The dungeon entrance loomed like a wound torn in the world itself. Jagged black stone formed a half-collapsed arch, pulsing faintly with cursed magic. No torches. No banners. No guards. Just death.
Litchzel stepped into the shadows without hesitation.
The shift was immediate.
The humid air of the forest gave way to icy, stagnant stillness. Mist clung to her boots. The dungeon stank of blood, old iron, and rot. Beneath her cloak, her fingers twitched.
She didn't need to see the monsters to know they were waiting.
Her heart didn't race. Her breath didn't quicken.
Instead, something else stirred in her chest—something old and primal. Like a blade remembering what it was forged for.
"Looks like they've already begun breeding inside," she muttered, crouching beside a corpse. A torn Guild insignia—E-Rank. The boy hadn't lasted long.
Poor guy.
She rose, slipping on a black half-mask, then reached behind her. Her hand gripped the hilt of a worn longsword strapped diagonally across her back.
The instant her fingers closed, the world slowed.
The dungeon groaned in warning.
Too late.
A pair of ghouls lunged from the fog—one from each side, screeching as their claws slashed toward her exposed neck.
CLANG.
One moment, her blade was at rest.
The next, it sang.
Steel split the air with frightening speed, carving through rotting flesh. Two bodies dropped, bisected at perfect angles.
Litchzel didn't flinch.
She didn't even look at them.
"Predictable."
Another screech—this one higher, shrill and inhuman.
A horde.
Dozens of pale shapes surged from deeper in the mist—feral, malformed monsters swarming like insects. No tactics. Just hunger.
She exhaled, the corners of her mouth twitching.
"Let's dance."
She flung the cloak aside. Underneath, her frame was light—armored only in leather and black-weave cloth. A quiver of arrows at one hip. A pair of throwing daggers at the other. A rune-inscribed spellcore strapped across her chest.
She dropped the sword. Drew her bow in one breath.
Thrum.
An arrow pierced the skull of the lead monster. Then another. Then five more.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
But even that wasn't enough. They kept coming.
No time to reload.
She surged forward, snatching one of the daggers. A fluid spin, and the blade buried itself in the neck of a ghoul that had managed to leap over its dying comrades. Before the corpse hit the ground, her other hand was glowing.
"Ignis: Scatterburst."
A red glyph pulsed in the air. Fire erupted in a cone, engulfing the center of the horde. Screams echoed. Flesh melted.
Still not enough.
But she was smiling now.
Because for the first time in weeks, her blood felt warm again.
This is what I was made for.
Another dagger. Another spell. Another stolen weapon from a fallen foe.
Sword. Fire. Bow. Shadowstep. Windburst. Her form shifted from class to class with no hesitation. No wasted movement. No skill chant.
She wasn't using combat styles. She was remembering them.
Channeling them.
Somewhere deep inside her—buried under flesh and borrowed blood—was the soul of a warrior born when the world was young. The first Hornford, son of the Creator God. A being who had not learned war…
…but defined it.
The dungeon began to crack.
The monsters tried to flee.
It didn't matter.
They had already died the moment she stepped inside.
------------------------
Thirty-seven minutes later
The dungeon rift closed behind her with a low hum. The forest outside was still. Birds chirped again. The world had forgotten the horror buried beneath its roots.
Only Litchzel remained—standing in the clearing, clothes stained, eyes cold, her breath steady.
From a nearby ridge, a hooded figure lowered a spyglass.
"Report to the Grandmaster," the figure muttered. "Silent Crest has neutralized the threat. No casualties. Rift collapse confirmed. Time: under forty minutes."
Then, under their breath:
"She's not human."