When I finally finished singing, the silence that followed wasn't contemplative — it was urgent.
— Is it done already? — Varnak growled. — Elder Siman, analyze the buff. Now.
Frustration flared in my chest like a sudden flame. No one seemed to care about the song itself, only about the effects it would bring to the battle. A walking spell — that's how they saw me.
But before the irritation could take hold, a firm hand landed on my shoulder. It was Malaca.
— Kid… I don't know where you find these songs, but they're always beautiful.
Her smile was sincere, almost gentle. For a moment, my eyes lit up. I think I always loved music — it had been my joy during much of my life, and my refuge during its darkest parts.
Even after growing old, I still felt like a fool for not trusting my own voice, for thinking it was never enough.
And I hated to admit it… but the voice I gained in this world was better. More powerful, richer, more alive. I wondered... if I'd had this voice in my past life, would I have made it? Filled theaters? Moved crowds to tears?
— Hey, kid! And the guild leader! Step forward! — someone shouted.
I was pulled from my thoughts by Vrigs' impatient voice. The mage couldn't hide his restlessness. While his leader was still chatting away with an elder, practically drooling over the information about the buffs received, Vrigs was already focused on what truly mattered: raid formation.
Malaca used to say that you could predict the success or failure of a mission just by observing how adventurers positioned themselves before entering. And now, I was starting to understand why.
— Hahaha! Incredible… this kid is a treasure! — shouted an elder, slapping my shoulder with excessive strength. He'd been the first to see the buff through Varnak.
I walked to my spot, standing near Vrigs and the feline warrior — the cheetah. He had already unslung his long spear and was sharpening the blade with rhythmic, precise movements, like an artist refining his masterpiece. As agreed, he had two roles today: to guard the rear and, at the moment of confrontation with the boss, leap through the lines with absurd speed and deliver lethal strikes.
The team composition was impressive — at least to my inexperienced eyes. We had a pure tank: Marcoriel, a massive warrior whose armor looked like part of his own body. His role was simple, but vital — keep the creatures focused on him while the flanks shredded their weak points.
Beside him, one of the elders stood out for carrying a colossal shield that covered nearly his entire body. Probably a position-switcher — someone who replaced the tank at critical moments or helped the group retreat without losing the frontline. Most likely, he was the main tank, but with Marcoriel present, he had taken on a different role.
Three mages made up our offensive rear: the dwarven woman with golden braids, the sharp-eyed old man with a long beard, and a third — silent and hooded — whose presence felt as dim as it was threatening. I had never heard his voice, but his gaze was cutting.
Further ahead, almost invisible at first glance, was a small, frail-looking human — the scout. Malaca had told me her race, but I had forgotten. She moved with light steps, eyes as sharp as blades ready to slice. She and another elder would serve as our eyes and ears — trap detectors and trackers of hidden creatures.
At the center, side by side, stood father and son — Varnak and the boy. Neither held any visible weapons, which made me uneasy. Malaca suspected the young man had some rare support ability, maybe something so valuable it justified his presence. As for Varnak… he was a complete mystery. A man who rose to wealth in a competitive empire without showing any power? Impossible. He was hiding something. Something dangerous.
And then he approached.
He passed calmly through the group, studying faces, making casual remarks here and there, like a host before a grand feast. When he reached me, his eyes lingered for a long moment, as if trying to decipher me through expression alone. And then…
— You're going to make me rich, boy...
Varnak didn't strike me as the type who wasted time with compliments, but there was something in his tone — a hint of restrained reverence. I felt that, until he read the scroll, he still doubted my real usefulness. But now… there was pride. Or greed. Maybe both.
He handed the scroll to the bearded old man and stepped away, a satisfied smile on his face. I seized the opportunity to peek. Vrigs' reaction had already piqued my curiosity — even alarmed me. I needed to know what I had just created.
Time Clock – Supreme (5/5)
Freeze time around the selected creature. The duration of the prison will depend on the level difference between the caster and the target.
I stood frozen. The ability had no set duration. No thirty seconds, no one minute, not even an hour. It seemed to work based on charges — five in total — and each use depended solely on the power difference between me and the enemy.
It was almost... absurd.
Vrigs noticed me looking and didn't bother hiding the content.
— Kid — said the bearded mage, now in a more restrained tone —, I have to admit I've never seen a buff without a set duration. This... this is at the very least shocking.
It was the first time I saw that man express anything close to surprise. Until then, he had carried himself with the arrogant composure of a mage used to understanding everything before anyone else. Watching his poise falter, even for a second, was unsettling.
Still, my mind kept echoing with the image of Zomeia and Bromeia trapped under his power. I hated him, but I simply nodded. It wasn't the time for emotional distractions. That ability was powerful — of that there was no doubt. But it still needed a real test.
As if reading all our thoughts, Varnak spoke:
— Scout. Enter the dungeon. Use your power on the first creature you find. I want detailed reports.
The scout didn't respond. Her sharp eyes narrowed, and I could tell how much she despised taking orders. But I also understood one thing: Varnak wasn't some spoiled brat who inherited wealth. That man was cold, calculating... and patient. He knew exactly what he wanted — and how to get it.
We waited nearly thirty minutes. No one spoke during that time. Not even Malaca. The tension hung in the air like static before a storm.
At last, the scout returned. Light, silent — as if she had never left.
— Five minutes. A level three creature. My level is five, as you well know.
Varnak smiled. A slow, satisfied... dangerous smile.
— Very well. Everyone, prepare yourselves. We're going in.
My heart pounded. The ground seemed to tremble beneath my feet as the formation regrouped. I saw Malaca move to the front line. She wielded a wide, heavy axe etched with red runes along the shaft. Her armor was a dark mesh interlaced with silver threads. Discreet, but strong. She looked like a living wall.
We approached the entrance.
And, for the first time, I truly looked at the cave.
Until then, it had been just a vague shape in my mind. But now, standing before the black maw of that place, my entire body reacted. A chill ran down my spine. It wasn't just an opening in the rock — it was an abyss. A void that seemed to swallow even the light.
Nothing escaped from it. No sound, no glimmer, no wind.
Only darkness. And the unknown.
And still, one by one, we began to enter.
No blessings. No rituals. No sacred words.
Like lambs marching toward the altar of the unknown — we simply stepped in.
As I neared the entrance, I noticed something I had missed before — or perhaps my mind had refused to see it. Carved into the rock, worn down by centuries of erosion and moss, was a colossal face. A monstrous, ancient visage, its hollow eyes staring at the world with a dormant hunger. The gaping mouth formed the entryway. And that was where we were going through.
It was as if we were being swallowed.
I tried to see who was in front of me, but the moment their figure crossed the dungeon's threshold, they vanished completely. The light simply didn't pass through. It wasn't normal darkness — it was total absence. A cloak of visual void, as if the very concept of "seeing" had been forbidden inside.
I froze.
For a second, my mind screamed. My body hesitated. But there was no turning back. I took a deep breath... and stepped forward.
The moment I crossed the portal, a chill ran down my spine. It wasn't just tension — it felt like something had passed through me. Something that weighed me, measured me, like an invisible scale deciding whether I was worthy to go on.
I opened my eyes… and froze.
— Snow?
A white field stretched out before me. Razor-sharp winds howled in the distance, carrying frozen particles that danced like needles in the air. A thick, gray sky loomed above, without sun, without horizon — yet also without a ceiling. Strange. The cold was real. Alive. Deadly.
— Snow Howl, kid! — said the cheetah-man with a raspy laugh. — What'd you expect to find here? Hahahaha!
He pulled from his backpack — which I was only now noticing — a thick wool jacket, perfectly suited for the environment, as if he had expected this all along. My brain finally put the pieces together. I had heard that name — "Snow Howl." Of course I had. But somehow, every bit of information I had ever received about this dungeon had vanished from my memory, tossed into that same mental drawer where I buried things labeled "not important"… right next to "seriously, screw this."
— Everyone, head straight for the marked point. — Varnak's voice cut through the wind. — Avoid unnecessary fights. And please… try not to die.
Everyone started moving. I was still standing there, absorbing the landscape, when I felt something firm against my back.
— Get moving, kid. — The cheetah's voice was low, but impatient. — I'll protect you, but I'm no shepherd for stray sheep.
It was the shaft of his spear. He nudged me firmly — not with cruelty, but with urgency. He was the rearguard — the first to spot ambushes from behind, the last one out alive if something went wrong. Isolated. Vulnerable. And clearly in a bad mood.
I looked at the group ahead. Everyone seemed... different since crossing the portal. More serious. More alert. Even the bearded old man was silent, his eyes scanning the environment like a hawk.
It was only the first floor — and yet they were all in a state of absolute alert.
I remembered Malaca's words:
"The highest death rate is on the first floor. That's where fools relax, thinking nothing can go wrong. But even an anthill can take down a distracted elephant."
And she was right.
Here, even the wind seemed eager to tear us apart. Even the snow seemed to hide eyes.
I took a step forward. Then another.
The ground creaked beneath the weight of our boots. Ahead, Malaca gripped her axe tightly, eyes locked on the white horizon. The fog was beginning to fall, like silent veils.
The expedition had begun.
And I could feel — deep in my bones — that something was waiting for us.