinator. She was tall and austere, her steel-gray hair pulled into a tight bun. She wore a black suit that likely cost more than everything Kael owned.
"Morse," she said without preamble, checking her tablet. "Change of plans. This is no longer a standard urgent mission."
Kael looked up, surprised. Missions rarely changed at the last minute unless something grave had occurred.
"The Valenhall family bought the exclusive rights to a newly appeared E-rank dungeon in the private sector. They want their son, Damien, to train in a controlled environment before his Imperial Academy entrance exams." She looked him up and down with the mixture of contempt and indifference that defined interactions between the Awakened and the un-Awakened. "You will be their porter. Same rate, but it's a private mission. You'll sign a non-disclosure agreement."
Kael nodded silently. The Valenhalls. He knew the name from the financial papers he saw in Liam's clinic. They were one of the wealthiest families in Valdris, specializing in the import-export of dungeon materials. Their fortune was built on the blood and sacrifice of anonymous Awakened who died in the depths to bring back mana crystals and magical components.
"They are waiting for you in Briefing Room C. Don't keep them waiting."
The Weight of Contempt
Briefing Room C was a temple of discreet opulence. It featured genuine leather furniture, state-of-the-art touch screens, and an automatic coffee machine that was probably worth more than Kael's annual rent. Four people waited around an oval table. Their mere presence seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room.
Damien Valenhall sat at the head of the table. Kael immediately understood why he was a fixture in social circles. He was twenty years old with perfectly styled blond hair and fine features carved like a classical sculpture. He possessed that arrogant confidence known only to those who have never faced an obstacle. His gear was a living catalog of high-end equipment: light armor made of black drake scales, a longsword with a blade shimmering in a subtle manic aura, and gauntlets etched with softly pulsing runes.
To his right sat Elena Korven, a combat mage specialized in fire spells, recognizable by her flaming red hair and a staff topped with an eternal flame crystal. To his left was Marcus Stone, a massive tank whose heavy armor bore the scars of dozens of victorious battles. Finally, there was Lysa Windhawk, an elven archer with slightly pointed ears—a sign of her mixed heritage. Her composite arc rested against her chair with calculated casualness.
They were all beautiful. They were all strong. They all wore their ranks like invisible crowns. Kael stopped at the threshold, acutely aware that he was a stain on this perfect picture in his patched suit and tired boots.
"Ah, here is our... assistant," Damien said with a smile that did not reach his icy blue eyes. "Come closer, don't be afraid."
Kael stepped forward and took the last free chair directly across from Damien. The silence that followed was heavy with silent judgment.
"So, you're our porter," Damien continued, studying him like an entomologist examining a particularly repulsive insect. "No weapon, I see. No armor either. What do you plan to fight with if things go wrong? Your bare fists?"
Elena giggled behind her hand, a sound both crystalline and cruel. Marcus simply shook his head in disgust, while Lysa wore an expression of condescending pity that Kael knew well.
"I'm not here to fight," Kael replied in a neutral voice. "I carry your gear. That's all."
"Exactly!" Damien exclaimed, slamming his palm on the table. "You carry our gear and stay in your corner. A dead weight that doesn't get in the way too much." He stood up, walked around the table, and approached Kael with the predatory grace of a feline. "But still, we can't leave you completely defenseless. It would look bad if you died in the first few minutes."
He unsheathed a sword from his belt and dropped it on the table in front of Kael with a sharp metallic clatter. The blade was eaten away by rust, the balance was clearly compromised, and the hilt was loose. It was a piece of junk given to prisoners in low-end gladiator arenas.
"There. Now you're armed. Don't forget to thank us for our generosity."
Kael looked at the sword without touching it. In his head, a familiar voice whispered for him to stand up, take the rusted blade, and drive it into Damien's smug smile. But that voice was weak, stifled by years of resignation and pragmatism. He needed those 300 credits. Liam needed those 300 credits.
"Thank you," he said simply, taking the sword and clumsily attaching it to his belt.
Damien's smile widened. Kael saw a reptilian satisfaction in it that made him want to vomit.
Road to the Unknown
The luxury black pickup sped along the Valdris bypass. Its wheels bit the asphalt with a muffled hum that contrasted with the electric atmosphere inside. Kael was squeezed in the back among the gear bags. This was his natural place according to Damien, who had insisted he travel "with the freight."
Elena and Lysa discussed strategy in the front, their melodic voices blending in a technical conversation about goblin weaknesses and optimal attack formations. Marcus, sitting in the driver's seat, checked his equipment one last time. His thick fingers lovingly stroked the polished surface of his shield.
Damien had turned around to face Kael with a predatory grin.
"Tell me, porter, do you really have no powers? Not even a little F-rank ability? Increased resistance? Night vision? Anything?"
"No," Kael replied, staring at the landscape passing by the window. "Nothing at all."
"Fascinating. How have you survived until now? Public charity?"
Lysa turned around, her pointed ears twitching slightly. "Leave him alone, Damien. It's not his fault he was born deficient."
"Deficient!" Damien burst out laughing. "I love that word. That's exactly it. Deficient. Like a defective product you can't return to the manufacturer."
Kael felt something tighten in his chest, an invisible cord threatening to snap. He grit his teeth and continued to look out the window. In the distance, the crystal towers of the industrial sector caught the sun's rays and reflected them in prismatic rainbows. It was beautiful and inaccessible, just like everything else in this world.
"You know what fascinates me most about you?" Damien continued relentlessly. "It's that you accept it. You don't rebel, you don't protest. You take it like a good little beaten dog. It's... pathetic and admirable at the same time."
This time, Kael turned his head and met Damien's gaze. For a fraction of a second, something passed between them. It wasn't hatred—hatred was too passionate for what Kael felt. It was a cold, clinical understanding of what Damien really was beneath his Prince Charming act. He was a predator. He was a golden parasite feeding on the suffering of others.
"We're here," Marcus announced from the front.
The Instable Portal
The private dungeon site was located in an old quarry about fifty kilometers from Valdris. Security barriers marked a hundred-meter perimeter around the portal. Technicians in anti-radiation suits bustled around sophisticated monitoring equipment.
But the portal itself was what took Kael's breath away.
Unlike the stable portals he had seen in documentaries, this one looked diseased. Its shimmering surface rippled like disturbed water. Violet lightning ran along its edges with ominous crackles. The surrounding air vibrated with a chaotic energy that made the hair on his neck stand up and gave his saliva a metallic taste.
"Hell," Marcus muttered, stepping out of the pickup. "Was it like this this morning?"
A technician approached, his sensors beeping frantically. "The portal has shown signs of instability for about two hours. We recommend postponing the mission."
Damien dismissed the suggestion with an impatient wave. "Out of the question. My father paid a fortune for exclusive access to this dungeon. A little instability isn't going to stop us."
He turned to his team with a confident smile that brokered no contradiction. "We are C and B-rank Awakened. A small E-rank dungeon can't pose a problem for us, stable or not."
Kael methodically loaded all the gear onto his back: food bags, first-aid equipment, harvesting tools, ropes, pickaxes, and spare torches. The total weight was nearly forty kilograms. His shoulders already protested. He tightened the straps without a word, accustomed to this familiar suffering.
The group approached the portal. Up close, the instability was even more obvious. The surface rippled like a heat mirage. Kael could swear he heard something that sounded like whispers in an unknown language.
"Everyone ready?" Damien asked, unsheathing his enchanted sword.
Without waiting for an answer, he stepped through the portal's threshold in a burst of violet light.
First Ambush
The other side welcomed them with the characteristic smell of dungeons: humidity, mold, and the bittersweet stench of accelerated decomposition. They were in a corridor of roughly hewn stone, lit by phosphorescent mushrooms that cast a sickly greenish light.
Kael didn't have time to analyze the surroundings further.
Shrill cries echoed from the shadows. A dozen goblins burst from the crevices in the walls with coordination that was far from natural. Their blood-red eyes shone with cruel intelligence. Their weapons—serrated blades and spiked maces—were far too sophisticated for mere E-rank monsters.
In the center of the pack, a white wolf the size of a pony observed them with the patience of an experienced predator. Its icy blue eyes reflected an almost human intelligence. Kael had the unsettling impression that it was judging them, evaluating their strengths and weaknesses with the precision of a strategist.
"Attack!" Damien yelled, brandishing his sword. The blade's magical aura intensified until it cast dancing shadows on the dripping walls.
Elena raised her staff, flames sparking spontaneously at its tip. Marcus deployed his shield in a defensive position, while Lysa was already drawing her bow in one fluid motion.
Kael instinctively backed away, the weight of the gear bowing his back. His rusted sword clattered pathetically against his hip. In the sickly green light of the dungeon, surrounded by the roar of the coming battle, he had never looked so weak or so useless.
But the white wolf continued to stare at him. In its frozen eyes, Kael thought he saw something that looked dangerously like recognition.