The first floor of the dungeon—known to the world as Driftpeaks, filled with mountains and misty biomes—had already become a battlefield of information and survival. Word had spread fast: this floor alone stretched like the size of a country, filled with eerie landscapes, bizarre creatures, and traps that preyed on the careless.
Near one of the jagged ridges where Whispering Peaks howled with their strange, ghostly voices, the hunters of guild Black Moondrop had set up camp.
It didn't look like any ordinary camp—no tents of canvas and bare bone structures. No, this was a modern hunter guild's camp: foldable steel-frame shelters, portable generators humming, LED lamps buzzing faintly. A gas stove burned in the middle of the circle, and it had electricity.
At the center of it all was a man, humming as he stirred a pot of soup, the savoury smell of meat and spices filling the air.
