After about an hour of lying still in the cave, Fenrir finally felt his strength beginning to crawl back.
It wasn't much, but it was enough to sit up.
He leaned against the wall, rummaged through his inventory, and pulled out a dull-looking pill. Without hesitation, he popped it into his mouth and chewed with a grimace.
"F-class garbage."
He muttered as the bitter taste coated his tongue.
The pill gave a small jolt of energy to his system—barely enough to lift his arms without aching.
He sighed, reached for another one, and swallowed it down as well. A sluggish warmth crept through his limbs, enough to push him into motion.
It wasn't impressive by any means, but at least he could move.
There wasn't much point in complaining anyway. He had already checked the system's store—twice.
There was nothing higher quality available for his level. The market, while crowded and vast, seemed ironically empty when it came to actual skill-based production.
"Twice the population as my old world. And yet, not even one percent of the craftsman skill level."
He scoffed to himself as he stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders, trying to chase away the stiffness.
Everyone here wanted to be a hunter.
Everyone wanted to swing a sword or blast mana for quick money. Few wanted to spend years learning the slow art of crafting.
Patience wasn't profitable, apparently.
Fenrir, however, knew better.
Production was a hidden gold mine—especially when done right. He didn't even need to compete with the existing market.
All he had to do was provide one consistent, superior product, and he would monopolize it.
With that thought in mind, he forced himself back on his feet, wiping dust and dried blood from his clothes.
His legs protested with every step, but Fenrir's mind was already on the next fight.
He decided to explore deeper into the cave.
Torchlight filtered dimly from bioluminescent fungi along the walls, giving the cavern an eerie glow.
Fenrir kept Wind Vein sheathed across his back for now, gripping the mana gun instead.
The moment he rounded a corner, snarls echoed through the stone passage—and then they came.
The monsters here were different. Bigger. Faster. Smarter.
Their muscles bulged unnaturally, and their eyes burned with a wicked gleam.
Fenrir clicked his tongue and raised his gun, unleashing a shot that barely gave him time to dodge the counterattack.
His movements were sluggish, and the recoil still bit into his arm like a vice.
But Wind Vein, the A-ranked sword he'd bought days ago, pulsed faintly at his side.
The speed and stamina boost it gave him—even if small—let him weave around the monsters just enough to keep from being ripped apart.
It wasn't finesse that carried him through this fight. It was desperation and muscle memory.
Each bullet he fired drained him more, and every sword swing left his body screaming. Yet, he endured, tightening his grip with each passing second.
He didn't retreat. He didn't give up.
"If I fall here, I fall as a king. Not as some gasping rat."
He growled.
Hours passed like that. The cavern opened into a lakeside clearing—dark water shimmering ominously beneath glowing crystals. It looked peaceful.
The monsters guarding it were not.
They surged forward in waves, creatures of scale and sinew, of claws and screaming hunger.
Fenrir faced them all, teeth bared and blood dripping from his wounds.
His gun overheated, so he tossed it aside and drew Wind Vein with both hands. Its weight felt just right now, like an extension of his soul.
Blades clashed with claws. Flesh tore. Screams echoed across the stone walls.
Fenrir fought like a man possessed—driven by instinct, memory, and something darker buried deep within him. Something ancient. Something divine.
By the time the last monster fell, Fenrir was shaking from head to toe. His vision was blurring at the edges, and even lifting his arms felt like lifting mountains. But he had done it.
He had cleared the lake.
He stood, swaying on his feet, and looked around at the carnage. His lips twitched upward in a tired smile. Still alive.
Barely.
With trembling fingers, he reached into his belt and grabbed another pill—the last one.
He shoved it into his mouth and chewed. His jaw ached with every bite. He swallowed, dropped Wind Vein beside him, and sat down on the stone, slumping forward.
His eyelids drooped. Consciousness slipped like water through cupped hands.
Fenrir exhaled one last shaky breath before the world turned black.
______
When Fenrir woke up, his entire body was tingling.
It wasn't the dull pain of overexertion or the sharp stabs of injuries—no, this was different.
It felt like something foreign was flowing into him, feeding his cells, igniting sparks in his muscles.
He blinked rapidly, disoriented, and slowly turned his head toward the source of the sensation.
His hand was submerged in the nearby pond.
Fenrir stared, stunned. I didn't fall asleep next to the water… He was sure of it.
The last thing he remembered was collapsing on the stone floor, far from the shimmering pool.
But now his body was half-curled at the pond's edge, his fingers dipped in its clear surface.
He scanned the area cautiously. Not a single monster signature remained.
No threat. No presence.
Only the pond—and him.
Did he crawl here in his sleep?
It was possible, but it didn't explain the energy flowing into him now. He pulled his hand out and stared at his fingertips. The skin looked newer, healed. More elastic.
He quickly opened the system.
[System Status
Attack: 15 (+2)
Defense: 13
Stamina: 16
MP: 17
Agility: 11
[Skills]
Skill Shot (Lv.1): Mana bullet cost -10%]
Fenrir blinked.
Ten whole points? His stats had increased by ten just from sleeping?
He glanced back at the pond, his mind racing.
Was it the water? Did it contain some rare energy or property that helped recovery and growth?
Normally, he'd be skeptical.
But with how quickly the system updated his stats—and how he felt less like a broken corpse and more like a rejuvenated warrior—he had no other explanation.
The pond was doing something to him.
Without hesitation, Fenrir pulled off his boots, then slid himself entirely into the water.
The temperature was mild, but the sensation was like diving into a pool of mana itself.
His body immediately protested the sudden shift, old wounds aching as they began to repair at a visible rate.
Cuts sealed. Bruises faded. The soreness melted into warmth.
Fenrir leaned back, letting the water soak into every inch of him.
This is no ordinary pond, he thought, eyes closed. It's a hidden artifact, maybe even a leftover of some divine presence.
He didn't understand how or why it was here in an E-class dungeon—but that wasn't important.
All that mattered was that it was his, for now.
He stayed submerged for what felt like hours, monitoring every small change in his body.
His muscles tightened, then loosened. His bones creaked, then settled with more stability. Mana circulated more freely. His veins, once strained and scarred from overuse, now pulsed with power.
Eventually, he felt it.
That moment when the pond's energy stopped flowing into him. A subtle shift, like a candle flickering out. No more absorption. No more healing.
He exhaled and stood, dripping and renewed.
The real training could finally begin.