The first illegal dungeon Eira entered was not famous, not deep, and not guarded, which somehow made it more dangerous than any of the ones people talked about. There were no patrols, no maps sold in shops, no warnings from guilds.
Just a narrow crack in the earth at the edge of the eastern forest, half-hidden by roots and moss, with a single sentence carved into a nearby tree that read: Do not enter.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the words, thinking of Neo lying still in her bed, thinking of his parents pretending not to worry, thinking of how every official path had closed itself to him. Then he stepped inside.
The air changed immediately. It grew colder, heavier, carrying the smell of damp stone and old earth. The faint glow of natural mana crystals embedded in the walls barely lit the path, just enough to keep him from walking blind.
He moved slowly, carefully, every step measured. He checked the floor before placing his weight, the ceiling before moving forward, and the corners before turning. He remembered Kara's voice in his head, telling him that the dungeon was not a place that attacked you loudly, but quietly, when you stopped paying attention. After a while, the forest sounds outside vanished completely, replaced by a deep, unsettling silence that felt too intentional to be natural.
The first creature dropped from the ceiling without a sound. It looked like a spider made of bone, its thin limbs bending in too many places, its shell white and cracked like old porcelain. Eira barely had time to roll aside before it struck where his head had been.
The sword formed in his hand without him calling for it, cold and familiar, and he swung by instinct rather than thought. The creature shattered into fragments that skittered across the stone floor and went still. Eira stood frozen for a moment, chest heaving, heart pounding, listening for more movement. When nothing came, he slowly lowered the blade and let it fade, reminding himself to breathe.
He went deeper after that, not rushing, not hesitating either. Some creatures he avoided entirely, slipping through narrow paths and shadowed cracks. Others he fought quickly and cleanly, always careful not to draw too much attention. He collected what he could, small mana stones from broken creatures, herbs that glowed faintly, fragments of crystal from cracked dungeon walls. He marked his path with chalk so he would not lose his way.
After several hours, he found a stone basin filled with a softly glowing blue liquid, humming faintly with concentrated healing mana. Runes circled its base, worn but still intact. His hands trembled slightly as he filled a small vial, careful not to spill a drop.
When he finally emerged from the dungeon, the sky was already dark. His legs shook with exhaustion, his clothes were torn and dirty, and a thin line of blood ran down his arm from a shallow cut he hadn't even noticed until then. But he was alive, and more than that, he was carrying something that might matter. He didn't sleep much that night. He kept touching the vial to make sure it was still there.
The village healer studied the liquid the next morning with quiet seriousness. She turned the vial in the light, sniffed it, then looked up at him with cloudy but sharp eyes. She told him that it was a powerful healing essence, but not meant for long-term conditions, and certainly not tested on anything like Eternal Slumber. He asked anyway. She hesitated for a long time before finally nodding. They diluted it carefully, used a single drop, and placed it on Neo's lips. For a moment, nothing happened.
Eira felt his chest tighten. Then Neo's fingers twitched, just barely, like a leaf moved by a faint breeze. Eira froze, afraid to even breathe. The healer watched closely and then shook her head slowly, not in denial, but in caution. It was not enough, she said, but it was something.
So he went back.
He went back again and again, deeper each time, further from the safe edges and into places the maps didn't bother marking. The dungeons grew older, darker, heavier with mana that pressed on his skin like humidity before a storm. The monsters changed too, no longer wild and random, but shaped, organized, sometimes moving in patterns that felt deliberate.
He learned quickly, or he would have died. He learned which stones shifted when stepped on, which crystals drained mana, and which shadows hid living things. His fear dulled into alertness, then into calm. His body hardened. His movements became quieter, more precise.
The third dungeon nearly killed him. A creature with jagged limbs and a mouth too wide for its face tore into his leg before he could fully react, and he barely escaped, dragging himself through a narrow passage while blood soaked into the stone behind him. He collapsed outside the entrance afterward, shaking, laughing weakly in disbelief that he was still breathing.
The sword faded from his hand, leaving it empty and trembling. He cried then, not from pain, but from the sudden release of tension, from the thinness of the line he was walking and the stubbornness that kept him walking it anyway.
The herbs he brought back after that were darker, pulsing faintly with deep mana. The healer frowned when she saw them, called them dangerous, unstable, not meant for people. But she used them anyway, in careful doses. Neo's breathing deepened. Her skin grew warmer. Her pulse steadied. She still did not wake, but she felt less distant, less like she was already gone.
Rumors spread. About a boy who entered forbidden places. About someone bringing back things that shouldn't exist near a village like this. Some people admired him quietly. Some feared him. Some resented him. And somewhere far away, someone powerful began to take notice.
Eira stood outside Neo's room one night, watching her chest rise and fall in the dim light of a single candle. He whispered to her that he was not stopping, that he was coming back every time, that she just had to wait a little longer.
And deep beneath the earth, in places where no light reached, something ancient stirred, not hostile yet, not friendly either, but aware that someone had begun walking paths that were meant to stay forgotten.