The stone gate did not open.
It judged.
Arav stood before the dungeon threshold, the air ahead of him subtly warped—like heat haze without heat. Ancient runes carved into the arch pulsed once, slow and heavy, responding to his presence.
Then the pressure descended.
Not crushing.
Not violent.
Restrictive.
Aether recoiled around him, folding inward as if the space itself were narrowing its tolerance.
Behind him, the Ashvathar escort formation halted simultaneously.
Aaryan stepped forward—and stopped.
The moment his foot crossed the final boundary line, the runes flared sharply. A wall of condensed force snapped into existence, invisible yet absolute. The air screamed once, low and warning.
Aaryan did not push further.
Neither did Meghala.
Neither did anyone.
The dungeon had drawn its line.
Arav felt it clearly now.
Inside this place, only those of its rank were permitted to exist.
He exhaled slowly.
"So it's really just me," he murmured.
Vyomar shifted at his side. The white cub's fur dulled slightly as suppression wrapped around him too—his presence compressed, power folded inward until only instinct and raw physicality remained.
The cub glanced up at Arav, golden eyes steady.
No fear.
Just awareness.
"That's fine," Arav said softly, resting a hand against the cub's head. "We'll manage."
Behind them, Meghala clicked her tongue, arms crossed.
"Hate this law," she muttered. "Still hate it every time."
"You'd hate it more if it didn't exist," Aaryan replied calmly.
Meghala didn't argue.
Arav stepped forward.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the world shifted.
The outside vanished.
Sound dulled. Light bent. The air thickened into something that pressed back against every breath. The ground beneath his boots felt wrong—not unstable, but hungry, as if it remembered violence.
Aether here was coarse. Untamed.
This was not a battlefield meant for supervision.
This was a place designed to test whether something deserved to survive.
[Dungeon Identified]
Designation: Ashroot Hollow
Rank: F
State: Active
Suppression: Absolute
The system's voice was neutral.
Unhelpful.
As always.
Arav didn't ask for guidance.
He adjusted his stance instead.
Breathing slowed. Senses widened. The faint threads of aether became visible again—not orderly like the estate grounds, but tangled, overlapping, constantly shifting.
Every step forward stirred something.
A crack echoed deeper within the dungeon.
Then another.
Not loud.
Close.
Vyomar's ears flattened.
Arav's hand tightened around his spear.
"So this is how it starts," he whispered.
No safety net.
No intervention.
No correction waiting outside the gate.
Only mistakes.
And whatever price they demanded.
He took his next step forward.
And the darkness answered.