Within the second floor, dim light pulsed softly from the orb hovering above Rolan's shoulder. Its glow was steady but faint barely enough to push back the oppressive dark that clung to the dungeon's stone walls. Dust hung in the air, slow and suspended, as if even movement here required permission.
Rolan's eyes locked onto the group ahead.
At their front stood a man still, composed, and unmistakably in control.
Rate.
Rolan held his gaze longer than necessary, measuring him. Then longer still, as if refusing to be the first to look away. Only when the strain in his arms became too much did he shift, pressing his palm against the ground and forcing himself upward.
His body resisted. Muscles trembled. His balance faltered. He dragged himself up anyway.
Each movement was deliberate, stubborn held together by will rather than strength. His sword remained within reach, fingers brushing against its hilt as he steadied himself.
Behind Rate, the rest of the group stood in loose formation. They weren't tense given the moment.
"Who is that creepy-eye sour fellow?" Camilla's voice cut through the stillness, light and playful, completely at odds with the setting.
Rolan didn't look at her, but he registered the tone.
"It's likely your soulmate to be," Quinn replied evenly, his voice carrying a dry, almost clinical cadence.
Camilla gagged exaggeratedly. "That's too bad. He's not my type, though." She tilted her head, examining Rolan with theatrical scrutiny. "Guys like that wouldn't even rank in my top hundred."
"I forgot," Quinn said flatly, "only a psychopath could keep company with another psychopath."
"Hardly." Camilla placed a hand against her chest in mock offense. "Even the highest nobility finds my presence irresistible."
"You're practically delusional." Quinn replied.
"You're just jealous, I say." Camilla said.
"..." Quinn's response died before it formed.
"That's quite enough, both of you. "Rate didn't raise his voice.
The interruption landed cleanly, cutting through their exchange with surgical precision. The shift was immediate subtle, but absolute. Attention returned to him as if pulled by an invisible thread.
His gaze never left Rolan, not once. Rolan finally straightened, barely. His stance wavered before stabilizing, legs unsteady beneath him. He exhaled a brief, controlled release of tension before tightening his grip on the sword at his side.
"How… grateful I am…" he began, voice rough but steadying as he continued, "to see others that made it through." A faint, strained smile flickered across his face. "I'd never thought this day would come."
His words lingered, but the relief didn't last. His eyes moved across them again this time more carefully.
Analyzing and breaking them apart piece by piece.
The large one, Bulk stood like a wall given form. His sheer presence radiated weight, but there was something else layered beneath it. Something unnatural. Not just brute force… something constructed. Augmented.
The cloaked figures, three of them. Two completely obscured. The third, Rate. His face was visible. Pale. Composed. Too composed. His posture didn't match the environment.
No tension or readiness.
He stood like someone observing a situation already resolved. Rolan's expression hardened.
"You're not from the guild, are you?"
The question hung in the air. Rate didn't answer or even blink. He simply watched.
That silence said more than words could.
"Can I kill him?" Camilla's voice returned bright, almost cheerful.
"You don't have to worry," she added, stepping slightly forward. "I'll be quick."
There was no hesitation in her tone. No uncertainty, only anticipation.
Rolan's grip tightened, his stance shifted subtle, but deliberate.
"Clarify your identity," he said, voice firmer now. "And tell me what guild you're from."
Still, Rate said nothing.
Then,
"We're an associate of the Eclipse-Walkers." Camilla delivered it cleanly with a straight-faced and confident.
For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to stop. Bulk froze likewise Quinn. Their heads turned toward her in perfect synchronization sharp, immediate, and filled with something that wasn't quite panic… but close enough to it.
A silent exchange passed between them. Fast, efficient Then both of them looked at her. The message was unmistakable:
Why would you say that?
Camilla blinked then smiled.
"Oh—wait." She turned back to Rolan without missing a beat. "I meant we're from… the North Southern Guild of the Great Empire. Not the Eclipse-Walkers like I said earlier."
She planted her hands on her hips, posture exaggeratedly proud.
"I totally fooled him, didn't I?" She smirked.
No one responded.
"Enough, Camilla."
This time, there was weight behind Rate's voice, just…heavier. He had already finished assessing.
Rolan didn't miss the shift, but what truly struck him was the name *Eclipse-Walkers.*
His body reacted before his mind could process it. A faint shiver ran through him. Why is one of the most infamous organizations here…?
His eyes moved again slower now, sharper.
They're not here to explore but to take. The conclusion formed cleanly.
This dungeon…and my life… are now part of their objective.
His stance lowered, weight adjusted, sword hand ready. Things are about to get rough.
The air tightened.
"What do we do?" Bulk asked, his voice low, directed toward Rate. His gaze flicked briefly toward Rolan. "He seems to be combat-ready."
A pause, then
"Let me do the honor of killing him." Camilla's tone carried a note of excitement that didn't belong in a place like this.
"I can't grant you such request."
The response was immediate. Flat and final.
Camilla's expression faltered just slightly.
"But letting him be won't be in our favor," Quinn interjected, stepping forward half a pace. His voice remained controlled, but there was a sharpened edge beneath it. "He might cause trouble later."
He paused, then added, "Removing him now is the right choice. It's what we usually do when we encounter obstacles."
Rolan heard very word of it and understood. They weren't debating morality but discussing efficiency.
"That's not it," Rate said.
His tone lowered not in volume, but in depth.
"He seems to be stuck here."
That shifted something.
Subtly.
"He survived the first floor," Rate continued, eyes still fixed on Rolan, "but it doesn't look like he can leave as he wishes."
Camilla tilted her head.
"So you're saying…?"
Rate didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved just slightly.
A small turn of his head enough for his eye to become visible to the others.
"He's an adventurer, is he not?"
A pause.
"We're not going to killing him."
The decision landed with quiet authority. No resistance followed.
"He has detailed information about this dungeon," Rate continued. "So we're going to use him for this mission."
Rolan's expression didn't change. But something behind his eyes hardened.
"I think he'll be greedy," Camilla said, tapping her chin lightly. "Selfish with what he knows."
"No one said he decides the outcome." Rate's gaze didn't waver. Then, "Oh, Camilla?"
"Yeah?" she answered reflexively.
"You'll receive a reserved punishment for that big mouth of yours when we get back."
The tone was moderate, almost casual. Which made it worse.
Camilla froze.
Then, very slowly, she raised both hands and covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers.
As if that would undo what had already been said.
Rolan's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword until the leather grip creaked faintly under pressure. The weapon was still sheathed, but not by much, its presence alone was already a declaration. His gaze locked onto Rate, sharp and unflinching, carrying a hostility that had long passed the point of restraint.
"Finally decided," Rolan said, voice low but edged with steel, "on how you intend to kill me?"
There was no hesitation in his tone. No uncertainty, just accusation.
Rate stood at the front of his group as before, posture composed, expression fixed in that same unnervingly neutral calm. His eyes didn't narrow, didn't flare if anything, they seemed almost indifferent to the hostility directed at him.
"On the contrary," Rate replied, his voice measured, almost conversational. "That option is off the table."
Rolan's brows knit slightly, but the tension in his body didn't ease. If anything, it sharpened.
"I don't buy what you're saying," he responded immediately. "So what, you're just going to let me walk away?"
"Absolutely not." Rate's tone remained steady, but there was a subtle finality to it now. "That is excluded from consideration."
A brief silence stretched between them, not empty charged.
Rolan exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing further as he studied the man in front of him.
"You're not making this easy, are you?" he said. "What are you up to?" His thumb pressed against the guard of his sword. A faint metallic whisper followed as the blade slid free just enough to expose a fraction of polished steel. Twenty percent drawn, a warning.
"I'm putting forward a proposition," Rate said calm and still controlled.
"But it's not negotiable."
Rolan didn't respond, Rate continued.
"You will provide us with the full structural and operational details of this dungeon." His gaze held steady. "You're informed, more than most who've Heard of it."
That was the core of it, not curiosity.
"I'll gladly refuse," Rolan answered without a second of delay, Immediate and absolute.
A faint pause followed then,
"I'm afraid you misunderstand," Rate said, his tone lowering, not louder, but heavier. "This is a non-negotiable directive."
That word landed with weight. Directive not a request or even a threat. Something institutional. Rolan's expression darkened, the blade slid further free. Fifty percent.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice tightening, "but it's not on my bucket list to help despicable lap-dogs and to die a miserable death right after."
The insult hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. But was completely ignored, Rate didn't react, not even a flicker.
"I'd say," Rate replied calmly, "you're being given an opportunity to be useful with the time you have left."
Rolan's lips curled faintly.
"Beats me," he muttered. "I'd rather die than lick the boots of scum's like you."
That was the moment the threshold crossed. The blade left the sheath in a clean, decisive motion.
Steel caught the dim light and Rolan moved.
"Well," Rate said, almost idly, "that is also not an available option."
Rolan didn't hear the rest of cared to. His voice dropped to a murmur as he stepped forward.
"Oh god of swords… be my aid."
Something responded.
A faint aura subtle, but present tightened around his wrist, crawling along his forearm and settling into his grip. It wasn't explosive. It wasn't dramatic, It was precise and controlled. A reinforcement of intent rather than spectacle.
Then he vanished forward.
The ground beneath him gave a muted crack as force transferred through his step, propelling him in a straight-line burst toward Rate.
Fast, too fast for an unprepared eye. Camilla's reaction came instantly.
"He's coming—!" she exclaimed, her voice bright with something dangerously close to excitement as she bounced on her heels, arms lifting and dropping in quick, animated motions.
Rolan closed the distance in a breath.
His sword rose along his right side, the blade angling upward across his shoulder as his body coiled into the strike. The air shifted, there was a faint scent—Ozone. The moment stretched, then snapped.
He swung, the blade tore through the space where Rate had stood.
Clean, sharp, decisive.
But nothing, not even impact.
The figure blurred and collapsed. It was an afterimage. Rolan's eyes sharpened instantly.
Before his body could fully adjust into movement. Camilla surged forward.
A sudden burst unpredictable and direct, her steps struck the ground with audible rhythm light, but forceful, each impact producing a faint, metallic clink that echoed unnaturally through the corridor.
Rolan's perception snapped toward her. Angle, approach, velocity… her hips turned, kick incoming.
He reads the flow in brick moments.
His sword shifted downward, cutting across his body toward his abdomen in a defensive counter trajectory, positioning to intercept the incoming strike, but something interrupted.
Camilla stopped abruptly, not by choice. Her forward motion snapped short as tension pulled her backward, her cloak tightened. Rate stood behind her, unmoved.
One hand gripping the fabric at her back, halting her advance with minimal effort.
"Hey—!" Camilla protested, her momentum cut off mid-engagement. That single disruption, in that fraction of a second.
Another presence entered, Quinn. No wasted movement.
Outbursts of speed.
He appeared within Rolan's blind angle his body cutting forward in a clean, efficient line, closing the gap before Rolan could recover from the aborted counter.
Rolan tried to adjust but his momentum was already committed. His blade was mid-path, his footing fixed. It was too late.
Quinn's arm drove forward, a straight punch. A strong impact.
KAPOOW!
The sound cracked through the corridor like a compressed explosion.
Rolan's head snapped violently to the side as the force connected with his face.
The effect was immediate and Overwhelming.
His body lifted off balance, dragged sideways by the sheer kinetic force before being flung across the stone floor. He hit hard.
Skidding and rolling, before crashing into the far wall. The impact echoed dully.
Then stillness came for a moment. Dust shifted lightly in the air. Rolan lay crumpled near the base of the wall, his sword slipping slightly in his grip but not leaving it.
His face Bruised, rapidly swelling. His nose bent at an unnatural angle as blood began to run freely, tracing a thin line down past his lips and dripping onto the ground beneath him.
He inhaled sharply, Pain flooding in all at once.
His hand rose instinctively, pressing against his face as he forced himself to move. To rise.
Across from him, Quinn straightened. With no dramatic follow-through.
He simply retracted his arm and stepped back into position, posture resetting with clean controlled.
As if the strike had been routine.
"I'll leave him to you, Quinn," Rate said calmly as he released Camilla's cloak and stepped slightly aside. "Try not to kill him in the process."
Camilla turned sharply, her expression immediately shifting into visible dissatisfaction.
"That's not fair," she complained, her tone almost childish despite the context. "I wanted to do that."
"Too bad," Quinn replied flatly, not even looking at her. "I get to do it instead."
Rolan, still crouched near the wall, wiped at the blood spilling from his nose with the back of his hand.
His vision blurred for a split second, then refocused. Breathing uneven after gasping for air. Grip tightening again around his sword. He forced himself upright slowly.
Deliberately, the pain didn't matter. The situation was clear now. This wasn't a negotiation.
Rolan spat a small trace of blood to the side, rolling his shoulder slightly as he reset his stance.
His eyes lifted again, locking onto Quinn this time. Not Rate or Camilla but Quinn.
The one who moved and strucked. The one now stepping forward.
Silently accepting the exchange. The air shifted again. Different this time. Heavier and more focused. The kind that came before something decisive. Rolan adjusted his footing lower and more grounded.
Sword angled slightly behind him once more.
Ready despite everything, the damage and the imbalance.
Across from him, Quinn stopped just within range calm and unhurried.
Quinn pushed his hood back in a single, deliberate motion.
The fabric slid off his head and settled along his shoulders, revealing not a human face, but a fully enclosed helm engineered, deliberate, and faintly oppressive in its presence. The skull-shaped design curved smoothly around his head, the surface matte and seamless except for the high medial comb running from brow to crown like a reinforced spine. It gave him a taller silhouette, something almost ceremonial and yet unmistakably martial.
The visor clicked.
A subtle mechanical shift, then it flipped up just enough to expose the grill beneath. A rigid faceplate composed of vertical bars and fine perforations sat where a mouth would be, designed for both ventilation and filtered perception. It distorted any sense of expression. Whatever Quinn felt confidence, irritation, amusement was locked behind cold geometry and engineered opacity.
Without breaking eye contact, Quinn rolled his shoulders once, then reached for his sleeves. Both hands moved in sync precise, economical.
He pulled.
The cloak sleeves slid back simultaneously, revealing the full structure of his arms.
Plated gauntlets extended from wrist to above the elbow, layered with interlocking segments of dark alloy. The design leaned heavily into a dystopian aesthetic industrial, brutal, and unapologetically functional. Each plate overlapped with tight tolerances, suggesting both flexibility and immense durability. Faint seams traced along the joints, where internal mechanisms whispered softly with every micro-adjustment.
At the rear of each gauntlet, two pointed power nodes protruded angled slightly backward like restrained spikes. They emitted a low, almost inaudible hum, as if something within them was compressing energy rather than releasing it.
Contained force.
Waiting.
"Resistance is futile," Quinn said.
His voice passed through the grill, filtered and flattened cold, metallic, stripped of warmth. "There's no point."
A pause.
Just long enough to let the words settle.
"So I suggest you come in quietly."
Across from him, Rolan didn't respond immediately.
He was still standing where he had forced himself upright moments ago, one knee having nearly buckled before he stabilized. Blood traced down from his nose, drying at the edges, fresh where he had just wiped it away. His breathing was uneven not from fear, but from damage. Internal, cumulative, and far from trivial.
His sword hung loosely at his side, tip angled slightly downward. Not lowered in surrender just heavy.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he lifted his hand and dragged it across his face, brushing away the blood with the back of his wrist. The motion was rough, impatient. What remained smeared across his skin rather than disappearing.
He turned his head slightly and spat. A dark arc of blood struck the stone floor between them. Rolan's grip tightened around his sword.
"You don't tell me what to do."
His voice was raw, edged with strain but stable and controlled. Quinn tilted his head a fraction, not in confusion
"For someone in your condition," he replied, tone unchanged, "if you do a good job, we might consider the thought of letting you go."
Rolan blinked once. Then,
"You… let me go?"
A short laugh escaped him, dry and disbelieving.
The kind of laugh that didn't come from humor, but from recognizing something absurd enough to reject outright.
"was that meant to be convincing?" he continued, voice sharpening despite the damage in his chest. "Because that was too funny to be true."
The words landed.
Not as an insult thrown wildly but as something deliberate, pointed, and dismissive.
Quinn didn't react outwardly. But the faint hum from his gauntlets shiftedjust slightly. The pitch deepened, like pressure building behind sealed valves.
"Seems," Quinn said slowly, "I have to beat the words into you."
He brought his fists together. The impact rang out sharply. Metal met metal with a solid, uncompromising clank that echoed through the chamber clean.
Rolan's eyes narrowed.
Pain pulsed through his body arms, ribs, legs each movement taxed what little he had left. He could feel the instability beneath his stance, the way his muscles threatened to fail if he pushed too far.
So he pushed anyway.
"As long as I breathe," Rolan said, drawing in a strained breath through clenched teeth, "I'll lay you down and the rest to make my escape."
There was no hesitation in it, no room for reconsideration.
Quinn studied him for a brief moment. "How confident you are."
Rolan didn't answer, instead, he moved. He drew in a breath deep, forced, dragging air into lungs that didn't want to cooperate. His grip tightened on his sword until his knuckles paled beneath the blood.
Then Aura, It didn't flare outward explosively. It ignited.
A tight, controlled surge of energy wrapped around his body, clinging close like a second skin. It flickered at first unstable, strained before forcing itself into coherence through sheer will. The glow was uneven, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, betraying just how little he had left to work with.
Every remaining fragment of strength he could extract from himself, compressed into a final output.
The air around him warped slightly, from density.
Quinn didn't move to interrupt.
Rolan's flaring brighter for a fraction of a second as he forced more power through a system already at its limit. The glow fractured along his arm, streaming toward the blade as if drawn into it.
One meter, their eyes locked.
One filled with defiance sharpened to its final edge. The other hidden unreadable behind steel and design, impact range.
Both simultaneously rushed towards each other, anticipating for battle.