Chapter 8: Dungeon
Dungeons were not just a threat. They were also a business.
Beneath the veneer of danger, sweat, and blood lay a structured, lucrative world. For the Guild, noble houses, artifact merchants, and druids, these magical breaches were as much wells of gold as they were pits of death. Each dungeon had a frequency of appearance and a spatial signature. Those ranked D to C, common and unstable, were cleared by inexperienced adventurers. Dungeons ranked B to S were reserved for the elite—exploration squads or far more powerful adventurers.
But there was an exception. An anomaly.
The Misty Continent.
A wild territory with shifting geography and palpable strangeness, where even maps held no value and landmasses fluctuated. A land veiled in magical clouds, infested with evolving dungeons. Expedition 76 had been sent there the previous year—a renowned expedition of one hundred twenty fighters, twenty-three mages, healers, and even nobles of strong lineage. But it had gone wrong. Few returned. And those who survived... still bore the scars.
Daemon knew this world. He was nothing like those nobles in gleaming armor or the young heroes showered with glory before they’d even cast their first spell. He had only himself. And his mission to survive.
His boots crunched softly on the rough cave floor.
For several minutes, he’d been moving silently toward the glow. The stone was cold beneath his fingers as he brushed the wall. Yet a strange warmth emanated from the air, as if mana itself pulsed around him.
Finally, he saw it.
The portal.
A luminous oval, floating above the ground, bordered by arabesques of bluish energy. Daemon inhaled sharply.