The gate shimmered like liquid glass as Fenrir stepped through it, leaving behind the bright lights of the Dungeon Association and entering a place of stagnant air and unnatural silence.
A cold wind blew past him, rustling the dry, thorny bushes that dotted the narrow canyon-like terrain.
The sky here was a dull gray, the kind of light that made shadows heavy and distances deceptive. This was the F-class dungeon—a place so low-ranked it wasn't even guarded.
Fenrir glanced at his system screen, fingers moving with practiced ease to call up the only function he'd found even remotely useful.
"Body analysis."
He muttered.
A faint hum echoed in his ear as the system responded:
[Body Status
Attack: 2
Defense: 2
Stamina: 3
Mana Power (MP): 2
Skills: None]
His expression didn't shift, but the data left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"What a pathetic shell I've ended up in. But even this… I'll reshape into a weapon.
he thought, closing the display.
He wasn't surprised by the numbers.
After all, this body had barely been kept alive before he took it over.
Still, seeing those stats made everything feel a little more real.
If anyone else had seen them, they'd have laughed him out of the dungeon lobby.
He wasn't laughing.
Instead, he reached for the weapon at his side—a sleek, black mana gun, cold and solid in his grip.
It was a recent invention in this world, and Fenrir had been intrigued the moment he'd seen it.
Unlike traditional guns, this one didn't need physical ammunition. Instead, it condensed the user's mana into solid rounds and fired them like bullets.
He had poured a small fortune into acquiring this one—a high-end model that had a devastatingly high attack power and extremely efficient mana conversion.
Its only flaw was that the recoil was far too much for a weak body like his to handle repeatedly.
He tightened his grip, bracing himself.
A low growl echoed from the shadows ahead.
Fenrir didn't hesitate. He raised the gun and fired.
The mana bullet ripped through the dungeon's heavy air, crackling blue as it tore into the first monster—a low-level goblin.
The creature didn't even scream. It simply crumpled, lifeless.
"One down."
Another burst of growls erupted, and more goblins crawled out from the shadows, their crude weapons raised high.
Fenrir leveled the gun again. He didn't bother moving. He just shot, again and again.
Each shot shook his body like a punch to the chest, but the monsters fell all the same.
His mana was draining faster than he liked. The system buzzed in his head.
[Warning: Mana at 20%. Recommend rest or potion intake.]
"Shut up."
Fenrir snapped, ignoring the ping. He hadn't brought potions. He didn't want shortcuts.
This was a test of endurance. If he wanted to awaken the depths of his strength, he needed to hit those limits.
Another wave of monsters came. He kept firing.
His arms trembled, bruises forming where the recoil slammed into him.
The gun jerked with each shot, and his breath grew ragged. But he didn't stop.
Even when the system gave another warning—
[Mana below 5%. Recoil damage at dangerous level. Advise immediate disengagement.]
—even then, Fenrir ignored it.
He could feel his muscles tearing under the pressure.
His mana pool was screaming, but he gritted his teeth and fired again, blasting apart a final goblin that lunged from the side.
The moment it hit the ground, Fenrir's knees buckled.
He collapsed to one knee, gun clattering beside him. His vision blurred for a moment, his body soaked in sweat, mana twitching erratically through his veins like sparks from a frayed wire.
But he forced himself to move. His fingers curled into the dirt, and he hauled himself upright.
"Keep moving. Use everything. If I want this body to change, I need to break it first."
He reminded himself through clenched teeth.
Pain was a constant. But he welcomed it. Each step forward was a step closer to the version of himself he intended to become.
By the time he reached the dungeon's mid-boss—a horned beast that looked more bark than flesh—he was running on fumes. But Fenrir didn't falter.
He didn't fear death. He had faced it before.
What he feared was weakness.
So he fired again.
And again.
After a full day inside the dungeon, the gate shimmered behind Fenrir as he stepped out, the world beyond it feeling too bright, too noisy.
His legs nearly gave out beneath him, and it took every ounce of discipline to keep standing upright.
His muscles throbbed in protest. His mana veins felt like they were on fire, and every movement sent dull, aching shocks through his limbs.
His body was screaming for rest, for reprieve—but Fenrir ignored it.
He didn't pause even as concerned voices echoed around him.
"Are you okay?"
"Do you need medical assistance?"
"I think he's injured—someone call for a stretcher!"
Fenrir kept walking. His gaze didn't shift, his steps never faltered. He didn't so much as flinch at the hands that reached out for him.
People stared at him with furrowed brows and whispering lips, a few scoffing as their concern was met with cold silence.
"How rude…"
"Probably just another rich brat playing hero."
"Serves him right if he gets himself killed with that attitude."
Fenrir heard it all but didn't care.
He was too used to people either fearing him or misunderstanding him. It didn't matter. Their opinions were noise, and he had no use for noise.
When he finally arrived home, his body practically collapsed into the hallway.
He managed to drag himself to the bathroom, barely able to hold his arms steady as he turned on the water.
Warm steam began to fill the space, soothing the sharpest edges of his pain.
He poured in the healing herbs—an expensive blend bought off the system market—and watched as the water darkened slightly with swirling green and silver threads.
Lowering himself into the bath was like sinking into silence. The warmth of the water invaded his bones, numbing the pain just enough for him to think.
His thoughts turned to the system. With a simple gesture, the blue screen appeared before him again, faintly glowing.
[Updated Body Status
Attack: 3
Defense: 2
Stamina: 3
Mana Power (MP): 4
Skills: None]
Fenrir narrowed his eyes.
"Barely a change. I bled for hours and broke my body apart, and this is all I get?"
He muttered, sinking lower until the water kissed his chin.
He wasn't surprised. Still, seeing it written out like that—it made it all feel so slow. So insignificant.
But then again, he hadn't expected miracles.
This world's system was flawed. It couldn't truly measure what he was becoming.
Even if the numbers remained low, he could feel it—his body was beginning to respond, adapting.
After his bath, Fenrir dried off, dressed in something comfortable, and turned his attention to the items he'd collected.
Most of it was junk—common cores and scraps—but a few were bright with concentrated mana.
He listed only the best ones through the auction house, curious to see what they'd fetch. If his instincts were right, they'd attract more attention than usual.
And attention, now, could be both a weapon—and a trap.