Isaac woke before dawn.
[4:30 AM]
[Day 6 - Preparation Week]
[Dungeon Mission: Active]
He dismissed the blue window with a quick thought. No time for contemplation.
Tomorrow was the Entrance Ceremony. Tomorrow the real story began. And before that, he had to complete this mission.
He rose carefully from bed. His body still ached—but less than yesterday. Four days of relentless training had paid off. His muscles adapted, his movements sharper, his breathing steadier.
But was it enough?
He didn't know. He wouldn't know until he tried.
---
He dressed quickly in black. From under the mattress, he pulled a small pouch—twelve coppers. All that remained of his starting allowance.
Not much. But enough.
He left Stone Hall before sunrise. The corridors were empty, silent. His footsteps echoed on cold stone.
Outside the academy, thick fog wrapped the grounds. Blue mana lamps glowed faintly through the mist like ghost lights.
He walked through New Eden's empty streets. Most shops were closed—shutters locked, signs swaying gently in the cold breeze.
But not all.
---
He reached a small wooden shop near the eastern gate.
No sign. No name. Just a weathered door and a single lamp burning inside.
An old man sat outside on a stool, sharpening a sword on a worn grinding wheel. Sparks flew with each stroke—bright orange against the gray morning.
He looked up as Isaac approached.
"Early."
"I need a sword."
The old man studied him—gray eyes, thin frame, cheap uniform. A student. Rank F, probably.
"Five coppers. Standard iron. Sharp edge. Nothing fancy."
Isaac placed the coins on the wooden counter.
The old man stood slowly, joints cracking. Disappeared inside and returned with a short sword—leather-wrapped handle, straight blade about two feet long.
He handed it over.
Isaac drew it partially. The blade gleamed in the lamplight—recently sharpened, no nicks, no rust. Balanced. Functional.
Perfect.
"Good hunting," the old man said, sitting back down.
Isaac nodded. Sheathed the sword. Walked away.
---
He left the city through the eastern gate.
The guards—two golems with glowing blue eyes—didn't stop him. Students could leave freely during Preparation Week. Most didn't. They stayed in the academy's safety.
But Isaac wasn't most students.
He had a mission.
And tomorrow was the ceremony.
---
The forest began immediately beyond the gate.
Dense. Ancient. Towering trees with thick moss-covered trunks. The ground was soft with layers of fallen leaves and damp earth. Sunlight barely penetrated the canopy—just thin golden shafts cutting through green shadows.
The air smelled of pine, wet soil, and something else—older. Deeper.
He walked twenty minutes, following a narrow dirt path winding between trees. His hand on his sword's hilt. His eyes scanning—left, right, ahead, behind.
Always watching.
In the game, this forest had been safe. A low-level area for beginners.
But this wasn't the game.
Here, everything was real.
---
He stopped.
Ahead, half-hidden by thick trunks and climbing vines, was a cave entrance.
Stones arranged in an arch—old, weathered, covered in lichen. Symbols carved above the opening. Crude. Angular. Goblin script.
He recognized them from the game.
This is it.
The Goblin Nest.
Rank F dungeon.
He drew his sword. The weight felt solid.
Took a deep breath.
Entered.
---
The air inside was stagnant. Humid. Thick.
It smelled of rot, dried blood, old meat.
The tunnel descended at a shallow angle. Stone walls, uneven floor. No light except what filtered from the entrance behind him—and even that faded quickly.
He moved slowly. Carefully. His eyes adjusting to darkness.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water somewhere. Or blood.
His footsteps echoed faintly on wet stone.
He heard them before he saw them.
Squeaking. High-pitched. Excited.
---
The first goblin appeared suddenly from a side tunnel.
Small—about four feet tall. Green skin, patchy and scarred. Yellow eyes, wide with surprise. Wearing torn rags. Holding a rusted knife.
It saw him.
Screamed.
Charged.
---
Isaac stepped aside.
The knife passed inches from his ribs—he felt the displaced air.
His sword came up in a smooth arc.
Slash.
The blade cut the goblin's throat. Green blood sprayed. The creature choked, dropped the knife, clutched its neck.
Collapsed.
First blood.
Real blood.
Isaac's hands trembled slightly. His heart pounded.
I just killed something.
Not a dummy. Not a simulation.
Real.
But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
---
Two more emerged from the shadows ahead—drawn by the first's scream.
They charged together, shrieking, waving crude weapons—a club, a broken spear.
Isaac fought both at once.
Dodge—the club swung past his head.
Block—his sword met the spear shaft, deflected it.
Strike—a quick thrust into the first goblin's chest. It gasped, fell.
The second swung the club wildly. Isaac ducked under it, stepped in close, drove his sword into its stomach.
Green blood. A horrible gurgling sound.
Three dead.
---
He stood in the tunnel, breathing hard.
Green blood dripped from his sword. His hands shook—not from fear, from adrenaline.
This is different.
Completely different from training.
In training, mistakes meant bruises. Pain. Temporary.
Here?
Mistakes meant death.
He wiped the blade on goblin rags. Kept moving.
---
The tunnel opened into a large chamber.
A cave, maybe thirty feet across. Dim light from flickering candles stuck to walls with melted wax. Wooden scaffolding, bone-and-rope cages, piles of stolen goods—rusty weapons, torn cloth, broken pottery.
And goblins.
Three of them, scrambling for weapons as they saw him enter.
No time to think.
He charged.
---
The fight was chaotic.
Brutal.
He dodged a thrown rock. Blocked a sword swing—the impact jarred his arm. Slashed across a goblin's face—it screamed, clutched its ruined eye.
A club hit his left arm—pain flared, sharp and burning. Shallow, but it hurt.
He gritted his teeth. Spun. Drove his sword into the club-wielder's chest.
One down.
The second lunged with a spear. He sidestepped, grabbed the shaft, yanked the goblin forward, slashed its throat.
Two down.
The third tried to run—scrambling toward a side tunnel.
Isaac chased. Grabbed its shoulder. Spun it. Stabbed.
Three down.
---
Six goblins. Dead.
He stood in the chamber's center, panting.
Blood on his hands—green and red. His left arm throbbed where the club hit. His uniform torn, dirty, soaked with sweat.
Six.
Just six low-level goblins.
And I'm already exhausted.
---
He heard heavy footsteps from above.
Looked up.
A raised platform at the chamber's back—stone steps leading up. On it, a figure emerged from shadows.
Larger. Taller.
Wearing crude robes of animal hide. Holding a wooden staff with a glowing crystal embedded at the top—pale green, pulsing with light.
Yellow eyes stared down at him.
Not just a goblin.
Goblin Shaman. Rank E.
---
The shaman raised its staff.
The crystal flared.
Fire erupted.
---
Isaac dove aside.
The fireball hit where he'd stood—stone cracked, heat washed his face, singed his hair.
Rank E.
Magic.
Shit.
The shaman descended slowly, floating slightly—basic levitation.
It chanted gutturally. The crystal pulsed brighter.
Isaac charged.
Closed the distance. Swung his sword—
—and hit nothing.
An invisible barrier. Solid. Like hitting stone.
The shaman laughed—rasping, horrible.
Swung its staff like a club.
Isaac blocked—the impact shook his arms, sent vibrations to his shoulders. He stumbled back.
Barrier. Physical defense.
And ranged fire attacks.
How do I—
---
The shaman attacked again.
Staff swing—blocked, barely.
Fireball—he dodged, flames scorched his forearm. Pain. Burning.
Another staff strike—hit his shoulder. Pain flared. He staggered.
Fell to one knee.
It's stronger than me.
Much stronger.
He tried to stand. His legs trembled.
The shaman raised its staff for a finishing blow. The crystal glowed white-hot.
No.
Not like this.
---
He looked at his hands.
Four days of training. The sweat. The pain. The slow improvement.
Not enough.
I'm not strong enough.
Not yet.
He raised his sword. Not to defend.
To decide.
---
[Blessing: The Transcendent]
[Activate?]
He selected Yes.
---
The transformation was instant.
His hair turned silver. His eyes became pale gray glass.
His body straightened on its own. Perfect posture. Perfect balance.
The shaman hesitated—surprised by the sudden change.
That hesitation cost it.
---
Isaac's body moved.
Perfect dodge as the fireball launched—rolled aside, came up running.
Perfect distance closing—zigzag pattern, unpredictable, impossible to track.
The shaman swung its staff. Isaac's body ducked under it—impossibly smooth.
Found the weak point in the barrier—a tiny gap near the shaman's left side, where mana flow was thinner.
His sword thrust through the gap.
Pierced the shaman's chest.
Green blood. Wide yellow eyes. A choking gasp.
The shaman fell.
[Goblin Shaman: Defeated]
---
Isaac immediately deactivated the blessing.
Three minutes.
He collapsed.
Knees hit stone. Sword clattered from his grip. Every muscle screamed—burned, exhausted, torn.
He tried to breathe. Failed.
Tried to stand. Failed.
Darkness crept at his vision's edges.
The reward.
I need... the reward...
---
He crawled.
Dragged himself across stone toward the shaman's body.
Beside it, a small wooden chest.
He forced his trembling hand to open it.
---
[Dungeon Complete]
[Rewards: 100 Points + 3 Free Items]
---
He closed his eyes.
Lost consciousness.
---
When he woke, pain was everywhere.
But he was alive.
His body ached. His arm throbbed. His muscles felt shredded.
But he was alive.
He sat up slowly. Looked at the blue window still hovering:
---
[Mission Complete]
[Points Earned: 100]
[Free Item Selection: 3]
[Open Shop?]
---
He stared at the window.
I did it.
I actually did it.
His hands still shook. Green blood stained his clothes. His left arm had a shallow cut, already clotting.
But he'd survived.
He opened the shop.
Looked at his inventory—847 items. All locked.
But now...
Three free items.
Choose carefully.
This decides everything.