I had been sleeping for a long time.
Too long.
Then I heard it.
Crying.
Not distant—close. Desperate. Broken.
> "We're dead…"
"Instructor—Instructor!"
My heart jolted.
Then a voice cut through the chaos, sharp and familiar.
> "Where are you, brother?"
"Come here—at any cost!"
Aeldir.
Before Ryn could even speak, my consciousness snapped awake.
Instinct took over.
I used the same magic I had once used at the lake.
And suddenly—
Memories flooded in.
Not mine.
Aeldir's.
His thoughts, his fear, his vision.
That was how it started.
---
Two Hours Earlier
Where did brother go?
Aeldir thought.
He's been sleeping for four days.
The Princess approached him, arms crossed, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"So," she said, "are you ready today, or are you planning to get beaten like the first day?"
Before Aeldir could answer, Kael stepped forward.
"No. This time, we'll help each other."
There were four of them from the same group.
Then a man approached.
"Students."
His presence alone quieted the area.
"I am your instructor. Ashford Lucas."
Yellow hair. Red eyes.
A regular leather outfit reinforced by an iron chestplate.
A sword at his waist—its presence heavy.
"I am a fire magician," he continued, "and a former A-Ranker. Today, I'll be guiding you."
He looked at them calmly.
"We are going to the 12th floor of a dungeon. Other floors have already been cleared by different classes. Your task is simple—kill monsters, extract their cores, gain practical experience."
A teleportation gate opened.
They stepped through—
Not into a hall.
But directly into a dungeon.
The gate closed behind them.
They were on the 12th floor.
Trolls. Wolves.
They killed them easily.
Too easily.
"They're not fighting back," someone whispered.
Ashford's eyes widened.
"Don't kill that one—!"
Too late.
Seraphine's blade had already severed its head.
The monster convulsed.
Then—
Explosion.
"Abnormality!" Ashford shouted.
Abnormal species—creatures with excess mana their bodies cannot endure. Killing them incorrectly causes catastrophic detonation.
The floor cracked.
They fell.
And landed before a horde of mana bears.
Thirty students.
Chaos.
Ashford and Seraphine were severely injured.
I carried the instructor with Kael.
Lysandria carried Seraphine.
We saw a large gate.
Emergency healing wards—standard dungeon design, every three floors.
I hesitated.
"Something is wrong," I said.
"Do you have a better idea?" someone snapped.
We entered.
The gate shut behind us.
Blue flames ignited across candles lining the walls.
The room felt wrong.
Not a healing chamber.
A ritual hall.
A star-shaped magic formation was carved into the floor.
At its center stood a short pillar.
On it—
A green mana crystal.
And bound to it—
An eighteen-year-old boy.
Chained with restraints meant for elephants.
Starved.
Unmoving.
"He's dead," someone muttered.
"Use the crystal to heal the instructor," another said.
I shook my head.
"Not all green crystals store healing mana."
Arguments erupted.
A vote.
Twelve against using it.
The rest in favor.
They removed the crystal.
Healing light surged.
The instructor regained consciousness—
Then screamed.
"What have you done?! Leave this room—NOW!"
Too late.
The boy's eyes opened.
Chains rattled.
Wings descended from his back—blackened, malformed.
His aura rose.
Black and red.
The star formation faded.
The crystal dissolved.
The pressure crushed us.
His skin split—
One half pale, human, hopeless.
The other covered in black-red scales.
A monster stood up.
"Who," it asked calmly,
"is your leader?"
Ashford stepped forward.
"Protect yourselves!"
His sword ignited.
Ashford didn't hesitate.
The moment the Doom Bringer took his first step, Ashford slammed his sword into the ground.
"Formation!" he roared.
A blazing magic circle erupted beneath his feet.
The temperature spiked instantly.
Flames didn't spread outward — they compressed inward, condensing around his blade until the air itself screamed.
> A-Rank Combat Compression.
Most instructors couldn't do that.
Ashford wasn't most instructors.
"So you're the swordsman," the Doom Bringer said, amused.
Ashford answered by disappearing.
A sonic crack echoed.
His blade struck the Doom Bringer's torso with enough force to bend space for a split second. Fire erupted on impact, layered with rotational mana that drilled inward instead of dispersing.
The Doom Bringer slid backward for the first time.
Not injured.
But moved.
Students gasped.
Ashford didn't stop.
He chained his strikes — flame arcs overlapping, each one calculated to restrict movement, not damage.
"You're fast," the Doom Bringer said, eyes gleaming.
"But slow thinkers always die first."
He vanished.
Ashford reacted instantly, spinning and raising a barrier layered with heat distortion.
A blow landed.
The barrier shattered.
Ashford skidded backward, boots carving trenches into the floor.
Blood dripped from his mouth.
But he was smiling.
"Good," Ashford muttered. "You're worth killing."
He raised his sword again.
The flames changed color.
From orange to white-gold.
That was no longer basic fire.
That was burning intent.
"Flame Art—Second Discipline," Ashford intoned.
"Solar Severance."
He struck once.
A crescent of condensed fire tore through the hall, carving through pillars and gouging the dungeon wall itself.
The Doom Bringer crossed his arms.
The attack exploded.
Smoke filled the chamber.
A scream followed.
Not victory — but pain.
The human half of the Doom Bringer's body was scorched, skin blistered, blood spilling.
The devil half remained untouched.
Ashford's expression darkened.
"…Asymmetric resistance," he realized.
The Doom Bringer laughed, voice splitting into two tones.
"Now you understand."
He stepped forward.
The pressure doubled.
Students collapsed.
Then—
Roots burst from the floor.
Not wild.
Not random.
Perfectly placed.
They wrapped around the Doom Bringer's legs, arms, spine — layered in thorns pulsing with emerald poison.
Lysandria stood behind them, staff planted into the ground.
Her mana surged violently.
Veins of green light traced across her skin.
She was trembling.
Not from fear.
From overload.
"Don't underestimate me," she said, voice shaking but firm.
"I'm not done growing."
The poison activated.
The Doom Bringer coughed — black blood spilling from his mouth.
For the first time—
His smile cracked.
"This is… dangerous," he admitted.
Lysandria raised her free hand.
"Verdant Binding—Overgrowth!"
The roots thickened, crushing inward. Poison surged straight into his mana channels.
Ashford didn't waste the opening.
He moved.
Faster than before.
Sword blazing with dragon-shaped flames that wrapped around his body.
"Roaring Flame Dragon!"
He struck.
Steel met flesh.
Fire erupted.
The hall shook.
For a moment—
Just a moment—
It looked like they might win.
Then the Doom Bringer's aura exploded.
Black-red energy tore through the roots.
The poison burned away.
Ashford was blasted back mid-strike.
Lysandria screamed as backlash tore through her mana circuits, blood pouring from her nose and ears.
The Doom Bringer stood again.
Breathing heavier.
Injured.
But smiling wider than ever.
"Yes," he said softly.
"This is how it should be."
And that was when everyone understood—
They weren't children.
But this thing…
Was a calamity meant to be fought by armies.
The Princess fought him—briefly. Long enough to trade blood for time. Long enough to make him turn his head
Then—
He crippled her.
Knee shattered. Sword broken.
"Game over."
Blade raised.
We closed our eyes.
Then—
A violent wind.
Steel clashed.
A figure stood before the Princess.
Student uniform.
Nyx's crystal glowing on his shoulder.
The environment changed.
He vanished—
Reappeared before me.
Carrying the Princess.
The instructor.
"I'll take care of the rest," he said.
The Doom Bringer grinned.
"Oh… your speed is incredible."
Dark purple aura erupted.
Two pressures collided.
Both smiled.
Both vanished.
And that—
Was when the real disaster began.