I've truly become a illiterate.
That was the only thought echoing in Wade's mind as he flipped through the bloodstained book.
I can't understand a damn thing.
Well, not completely incomprehensible—but it felt like a high school dropout staring to a law book. The words were there. The meaning? Slipping through his fingers.
Thanks to Aldwin's memories, Wade understood every technical term scattered across the pages. He could even vaguely trace the connections between rituals and steps. But the deeper he read, the dizzier he felt—until his skull throbbed with frustration. The more he forced himself, the more annoyed he became… until he finally slammed the book shut and give-up.
The gist, though? That much he got:
Through a specific magical ritual, one could transfer their soul into a corpse of the same species. Under the influence of magic, the body would completely transform into the soul's likeness—appearance, voice, even genetic structure. Everything would adjust to match.
Except for one thing.
It was still corpse.
Magic… what a mysterious.
Still, Wade couldn't ignore the possibilities. This book might be his ticket out of the dungeon.
He had tried leaving the dungeon before, but whenever he approached the exit, some strange force blocked him, as if an invisible wall stood in his way.
Every day, he watched adventurers in and out without a care while he remained trapped.
The sacred place he longed for—freedom—was a road others walked without even noticing.
But why? How did Sein Dungeon recognize its Master? Was it tied to the soul? If so, Aldwin's soul had perished long ago—so why did the dungeon choose him?
Or… was it the body? If he abandoned Aldwin's body, would he lose his Dungeon Master status?
After thinking it through, Wade chuckled bitterly. Being Dungeon Master wasn't so bad—certainly more entertaining than a mundane life outside. But humans weren't built for endless solitude. Sooner or later, the silence eats you alive.
This book was worth studying.
"Allocate points," Wade muttered.
If brute force didn't work, he'd use Mana to brute-force his brain instead.
The Intelligence stat on his panel didn't represent IQ per se—it mostly amplified magical power. But magic was all about cause and effect. Why did Intelligence increase magical damage? Because it sped up casting, optimized mana flow, and—most importantly—sharpened one's understanding of magical concepts.
Perfect. That was exactly what he needed.
He dumped points into Intelligence.
E+, D-, D, D+...
Finally, C-.
The cost? Enough Mana to summon a Crucible Knight. Painful—but not as bad as he'd feared.
"Oh… wow," Wade murmured as clarity bloomed in his mind like a lightbulb.
Everything made sense now. Not just the steps, but the reasoning behind them—why each symbol had to be drawn in a specific spot, why each incantation was phrased that way. The fog had lifted.
And then, reality hit him: The Art of Resurrection wasn't quite what he expected.
When the soul moved into a new body, the original body didn't disappear. It remained intact. The soul could shuttle back and forth between the two.
Convenient—except for one messy detail.
The handwriting describing it was a chaotic scrawl, streaked with red ink and angry scratches:
UNSOLVABLE! UNSOLVABLE! UNSOLVABLE!!!
For a heartbeat, Wade tensed. Then he read the side effect—and laughed until his ribs ached.
The original body becomes… an undead.
"Seriously? That's it?" Wade grinned. "Newsflash—I'm already undead."
Crisis averted.
With this, the soul-body dilemma didn't matter. The dungeon could recognize the soul, the body—who cared? He'd have both.
Now he just needed… a suitable corpse and a pile of magical materials.
Unfortunately, the two "donors" who delivered this book had already been fed to his Basilisks for a watery burial. Not even bones remained.
As for material? Some weren't in Aldwin's memories—probably newer materials that appeared in recent years. Which meant they'd have to be bought outside.
Buying wasn't an issue. Jack could handle that.
However…
(***)
"This way, Jack. Leon is waiting for you."
Terl's booming voice snapped Jack from his thoughts as they climbed the marble staircase of the Adventurers' Guild.
His palms were slick with sweat.
It wasn't his first time here—but it was his first time stepping onto the second floor. According to Guild rules, only Silver-ranked adventurers and above were allowed here unless personally invited.
The difference was night and day. The second floor exuded quiet authority, its solemn stillness a stark contrast to the rowdy chaos below. Soundproofing magic muted the downstairs racket, creating a quiet place for the elite.
"No need to be so tense," Terl chuckled. "We just want you to meet your teammates."
"Uh… yeah." Jack's throat felt dry as sand.
In a moment of reckless impulse, he had agreed to join a Raid Team. The Raid Team—the "big shot" of dungeon crawlers. Every adventurer dreamed of this chance.
And now, standing before the lounge door, Jack felt his stomach knot with regret over impulsive decisions to join the raid team. Too late to back out.
The door swung open.
Inside sat a man who could have stepped out of a hero's tale—sunny smile, flawless features. At the sight of Jack, his expression softened into an easy grin.
"You must be Jack," he said warmly. "Terl's told us about you. I'm Leon—'Lion' Leon."
"N-nice to meet you," Jack stammered. The moment he stepped inside, his confidence crumbled like stale bread. His spine bent under the crushing weight of inferiority.
The room was filled with elite. Each adventurer radiated an aura so sharp it made his skin prickle—calm, deadly confidence honed through countless battles.
"Let me introduce you," Terl said cheerfully.
"That masked guy is 'Black Fist' Bedan. Next to him, the dwarf—'Bedrock' Drew. The short one's 'Silver Cat' Maru, and—"
"Who are you calling short?!" Maru snapped, shaking tiny fists.
"Alright, enough chit-chat," Leon said lightly, and the room fell silent as if someone had cut the sound. His voice carried a natural authority that needed no force.
"Jack," Leon continued, his tone pleasant yet probing. "We've heard you know this dungeon well—guiding teams in and out, even discovering unique ingredients no one else has. Surely, that makes you quite the expert?"
Jack forced a laugh, hands trembling.
"Expert? Oh, no, no. Just… got lucky, walked the right path. That's all."
Leon's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"I see. Then, if you don't mind—I have a few questions."
"O-of course," Jack replied, throat tightening.
.
..
...
By the time he staggered out of the Guild, the sun was high and his shirt clung to his back like a second skin. His hands trembled uncontrollably.
Years of scraping by at the bottom had taught him street smarts—confidence born from surviving against the odds. But a morning in that lounge had shattered it. Those Silver-rankers weren't people. They were monster wearing human faces.
In front of his peers, he was a fox among chickens. In that room, he was an ant in a dragon's shadow.
Still—they hadn't seen through him. That was what mattered.
Jack exhaled hard, relief his chest. A shaky smile tugged at his lips.
They were strong. So strong. Leon, especially—his presence alone was suffocating.
With their help… maybe even that thing could be killed.
The image of the gargoyle's flashed in his mind. Fear clawed at him—but so did something else. Resolve.
No more gratitude. No more servitude. My life is just beginning. I will not live chained to some dungeon monster.
Jack lifted his gaze to the sky. The sun blazed bright and merciless, but to him, it looked like freedom itself.
"My new life… is only just beginning," he whispered.
He barely finished the thought when movement caught his eye.
Huh? Why is that guy running—
Wait… toward me?
Pfft—
The cold bite of steel pierced his heart before the question could form.
Jack froze. His mind went blank.