Chapter 3: Echoes Beneath the Canopy
The forest never slept.
Even at night, it breathed—low roars echoing in the distance, branches cracking under unseen weight, the constant rustle of predators stalking weaker prey. Some of the trees shimmered faintly, their bark veined with soft, mystical light, illuminating patches of mist that drifted lazily between roots and stone.
This was deep forest territory.
The kind where only apex beasts and territorial lords survived.
And yet—
At its heart stood a small, makeshift camp.
A half-burned campfire smoldered quietly, its embers dim. Around it lay the corpses of several beasts, their wounds clean and precise, already stiff with time.
Inside a simple tent, a young man jolted upright.
His chest heaved as he sucked in air, sweat clinging to his skin. His eyes were wide, unfocused, as if struggling to tell past from present.
"…That dream again," he muttered hoarsely.
He dragged a hand down his face, fingers trembling slightly.
"I thought I was past this."
The young man was around eighteen years old.
He wore no upper garments, his lean, hardened physique marked by countless scars—proof of long years spent fighting, surviving, and pushing past limits. His muscles weren't exaggerated, but honed, every movement efficient.
Dark silver hair fell loosely around his face.
Handsome, yes—but it was his eyes that stood out.
Even now, they carried weight.
Experience that did not belong to someone his age.
He had arrived in this forest after completing a guild assignment near the eastern border—investigating the cause behind a sudden surge of dungeon outbreaks.
What he found had been… disappointing.
Mid-level demons, dispatched without effort.One high-level demon, eliminated just as easily.
Then the dungeon itself.
Sixty floors.
Cleared alone.
The final boss never even reached its second phase.
By the time he left, the dungeon had fully collapsed into dormancy. Two months—at least—before it could reset and reopen for adventurers. Enough time for the Adventurer Guild to establish a permanent outpost and regulate resource flow.
It was routine work.
At least to him.
To others, it earned him a new title whispered with awe and unease—
The Dungeon Conqueror.
The young man exhaled slowly and stepped outside the tent.
Cold air hit his skin instantly, sharp and grounding.
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, they glowed faintly—a deep shade of blue, darker than the night sky, carrying an unnatural clarity.
He walked toward the riverbank at the edge of the camp and knelt, splashing water onto his face. The reflection staring back at him was calm.
Too calm.
A neutral expression.
Eyes that had seen too much.
He straightened and returned to the camp, reigniting the fire with a flick of mana before sitting beside it in silence, gaze fixed on the distant horizon.
Then he felt it.
A presence.
He looked up just in time to see a blue phoenix descending from the canopy above.
"…That old hag," he muttered, irritation flashing across his face.
The phoenix landed lightly on his shoulder, nuzzled against his neck—
Then burst into flame.
The fire condensed into a scroll, which he caught effortlessly.
He read it.
Halfway through, he closed it and sighed deeply.
"…Yup," he said flatly. "Time to kill that old hag."
Before he could stand, another phoenix descended.
This one is identical.
It repeated the process, transforming into a second scroll.
He frowned and opened it.
This time, he read the entire message.
When he finished, he fell silent.
Slowly, his gaze shifted toward the distant direction of the central kingdom.
"…Six years," he murmured."Six years since they betrayed you, Master."
His fingers tightened around the scroll.
"And since I left the Guardian Shrine."
An image surfaced in his mind.
An old man in shrine robes.
Well into his sixties—yet built like a warrior in his prime.
His presence alone had commanded respect.
Strength without arrogance.
Authority without tyranny.
The words echoed clearly, unchanged by time.
"Until you find a purpose for your life, live for my sake.""And for the sake of finding that purpose.""Do not let the sacrifices of those you loved end in vain."
The young man exhaled slowly.
"I wish you were here," he said quietly."…I could use your guidance."
He stood.
"Guess I should start packing."
Near the tent, resting against a log, were two swords.
One was wrapped in chains—sealed tightly.
His father's sword.
A blade he had sworn never to draw.
The other radiated quiet power, its presence unmistakable.
His master's legacy.
Now his.
Once both blades moved again, the world would not remain still.
A new chain of events would begin.
One that would reshape everything.
He pulled out two messenger scrolls.
Each bore the mark of a burning tiger.
He infused mana into them briefly.
For the first message, he wrote simply:
You are dead.
For the second:
I am on my way.
The scrolls burned away, carried by the wind.
The young man looked once more toward the horizon.
Toward destiny.
Toward the past he had tried to outrun.
And toward the future that refused to wait.