A week passed in a blur of training, mana burns, and dungeon-clearing.
Fenrir's body had undergone a noticeable transformation—tighter muscle tone, better stamina, sharper reflexes.
He no longer stumbled out of gates barely standing.
Now, he walked out calm and steady, earning quiet stares from people unsure how to judge someone so consistent yet low-profile.
His system's body analysis finally reflected the change:
[Attack: 11
Defense: 10
Stamina: 12
MP: 11
Skill: [Skill Shot Lv.1] - Reduces mana consumption for mana-based weapons by 10%]
Fenrir tilted his head, looking at the projection with a small nod.
"Decent,"
He muttered.
Not outstanding by this world's standards, but not bad either—not for someone without any real support system or team.
The Skill Shot ability had activated three days ago after repeated dungeon runs with his mana gun, and it made his fighting just that little bit smoother.
But smooth was not what he needed. It was time to challenge himself.
Fenrir sat cross-legged on his bed, scrolling through dungeon forums, bypassing the ones that sounded too safe. He was looking for chaos.
Something that didn't match its assigned label.
That's when a thread caught his attention:
[WARNING] System Error? This E-Class Dungeon is a Death Trap."
Curious, he tapped it.
Dozens of posts followed—people venting, sharing death reports, injured parties posting screenshots of themselves recovering in hospitals, some even begging the Hunter Association to reevaluate the dungeon's rank.
[Went in with three teammates. Only I came out. It's like the system's blind.]
[My leg got shredded before we even reached the mid-boss. E-class? My ass.]
[It's cursed, bro. Don't go unless you're trying to die.]
Fenrir stared at the screen, intrigued.
If it was a misranked dungeon, then it could either be incredibly dangerous… or the perfect trial ground for someone like him. Either way, he wanted to see for himself.
Just as he was about to close the tab and prep for departure, another post caught his eye. This one wasn't about dungeons—it was an ad on the auction site.
[A-Class Sword – "Wind Vein"
Boosts user's speed and stamina by 10% passively.
Price: 20 million credits.]
The sword itself looked unimpressive.
Too sleek for serious combat, and its stats—apart from the boost—were average at best.
The kind of overpriced weapon rich brats used to decorate their walls.
But Fenrir's gaze lingered on that passive bonus.
'10% speed and stamina.'
That could make a real difference with his current physical limits.
"I'll take it."
He said, clicking the buy button without hesitation.
As the system processed the purchase, Fenrir leaned back, arms crossed behind his head, eyes half-lidded in thought.
Buying items was fine—for now. But ultimately, he knew this method was a temporary crutch.
His mana was unique, turbulent in nature, and it didn't sync well with generic weapons.
Even his mana gun, for all its usefulness, occasionally jolted like it was resisting him.
'Crafting... that's the real answer.'
It was funny, in a bitter way.
Back in his past life, before tyranny twisted his path, crafting weapons had been his quiet passion. He'd never had the resources to go far with it.
Poor materials. Rushed forges. Always settling for "good enough."
But now… now he had access to the best auction house in the world.
He had money. Time. And if things kept going his way, power.
His fingers twitched, as if remembering the weight of a hammer, the sizzle of hot steel under mana-infused runes.
"When I'm ready. I'll forge something that finally listens to me."
He murmured to himself.
He pulled up a few system tabs, searching for crafting materials—just to bookmark. There was no need to rush, not yet.
His mana control wasn't steady enough to pour into a weapon. The last thing he wanted was to burn out rare ore because of impatience.
Still, the thought lingered in the back of his mind like an old promise.
The delivery drone arrived an hour later, dropping the sword off in a velvet-lined box.
Fenrir took it out, testing the weight. It felt light, far lighter than it should have.
When he swung it through the air, the effect was immediate—his breath stabilized quicker, his heartbeat didn't spike as hard. Even his step felt a little springier.
"Not bad. But it's still a substitute"
He said with a grin.
He strapped the sword across his back, eyes now fixed on the system map showing active dungeon gates.
The E-class gate with all the complaints—'Crimson Hollow'—blinked faintly on the eastern side of the city.
No team, no support, no caution.
Fenrir smiled to himself.
"Let's see if this so-called E-class killer can actually kill me."
And with that, he stepped out once more into the chaos.
The moment Fenrir stepped past the boundary of the Crimson Hollow, the air shifted.
A heavy, invisible weight dropped onto his shoulders like chains forged from dread itself.
His breathing slowed, and his vision dimmed slightly—as if the dungeon itself were glaring at him, daring him to crumble.
His fingers twitched near the trigger of his mana gun, but he didn't raise it. Not yet.
"This pressure…It's trying to break me."
Fenrir murmured, narrowing his eyes as the oppressive weight squeezed around his ribcage.
It wasn't just mana saturation. It was more deliberate—like the entire dungeon was built to test willpower.
To make its prey submit before the first drop of blood was ever spilled.
No wonder people said this place was ranked wrong.
He stood still for a long moment, eyes closed, letting the pressure push against him harder and harder.
Bend. Break. Yield.
That was the message the dungeon whispered.
But Fenrir wasn't built to bend.
He clenched his jaw, reached inward to that quiet center of defiance that had always driven him, and pushed back.
"You picked the wrong person to mess with."
The pressure cracked. Then, like a brittle wall collapsing, it shattered completely around him. Fenrir inhaled sharply, the air suddenly lighter, clearer.
His body moved more easily, and his thoughts sharpened.
He took one step forward—only for a monster to leap from the shadows the next second.
Its screech ripped through the cave, a twisted amalgamation of a bat and lizard, with claws the size of daggers.
Fenrir didn't flinch. His gun was already raised.
Bang.
The mana shot tore through the monster's shoulder, spinning it midair before it hit the ground.
Another burst of movement—two more came crawling out behind it, their glowing red eyes locked onto him.
Fenrir didn't hesitate. He fired again, each shot aimed with precision, though each blast left a stinging recoil in his bones.
He rolled sideways, avoiding a swipe from one of the creatures, and emptied another volley into its back.
The battle felt endless, even though it only lasted minutes.
By the time the final creature slumped to the ground in a twitching heap, Fenrir was panting, sweat trailing down his neck.
His arms trembled, and his gun felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
"Damn recoil…"
He muttered, stumbling forward.
He scanned his surroundings, found a jagged opening in the cavern wall, and dragged himself toward it.
The moment he crossed into the shadowed space, he collapsed against the cold stone floor, breath ragged.
The pain in his limbs, the throbbing in his chest—it all screamed for rest.
He didn't argue.
With a quiet grunt, Fenrir leaned back, eyes half-lidded.
"I'll give you this, dungeon… you're not boring."
And in the silence that followed, with monsters' bodies cooling behind him and blood drying on his clothes, he let his body rest—just enough to prepare for whatever came next.