Dungeon center
Downtown district
Pele city
Nation of Haumea
5th August 385 Post Global Unification
Light flooded the room, and Ash felt space twist as the rift dragged them into infinite darkness. His body burst out of the void midair. Gravity seized him at once, but he stayed calm, bracing for impact. He crashed into the ground with a thunderous force, rocks exploding outward as his body reinforcement absorbed the blow. Dust filled the air. Ash coughed, waving it aside as he pushed himself up from the crater.
He climbed out and surveyed his surroundings.
He stood in a vast field of yellow grass. Nearby, a lone, leafless tree rose from the plain like a silent sentinel. Above him hung a bright light—sunlike, yet unmistakably artificial. Ash could tell at once that it was a dense mass of pure Mana, carefully shaped to simulate daylight. To his left, he heard the gentle movement of water. Turning, he spotted a narrow stream winding through the grass.
Between himself and Eren, Ash was the more knowledgeable when it came to Dungeons. This wasn't his first time in one.
As a child, he had gone on pilgrimages with his family to the Dungeon of the Holy Empire of Lumerion. Unlike the other six Dungeons of the world—popular, dangerous attractions for Adventurers—the Lumerion Dungeon was sacred. Holy. It was a place of prayer, not conquest.
He remembered the stories his mother used to tell him about their ancestor, Princess Neith—the mother of the Asterion bloodline—and how she journeyed to the Dungeon every dawn to pray to her father, Menes, one of the Ancient Gods.
Back then, Ash had been terrified of entering the Dungeon.
He had been a frail child, weaker than his older brother, Ishmael, and nothing like his mighty father. Ash's thoughts darkened as they drifted toward him. He didn't like remembering his father—only the disappointment in his eyes, the quiet judgment that Ash had not been blessed as his brother had.
Ash turned his attention back to the present and followed the stream, remaining alert. His mood had soured, and he would rather think of anything else than his family right now. He wondered where Eren was. They had been separated upon arrival, but Ash wasn't overly concerned. Eren might act—and look—like an idiot at times, but Ash knew better. He was smart. Capable. He'd survive.
As Ash continued walking, signs of habitation began to appear. He was approaching a village.
Dungeons were ancient structures, older than recorded history—older even than the Primevals. Since the First Age of Mana, only fragments of their true nature had been uncovered. Many believed they were gateways, bridges between worlds. Through them, mankind and countless other races had first arrived in this realm.
Because Dungeons were pockets of space connecting multiple worlds, it wasn't unusual for non-native races to live within them. Entire settlements existed inside. Even institutions like the Global Hunters Association maintained posts here, allowing employees and their families to live within the Dungeon territory.
The lower levels of Dungeons were relatively safe, their dangers well-documented and largely explored. It was the middle and upper levels that remained perilous—still being climbed, still claiming lives.
When Ash neared the village gate, he slipped behind a massive four-headed boulder and activated his interface, pressing the first button to bring up the map.
His plan was simple: to find territories under attack by monsters.
On his side of the map, the settlement was marked as Goblin Territory.
There were strict rules governing the conduct of the Dungeon. Civilized territories like this one were under pact with the Hunters Association. Adventurers weren't permitted to attack them. The inhabitants were intelligent—likely comparable to humans.
Ash stepped out from his hiding place and approached the gate.
A guard post stood before the village, manned by green-skinned sentries clad in brown armor. They were short, bald, long-eared—clearly goblins. They blinked in surprise when they saw him, clearly not expecting a human visitor.
The guards looked bored more than anything. Their duty required vigilance, but from what Ash could tell, the village was peaceful. No signs of distress. No signs of monsters.
Finding trouble here was going to be harder than he'd hoped.
As he drew closer, one question crossed his mind.
Do goblins even speak the same language as me?
"What can we help you with?" the goblin standing before the guards asked.
Ash felt a surge of relief when he realized he could understand him.
"I'm looking for a floor with a monster lair," Ash said, glancing at his map. From what he could tell, the nearest gate that would lead to hostile territory was—
"The gate's over there, by the western cave," the goblin in charge said, pointing toward the far side of the village.
Ash dismissed the map and followed the direction of the goblin's finger.
"Yah… dawn't luk like an adventurer," a thin, scrawny goblin muttered.
"I'm not," Ash replied.
He turned away and headed toward the western edge of the village, where both his map and the goblins had indicated. Before long, he reached a riverbank. Across it yawned the cave the goblin had mentioned. Strange Anima leaked from within, heavy and unnatural. Yet despite the pressure, Ash couldn't sense any living presence inside.
He manifested an Anima blade and drove it into a nearby tree along the riverbank, marking the spot in case he needed a quick escape. Then he plucked a fallen branch and kindled it with a simple fire spell, the torch flaring to life in his hand.
Ash moved quietly into the cave. With each step, the pressure intensified. The density of the World's energy grew heavier, pressing against his body. He was grateful for his Anima resistance—without it, he would have been crushed. Non-Awakened mages wouldn't survive standing here for more than a few moments. Even most Ascendants would struggle.
What's emitting Anima like this? he wondered.
His internal senses stayed razor-sharp, probing for threats, yet the cave remained eerily lifeless. Could a monster truly conceal its presence so completely? Ash advanced cautiously, checking the ground and walls for signs of trap magic. Many Dungeon floors were littered with ancient constructs—residual spells left behind by Primeval beings long ago. As he went deeper, a faint draft brushed past him. The breeze flickered his torch, threatening to snuff it out.
Where is that coming from?
Ash turned—and froze.
The cave was gone. He stood amid a forest of dark, looming silhouettes. Trees shuddered as birds burst into flight. Smoke curled through a night sky, lit by flashes of crimson, gold, and white that split the darkness. When Ash stepped out of the treeline, his heart shattered.
Before him burned a familiar reservation land. Ash dropped to his knees. The nightmare he had buried clawed its way back to life. Fire consumed the buildings. His people ran in panic, cut down by arrows of blinding white energy. His chest tightened as his mind struggled to understand how he had been dragged back to this night. He looked down. He was ten years old again. A helpless witness as his people were slaughtered.
Impossible…
For eight years, Ash had forced himself to forget—to move forward, to survive. And now the past had seized him, dragging him back into its flames.
He staggered to his feet as a figure emerged through the smoke.
"Ishmael…"
His older brother climbed the hill toward him, clad in polished silver armor, a sealed box cradled under his left arm. Soot matted his brown hair, and blood stained the armor he had always kept immaculate. Ash watched as his younger self ran toward him. And the memory continued.
"Mael—where are Father and Mother?" Asher asked, panic creeping into his voice. "What's happening?"
Ishmael collapsed the moment he reached him. Ash watched as his brother quickly shifted, concealing the wound at his side—careful not to let the younger Asher see the blood soaking through his armor. Ash remembered this moment all too well.
Ishmael Asterion had been the greatest warrior the Asterion tribe had ever produced. Strong. Dependable. Someone Ash had always admired—someone the entire tribe relied on. To the young Asher, the idea of his brother ever losing a fight was unthinkable.
Yet here he was.
Mael forced himself back to his feet and grabbed Asher's hand.
"Where are the other children?" Mael asked, his voice tight.
"They went through the portal with Neith," Asher replied.
"Good," Mael said. "Come on. We have to move."
He pulled Asher toward the forest.
Ash followed them as they stumbled into the shadows of the trees, fleeing whatever had wounded Mael. He remembered every step of this escape. This time, he noticed what his younger self hadn't—the blood pouring from Mael's side.
Mael said nothing. He did everything he could to keep Asher from seeing it.
With each step, his brother grew paler, weaker, his strength bleeding away along with the life soaking into the earth. Ash didn't need to wonder why Mael wasn't using magic to heal himself. He already knew. Mael's only concern was getting him to safety.
A thunderous explosion split the night. Ash looked up to see white light erupt across the sky, its dust drifting like ash over the burning land. He had never understood how this massacre had been possible. The Asterion tribe was renowned for its overwhelming magic. And yet he had watched his people fall—slaughtered by a power he had never sensed before, something alien and terrifying. Suddenly, Mael stopped. He yanked both himself and Asher down behind a thick bush.
"Shh," Mael whispered. "Be quiet."
Little Asher obeyed instantly.
Older Ash watched as figures passed nearby.
They wore black armored gear and carried long, silver metallic firearms. Even now, the sight sent a chill through him. Young Ash, unable to sense Mana because of his condition, felt nothing—but Mael could.
Mael held Asher tightly, pressing him down as the armed men paused only a short distance away.
And the nightmare tightened its grip.
"The sensor picked up two signals in this area," one of the men said.
"Are you sure it isn't malfunctioning?" the other replied.
Ash watched them, confusion knotting in his chest. He had never seen these men—not then, not in his memories. At least, he didn't remember seeing them. Mael had made sure of that. So, how was this vision recreating something Ash had never witnessed? He scanned the forest, searching for flaws in the illusion. Everything felt right—too right. And yet he still couldn't understand how he'd been dragged into this trap.
The two men moved on, their footsteps fading into the distance. Mael and Asher resumed their escape, pushing deeper into the forest toward the Stone Circle. Ash recognized the terrain immediately. The Stone Circles were ancient artifacts, older than the Asterion tribe's fall from grace. Long before they had settled this land, the Asterions had been cursed to wander as nomads. The circles had been their means of travel—gateways carved from stone and ritual.
The artifacts were arranged in a pentagram, and at its center stood a massive stone door. This was it. This was the moment when Ash and Mael would be—
"Leaving so soon, Ishmael Asterion?"
Ash froze.
That voice.
It haunted his dreams. It was the sound that ripped him awake in the dead of night. His nightmare made flesh.
No.
No—no, no.
Ash didn't want to see the man behind that voice. He tried to move, to tear himself free, but something held him in place.
The man stood before Mael and Asher, wearing a wide-brimmed hat with two long straps hanging loosely at his sides. He was of average height, dressed in dark clothing layered over a pale undershirt. His sleeveless coat hung past his waist in a rigid, rectangular cut.
A figure Ash had spent years trying to forget.
"Enough," Ash snarled.
He released his Mana in an explosive surge, forcing it through his Anima pathways with raw intent. The world fractured.
One moment, he stood within the Stone Circle—
—and the next, he was in his room at the Atwell Orphanage. Breathing hard. Awake.
Ash looked around the room and saw Eren lying on the bed. He was unconscious, bandages wrapped around his dark-skinned body. Ash recognized this night immediately—and his stomach tightened as he realized what came next. Mother Ruth had just stepped out to retrieve something for herself. Ash had used that moment to sneak in, leaving the door slightly ajar. Now he watched as the version of himself from months ago approached Eren's bedside.
Ash knew what was about to happen. Shame and guilt welled up inside him as the Asher within the vision drew his blade and held it near Eren's throat. The power Eren had displayed during his awakening had been terrifyingly familiar—too similar to the power wielded by the hat-wearing man.
Ash had spent years wondering what kind of force could erase his people so effortlessly. Now, sensing that same presence again—echoing through Eren—his fear from that night surged back to life.
How is this possible?
Was Eren connected to the man who had massacred the Asterion tribe? No. Ash refused to believe it. He watched as the blade trembled in the other Ash's hand, hesitation born of guilt stopping him from committing the act he believed was necessary. Ash closed his eyes. He wouldn't relive this moment again. This wasn't real. It was a construct—a trap. And all he had to do was—
Ash opened his eyes.
He was no longer in the orphanage.
He stood inside a vast tomb. The interior was carved entirely from Anima crystals, glowing a vivid emerald green. Ancient inscriptions ran along the pillars that supported the ceiling. Each pillar bore the carved face of one of the Twelve Guardian Gods of Lumerian—the faith that had branded his people a Cursed Tribe simply because their bloodline traced back to the Primevals.
Ash couldn't read the inscriptions. Though fluent in the Old Language, the symbols etched into the stone were far older—predating even what he knew. A tomb dedicated to ancient gods being hidden within a Dungeon made sense. What didn't were the nine wraith-like figures floating before the central pillar.
"Child of Menes. Cursed blood born of Darkness. You are not welcome here."
The voice struck directly into Ash's mind, sharp and invasive, sending needles of pain through his skull. Of course. He had ended up in a Lumerian religious site—the same ideology that had hunted his people nearly to extinction. Ash formed an Anima blade as the creatures drifted closer.
Mindflayers.
They were magical constructs akin to golems, but rather than stone or earth, they were formed from condensed Anima itself—making them far deadlier. Mindflayers specialized in illusion and mental domination, capable of trapping victims in recursive nightmares like the one Ash had just escaped.
His people despised such creations. But the Lumerians, of course, would use them as sentinels for their holy ground. The flayers resembled floating spirits, draped in white robes that concealed their forms. Only their crimson hands and legs protruded from beneath the cloth.
Ash didn't hesitate. Rage fueled his movement as he burst forward, twisting midair and slashing at the nearest flayer. The impact rebounded violently—a hidden barrier flaring to life and hurling Ash back to the ground.
He grunted, cursing himself.
Of course, they'd have defenses up.
Any proficient magic user did.
Ash summoned two more Anima blades and embedded them at different points throughout the tomb. The Mindflayers spread out, boxing him in from all sides.
He didn't feel afraid. He had already placed five blades across the chamber—anchors he could teleport to at will. Ash exhaled slowly as he funneled more Anima through his spirit circuits. He couldn't afford to drag this out. His reserves were limited—he was still only Initiate rank.
So he committed.
This was his chance to complete the technique he had spent the entire summer refining. With this move, Eren wouldn't be able to catch up to him. The spell was one of the most difficult arts passed down by his tribe. For years, Ash had failed to master it. But recently—this summer—he had come closer than ever.
And now, he would finish it.
Ash steadied his stance and focused, ensuring his breathing and concentration remained flawless as he channeled Anima into his fist. At the same time, he engaged one of the flayers directly—slashing again and again, his strikes repelled each time by the barrier.
It was only a distraction.
Golden Anima—dense and radiant—flowed through his right arm like pressurized gas, condensing within his clenched fist. The energy shaped itself into a star-like core. Then Ash struck. The punch detonated in a blinding golden flash. Space itself warped, the barrier tearing apart as if reality had been split open. The recoil snapped Ash's arm upward, blood spraying from the damage inflicted by the backlash.
But Ash didn't stop.
Fighting through the pain, he surged forward and swept his blade cleanly through the Mindflayer's neck. The construct unraveled into shards of fading light. And the tomb fell silent—for now.
"One down," Ash muttered, flexing his arm, "eight more to go."
Pain throbbed through his right hand. He hadn't executed Golden Flash cleanly. The technique was notoriously difficult—one of the most punishing spells in the Asterion arsenal. It required Ash to gather his Anima, strike, and then delay the release by a razor-thin margin of time. Exactly 0.01 seconds after impact, no sooner and no later, he had to let it go.
That delay was everything.
When done correctly, the Anima detonated outward in a brilliant golden flash, warping the very space at the point of contact. But if his timing slipped—even slightly—the spatial backlash could rebound inward. Crushing his own hand. His concentration during the first exchange had wavered. He'd felt it the moment the strike landed. Another fraction of a second off, and his bones would have folded in on themselves.
Ash clenched his injured fist and forced the pain down. He couldn't afford another mistake. Instead of charging again like a brute, he changed tactics. Ash summoned his sacred bow—the enchanted tool Mael had entrusted to him before his death. It materialized in a shimmer of Anima, its familiar weight grounding him. The bow was more than a weapon. It was a conduit—one capable of handling far more destructive forces than his own body.
This is the right medium, Ash decided.
Using his fist for Golden Flash had been reckless. Arrows would be cleaner. Safer. More precise.
Ash vanished in a blink, reappearing at one of his Anima marks. As he moved, he drew the bowstring back smoothly, his internal senses locking onto a Mind Flayer drifting at the edge of the chamber.
He released.
The arrow screamed forward, vibrating as the space around it began to hum under intense pressure. The moment it struck the flayer's barrier, the air fractured. Fine cracks rippled through space itself—
—and then the barrier shattered.
The arrow punched through the creature's skull as a localized distortion collapsed inward. The flayer's head imploded, crushed by warped space before its body unraveled into fading light.
Effortless.
Mind Flayers were infamous for their mental abilities, but physically fragile. Against spatial attacks, they were helpless.
Ash didn't slow. He prepared five more arrows, blinking between marks as he fired. Each shot vanished mid-flight, reappearing directly in the blind spots of flayers trying desperately to keep their distance.
One by one, heads detonated.
Five more bodies fell. Nine flayers had become three. Their remains hit the floor with dull thuds, each leaving behind a high-grade Anima core, glowing faintly with the same strange resonance Ash had sensed earlier.
The remaining flayers panicked.
Illusion spells surged outward, reality twisting as false environments tried to fold over Ash's senses. It didn't work. Ash's internal perception cut through the illusions effortlessly. If it had been anyone else, they would've been trapped again—lost inside layered hallucinations until their mind broke. But Ash was an Asterion. His tribe was renowned not just for spatial mastery, but for their internal senses, especially sight. Illusionists were the worst possible matchup for them.
Ash realized something then.
The earlier illusion—the nightmare—had pushed his mind to the brink.
He could feel it.
Something inside him had strengthened.
His Mental Force was close to awakening.
That was the second terror of the Asterion bloodline. If their first lineage ability governed space, then the second ruled perception—the internal sight that pierced truth itself.
The power that had made his people feared. He wasn't there yet. But he was close. Ash exhaled sharply.
End this. Before my Anima drops too low.
"Nebula Arrow."
Darkness coalesced along his bowstring, forming arrows of compressed shadow. Darkness Anima was volatile, destructive, and unforgiving—but perfect for fragile targets.
He fired twice.
Two more flayers disintegrated in bursts of warped shadow and collapsing space.
The final flayer recoiled, its voice scraping directly into Ash's mind.
"Cursed blood—"
Ash didn't let it finish.
He blinked.
Reappearing directly in front of it, he swung an Anima blade in a clean arc.
The flayer's head separated from its body before it even understood what had happened.
Silence returned to the tomb.
Ash leaned back against the central pillar, chest rising and falling as the adrenaline faded. He looked up at the carved face of Keraunos, the wrathful head deity of Lumerian faith, glaring down at the devastation below.
"Figures," Ash muttered.
Nine Anima cores lay scattered across the floor, each pulsing faintly with residual illusion energy. Mind Flayers fed on their victims through prolonged mental traps—but Ash's innate resistance to magic, especially illusion-based techniques, had saved him.
Had he remained trapped longer, they would've drained him dry.
Ash pushed himself upright and gathered the cores, storing them inside his wristband. When he was done, he took one last look around the tomb.
In a twisted way, he'd been lucky.
He hadn't found a village under attack—but he'd found something better. A reminder of his past. Of his fear. Of his goal.
If he wanted answers—if he wanted power enough to protect himself and uncover the truth—he had to become a Hunter.
"Better get out of here before I'm struck down," Ash muttered.
He dispelled his Anima marks, dismissed the bow, and vanished—
reappearing outside the cave in a flicker of distorted space.
****
The hospital where Eren was recovering was directly connected to the Adventurers' Guild Association. All he had to do was follow the western hallway—a quiet stretch that ended at a reinforced doorway leading straight into the Guild building itself.
The lobby was crowded.
Adventurers gathered in clusters around a large notice wall, voices low but tense as they scanned posted names and rankings. Some looked relieved. Others frustrated. A few already wore the hollow stare of failure.
Eren kept his head down and approached the receptionist's desk.
"If you're an exam candidate," the woman behind the counter said without looking up, "you'll have to wait one week before the results are released."
She was Beastfolk—cat ears twitching faintly atop her head, yellow-green eyes sharp and observant. A white long-sleeved shirt was tucked neatly beneath a dark velvet suit, the attire of someone used to order.
"And if I don't get any notice?" Eren asked.
"You'll get a notice if you fail," she replied calmly. "Exit to the outside world is through that door." She pointed to her left.
"The one with the exit sign?" Eren asked.
"Yes," she said. "Good luck."
Eren nodded and headed for the door, unsure what he felt—relief, dread, or something in between. Before leaving, he glanced back at the adventurers crowding the lobby.
If Namer doesn't work out…
Maybe becoming an adventurer wouldn't be so bad. The pay was good, at least. He pushed the door open. Space folded. Eren stepped through and found himself back in the same hall where the magic crystal had originally transported the candidates into the Dungeon. People were appearing out of thin air all around him—flickers of warped space resolving into exhausted bodies.
So there were multiple exits, all funneling back here.
"Eren."
He turned.
Ash was seated among a row of benches lining the wall, rising as soon as he saw him. Eren studied his face, searching for something—judgment, concern, relief—but Ash's expression was unreadable.
"You look okay," Ash said finally. His gaze drifted to Eren's chest, lingering where the wound had been. "What did that Hunter want with you?"
"Can we get out of here?" Eren said quietly. "I need fresh air."
They didn't speak again until they reached their usual spot by the Lakane River.
The water moved lazily, reflecting the late light as Ash handed Eren a portion of hot-fried lochfish he'd picked up along the way. They sat side by side on the riverbank. Eren ate in silence, feeling Ash's eyes on him.
Ash eventually began talking about the Dungeon, the tomb, the Mind Flayers, and the illusion trap. Eren listened. And slowly, the knot in his chest tightened—not from anger, but shame. When he'd first seen Ash emerge from the Dungeon, the emotion that had surged through him wasn't relief.
It had been jealousy. Ash was talented. Blessed. Everything Eren had never been growing up. He'd assumed the exam had gone smoothly for him—because it always did. He hadn't once considered that Ash might have gone through hell of his own.
Eren knew very little about Ash's past. The Asterion massacre wasn't something Ash ever spoke about, and the public records told only fragments of the truth. The Asterion clan had been labeled Cursed by Lumerian doctrine—condemned for their Primeval bloodline. When their reservation on Namer Island was wiped out by an unknown force, no nation within the Global Union had intervened.
No one had claimed responsibility. No one had even investigated seriously. It was still a mystery who—or what—had possessed the power to annihilate a clan of elite magic users.
"So," Eren said after a moment, forcing a weak smile, "you end up in a Lumerian holy site… and I get humiliated by a crazy Hunter."
Ash raised an eyebrow.
Eren sighed. "…Yeah. I guess I owe you an explanation."
He told him everything.
About Reyna Greyron. About being completely outmatched. About nearly dying—and somehow healing himself.
"…Now I don't even know if I passed," Eren finished.
"And if you did," Ash said quietly, "it won't feel right—because you didn't do as well as you hoped to do."
Eren didn't answer.
Ash sat beside him, brushing crumbs from his hands. "I get it. Wanting to earn it with your own strength. Anyone would feel that way. But why are Hunters watching over you? First Alastor… now her."
"I don't know," Eren admitted. "What I do know is that I never stood a chance against her." He clenched his jaw. "What the hell is an Irregular? And why does it have anything to do with me?"
Ash stayed silent. Because the truth was—he didn't know either.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the hat-wearing mercenary. The man who had butchered his clan. Ash knew one thing for certain: if he ever wanted a chance at revenge, he needed to understand what an Irregular truly was.
"It doesn't matter," Eren spat suddenly. "In the end, I failed. I couldn't do anything in that exam."
But even as he said it, something hardened inside him. More than anything, Eren needed to finish reorganizing Fa Jin—to turn it into a perfected martial art that could fully harness his magic power. And beyond that, he needed power. Real power. Enough to never feel helpless again. Enough to make that damn princess pay. His resolve had never been stronger.
"So," Ash said, watching him closely, "your unique ability wasn't enough."
"No," Eren said. "But it's not my only path."
If he got into Namer University, he'd gain access to resources, training, knowledge—everything he needed to grow. And then there was his grimoire. He knew it could accelerate his cultivation if he used it properly. As much as he wanted to hide his status as an Irregular from the authorities, Eren couldn't let that fear stunt his growth.
The encounter with Reyna Greyron had made that painfully clear. He clenched his fist, feeling the faint hum of Anima stir within him, and cleared his throat. He knew exactly what he had to do next.
"Ash…"
"What is it?" Ash asked, raising an eyebrow at the shift in Eren's tone.
Eren stepped closer, meeting his gaze. He'd made up his mind.
"Care to help with my training?"
Ash pushed himself up from the grass, a grin spreading across his face and lighting his golden eyes.
"I never thought I'd hear those words from you," he said. "After all that talk about being rivals, I figured asking me to mentor you would be the last thing you'd do."
"Gods damn it," Eren snapped. "I didn't say train me." He jabbed a finger forward. "I meant fight me. A real fight. That's how you push yourself."
Ash laughed softly. "Fair enough."
Then his expression sharpened.
"I'll help you—but don't blame me if you can't keep up."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever," Eren said.
Right now, only one thing mattered to him. Getting strong enough to pay that Hunter back. And if fighting Ash was the fastest way there, then he wouldn't hesitate—not for a second.