We continued our journey for several kilometers through the dungeon's thick mist, where each step echoed like an omen. The absolute silence was starting to get to me — until it shattered.
A deep, guttural growl reverberated just ahead. Then, five creatures emerged from the shadows like nightmares made flesh. They were massive, covered in white fur stained with dried blood, their wide jaws and serrated teeth exposed in a hungry grin. Their eyes, empty and feral, glowed like embers in the gloom.
My stomach turned. I could hardly believe this was still the first level — to me, facing them without scars, physical or mental, seemed impossible.
— Funnel formation! — shouted Varnak, his voice slicing through the panic like a whip.
Instinctively, the group reacted. The weaker members closed in at the center, while the front line split into three points: Marcoriel darted far left like a shadow with a will of its own; the elder shield-bearer took the right, solid as a wall; and Malaca, with her colossal build, rose at the center of the formation, axe already in hand. Behind them, the mages began to chant, magical verses vibrating in the air like coiled tension.
— Focus on containment! — Varnak bellowed, but before he could finish, Marcoriel had already launched into the attack.
It was too fast to believe. Like a shadowy bolt, he lunged at two of the monsters, his wing seemingly propelling him into the fray. His sword weaved with pinpoint precision, severing tendons, piercing throats. In the blink of an eye, three enemies lay on the ground, dismembered like rag dolls. Varnak's face tightened for an instant — he hated losing control — but Marcoriel's brutal performance silenced any criticism.
— He's… a tank? — I muttered, stunned.
I expected something simpler on the dungeon's lower levels. I knew the monsters here were usually weaker, less intelligent. And indeed, these creatures charged blindly, exposed their chests, relied solely on claws and teeth. It was as if they didn't understand their own limits — and they seemed genuinely surprised when they were slain by sheer steel logic.
But what made this encounter especially alarming was something even I, a novice, understood: these monsters rarely traveled in packs. Finding five at once was an anomaly — a rare, dangerous event. Probably why Varnak had sounded so tense.
While I was still processing the scene, Malaca moved. And what I saw defied all logic. Her heavy body didn't stop her from spinning with brutal grace, her axe carving a wide arc that cracked one beast's skull with a dry crunch. Blood sprayed like ink against the cave wall. The precision was absurd for someone her size.
The only one struggling was the shield-bearer. Even with his reinforced shield, the remaining monster pushed him back with brute force, growling in rage. But before I could worry, a searing sphere shot past me. Vrigs's fire magic collided with the creature, engulfed it in flames, and brought it down with an animalistic scream.
Silence.
All that remained was the stench of blood and burnt flesh, mixed with the muffled sound of everyone's heavy breathing.
— Keep moving. We still have a long way to the passage. — Varnak's voice broke the silence like a hammer on stone.
After the brutal clash, we moved on — but something had changed. The air felt even quieter, as if even the echo was afraid to follow us. No new enemies appeared. On the contrary... the few lone monsters we did find were already dead.
Dead in a strange way.
Each body had the same mark: a single, clean, deep wound, driven right into the center of the back. Like a sharp needle straight to the heart. No signs of struggle, no reaction. Just... instant death.
— Hahahaha! Son, how the hell did you manage to hire Isbel? I thought she was retired! — Varnak's deep laugh echoed across the dungeon's pale fields like muffled thunder.
— She was, Dad. But... everyone needs money. — replied the young noble, adjusting the clasp of his cloak with a slight smile. — And I had an item she wanted. A fair deal. And for what she offers, pretty cheap.
So that was her name. Isbel.
Now it all made sense. The flawless kills. The lack of tracks. But there was something even more impressive about her work: the banners.
Small fabric markers pinned to the ground or walls, almost imperceptible — but full of meaning. Red meant imminent danger, a route to avoid. Yellow signaled a fair fight, possible. Green... meant a clear path, safe to proceed.
It was as if she had eyes beyond our own. She sensed what hid in the shadows, read the movement of creatures like someone reading the wind.
Varnak played it safe and ignored even the yellow flags, advancing only along the green, which made for a longer but safer route. For almost two hours, we moved in absolute silence. Nothing touched us. No enemies appeared. It felt like we were walking under the protection of a greater predator.
Until we reached the wall.
A colossal barrier, covered in dark moss and with cracks that seemed to breathe as we approached. It rose as far as the eye could see, vanishing into the darkness of the mist. No doors, no stairs. Just stone.
But there, leaning in the shadow of a crevice, she was.
Casually sitting on a rock, eating what looked like a meat-stuffed roll, like she was on a weekend picnic. Her face half-covered by a grayish scarf, eyes alert but calm.
Isbel.
I stood there for a moment, just watching. I realized how ridiculous all my efforts to survive here seemed in comparison.
Damn... I could've come to this world with a class like that.
I thought, biting the inside of my cheek as she took another bite of the bread with a calmness that bordered on insult.
— We're going straight through. — said Varnak. — We stop at the entrance to the next level.
And with that, we moved on. No ceremony. No pause. We simply crossed the portal between the shadows of the crevice, guided by a woman who killed without making a sound and marked the path with colored strips of cloth.
The second level was different.
Very different.
Snow still blanketed everything — falling in lazy flakes and piling up along the edges of the path — but the cold no longer bit like before. It was bearable, as if the dungeon itself controlled the temperature to keep us alert, but not dead. However, the atmosphere had become... suffocating.
On both sides, colossal walls of ice and stone enclosed the passage. Tall, slick, unscalable. There was no freedom of movement anymore — only a narrow, inevitable path, as if the dungeon itself were leading us, step by step, toward something we'd rather not find.
— From here on, I'll try to stay close. If I find too many enemies, I'll come back. — said Isbel, adjusting her hood and disappearing into the mist with the ease of someone who belongs to it.
— Perfect, Isbel. I'm counting on you. — Varnak replied, with that kind of confidence he only gave to those who had killed more than they'd spoken.
The strategy changed on the second level.
Now, the danger didn't come from massive monsters or distant screams. No. The true horror of this floor crawled. Silent. Tiny.
A small creature, hidden in the snow, that at first glance looked harmless. But all it took was a bite. Just one.
The venom didn't kill — at least not right away. It immobilized. Paralyzed the entire body, leaving the eyes open, the mind fully aware... while the rest happened.
They said dying on the second level was the worst death of all.
Because you died watching.
Bite after bite.
Slowly. Alive.
The good news? If spotted, the creature was easy to handle. Fragile, slow, predictable. But it was that false simplicity that made it a nightmare: by the time you noticed... it was already too late.
— Stay sharp. — Varnak ordered. — We move carefully. We need to reach the Tunnel.
He was clearly anxious. The tension in his voice, the gleam in his eyes — all betrayed a growing excitement. It wasn't fear. It was greed.
Honestly, I still had no idea what would happen once that damn scroll was activated. And from what Malaca had said, not even the bearers themselves knew the exact outcome. It was a leap into the unknown. A risk, wrapped in promises of glory.
And still… Varnak could barely contain his excitement.
We advanced without incident through most of the way. The snow muffled all sound, and each step felt deeper than the last. My eyes scanned the ground, alert to the slightest movement, and my heart pounded like it was anticipating an attack that never came.
It was only after nearly two hours that we found shelter.
An improvised tunnel, carved by time and shaped by other adventurers who, like us, had crossed this level. The walls were marked with blade cuts, old blood stains, and magical symbols faded by time. It was tight, cold, and reeked of metallic old combat.
But it was safe.
At least for now.
Varnak ordered a halt. The second level wasn't the deadliest, but it was certainly the most extensive. Four hours of steady marching to reach the next fissure in the wall — the passage to the third level. Including the first floor, we had already been going for nearly six hours without rest.
— We wait here. — he said, eyes fixed on the icy ceiling of the shelter. — Night is coming.
Yes. Night.
Even inside the dungeon, there was a strange sense of time. The temperature dropped slightly, and the darkness took on a heavier, almost spiritual tone. But the real difference was something else.
At night, a new creature appeared.
Stronger. Faster. More ravenous.
Even Varnak — arrogant and relentless — didn't want to face it. And this was the last resting point before level four. The third level had no shelters — only a direct crossing and the use of the scroll.
— We'll rest for now. At first light... we move. — he concluded.
— Where's the scout? She should've come back by now...
Varnak's son's voice cut through the shelter's silence like a dull blade. I had been distracted, observing the makeshift setup inside the tunnel — stakes driven into the rock, thermal blankets secured with rudimentary magic, small light runes flickering in the corners like living lanterns. It was strange to see so much effort in such a hostile place.
But that question snapped me back to reality.
He was talking to Vrigs. Honestly, I didn't want to listen, but in a ten-by-ten meter tunnel, privacy was a luxury no one could afford. The conversation drifted in the cold air like dust.
Most likely, everyone had heard it.
No one commented.
— Stay with the colossus at the entrance. If anything happens, let me know. We'll wait as long as we can... then we seal it. — Varnak said at last, curt.
That's how it was in the dungeon. Raw. Cruel. Without sentiment.
If Isbel was lost, no one in their right mind would go after her. Not even Varnak. Not even a friend. Feelings died quickly down here — and the fools who clung to them usually followed shortly after.
Vrigs and the tank moved to guard the tunnel's entrance.
As for me, I approached Malaca, who was crouched in front of a small shelf carved into the rock, pulling out utensils as if setting up a portable kitchen.
— Good thing I had this place built. — she murmured, not looking at me.
— Why aren't there any other adventurers on this floor? — I asked. It was a question that had been growing in my mind since we crossed the barrier. Not a single living soul. No recent signs of passage. Not even corpses.
— Because of this. — she said.
She stood slowly and pulled something from the inner pocket of her cloak. A small, irregular stone, hanging from a chain of darkened metal. Its glow was faint, almost gone — but the symbol carved into its surface seemed to pulse. An inverted "A", etched so delicately it looked like it had split the stone from within.
— Is that...? — I asked, unsure.
— This is a rune-stone, and it's one of the reward items you get when you complete the third floor. Activate it, and you're taken straight to the third level.
No effort. No risk. — Malaca replied, putting the stone away with the care of someone storing a painful memory.
— Then… why didn't we use it when we came in? — I asked, confused.
She was silent for a moment. Then her eyes met mine.
Steady. Heavy.
Then, slowly, they drifted toward the tunnel entrance, where the snow kept falling in thick, indifferent flakes, unmoved by human drama.
— Because of you. — she said at last. — Only those who cross the second level on their own two feet receive the rune. A reward. A mark of worth. You've never made it past the third floor, have you?
I felt a knot in my chest. Swallowed hard.
She went on:
— At first, I thought the reason for taking this route was Varnak's son. But he knows the dungeon's layout. He knows the shortcuts, understands the risks. So… out of everyone here, the only one who might not have that stone is you.
Silence returned.
But this time, it was heavier.
— What's so special about me? — I murmured, almost not realizing I'd spoken aloud.
Malaca didn't answer right away. She finished arranging the iron utensils she'd taken from the shelf, wiped her hands on a coarse cloth, and only then turned to me. Her eyes, usually sharp and analytical, now held something different. A mix of pity… and respect?
She looked at me for a long moment, as if weighing each word carefully before speaking.
— The real question is... — she said softly. — What don't you have?