Jace forced a shrug. “Not really a Bronze Rank yet.” He said, forcing casualness into his frame even as his heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum. "Guess I’m just built differently," he said, voice lighter than he felt.
Sylas barked a laugh, stepping easily over a twitching rat corpse as if death were just part of the forest. "Oh, please. We killed a level 35 undead behemoth because of him… and, before that, he cleared an entire undead dungeon...” She paused for dramatic effect. “Solo."
Jace flinched inwardly. ‘Damn it, Sylas.’
That was not the kind of rumor he needed spreading. He didn’t want every eye in the Guild suddenly on him.
Across the blood-stained clearing, Garrik’s attention sharpened on Jace. The werewolf tucked his claws away with a slow, deliberate motion. He reached down and pulled out a battered leather notebook from his belt. Without a word, he flipped to a fresh page and started scribbling, his thick brows furrowed in grim focus.
Jace shifted, his skin prickling under the weight of Garrik’s scrutiny. "Y'know..." he said dryly, "staring up at me while you take notes doesn't exactly help with the whole 'not being foreboding' thing."
Garrik didn’t even blink, his gaze lingering on Jace as he still wrote. "With achievements like that, better get used to it."
Before Jace could retort, Sylas vanished in a flicker of shadow—only to reappear an instant later beside Garrik, one hand darting for the notebook like a thief after a loose coin.
Garrik moved with casual, bone-deep speed, lifting the notebook high over her head without so much as a grunt, his other hand stuffed lazily into his pocket. He raised a single brow.
"Nice try," he rumbled, amusement flickering at the edge of his voice.
Sylas pouted, hands on her hips. "Come on. That was a valiant attempt!"
Garrik's answering chuckle rumbled low, like distant thunder. "And now you're marked for ‘attempt’ed cheating." He clicked his pen for emphasis.
Sylas groaned, throwing her arms skyward. "It was harmless!"
"Intent counts," Garrik said smoothly, still jotting down notes without missing a beat.
Patch tilted his head, runes along his body pulsing with quiet thought. "Deceptive maneuvers indicate adaptability," he said, as if quoting a textbook.
"Adaptability increases survival rates by 34%." Torak nodded solemnly, mandibles clicking.
"Stop encouraging her." Nyra smacked the back of Torak’s armored shoulder lightly.
"You hear that? I’m Guild-verified and valuable." Sylas flipped her silver hair dramatically over her shoulder.
Garrik finally snapped the notebook shut with a sharp flick of his wrist. His golden gaze slid back to Jace—steady, heavy, weighing things that Jace wasn’t sure he wanted weighed.
"That’s two tests down," Garrik said. His voice dropped lower, carrying an edge that cut sharper than any blade. "Only one remains."
"The dungeon." Nyra’s tail flicked in nervousness, her stance tightening.
Garrik nodded once, tucking the notebook away.
"This is the final measure," he said, his gaze pinning Jace like a thrown spear. "And this time... there are no second chances. No valiant attempts. It’s do or do not."
“There is no try…” Jace said offhandedly before he realized he was the only one who would understand that reference.
The rest of them stared at him for a moment as the wind stirred around them. The rustling of the blood-soaked grass, thick with the scents of magic, sweat, and the ozone sting of an oncoming storm. ‘They’re gonna keep looking at me like that until someone invents movies or pop culture.’
Garrik’s growl rumbled low in his throat, snapping the tension. "Yeah… well, time to move out. Still plenty of rookies to break in today." He glared at each one of them individually. “If there’s still time.”
They gathered their gear quickly and fell into formation, the rhythm of their footsteps steady against the battered earth.
—
The dungeon entrance loomed before them like a living thing—a gaping maw of twisted roots and stone, breathing mist that clung to the ground in sluggish coils. The fog pulsed, almost alive, shifting with a faint heartbeat, Jace could feel low in his gut.
The air here tasted wrong. Heavy with damp rot and something older, something that pressed against his skin like cold, clammy hands.
Jace exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers around the haft of his warhammer, grounding himself in the familiar weight of it.
He wasn’t afraid.
Not exactly.
It was something deeper. Like standing on the edge of a drop you couldn’t see the bottom of—and knowing you had to jump anyway.
Jace cast Analyze on the rift-like portal looming ahead, his gaze narrowing as translucent text flickered into existence across his vision.
Jace focused on the rift-like portal ahead, casting Analyze. A thin shimmer of translucent text flickered across his vision:
[The Veilwood]
Rank: Iron
He waited—half-expecting more details to spill into view—but nothing came.
Even with the upgrade, Analyze barely scratched the surface.
'Maybe it only digs deeper on living things…' he thought, frowning.
Still, he caught the subtle cues. The mist around the entrance didn’t drift like normal fog—it pulled, coiling like grasping fingers tugging at the edges of the world. The magic here was restless. Hungry.
Jace’s mouth tightened into a grim line. He double-checked the floating text, then lowered his hand.
"Rank’s Iron," he said, keeping his voice even. "The Veilwood?"
Across from him, Garrik’s muzzle split into a sharp, predatory grin. The midday sun gleamed off the werewolf’s bared teeth, making him look every bit the monster he kept chained beneath the surface.
"Good instincts," Garrik rumbled, folding his massive arms across his chest. "Knowledge keeps you alive longer than luck."
He tilted his head slightly. "Let me guess—Identify skill?"
"Analyze," Jace confirmed with a nod.
"Interesting." Garrik’s eyes narrowed slightly, measuring, approving. "And it worked on the dungeon entrance?"
"Sort of," Jace said. "Just the name and rank. Nothing else."
Sylas groaned loud enough for half the clearing to hear, throwing her hands up. "Oh great. More ‘Jace Has Crazy Skills’ talk. Blah, blah, blah."
Garrik's glare cut across the clearing like a thrown spear. "Not everything’s about you, Sylas."
"Smart move, Sylas," Nyra said, grinning as she bumped her with an elbow. "Garrik loves billing troublemakers."
Garrik snorted, the sound low and gravelly, rolling his shoulders like he was shedding an old irritation. His golden gaze flicked to the gaping dungeon entrance—a raw, open wound stitched into the forest’s flesh—then back to the group.
"Alright. I’m sure most of you have figured it out," Garrik said, voice sharpening. "The first two tasks were to assess Jace—his ability to follow through on contracts, his solo performance, and his integration with a team."
Jace tensed, heart thudding harder despite himself.
"But the dungeon isn’t just for him," Garrik continued, his gaze sweeping across the group. "This one’s Iron Rank. I’ll be assessing your entire party to see if you qualify for promotion."
There was a pause—a crackle of tension in the mist around them.
"Kinda figured," Sylas said, twirling one of her daggers with a cocky grin. "You picked the contracts right in front of us. Jace might be new, but I’ve got sharper eyes than your claws."
"Glad someone was paying attention," Garrik said, a toothy smile cutting across his muzzle.
"About time," Nyra added, her arms folding across her chest. "Bronze rank’s been feeling a bit tight."
"Statistical probability of promotion has increased by seventeen percent since party formation," Torak said, standing straighter, his antennae flicking in precise calculation.
"Evaluation parameters acknowledged. Preparing for escalation," Patch rumbled, the runes along his body glowing a calm, determined amber.
Jace exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling into his bones. Iron Rank. Already?
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"Since we’re doing this by the book, let’s move quickly," Garrik said, his tone clipped and sharp. "We enter as Bronze. You want that Iron badge? You earn it inside."
His gaze pinned Jace a second longer than necessary, like he was measuring something unseen.
"And remember," Garrik said, his voice dropping to a growl. "The Veilwood doesn’t give second chances."
Jace crossed his arms, bracing himself. The others had probably heard this speech so many times they could recite it in their sleep, but for him, this was new ground. Life-or-death ground.
Garrik pointed a clawed finger toward the portal. "Dungeons aren’t made. They’re born. When magic pools too long in one place, it twists reality until places like that happen." He jerked his chin at the Veilwood's waiting mouth. "Abandoned ruins. Caverns. Forests. Wherever it festers long enough. And once they form, they stop obeying the rules."
Jace frowned. "Rules like...?"
"Space bends. Time slips. Directions lie to you," Garrik said. "You’ll swear you're walking straight—and find yourself back where you started."
Jace grimaced. “Great. Fun times ahead.”
Torak’s mandibles clicked thoughtfully as he spoke. "Dungeons function as self-contained ecosystems. In a stable one, monsters, magic, and hazards exist in balance. In an unstable one..." His antennae twitched. "...chaos."
"Exactly," Garrik said, nodding approvingly. "And that’s where the Guild steps in. We don’t just plunder for loot—we stabilize, monitor, and clear dungeons before they spill over and turn into a nightmare."
Jace absorbed the information, but something nagged at him. "So, how does the ranking system tie into that?"
Garrik chuckled dryly and started ticking off fingers. “Tin’s the bottom. You’ll be doing stuff like hunting goblins, herding livestock, and carrying old ladies' groceries. Bronze is for very low-level dungeons, hunting contracts, and gathering of higher quality items that require more care."
Jace snorted, thinking back to gathering Everblooms and stomping rats.
“Yeah, that checks out.”
"Iron," Garrik continued, nodding toward the portal, "is the next step up. Mid-tier dungeons. Stronger monsters. Higher stakes. That’s where adventurers start getting real contracts—and real risk."
"Anything to stop taking ‘find my goat’ quests." Nyra huffed, crossing her arms.
"Goats are a documented threat." Patch rumbled seriously.
"And the dungeons have ranks too?" Jace tried not to laugh as he motioned for Garrik to keep going.
"Same system," Garrik confirmed. "Tin Rank doesn’t have any dungeons. Bronze Rank dungeons are easy. Goblins, weak undead, oversized wolves. Iron is where you start getting bigger threats. Traps. Boss monsters. Multiple floors. You don’t want to stumble into a Gold dungeon before you’re ready."
"So every dungeon gets ranked?" Jace filed that away, unease prickling at the back of his neck.
Garrik shook his head. "Not right away. New ones pop up unstable. The Guild sends scouts to assess them, determine their threat level, and whether they need to be cleared or sealed." Garrik’s grin faded into something grimmer. "When a dungeon loses containment, magic leaks out. The monsters trapped inside? They spill into the real world."
He jabbed a thumb back toward town. "That’s why cities have standing defenses. Dungeon breaks can destroy entire regions if left unchecked."
Jace’s stomach tightened. What would happen if a dungeon like the Hollows were to break? He’d felt corruption firsthand, let it snake into him. Watched it unravel creatures into horrors. The thought of a full break of the behemoth or worse set loose?
Yeah. Bad didn't even cover it.
Garrik's voice cut sharply through his spiraling thoughts. "And for the record—" he pointed a thick finger at Jace, "—diving into a dungeon way above your rank without knowing what you’re doing is suicide. You can get cocky. You can get clever. Doesn’t matter. You can die."
He let the words hang there, heavy as a sword waiting to fall.
"But," Garrik continued, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, "this one’s Iron rank. It’s manageable. I will be with you if things get too out of hand."
Jace stiffened, blood draining from his face for half a heartbeat.
Because deep down, he knew.
The first dungeon—the place he woke up in—the endless corridors of rot and undeath?
That hadn’t been Bronze, had it? ‘Not even close.’
The undead were outleveled for him, but the Wyvern… The Soulbound Horror… Their levels were unknown. And the Corruption…
Garrik must've caught something in his face because he raised an eyebrow.
"What’s that look for?"
Jace shoved the worry down and forced a crooked smile. "Nothing. Just wondering if I should start writing my will."
Sylas grinned, flashing her white teeth. "Don’t worry, rookie. I’ll loot your corpse first."
Jace groaned. "At least pretend to mourn me while you do it."
Nyra smiled mischievously. "Think of it this way—you’ll die fabulously."
Garrik rumbled a laugh, motioning them forward. "Enough chit-chat. The Veilwood Depths isn’t going to clear itself."
Nyra stepped through the swirling mist without hesitation, her form swallowed by the glowing haze. One by one, the others followed.
Jace took a breath, tightening his grip on the haft of his warhammer.
Whatever waited beyond that mist?
He was ready.
Or he’d fake it until he was.
The world changed the instant he crossed the threshold.
The air grew thick, too thick—like moving through a sauna on high. Sound warped around him, muffled and distant, as if the world itself were holding its breath. The vibrant forest they'd left behind bled away, colors draining into an endless sprawl of twisted trees.
Their bark pulsed with faint bioluminescence, veins of pale blue light snaking up the gnarled trunks. At their bases, clusters of strange mushrooms clung like parasites, their faint glow casting long, spidery shadows across the ground.
The scent hit him next—damp earth, rotting leaves, and a sharp tang of cold metal. A coppery bite that clung to the back of his throat like old blood.
Jace turned instinctively, glancing behind him. The entrance was gone.
No mist. No portal. Nothing but endless, skeletal woods stretching into every direction.
A chill needled under his armor.
He huffed a quiet breath.
Ahead, Nyra turned, smirking over her shoulder. "Getting cold feet already, rookie?"
Jace scoffed, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. "Not a chance. Just making sure I don’t step into some weird dungeon bullshit before we even start."
Sylas whistled low, twirling a dagger between nimble fingers. "So, what’s the plan? Pick a direction and hope we don't start kissing trees in circles?"
Torak’s antennae flicked, his four arms resting loosely at the ready. "If the dungeon distorts perception, we will need evidence of manipulation,” he said. "We must mark our path."
"Chalk? Rope?" Jace nodded, scanning the ghost-lit woods.
Before he could suggest anything else, Patch stepped forward.
The massive rune-forged golem pressed his hand against the nearest tree, his runes glowing deep amber. A clean, sharp rune carved itself into the bark, burning like a brand. The symbol pulsed once, then settled into a slow, steady thrum.
Nyra arched her brow, impressed. "Smart move, Patch."
"It should endure, unless the dungeon adapts." Patch’s voice vibrated low and steady.
"Well, that's... ominously reassuring." Jace rubbed his jaw.
"Enough stalling," Garrik growled, cracking his neck with an audible pop. “You have a dungeon to clear, and I have some newbies to watch."
Jace couldn’t stifle the chuckle at Garrik calling them essentially noobs, and they pressed deeper into the woods.
Each step he took sank into damp, spongy soil that squelched unpleasantly underfoot. The mist thickened, clinging to their legs like living vines. The glow of the mushrooms grew sparser, swallowed by the deepening shadows.
The whispers started small.
A brushing against the back of Jace’s mind—soft, coaxing, like silk threads slipping into his ears.
"Turn back," the voice whispered.
Jace froze mid-step, his hammer instinctively lifting half a hand's width.
The voice was wrong.
It wasn’t like the melodic, familiar one he sometimes heard before.
This voice was cold. Mechanical.
A mimicry of concern, devoid of meaning. Like a recording on a broken loop.
Nyra stiffened ahead of him, her tail lashing once.
“You guys hear that?" she hissed, her ears flattening tight against her head.
Torak’s blades rasped free in a hiss of steel and oil.
"Affirmative," he confirmed, antennae flicking wildly.
Sylas shifted lightly on her feet, her grin brittle. "Not exactly a fan of disembodied whisper threats."
Jace forced himself to breathe—slow and deep—even as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
Just a trick. Just a dungeon illusion. Probably.
He flexed his grip on his hammer, his voice low and steady. ‘Yeah, well. I’ve already got one voice in my head. Not about to let some ghostly whispers tell me what to do.’
He stepped forward—
And the world moved.
A flicker at the edge of his vision.
One on the left, then another on the right.
The fog boiled, twisting into half-solid forms that lurched and staggered as if struggling to remember what shape they were supposed to be. Their bodies flickered—stretching too tall, then collapsing too small, limbs snapping and reforming with every pulse of mist.
But their faces were the worst. Or rather, the lack of them.
Their mouths and noses were vacant on their faces. Too large, round, hollow sockets that seemed to devour the light completely.
They didn’t breathe, didn’t move. They just watched.
Jace swallowed hard, his hand instinctively lifting.
‘Analyze.’
The world pulsed—and the information bled into view.
[Wh15p3r1ng 5had35]
L3v3l: @55#()735
5tr3ngth5: *^&%#)(
W3akn35535: ))!#$
D3scr1pt10n: Corrupted remnants of lost $0\/7$ drawn to wandering minds. Their whispers ^&%$ wear down %%ERROR the will of their prey, luring (&^%$# them deeper into the unknow—^%&$#n.
His jaw locked. ‘Why is it so glitchy?” His vision flickered—like a screen caught between frames. Then it hit him… ‘Corrupted remnants...’
Error…
System… Alerts… Faulty…
The notification warped, the text fragmenting into a storm of static. A harsh electric snap cracked against the inside of his skull.
Jace staggered, the world glitching like a broken file.
And then, the message was gone. Scrubbed clean.
As if it had never been there.
‘What the hell was that...?’ It wasn’t just the level that glitched.
It was something else.
He tightened his grip on his warhammer, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
A low, tight breath hissed through his teeth.
Whatever these things were—whatever the System was trying (and failing) to warn him about—it wasn’t normal.
It wasn’t safe.
“...So," Sylas whispered, voice tight as a bowstring, "do we run, or do we fight?"
Garrik chuckled—a low, guttural sound that rumbled from deep in his chest.
It wasn’t his normal jovial attitude, it was laced with fear. “Something isn’t right here.”
He turned his golden gaze to the entrance to the dungeon.
Jace followed him, but didn’t see anything different. Hell, he didn’t even know what he was looking at, but Sylas caught it
“Garrik, it’s gone,” Sylas shouted, causing everyone else to look back.
Jace barely had time to curse before the first shade lunged.
A blur of writhing mist and jagged edges hurtled toward him, silent as a nightmare given form.
He snapped his warhammer up just in time, deflecting the worst of the strike. The creature's talons grazed his forearm—a cold, burning scrape that tore through the air but not through his skin.
The wound didn’t bleed. Didn’t hurt the way it should have.
Jace’s gut twisted. That wasn’t normal.
Another flash of movement—faster than thought.
Sylas.
A second shade streaked toward her. She twisted her body at the last second, disappearing into a smear of shadow and reappearing behind the creature, daggers flashing down in a precise arc.
They passed straight through. The shades weren't solid.
Panic clawed up his spine—until something clicked.
Magic. They must need magic to be anchored.
Nyra’s snarl ripped through the clearing, low and sharp. “Patch! You got anything for this?”
Already moving, the rune golem raised one heavy hand. Gold light pulsed from his core, racing down his arm and flaring at his fingertips.
“Cleansing rune. Deploying.”
The earth trembled. A spiderweb of golden lines unfurled across the clearing, snaking beneath the Shades like living veins.
The moment the light touched them, they screamed.
Jace’s skull rattled under the force of it, a sound not meant for mortal ears. Not just noise. A thousand voices clawing, scraping, and digging into his mind like rusted nails.
One of the Shades jerked violently, its form stabilizing for a heartbeat.
“Now.”
Soulrend flared at the shade, and Soul Infusion flowed through his weapon—a pulse of cold darkness hungry for life. He moved without thinking, swinging the warhammer in a sweeping arc.
The impact shattered the Shade, its body bursting apart into tendrils of mist that evaporated on the charged air.
Warmth—fierce and primal—surged through Jace’s chest. His Soulreaver core drank deep, the taste sharp and electric with a tinge of bitterness.
The other Shades noticed. Their heads twisted unnaturally toward him.
All at once.
The mist screamed—
—and the Shades charged as one.
It was time to see who devoured whom.
[Post-Author’s Note: ///????15??3???? ???? ????3 ??????3]
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🕳? [System Query: RESPONSE REQUIRED] 🕳? Wh1ch p4rt of y0ur s0ul did th1s ch4pt3r sh4tter?
