Death came early.
Three first-years. Gone. Not in simulations. Not in training halls. Real dungeon casualties. The first of many. It hadn't even been noon.
The academy was quieter that day. More cautious. And when word got out that I was going in solo—alone, with no team—there were whispers. Stares. Warnings.
I stepped toward the gate.
"That guy's insane."
"Does he even have a death wish?"
"Why would they let him go in alone?"
They didn't understand. They didn't have to.
Up in the observation deck, Brax leaned forward with a grin. Veren stood beside him, arms crossed.
"No team," Brax muttered. "Just a sword and a death stare. You think he's really ready?"
Veren didn't answer right away. Then—
"He was ready the second he walked in here."
Behind them, Headmaster Draeven remained still, his silhouette framed by mana-glass. Professor Caldera stood nearby, her sharp eyes never leaving my back.
No fanfare. No team. No hesitation.
Just the echo of my footsteps and the cold light of the dungeon portal.
And then the world changed.
The second I stepped through, I felt it—pressure, static, as if every atom in my body was being pulled apart and sewn back together in reverse.
Then I dropped onto damp stone.
The air hit me like a wall. Thick, wet, and sour.
And then something else.
A voice. In my head.
Welcome, Kaelen.
Current Level: 0
Recommended Level: 1-5
Participants: 1
Solo Mode Activated – Bonus EXP Engaged.
I froze.
What the hell was that?
It was the wristband. I could feel it pulsing against my skin. A soft vibration as glowing data flickered across the holographic display.
Flashback—Training Hall, orientation week.
Instructor Veren stood at the front of the combat theory class, wristband raised.
"Simulated dungeons use shadow protocols," he said. "Your bands track motion, vitals, simulated damage. Nothing more."
He tapped the band once. The display flickered.
"But in live deployment, it's different. The wristbands sync directly with dungeon cores. They feel your pulse. They log blood loss. They register panic. And they broadcast death."
The room went quiet.
He scanned the cadets slowly.
"If you ever hear a level-up notification in a real dungeon—it means your limits broke. For real. That sound doesn't lie."
Kaelen sat near the back. Silent. Memorizing.
Back in the dungeon, I could hear the soft hum of my wristband—alive now. A watcher. A judge.
Movement.
The first goblin emerged from the shadows. Slouched, stinking, its flesh pocked with open sores and yellow-green lesions. One eye bulged from its socket, red and swollen, barely clinging by the nerve.
This wasn't training.
This was rot and filth and death.
It hissed and charged.
I drove my sword forward in a brutal thrust, and the goblin exploded onto the blade. Black ichor sprayed across my arms and chest. It twitched. Gurgled. Died.
LEVEL UP: 1
And I felt it.
A surge—low and hot—like static clawing at the inside of my bones.
The mana didn't just drift.
It entered.
It burned.
Like something old and invisible was reaching inside, carving room for more. My breath hitched. My vision pulsed. My heartbeat thudded in sync with the band.
Then more came.
Two. Four. Six.
They came in waves—some with jagged axes, others with long rusty spears. One had a shield made of nailed-together bones. Their eyes glowed like dying embers.
And I was the flame.
I moved through them like a phantom of steel.
Every dodge was honed by a year of grinding. Every slash a product of hundreds of hours alone, bleeding in silence.
Blades scraped my arms. Arrows skimmed past my face.
More pings.
LEVEL UP: 2
LEVEL UP: 3
LEVEL UP: 4
LEVEL UP: 5
My stats were rising.
I couldn't check them. No time. But the wristband beeped each time the cap broke.
That meant one thing.
The level cap was gone.
The moment I stepped into this real dungeon, everything changed. My training was catching up with me—stat by stat.
And I wasn't done.
More goblins fell. I took their hits. Felt their blades. Let them cut. Let the blood wake me up.
With every kill, the mana forced its way deeper. Not just into skin, but into marrow. Muscle. Reflex. It wasn't kind. It wasn't smooth.
It reshaped.
LEVEL UP: 6
LEVEL UP: 7
The air shifted.
A deep rumble. A roar that shook the walls.
From the corridor ahead, something massive emerged.
The Goblin Warlord.
It ducked under a crumbled arch, dragging two massive spiked clubs behind it. Its belly sagged like a sack of meat, covered in scars and dried blood. Its face was barely goblin—more beast than man. Twisted. Fat. Brutal.
Its breath stank of rot and bile. Black drool poured from its maw as it roared.
I smiled.
My arms were slick with gore. My chest heaving. But this—this was the real test.
It charged.
The first club smashed into the wall beside me, stone shattering in a cloud of dust.
I ducked under the second and struck low—my blade carving through its thigh. It screamed and swung wildly, catching my shoulder and sending me flying across the chamber.
Pain burst in my chest.
But I stood.
Blood dripped from my mouth.
What if this thing actually killed me?
What if all those nights—the sweat, the blood, the rage I carried like armor—meant nothing?
Just another corpse on the floor.
I blinked. Then clenched harder.
No. Not today.
I laughed.
It charged again.
I met it head-on.
We traded blows.
It slammed its clubs. I deflected with the flat of my sword. My ribs cracked. My vision blurred. But I kept moving.
I slashed its side. It howled and countered. My wrist twisted. My grip almost failed.
Almost.
Then I slammed my boot into its knee.
It dropped.
And I rose.
I brought the greatsword down like an executioner, carving through its collarbone, down to its gut. It bellowed, its scream echoing through the dungeon like a dying titan.
Still alive.
It lifted one club.
I dropped my shoulder and drove into its chest, lifting it off the ground with pure rage. My sword ripped free and with one last heave, I drove the blade through its face—eye to eye—until the steel rang against the stone beneath its skull.
The warlord spasmed.
Then it stopped.
LEVEL UP: 8 → 9 → 10
I stood over its body.
Blood covered my hands. My arms. My face.
The taste of iron filled my mouth.
And I smiled.
The Return.
The portal shimmered ahead.
I didn't rush. I walked.
Sword dragging. Limbs heavy. Blood soaked into my skin like warpaint.
When I stepped through, the light from the dungeon collapsed behind me—and silence took its place.
Until the first scream.
A girl.
Then another voice—someone gasping.
Gasps. Whispers. Disbelief.
I looked up.
Observation Deck.
Crowded. Dozens of cadets, professors, instructors—and higher-years who'd already cleared their beginner runs.
They'd been watching.
All of them.
My shirtless torso was carved with cuts and bruises. One of my arms still dripped blood from a torn muscle. My sword was slick, still humming with heat from the kill.
Professor Caldera stared with parted lips. The same woman who had seen something in me before the world had.
Now—she saw it with her own eyes.
Brax whistled low. "Ten levels," he muttered. "Hell of a start."
Veren exhaled, almost like relief.
Then, more voices from the crowd:
"He went alone."
"Level ten? Is that even allowed?"
"What the hell is he?"
One upper-year stepped forward, stunned. "That dungeon was meant to cap at five—and he—he went solo."
"Monster—" someone whispered behind him.
But I was already walking past.
One of the instructors moved to intercept me. "Cadet Kaelen—wait! You need medical—"
I just wiped the blood from my mouth and answered:
"I'm fine."