Leaving the Sein Dungeon, Stella clenched her fists, the lingering sensation unreal—like waking from a dream.
She had sat by a bonfire, fully restored her strength, and even… leveled up?
Just by lightly tapping that strange floating panel with her finger, she had grown stronger with almost no effort?
Yes, the souls she spent were earned through hard-fought battles, but still—everything about it felt surreal.
Elves lived, on average, three hundred years. With some training or life-prolonging magic, reaching four hundred wasn't difficult—four times the human lifespan.
Yet an age-old question had always persisted:
Why, with such longevity, had elves never surpassed humans as the dominant race?
The answer lay in two truths:
First, elves had abysmally low fertility rates. Even years of "effort" didn't guarantee a single pregnancy.
Second, elves lacked the insatiable drive to learn that humans possessed.
It was as though the gods had deliberately struck a balance. In exchange for long life, elves learned slowly.
Their intelligence and comprehension were fine, but some unseen force made it harder to master anything unfamiliar.
Adventuring was no exception: elves took far longer than humans to advance their professions.
But inside the Sein Dungeon, that reality had shattered completely.
The few levels she had gained in there—outside the dungeon—would have taken one or two years of grueling training.
One day in the dungeon equaled a year outside.
Stella sucked in a sharp breath, her chest tightening.
Terrifying…
She had to bring her kin here. This could change everything for them.
But first—
She glanced at the sky. The sun was still high. Plenty of time to visit the weapons shop.
The greatshield and lance Maldron had lent her had vanished the moment he did. But her heart still felt the weight of that shield—like a phantom limb.
If she went even a minute without holding a shield, her hands itched.
Buying a lance was simple. Soon, she acquired one that felt like an extension of herself. The spearhead was forged from the horn of a high-tier monster, inlaid with a poison-element magic gem. Even a shallow wound would leave an enemy writhing in toxins.
The shopkeeper explained that, despite its fine craftsmanship, the weapon had languished on the shelf. Poison weapons weren't popular—most adventurers preferred fast-paced battles, not the patience poison required.
So when Stella bought it, the shopkeeper nearly wept from gratitude and gave her a 20% discount.
She turned the spear in her hands, studying the dark-green glow shimmering along its tip. Originally, she had wanted fire or lightning, but when she saw this one, a thought struck her:
The weakness of shield-poke is low damage and wasted time… but if the enemy's poisoned, doesn't that problem solve itself?
I'm a genius. Stella smirked inwardly, already imagining bragging about her cleverness to Maldron later.
Finding a shield, however, was harder. After combing through several shops, she finally settled on a passable one. It worked, but it didn't feel like Maldron's—not even close.
"Well, well, if it isn't the long-ears. What brings you to the weapons shop?"
Just as Stella hugged her new shield and prepared to leave, an unwelcome voice cut through the air.
"Don't tell me you got smacked around by dungeon monsters so badly you lost your weapon while running for your life?"
Her expression darkened instantly.
Three human youths stood blocking her path, all of them wiry and scrappy—classic street punks.
She knew them. Local racists, notorious for harassing non-humans. They'd picked fights with many before, but never dared provoke a silver-ranked adventurer like her.
Have they gotten stronger? she wondered, then dismissed the thought and kept walking.
"My boss is talking to you!"
One lackey reached for her arm. Stella's eyes narrowed, her body tensing—only for the so-called boss to stop him with a hand.
"Didn't we agree I'd practice today?"
The underling backed off, sulking.
"Name's Morgan," the leader said, puffing his chest. "I'm the boss of this street. Heard you're an adventurer, long-ears. Today I'm here to—hey! Don't walk away when I'm talking!"
By then, Stella was several meters away.
"Ya-1, Ya-2! Block her!"
"Got it, boss!" ×2
As the commotion began drawing stares from passersby, Stella let out a long, tired sigh and turned back.
"Scram."
"Oh, got a temper, eh?" Morgan smirked, flashing teeth too white for his filthy attitude. "Relax, sweetheart, just hear me out. No need to be so unwilling."
"What do you want?" she asked flatly, feeling like she was indulging a madman.
"Been feeling lucky lately," Morgan said, voice dripping with smugness. "Turns out, while guarding some rich guy, someone noticed my potential and taught me a combat skill. Heh…"
He peeled off his gloves, revealing a pair of black, glossy hands that gleamed like obsidian.
"This is the technique he gave me—Black Hand! Been dying to test it out. You outsiders will be my first audience!"
Stella pinched the bridge of her nose.
Wonderful. Just a bored thug looking to show off. If it wasn't me, it'd be some other elf, dwarf, or beastfolk.
Guess I'll beat him half to death so he leaves everyone else alone. She lifted her shield.
But Morgan froze the instant he saw it.
"What are you doing?" Morgan asked, brow furrowing as Stella prepared to shield-poke.
"Not fair, not fair!" he yelped, backing up a step. "I'm barehanded, and you've got a shield! How's that fair?"
She almost laughed in disbelief.
"You picked a fight—and now you want to dictate how I defend myself?"
"This isn't a fight," Morgan declared self-righteously. "It's a sacred duel! Want me to throw my glove at your feet as a formal challenge?"
"Utter lunatic," Stella muttered.
She lunged with her spear without warning. To her surprise, Morgan dodged, his movements faster than expected.
"If you've got guts, drop the shield! Fighting with it is cowardly!"
"Yeah! Coward with a shield!" ×2 his lackeys echoed.
A vein throbbed on Stella's forehead. With an irritated flick, she hurled her spear—grazing Morgan's scalp so cleanly that a large patch of his hair drifted to the ground like autumn leaves.
Silence crashed down.
With a dull thud, she dropped her heavy shield, the sound cracking against the cobblestone. Then she cracked her knuckles, her lips curling into a wicked grin.
"Fine," she said softly, menace dripping from every syllable. "Barehanded, I can still beat you senseless."
"Heh…"
Cold sweat dotted Morgan's brow, but he forced a laugh.
"Good! Straightforward!"
Ha! The dumb elf fell for it!
Delighted, he lunged forward, blackened hands gleaming under the sun. This technique boosted his strength—how could some slim, frail elf withstand it?
He'd chosen carefully: no hulking orcs, no muscular dwarves. Too risky.
But this one? Perfect prey.
"Yeah, boss! Get her!" ×2
"Take this! Black—"
CRACK!
Morgan's words cut off as his body sailed through the air like a ragdoll.