The notification materialized at 6:47 AM, three days after Riri had pushed her physical stats into the low thirties.
[Training Dungeon Available: Corrupted Transit - Rank E]
[Recommended Level: 2-4]
[Estimated Clear Time: 2-4 hours]
[Entry Locations: Subway Station (Downtown), Bus Terminal (Westside), Train Depot (Industrial District)]
Riri sat cross-legged on the penthouse floor, still in yesterday's tactical pants and a threadbare tank top. The honey-gold interface hovered inches from her face, particles drifting lazily across the text. Her coffee had gone cold an hour ago.
She tapped the notification. Details expanded.
[Corrupted Transit: A decrepit subway station infested with low-level corrupted creatures. Objective: Clear all enemies OR defeat the Station Master. Time Limit: 6 hours.]
E-Rank. Level-capped at 5. Six-hour window. Solo-able. Classic starter dungeon—confined space, predictable enemy behavior, low stakes. The kind of tutorial level designed to weed out Players who panicked in combat or couldn't manage basic resource conservation.
System #2's interface pulsed cheerfully.
[Recommendation: Form a party! Training Dungeons are excellent opportunities for teamwork and social bonding!]
Riri dismissed the prompt with a flick of her wrist.
No.
She'd watched the other Players in the gym over the past three days. Seen how they moved in clusters, gravitating toward the loudest voices, the biggest egos. A woman with System #9,847 had tried to recruit her the previous day—something about "safety in numbers" and "leveraging collective strength." The woman's gaze had lingered too long on Riri's face, cataloging her like a collectible.
Riri had smiled politely and kept walking.
Because she knew exactly how this trope played out. The "fragile beauty" joins a party. The party underestimates her. She becomes dead weight in their eyes—or worse, a trophy to protect and parade around. By the time they realized she could hold her own, the dynamic would already be cemented.
Better to establish competence from the start.
Besides, her stats were designed for solo play. High Agility meant she could dodge. High Luck meant convenient accidents would tilt encounters in her favor.
She pushed to her feet, ignoring the faint ache in her calves from yesterday's training. Her body still felt foreign—light, responsive, too coordinated to be her own. Thirty-two Agility made movement fluid in a way that defied nineteen years of Earth-bred clumsiness.
The System's gold particles swirled anxiously.
[Are you certain about entering solo? E-Rank dungeons have a 12% fatality rate for first-time Players! And even with the Prep Period revivals; death is not painless...]
"What's the fatality rate for Players with my stat distribution?"
A pause.
[Insufficient data. You are the only host with this build.]
"Then I guess we'll find out."
Riri crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled below, steel and glass catching the early morning light. Somewhere down there, three hundred thousand Players were grinding stats, forming alliances, stockpiling gear.
And somewhere among them was Samael Santoro.
System #1. Level unknown. Combat Power unknown. The apex predator.
She wondered if he'd entered a dungeon yet. Wondered if monsters even registered as threats to someone whose System demanded conquest.
Riri turned from the window.
Focus. One dungeon. Prove the build works. Then reassess.
She pulled her gear from the inventory with a thought—black tactical pants, reinforced boots, and the leather crop jacket with its oversized hood. The Common-rank combat knife materialized in her palm, blade dull and utilitarian. Not ideal, but serviceable.
The System chimed softly.
[Inventory Check: Combat Knife (Common) x1, Health Potion (Minor) x3, Stamina Tonic (Minor) x2, Ration Bar x5, Bottled Water x3]
Bare minimum supplies. She'd spent her starter credits from the last 3 days of daily missions carefully—prioritized consumables over flashy gear. Dead Players didn't get to show off rare drops.
Riri strapped the knife to her thigh and checked the blade's edge with her thumb. Sharp enough to pierce, dull enough to require force. She'd need to aim for soft tissue—eyes, throat, joints.
"Closest entry point?"
[Downtown Subway Station - 0.8 miles from current location. Estimated travel time: 12 minutes on foot.]
Close. Good. Less time to second-guess.
She pulled the hood up, letting it shadow her face. The tactical jacket's weight settled across her shoulders—familiar now, after three days of constant wear. Her reflection caught in the window glass: small figure, oversized hood, knife strapped to one thigh.
She looked like bait…
Riri headed for the door. The subway entrance loomed ahead—concrete steps descending into shadow, yellow caution tape fluttering across the railings. A faded transit authority sign hung crooked above the archway: DOWNTOWN STATION - TEMPORARILY CLOSED.
Temporarily. Right.
Riri stopped at the top of the stairs. The air rising from below carried a wrong smell—rust and stagnant water and something organic gone sour. Her stomach tightened reflexively.
Three other Players lingered near the entrance. Two men and a woman, all mid-twenties, all carrying gear that looked freshly purchased. The woman had a crossbow strapped to her back. One of the men carried a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. The other had dual machetes.
Show-offs.
The woman with the crossbow noticed Riri first. Her gaze traveled from the hood to the knife to Riri's face, visible beneath the shadow. Something shifted in her expression—half pity, half calculation.
"You going in alone?" The woman's voice carried forced brightness.
Riri nodded once.
"You know it's E-Rank, right? Monsters' cap at Level 5. Probably fifty to a hundred enemies total." The woman gestured to her companions. "We're running it as a three-man. You could join us if—"
"I'm good."
The baseball bat guy snorted. "Suit yourself. Just don't blame us when you're screaming for help that isn't coming."
Riri descended the stairs without answering.
Behind her, she heard the machete guy mutter something about "suicide missions" and "pretty corpses." The woman shushed him.
Let them think what they wanted. She'd see their clear times on the leaderboard later—if they survived.
The stairs went deeper than normal subway architecture allowed. Fifty steps. Seventy. The light from street level faded to a dim glow, then vanished entirely. Emergency lighting kicked in—sickly fluorescent tubes bolted to the ceiling at irregular intervals, most flickering or dead.
The smell intensified. Decay. Old blood. Something else beneath it—chemical, acrid, wrong.
At step ninety-three, the stairwell opened into the station proper.
[Entering: Corrupted Transit (Training Dungeon - Rank E)]
[Time Limit: 6:00:00]
[Objective: Clear all enemies (0/87) OR Defeat Station Master (0/1)]
[Warning: Retreat is prohibited once dungeon is active.]
Riri's pulse kicked up. Eighty-seven enemies. Not a hundred, but close.
She pulled the knife from its sheath. The blade caught the failing light.
The platform stretched ahead—cracked tile, peeling advertisements for products that no longer existed, rusted benches bolted to the floor. The tracks ran left and right, disappearing into tunnels that exhaled cold, fetid air.
No trains. No commuters. Just shadows and the distant sound of something scraping against concrete.
Movement flickered at the edge of her vision.
Riri turned her head slowly.
Twenty feet away, something the size of a housecat crouched on the platform. Matted fur. Too many teeth. Eyes that reflected the fluorescent light in shades of yellow-green.
A health bar materialized above it.
[Corrupted Rat - Level 3]
[HP: 45/45]
The rat's nose twitched. Its head cocked at an unnatural angle, vertebrae crackling audibly.
Then it lunged.