Morning came softly. Not with noise, but with light—thin and pale, slipping past the edge of the curtain and resting against Elara's closed eyes. It lingered there, persistent, until sleep loosened its hold.
She stirred.
A slow inhale. A faint exhale.
Her nightgown had twisted sometime during the night, the fabric hanging loose around her collarbone, cool against her skin. She yawned, unguarded, lifting one hand to rub at her eyes as she pushed herself upright.
For a moment, she just sat there.
Hair unbound, falling over one shoulder in dark waves that caught the morning light. The room still heavy with the quiet of early morning. The city outside hadn't fully woken yet—no shouting, no clatter, only distant movement carried faintly through stone.
She stretched once, arms lifting, the gown shifting with the motion before settling again. Comfortable. Familiar. Hers.
Elara swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding across the floor barefoot. The stone was cool beneath her feet, grounding. She splashed water onto her face, cupping it in her hands, washing away the last traces of sleep.
The mirror caught her briefly—pale skin still marked faintly by yesterday's sun, eyes clearer now, their color sharp in the growing light, expression calm. Awake.
She tied her hair back loosely and returned to the room, settling into the chair by her worktable.
Yesterday's notes lay exactly where she'd left them.
She opened them without hesitation.
Fourth floor. Pantry. Early morning.
Latheon wings—minimum five intact.
Avoid crowds. In and out.
Her gaze moved down the page, checking each line, each margin note. No omissions. No second thoughts. The plan was simple because it needed to be.
She remembered the mixture holding. The resin settling. The way Naaza's handwriting crowded the scroll—confident, exact, assuming success.
One ingredient left.
Elara closed the notebook and let out a quiet breath.
"Alright," she murmured.
She rose, already moving with purpose now—armor waiting on its stand, gear laid out in practiced order. The softness of sleep slipped away, replaced by familiar readiness.
By the time she finished, the sun had climbed higher.
The Dungeon would be awake.
The fourth floor pantry would already be filling—water veins running, moss heavy with moisture, goblins drawn by the same resources she was.
Elara tightened the strap at her shoulder and reached for her blade.
Today was work.
And she intended to leave with what she came for.
---
Fourth Floor — Pantry
The fourth floor opened into a familiar bend of stone and moisture.
Elara slowed.
The Dungeon was cruel. Everyone knew that.
It took lives without hesitation, without meaning, without warning. A single mistake—a step too far, a breath too slow, a moment of pride—was enough to end everything.
And yet—
It also nurtured.
Not intentionally. Not kindly. But inevitably.
Where monsters lived long enough, ecosystems formed. Where ecosystems formed, something resembling balance followed. Growth clung to stone. Water gathered where blood had soaked in long ago. Fungi, sap, wings, roots—things that shouldn't exist underground found ways to survive.
The pantry.
A place monsters relied on without knowing its name.
And a place certain adventurers relied on because they did know it.
Those who valued survival over fame.
Those who didn't chase levels or applause.
Those who understood that magic stones were not the only currency that mattered.
Deep floors promised greater rewards—richer stones, faster growth, glory if you lived.
But the cost scaled faster than the payoff.
One miscalculation.
One overstep.
One moment of confidence mistaken for strength.
And the Dungeon didn't just kill you.
Sometimes it left you alive.
Broken.
Injured.
Traumatized enough that you never descended again.
The pantry existed because monsters needed it.
It stayed hidden because only a few adventurers were willing to accept what it demanded in return:
Patience.
Discipline.
And the understanding that the Dungeon didn't reward bravery—
Only restraint.
Elara had learned that early.
Not from a mentor. Not from a lecture. From watching adventurers descend with fire in their eyes and return—if they returned—with something colder. Something heavier.
The ones who survived long enough stopped talking about glory.
They talked about margins.
How many potions they could afford.
How much repair costs ate into profit.
How many days they could go without descending before rent came due.
Survival wasn't dramatic.
It was arithmetic.
She exhaled slowly and stepped forward, her boots quiet against stone worn smooth by years of passage. The familiar bitterness touched the air—not rot, not mold, but the strange, organic scent of things growing where they shouldn't.
Blue latheon wings clung to the wall ahead, folded thin and translucent like dried petals. Fragile. Easy to ruin if the cut was too hasty, too greedy.
Most adventurers ignored them.
The ones who didn't—the ones who knew their value to alchemists, to certain Familias who paid well for quality materials—those were the ones Elara watched for.
They were the ones who understood.
She was about to step forward when she noticed someone else was already there.
A boy, crouched near the base of the wall.
Black hoodie pulled low. Light build. No armor that she could see.
It's him!