The cathedral still stood.
It rose from the eastern forest like a forgotten monument carved from shadow and stone, its towering silhouette cutting sharply against the pale midday sky. Tall spires pierced upward like ancient spears.
The place looked mysterious.
The place looked more mysterious than the forest surrounding it, and more unsettling than the rumors spreading through the Adventurer's Guild.
And yet the cathedral still stood.
The air surrounding it carried a strange stillness.
It was nearing noon. The sun hung high above the forest canopy, spilling pale light through the dense tangle of branches that stretched across the eastern woods. Thin rays of sunlight filtered down through gaps in the leaves, scattering across the clearing in fractured patterns that never quite touched the cathedral walls directly.
Even the light seemed hesitant to approach it.
The clearing itself was wide enough to expose the structure entirely, a rare opening in the forest that felt less like a natural occurrence and more like the land itself had slowly withdrawn from the cathedral's presence.
No birds sang nearby.
No insects buzzed in the tall grass.
Even the wind seemed reluctant to cross the clearing.
At the base of the cathedral's long stone staircase stood three men.
They had stopped well short of the first step.
Each of them wore light adventuring armor—layered leather reinforced with steel plates across the chest, shoulders, and forearms. The armor carried scratches and dull marks from previous fights, the kind earned from real work rather than display.
Their cloaks were dark and dust-stained from travel, edges frayed from long journeys across dirt roads and wild terrain.
Their boots were worse.
Mud-caked leather hardened by days of walking.
They looked like mercenaries.
Experienced.
Men used to risk.
But they weren't mercenaries.
Hanging from the belt buckle of the tallest among them was a bronze license plate.
The official insignia issued by the Adventurer's Guild.
The engraved letters were simple.
Rank: D
The bronze plate glinted faintly in the sunlight, catching a small flash of light every time the man shifted his weight.
His name was Rolan Vesk.
Tall and broad-shouldered, Rolan carried himself with the steady posture of someone used to being the one who stepped forward first. A short beard covered his jaw, and a faint scar ran diagonally across his left eyebrow.
His sword hung across his back, strapped diagonally over his shoulder.
The hilt rose above his right shoulder blade, worn leather wrapping the grip. The weapon itself was a straight longsword, balanced for two-handed use but light enough to draw quickly from behind.
Beside him stood Marek Dain.
Marek was slightly shorter but built with lean muscle, the kind that came from agility rather than brute strength. His armor was lighter than Rolan's, and the steel plates across his shoulders had been polished far more recently.
His sword was strapped at his left hip, the scabbard hanging at a slight angle designed for quick draws.
His right hand rested loosely on the pommel.
The gesture was casual.
But practiced.
The third man stood a few steps away from them both.
Tarin Holt.
Tarin was the youngest of the three, though only by a few years. His armor looked newer than the others', the leather still stiff along the seams. He carried himself with a confidence that bordered somewhere between bravery and stubbornness.
His sword was strapped across his lower back, the scabbard horizontal, positioned so he could draw the blade with a backward pull of his right arm.
It was an unconventional placement.
But he clearly preferred it.
The three of them stood several meters from the cathedral entrance.
None of them seemed particularly eager to step closer.
Their attention remained fixed on the structure looming ahead.
The cathedral doors were enormous.
Nearly four meters tall.
Heavy black stone reinforced with rust-darkened metal bands. The surface was carved with religious patterns that had long since faded with age, their details now little more than shallow grooves etched into the surface.
Beyond the doors lay shadow.
The three men stood there for several seconds.
Then Rolan finally spoke.
"I'm saying we should've brought more people."
His voice was quiet, though the unease beneath it wasn't difficult to notice.
He kept his eyes fixed on the cathedral doors.
"If we had two more with us… maybe three… our numbers would at least give us some breathing room."
Marek immediately shook his head.
"That would only make things worse."
His voice carried a calm, measured tone—the kind that suggested this conversation had already happened more than once on the road here.
"It's a trap floor."
He lifted his sword slightly, letting the tip rest against the dirt.
"The more bodies we cram inside, the harder it'll be to move."
He tapped the ground lightly with the tip of the blade.
"You read the report."
His eyes briefly shifted toward the cathedral.
"Corridors. Arrow mechanisms. Blade traps."
He glanced back toward Rolan.
"Tight spaces."
His tone remained steady.
"Bringing more people would just get someone killed."
Tarin crossed his arms.
"You're both forgetting something."
He tilted his head toward the cathedral.
"This place is listed as C-Rank now."
His voice carried a slight edge.
"The guild master himself warned that anyone below C shouldn't even attempt it."
Marek shrugged.
"We're not trying to clear it."
"That's not the point."
"We're observing."
Marek turned to face them both now.
"We go in."
He raised a finger.
"We watch the pattern of the first floor traps."
Another finger.
"That's all."
His tone remained calm.
"If it goes beyond us, we retreat."
He shrugged slightly.
"Just like we always do."
A brief silence followed.
Rolan sighed quietly.
"That's true…"
But his eyes never left the cathedral.
"…still."
He shifted his stance uneasily.
"Something about this place doesn't sit right with me."
Tarin scoffed.
"You're overthinking it."
He jerked his chin toward the massive structure.
"That's just the entrance."
"Easy for you to say."
Rolan rubbed the back of his neck.
"I mean look at it."
The towering doors loomed ahead of them.
The shadow beyond seemed unnatural.
Rolan lowered his voice slightly.
"I don't like how quiet it is."
Marek answered immediately.
"It's the first floor."
His tone made the words sound almost obvious.
"Arrows. Blades. Mechanical triggers."
He tapped his temple.
"Those are the traps that are guaranteed to show up."
Rolan frowned.
"And if it's not an open floor?"
Tarin answered instantly.
"It has to be."
He gestured toward the cathedral.
"There's no way the entrance leads to some cramped crawlspace."
He smirked faintly.
"We'd barely be able to swing our swords."
Rolan hesitated.
"I heard something yesterday."
The other two glanced toward him.
"A group of adventurers tried clearing this place."
He shifted his weight.
"You think they—"
"They're probably already out."
Marek cut him off.
His voice was flat.
"And already somewhere else."
Rolan looked unconvinced.
Still, he didn't argue.
Instead he let out a slow breath.
"You guys keep making this sound easy…"
His gaze drifted toward the doors again.
"…but it really doesn't look that way."
Tarin grinned.
"Or maybe you just don't want to partake in this."
Rolan looked away.
He didn't answer.
The silence spoke loudly enough.
Marek stepped forward slightly.
"Don't think too much about it."
He adjusted his grip on his sword.
"We're only going in to check things out."
He nodded toward the cathedral entrance.
"We'll be out again before long."
Tarin added with a confident grin.
"It's just the first floor."
He shrugged.
"I think we can handle that."
Rolan stared at the cathedral for several seconds longer.
The silent clearing.
The towering structure.
The dark doorway waiting beyond the massive doors.
Something about it felt wrong.
Deeply wrong.
But he knew arguing further wouldn't change anything.
Finally he exhaled.
"…Fine."
He stepped forward.
Marek followed.
Tarin came last.
Together, the three adventurers moved toward the base of the cathedral steps.
The structure towered above them now like the entrance to something ancient and unknowable.
For a moment none of them moved.
They simply stared upward.
Wind drifted faintly across the clearing.
Dry leaves scraped quietly across the stone.
Then Marek spoke.
"Well."
He lifted his sword slightly.
"Let's see what the first floor looks like."
Each step echoed faintly against the cathedral walls.
Stone against leather.
Leather against stone.
By the time they reached the doors, the outside world already felt distant.
The forest behind them seemed smaller.
Quieter.
Almost forgotten, Marek placed his hand against the massive cathedral door.
For a moment—
He hesitated.
Then he pushed, The door creaked open slowly, The three adventurers exchanged one final glance.
Then they stepped inside.
The cathedral doors groaned softly as they pushed inward.
The sound carried strangely through the vast interior, echoing far longer than it should have as if the building itself were hollow, swallowing the noise and returning it only after hesitation.
Rolan stepped in first.
The moment his boots crossed the threshold, the air changed.
Outside, the eastern forest had been quiet but alive—wind brushing through leaves, insects hidden beneath the grass, distant birds breaking the silence from time to time.
Inside the cathedral, there was none of that.
No distant sounds of the forest.
A heavy, unmoving stillness that pressed down from the vaulted ceiling high above them.
Marek followed behind him, one hand resting near the hilt of his sword, eyes slowly sweeping across the interior. Tarin entered last, closing the door behind them with a quiet shove.
The three men paused just inside the entrance.
The cathedral was enormous.
Even after years of ruin, its structure still carried a silent grandeur. Massive stone pillars rose like ancient trees toward the high arches overhead. The clean glass windows along the walls reflecting the sun.
Pale daylight filtered through those gaps in thin shafts that barely touched the stone floor.
Dust floated in the light.
Every step stirred it.
The place smelled faintly of damp stone and age.
"...Not exactly welcoming," Marek muttered under his breath.
His voice came back to them in faint echoes.
Rolan didn't answer immediately. His gaze had already moved ahead.
Further down after the altar of the cathedral's main hall stood a single object.
A coffin.
It rested upon a raised platform of stone, positioned exactly right after the altar. The coffin was dark and sharp, its surface unscratched.
Yet strangely,
It looked strange.
Despite the emptied cathedral surrounding it, the coffin remained intact, almost preserved.
Tarin noticed it the moment Rolan did.
"Well," he said, walking forward with casual curiosity, "that's not suspicious at all."
Marek snorted softly.
"You planning to open it?"
Tarin shrugged.
"Maybe."
His boots echoed as he approached the platform. He climbed the shallow step and stood before the coffin, leaning down slightly to examine it.
Up close, the wood showed faint carvings along its edges—lines worn smooth by time, too vague to properly read.
Still, Tarin placed a hand on the lid.
The wood felt cold.
He tightened his grip, preparing to lift.
"Don't."
Rolan's voice cut through the hall.
Firm.
Tarin paused.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
Rolan stood a few steps away, arms folded loosely but eyes focused.
"Why?" Tarin asked.
Rolan gestured toward the surrounding hall.
"We don't know what this place is yet."
"Exactly," Tarin replied with a grin. "That's why we check things."
Marek stepped up beside Rolan, crossing his arms.
"You want the coffin to be the first thing we trigger before partaking in the dungeon?"
Tarin considered that.
Then slowly released the lid.
"...Fair point."
He stepped down from the platform.
"Besides," Rolan added calmly, "if there's something inside, it's not going anywhere."
Tarin chuckled.
"Optimistic."
They left the coffin behind.
Moving forward into the cathedral.
Then Marek saw it.
"Hey."
He pointed ahead.
Right after the coffin, the floor opened into a massive stone archway.
Beyond it—
Darkness.
A staircase descended steeply downward into the earth.
Rolan slowed as they approached it.
The stone steps vanished into blackness after only a few meters, swallowed completely by shadow.
Marek peered down.
"Dungeon entrance."
"No doubt about it," Tarin said.
Rolan nodded slowly.
Then Marek reached into a pouch at his belt.
He pulled out a small object about the size of his palm.
It was an oval piece of clear glass, sealed at the edges with thin silver bands. Inside the glass rested a faint liquid substance—pale and almost colorless.
An alchemical device.
"Good thing we brought this," Marek said.
He held the oval glass between his hands.
"Alright. Same as usual."
The three adventurers gathered closer.
Each of them placed a hand against the surface of the glass.
Then they pushed a small amount of energy into it.
The reaction was immediate.
The liquid inside the glass stirred.
For a brief moment it swirled like mist—
Then the entire object began to glow.
Soft white light spread through the oval glass, illuminating their hands and casting pale reflections across their armor.
The device floated slightly above Marek's palm, sustained by the energy feeding it.
The glow strengthened until it shone like a lantern.
"Perfect," Tarin said.
Rolan turned toward the staircase.
"Let's move."
The three adventurers began their descent.
Step by step, they moved down the stone staircase.
The glowing oval glass drifted slightly ahead of them, lighting the path with a steady pale glow. The stone walls along the staircase were rough and unfinished, carved directly from the earth rather than constructed like the cathedral above.
The deeper they went, the colder the air became.
Their footsteps echoed in the confined space.
After several minutes, the staircase finally opened into a wide corridor.
The First Floor.
The light from the alchemical glass spread outward across the chamber, revealing smooth stone walls and a broad passage stretching ahead.
And at the far end—
A door.
A massive door.
It stood easily three times the height of a tall man, forged from thick black metal reinforced with horizontal bars. Strange engravings ran across its surface in faint lines.
Even from a distance, the thing looked heavy.
Immovable.
"...That's not subtle," Marek murmured.
Tarin whistled quietly.
"Looks like the entrance to a fortress."
Rolan stepped closer.
But before they reached the door, Marek noticed something along the walls.
"Hold on."
He moved his light closer.
The glow of the oval glass illuminated long lines carved into the stone.
Inscriptions.
Symbols etched directly into the dungeon walls.
Tarin leaned in to look.
"Can you read that?"
Marek squinted.
"Not really."
Rolan studied the carvings briefly.
"Probably dungeon script."
"Meaning?" Tarin asked.
"Meaning we ignore it and keep moving," Rolan replied calmly.
None of them argued.
The three adventurers passed the massive door and entered the corridor beyond it.
The passage stretched forward into darkness.
Their floating light illuminated only a small portion of it.
Stone walls.
Flat floor.
No visible traps.
For the first few minutes, they walked in silence.
Then Marek spoke.
"You remember the spider dungeon outside Galren?"
Tarin groaned immediately.
"Don't remind me."
Marek chuckled.
"What? That place was easy."
"Easy?" Tarin said. "You got webbed to the ceiling."
"and you called that strategy, That was stupidity."
Rolan listened quietly as they talked.
Their conversation drifted through familiar territory—stories from past dungeon runs, mistakes they had made, tactics that had saved them more than once.
It helped keep the tension down.
And it kept their minds sharp.
At the same time, all three of them watched the corridor carefully.
Observing the walls.
The floor.
The faint carvings that occasionally appeared in the stone.
Minutes passed.
Then Tarin stopped.
He had been walking slightly ahead of the others.
Now his hand slowly moved to the hilt of his sword.
"...Did you hear that?"
Marek frowned.
"Hear what?"
Tarin didn't answer.
Instead He drew his sword.
The blade slid free with a sharp metallic whisper.
Then he saw it.
Something moved in the darkness ahead.
A thin shape cutting through the air.
An arrow.
It was already almost upon him.
Tarin reacted instantly.
But not fast enough.
The arrow shot toward his face.
He twisted his head sideways at the last possible moment.
The arrow sliced past his cheek.
It brushed the skin, Then vanished into the darkness behind him. Marek and Rolan immediately stepped back.
"What the hell—?!"
"Tarin!"
"I'm fine," Tarin said sharply.
He raised his sword, eyes fixed on the darkness ahead.
His voice turned serious.
"Brace."
Behind him, Rolan frowned.
"Isn't this the part where we run?"
Marek stared at him.
"I can't believe you just said that."
Rolan gestured toward the corridor.
"That was an arrow."
"Yes."
"And we can't see where it came from."
Tarin didn't take his eyes off the darkness.
"That's the problem."
Another faint sound echoed through the corridor.
More movement.
Then Tarin spoke again.
"...Heads up."
From the darkness ahead, Sounds of arrows came flying toward them.
Tarin tightened his grip on his sword.
"Here they come."
Marek and Rolan drew their weapons instantly.
The three men shifted into combat stances.
Then Tarin said quietly—
"Let's put some power into this."
At the same moment, all three of them released their aura.
Energy surged outward from their bodies.
A faint glow wrapped around their forms like living armor as they prepared to meet the incoming storm.
And the arrows kept coming.