The dungeon air was heavier this time.
Not hostile—just watchful.
Arav moved slowly through the narrow stone corridor, boots barely disturbing the dust layered across the ground. Faint aether veins pulsed along the walls like sleeping nerves, their rhythm uneven, imperfect. An old dungeon. Stable, but worn by repetition.
This was deliberate.
No spectators.
No escorts.
No safety nets.
Only him.
Vyomar had been left outside the threshold this time, curled near the dungeon marker with a low, unhappy rumble. Arav hadn't explained. He didn't need to. Some lessons were meant to be learned alone.
He exhaled quietly and adjusted his stance.
Last time, he'd pushed forward too fast. Trusted instinct more than awareness. Let momentum carry him where patience should have ruled.
That mistake had nearly cost him.
Not again.
A faint scrape echoed ahead.
Arav stopped instantly.
He didn't reach for power. Didn't flare flame. Instead, he listened—really listened. The dungeon's breath. The subtle pull of aether where it bent unnaturally.
There.
A shape detached itself from the shadowed bend ahead.
Graveclaw Lurker
F-rank dungeon beast
Quadrupedal. Bone-plated forelimbs. Serrated mandibles adapted for ambush.
It didn't roar.
It lunged.
Arav shifted sideways, not back—his footwork tight, measured. The claw passed where his chest had been a heartbeat earlier, stone cracking under its weight.
He raised his hand.
Fire answered—but softly.
Not a burst.
Not dominance.
A thin, controlled arc of red flame traced along his forearm, sharpening at the edge of his palm like heat given intent. He struck the creature's exposed joint, flame biting precisely where bone met sinew.
The Lurker shrieked, recoiling.
Arav didn't chase.
That was the correction.
He waited.
The beast circled, agitation rising. It was used to prey that panicked. To momentum. To mistakes.
Minutes stretched.
When it lunged again, desperate this time, Arav stepped inside its reach and drove his flaming palm upward into its throat. Heat surged—not violently, but decisively.
The Lurker collapsed, body twitching once before going still.
Silence returned.
Arav stood there, chest rising and falling, sweat cooling against his skin. A thin line of blood traced down his forearm where a claw had grazed him earlier—minor, but real.
Good.
He knelt, pressing his fingers briefly to the wound, then to the dungeon floor.
"I rushed last time," he murmured to no one. "I won't again."
The dungeon did not respond.
But something deeper shifted.
Not a collapse.
Not a reward.
Just… attention.
Far below, in the direction of the dungeon's heart, the aether flow changed—slightly stronger, slightly denser. As if something had noticed his presence and was waiting to see what he would do next.
Arav rose slowly.
The path forward opened.
And this time, he walked into it without haste—unaware that somewhere beyond this dungeon's quiet depths, another pulse of power had answered him in kind.