The road to the guild was quiet.
Eira rode without urgency, the steady rhythm of hooves beneath him giving his mind too much space to wander. The desert wind brushed against his face, cold now that night had settled, and with every mile he felt the past tightening its grip instead of loosening.
He remembered everything.
Not in fragments, not in dreams—but clearly, painfully, like rereading a story he once loved and now understood too well.
The tournament. The chaos. Ark is standing bloodied but unbroken. Neo, awakening something ancient within herself, her bond igniting exactly as it had been written. The world bends just enough to let the hero and heroine survive and walk forward together. The ending that readers would have called hopeful.
A happy ending.
Eira exhaled slowly.
This is where I step aside, he told himself for the hundredth time. This is where I refrain from interfering.
In the novel, he had never mattered. He was a background presence, a name mentioned once, a face that faded after serving its purpose. Ark would rise. Neo would reclaim her place. The world would move exactly as it was meant to.
And maybe that was enough.
Maybe knowing the story didn't mean he had the right to change it.
The guild hall rose ahead of him, half-swallowed by the shadows of old stone and torchlight. It looked nothing like the grand structures described in heroic tales. No banners. No roaring crowds. Just a quiet building meant for people the kingdom didn't quite know what to do with.
Eira dismounted, his chest tightening as he stepped forward.
This squad wasn't in the book.
That thought had followed him ever since the royal mage's decision. Other squads had names, reputations, rivalries. This one—nothing. Not friendly. Not antagonistic. Not even mentioned.
As his hand touched the door, cold rippled through his fingers.
His dragon stirred.
This place smells strange, the snow dragon said within his mind, voice calm but alert. Not dangerous. Just… wrong.
"It's mana," Eira murmured. "But distorted."
The dragon hummed in agreement. Unstable. Like something stitched together that shouldn't be.
Eira hesitated.
In the novel, there had been a scene—one brief paragraph easily overlooked. A strange man, ancient beyond reason, is attacking the hero to steal his magic. A failed attempt. Neo intervening. Her latent power is awakening for the first time.
But that was later.
And this squad—
"This wasn't supposed to exist," Eira whispered.
He pushed the door open.
And stepped into darkness.
The world shifted instantly.
The door slammed shut behind him with a sound too final to be natural. Stone swallowed light, air thickening as if the space itself had changed its mind about existing normally. Eira turned sharply, reaching back—
Nothing.
No door.
Only a staircase stretching forward, descending and ascending at the same time, carved into black stone that seemed to absorb even thought.
His dragon appeared beside him, pale scales faintly luminous in the dark.
A dungeon, the dragon said. A sealed one.
"Why now?" Eira breathed. "Why here?"
The staircase split ahead—one path leading upward, one downward. No curves. No markings. Just a clean, deliberate divide.
Eira's instincts screamed unease.
"I sense disturbed mana below," he said slowly. "Something alive."
Likely hostile, the dragon replied. But controlled. Watching.
Eira glanced upward once, then tightened his grip on his sword.
"Down first."
The darkness below was absolute. No sound. No echo of his footsteps. Even the air felt muted. The only voice anchoring him was the dragon's steady presence in his mind.
He noticed it only because it vanished.
A tiny glowing insect—some mana fly—fluttered ahead of him, casting faint light. Then it drifted too far.
And died.
The glow blinked out instantly, like a candle snuffed without warning.
Eira stopped.
"…I won't risk that," he whispered.
His sword slid free, quiet as breath.
Something moved.
He struck on instinct—
—and the blade hit mud.
A body.
"Hey—wait—!"
The figure groaned.
Eira froze, heart pounding, then quickly knelt. The man half-submerged in thick, cold swamp water looked nothing like a monster. Golden hair plastered to his face, skin pale with exhaustion, eyes a strange green-gold dulled by pain.
"A prince?" Eira breathed.
The man laughed weakly. "Unfortunately."
Vesa.
King's fourteenth son. Born with immense magic—and then robbed of it. A tragedy whispered through the court, a power so completely stolen that not even royal sorcery could mend it.
"What are you doing here?" Eira demanded.
"Same as you," Vesa muttered. "Entered. Door closed. Heard a sound. Tried to light the place up. The floor swallowed me."
He gestured weakly to the mud gripping him tight.
"I've been here since yesterday."
Eira cursed under his breath and offered food, water, and what little he had. Vesa ate slowly, shaking, unable to free himself.
"Others?" Eira asked.
Vesa nodded. "Three. We split up."
Eira's chest tightened.
This wasn't a coincidence.
This was a test.
Or a trap.
Eira didn't waste time after that.
He memorized every detail Vesa gave him—names, abilities, directions—then moved fast, guided by instinct and the dragon's voice. The dungeon shifted constantly, corridors rearranging themselves with quiet cruelty.
Frey was first.
He found her battered, pink hair dark with sweat, trapped between walls that moved every thirty minutes without warning. Stone screamed as it closed in again, and Eira barely dragged her clear in time, his shoulder screaming in protest.
She laughed shakily afterward. "I read about something like this once. Thought it was exaggerated."
Eira helped her sit. "Can you undo the swamp binding, Vesa?"
Frey's eyes unfocused as she searched the internal library she carried. "There's a method. Requires specific materials." She shook her head. "Not here."
She hesitated. "The others were with me. Reya went one way. Lenny stayed behind."
Eira searched again.
Nothing.
No mana signatures. No monsters. No people.
The silence pressed in.
He called their names until his throat burned.
Then—an image.
A flicker. A door. A pink flower growing unnaturally beside it.
Eira frowned.
"No heat. No light," he murmured. "Morning. Lenny's magic…"
Understanding sparked.
He climbed.
Touched the floor at every door, skin crawling. Found the flower. Nothing.
Another room.
Nothing.
Then the dragon nudged a cupboard.
And vanished.
Eira's blood ran cold.
Moments later, the dragon's voice returned, sharp. They're here. Alive. Weak. Dehydrated.
"Invisible barrier?" Eira guessed.
And an invisible monster.
Guided purely by the dragon's sight, Eira fought blind, blade flashing through empty air until resistance finally gave way. The creature shrieked as it died, form flickering into visibility just long enough to confirm it had been real.
The barrier fell.
Lenny collapsed in relief. Reya, barely conscious, managed a faint smile.
"I sent the image," she whispered. "Before I blacked out."
They moved quickly after that.
Frey freed Vesa using overlapping nullification circles—one giving him a splitting headache, another accidentally granting him cat ears.
"These will wear off," she promised, mortified.
"I've endured worse," Vesa said dryly.
They escaped as the dungeon began to crumble, stone collapsing inward, mana unraveling violently behind them.
When they stumbled out into the open air, the guild hall behind them collapsed into rubble.
Dust settled.
Silence followed.
Vesa straightened, cat ears twitching, and looked at Eira with something like awe.
"Welcome to the guild," he said sincerely.
Lenny glanced back at the ruins and sighed.
"…Except we don't have a guild anymore."
Eira looked at the broken stone, at the people standing beside him—none of whom had ever existed in the story the way they did now—and felt the truth settle deep in his bones.
The novel was already broken.
And this time—
He was part of it.