The E-rank dungeon was supposed to be a formality.


    A crawl. A clean-up mission.


    Basic mana-beasts. Predictable terrain. Minimal threat. A test of teamwork more than strength—meant to get first-years used to real-world conditions. Cadet Unit 12 had trained for this. Simulated it a dozen times. Aura formations, fallback plans, mana pulse flares—every protocol drilled into muscle.


    They entered through a rune-split fissure in the crags outside Eidral’s northern perimeter.


    Standard dungeon structure: a warped reality pocket stitched together by old-world mana, shaped by the dungeon’s core.


    It looked like ruins.


    Stairwells collapsed into underground courtyards. Moss-covered statues. Broken pillars humming with residual aura. A place forgotten by time and claimed by entropy.


    Unit 12 moved in formation—Elira leading recon, Vael and Tyra covering rear arcs, Asera phasing ahead in veil-state to scout. Karnus complained. Dren cracked jokes. Caelan stayed silent at the back, eyes narrowed.


    Even he could feel it.


    Something was off.


    Dungeons don’t breathe.


    But this one did.


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    A low hum. Like stone lungs inhaling. Mana density rising. Ambient aura fluctuating in short, unnatural bursts. Elira reported unstable terrain distortion readings. Asera couldn’t veilwalk properly. Something in the shadows kept pulling her off-course.


    Then the first sign came.


    The Dungeon Core Map shattered in her hand.


    The light twisted violet. Statues bled mist. The safe zone’s return beacon failed.


    A dungeon shift.


    They should’ve turned back.


    But it was already too late.


    The core mutated.


    From E to Black.


    From structured to feral.


    Walls moved. Floors cracked open into oubliettes. Spiked bone-growths erupted mid-hallway, impaling nothing—just as warning.


    This wasn’t a simulation.


    It wasn’t even a test anymore.


    This was punishment.


    A door they shouldn’t have opened.


    Elira barked commands, trying to reorganize. Vael and Tyra attempted to force a retreat path. Asera’s veil warped around her like screaming glass. Dren slipped on blood that hadn’t been there seconds before.


    Caelan said nothing.


    But his hand was already on Virael.


    They found the Lich near the former core room.


    Except now, it wasn’t a core room. It was a throne chamber.


    And the throne was built from the bones of dungeon beasts—still twitching.


    The Lich stood atop it, clad in arcane black-gold robes, six mana-cores orbiting its spine like cursed stars. Hollow eyes turned toward the cadets. Its voice was static wrapped in hatred.


    “Flesh again. Always flesh.”


    Elira tried to raise a defensive field. The Lich broke it with a gesture.


    Karnus charged.


    His spine bent backward in mid-air, bones cracking like dry twigs.


    Screams followed.


    Caelan watched from behind a crumbled arch.


    Watching Unit 12 fall, one by one.


    Trying not to breathe.


    Trying not to feel.


    He wasn’t supposed to get involved.


    He wasn’t meant to be a hero.


    But then Elira stood—bleeding, shaking—and blocked a death-scythe meant for Asera.


    And everything in Caelan snapped.


    The next chapter will begin with:


    "You shouldn''t have touched them."


    –Caelan, before drawing Virael.