The stone floor tasted like copper and ancient dust. Kaelen pushed himself onto his hands and knees, spitting a glob of blood onto the cracked runes beneath him. The air smelled of burnt ozone and rotting moss, a sharp combination that stung his sinuses with every ragged breath. A translucent blue box floated in his field of vision. Level One Achieved. Mana Core Awakened. He blinked away the sweat stinging his eyes and swiped a hand through the glowing text. It dissolved into golden sparks. He survived the trial. Footsteps echoed from the shadow of the collapsed archway. Kaelen tensed, gripping the hilt of his fractured iron shortsword. A man stepped into the ambient blue light of the cavern. This was Kaelen's first time seeing the proctor clearly. The man, Malakor, stood tall with an aggressively rigid posture. Malakor possessed stark white hair, straight and coarse, falling just past his collarbone. His face was all sharp angles, a square jaw, and hollow cheeks, centered by eyes the color of winter ice. He had a broad chest and thick shoulders that stretched the seams of his dark velvet doublet, tapering down to a narrow waist and muscular thighs encased in dark wool trousers. A thick raised scar curled from his left ear down to his clavicle, standing out pale against his olive skin. "You breathe," Malakor said. His voice echoed, low and resonant, carrying a rasp like stone grinding against stone. He crossed his arms, his large hands resting against his biceps. Another street rat manages to cling to life. Let us see if this one actually has potential or just pure stubbornness. "I breathe," Kaelen agreed. He forced himself to stand. His legs trembled. "The system recognized me." Malakor tilted his head, his pale eyes tracking Kaelen's unsteady posture. "Recognition is merely the opening of the door. Survival is walking through the corridor." Kaelen noticed the smell of sandalwood and old parchment radiating from the proctor, completely masking the rot of the dungeon when he stepped closer. Malakor reached into his velvet pouch, his long fingers retrieving a small glass vial filled with a swirling crimson liquid. He tossed it through the air. Kaelen caught it clumsily against his chest. The glass felt warm. "Drink," Malakor instructed. "Your vitality is sitting at twelve out of fifty. The dungeon rot will claim the rest before you reach the surface." Kaelen popped the cork with his thumb. The scent of crushed berries and iron hit his nose. He downed the liquid in one gulp. A rush of heat bloomed in his stomach, spreading through his veins like wildfire. The deep ache in his ribs faded into a dull throb. Another blue notification flickered across his vision. Health Potion Consumed. Vitality Restored to Maximum. "We proceed to the upper levels," Malakor said, turning his back on Kaelen. "The goblins in the second stratum have respawned. You need the experience, and I need a competent Vanguard." Kaelen wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty sleeve. He watched the proctor walk away, noting the confident, measured strides. Kaelen gripped his sword tighter, feeling the rough leather wrap against his palm. He took a step forward, following Malakor into the dark corridor. They walked for what felt like hours through the twisting obsidian tunnels. The air grew thicker, heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies and spoiled meat. Kaelen's new perception stat buzzed at the base of his skull, an instinctual warning system he had never felt before. "Stop," Malakor commanded, raising a single finger. Kaelen froze, dropping his center of gravity. Ahead, the tunnel opened into a cavernous antechamber. Three creatures squatted around the glowing embers of a dying fire. Goblins. They were small, perhaps four feet tall, with mottled green skin stretched tight over sinewy muscles. Their faces were squashed, featuring bulbous yellow eyes and wide mouths filled with needle sharp teeth. One of them gnawed on a femur bone, the wet tearing sound echoing in the silence. "Analyze them," Malakor whispered, his breath stirring Kaelen's hair. "Use your focus." Kaelen narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the closest goblin. A small window materialized. Cave Goblin. Level Three. Health thirty out of thirty. "They are two levels higher than me," Kaelen said, his voice barely a breath. "Levels are numbers. Combat is an art," Malakor replied, drawing a slender steel rapier from his hip. The blade hummed with a faint arcane resonance. "Take the one on the left. I will manage the others." Kaelen swallowed hard. He stepped out of the shadows, the gravel crunching under his boots. The goblins snapped their heads toward him, dropping their meal. "Graaah" the closest goblin screeched, a sound like tearing metal, and scrambled for a crude rusted spear. Kaelen rushed forward, leading with his shoulder. The system guided his movements, making his footwork lighter, his swing faster. The fear vanished, replaced by the thrilling rush of adrenaline and the glowing promise of experience points. Kaelen swung the fractured iron shortsword. The weapon felt incredibly heavy in his untrained grip, yet the system interface pulsing at the edge of his vision guided his elbow into the proper arc. The blade bit into the goblin's shoulder. Kaelen felt the vibration of the impact rattle up his forearm, a jarring shock that set his teeth on edge. The creature shrieked, a wet sound that sprayed foul saliva across Kaelen's cheek. It smelled like rotting fish and stale copper. "Do not stop moving," Malakor called out from the shadows. The proctor sounded entirely bored. Kaelen ripped the blade free. A spray of dark green fluid splattered against the obsidian floor. The goblin thrust its rusted spear upward. Kaelen twisted his hips, letting the crude weapon scrape along the leather of his jerkin. He felt the cold scratch of the metal just millimeters from his ribs. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making his heart hammer against his sternum. He brought the pommel of his sword down in a brutal arc, smashing it directly into the bridge of the goblin's squashed nose. Bone crunched. The creature collapsed into a heap of twitching limbs. A golden notification chimed in his mind, clear and sharp like striking a crystal glass. Cave Goblin Defeated. Experience Gained. Kaelen stood over the corpse, chest heaving. He wiped the foul saliva from his face with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of dirt in its place. He looked up. Malakor was cleaning his slender steel rapier with a piece of white linen. The other two goblins lay dead by the dying fire, their bodies neatly pierced through the neck. The proctor had dismantled them without making a single sound. "Your form is atrocious," Malakor observed. He folded the linen square and tucked it into his velvet doublet. The scent of sandalwood drifted over the stench of the dead monsters. "You fight like a tavern brawler desperately swinging a tankard. But you have intent. Intent can be shaped into a weapon." "I killed it," Kaelen breathed, his voice rough. "You survived it," Malakor corrected. He pointed the tip of his rapier toward a dark archway at the far end of the cavern. "The distinction will matter when we reach the chasm. Gather the core from the beast. We are burning daylight, even if the sun cannot reach us here." Kaelen knelt beside the creature. He swallowed his disgust and pressed his fingers into the bloody mess of the goblin's chest. He dug through the slippery muscle and shattered ribs until his fingertips brushed against something hard and smooth. He pulled it free. It was a jagged shard of pale crystal, glowing with a faint sickly green light. The dungeon core. He wiped the gore on his trousers and slipped the stone into his pocket, feeling its unnatural warmth against his thigh. He stood up, his muscles aching with a new, profound exhaustion. Malakor was already walking toward the black archway, his white hair a beacon in the gloom. Kaelen adjusted his grip on his bloodied sword and followed the scent of sandalwood deeper into the dark.

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