The dungeon did not expel him.
Days passed before Arav realized that detail mattered.
He recovered slowly, resting against the cold stone while the ambient aether of the dungeon seeped back into its natural circulation. The convergence point at the chamber's center remained dim—no longer testing him, no longer resisting—but neither did it grant anything.
It simply existed.
As if acknowledging his presence was enough.
Arav stood before it once, several days after he could finally move without pain splitting his ribs. He did not touch it. He did not reach out with aether or intent.
He bowed.
Not in reverence.
In respect.
The dungeon did not react.
But when he turned to leave, the pressure that had once weighed on his chest eased—just a fraction. Enough to notice.
Enough to remember.
---
Recovery took weeks.
Not dramatic ones. Quiet ones.
Arav learned the limits of his body in ways no training hall could teach. His aether channels remained sore long after his muscles recovered, and the Aether Heart Rune pulsed irregularly whenever he pushed too hard.
He stopped pushing.
Instead, he learned to listen.
Fire no longer surged when summoned. It answered.
Small flames. Dense flames. Controlled ones.
No explosions.
No spectacle.
When he practiced movement, he did so without flame at all—learning balance, breathing, footwork. When he practiced flame, he did so while standing still.
The dungeon observed.
Vyomar remained close throughout, never interfering, never offering more than presence. When Arav faltered, the cub pressed against him. When he steadied, Vyomar stepped back.
Neither spoke.
Neither needed to.
---
Time began to move differently after that.
Months passed.
Then a year.
Arav cleared other F-rank dungeons within Ashvathar territory—not as trials, but as practice. Each was different. Each demanded adaptation.
Some resisted heat.
Some punished recklessness.
Some exhausted patience more than strength.
He failed more than once.
Retreated more than once.
And each failure lingered—not as injury, but as adjustment.
His fire sharpened.
His movements simplified.
Techniques emerged not as names, but habits.
A single thrust instead of a wave.
A step instead of a leap.
A guard that turned blows aside rather than stopping them outright.
The sealed scripture within him remained silent.
Unresponsive.
Watching.
---
By the time Arav first entered an E-rank dungeon, he was nearly twelve.
Stronger, yes—but more importantly, steadier.
The dungeon was deeper than anything he had faced before. The pressure denser. The presence inside it heavier—not hostile, but unapologetically dangerous.
Arav stood at its threshold, breath slow, spear resting lightly in his hand.
Not gripping.
Not bracing.
Ready.
Behind him, Vyomar sat just outside the boundary, golden eyes locked on him.
"You stay," Arav said quietly.
Vyomar did not protest.
As Arav stepped inside, the dungeon sealed—not with force, but with finality.
This was no longer training.
This was preparation.
And far beyond Ashvathar lands, in places that measured power through omission rather than noise, several instruments adjusted themselves—just slightly.
Not alarms.
Not warnings.
Acknowledgements.
The world was beginning to account for him.
And Arav Ashvathar, unaware of the eyes aligning beyond his sight, advanced into the depths—no longer as a child being tested, but as something being measured for what came next.