The Adventurer's Guild was already buzzing when morning came. Armor clattered with every movement, boots thudded across the wooden floor, and voices overlapped in a dozen conversations. The scent of roasted meat from the kitchen mixed with sweat, leather oil, and faint traces of smoke from the fireplace. It was chaotic, noisy, and alive, yet every sound carried a sense of order, as if this constant noise was the heartbeat of the guild itself.
Eron slipped in through the side door, adjusting the strap of his hiking bag. He had come only to look around, to see how things worked, not to join anything. But the atmosphere pulled at him, and before long he found himself drifting toward the main hall where announcements were made.
Near the western wall, a group stood apart from the rest. Their cloaks were marked with the silver-threaded crest of a snarling wolf. Even without the emblem, the way they moved and spoke made their rank obvious. These were Silver Ranked adventurers, professionals, the kind of people everyone else instinctively gave space to.
Eron lingered at the edge of the crowd, meaning only to watch. Yet before he realized it, he had stepped into the loose line of recruits forming in front of the wolf-crest party.
The leader of the group, a scar-faced swordsman, scanned the hopefuls with cool, practiced eyes. His hand rested casually on the hilt of a longsword strapped across his back. His voice cut across the hall. "Stone Maw Dungeon. Standard dive. We need three porters. You'll carry supplies, carry loot, and follow orders. No more, no less. Pay upon return."
Beside him, the mage, a tall man in blue robes with a staff capped by a glowing crystal, let his gaze sweep across the line. His lip curled into a faint smirk as he pointed with the tip of his staff. "You," he said, choosing a burly bald man. "And you." His staff angled toward a wiry youth with sharp eyes. Then, after a pause, he pointed straight at Eron. "And you. The one who looks like he'll fold first."
Snickers rose around them. Heat crawled up Eron's neck.
The bald man grunted, sizing him up. "Try not to slow me down, bumpkin."
The wiry youth smirked. "He looks softer than bread. He'll be crying before we hit the stairs."
Eron pressed his lips together and said nothing.
---
They were loaded with gear outside the guild: spare weapons, rations, coils of rope, camping tools. Packs bulged with weight, straps groaned under strain. Eron was given the heaviest bundle. The leather straps bit into his shoulders the moment he lifted it.
"Good," the mage muttered. "At least the mule has strong legs."
The archer chuckled from where he leaned against the gate, bow across his shoulders. "Maybe he can light our torches too. Candle spark's good for something."
Eron exhaled slowly and adjusted the pack, jaw tight.
---
The march to Stone Maw was steady, the group moving like soldiers who had done this countless times. The porters trudged behind, bent under their burdens. The adventurers spoke among themselves in low voices, efficient and clipped.
"The first floors are clear this week," the scout reported, a lean man with eyes that flicked constantly over the path. "No major movements on record."
"Good," the leader said. "We'll aim for Floor 10. No deeper this time."
The healer, a quiet woman in pale robes, frowned slightly. "The air feels strange around the ridge. Like the currents are pulling harder than usual."
The mage scoffed. "Every dungeon feels strange if you think too much about it."
The archer smirked. "Save the worrying for when the pay runs out."
The bald porter shifted his pack with a grunt. "Feels heavier than the kid's."
The wiry one laughed. "That's because spark-boy's carrying nothing but pride."
Eron kept his eyes on the jagged maw of the dungeon ahead, ignoring them.
---
Stone Maw Dungeon swallowed them in silence. The air turned damp, carrying the stench of moss and rust. Torches lit their way, their flames sputtering against the weight of the dark. Each step echoed as though the stone itself were listening.
Eron adjusted to the rhythm of the march: shield-bearer in front, the leader close behind, mage and archer in the middle, healer trailing, porters at the rear. Orders came short and sharp.
"Shields steady."
"Scout, check the corners."
"Porters, stay in line."
The corridors twisted, damp stone narrowing then widening again. Water dripped from the ceiling in irregular beats. Eron's chest tightened with every step.
This isn't a game, he thought. If something happens, there's no reset. Just teeth and blood.
---
Their first enemies came quickly. Goblins skittered from a side passage, yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. Their rusted blades flashed as they shrieked and charged.
"Front!" the leader barked.
The shield-bearer absorbed the first impact, metal ringing. The mage thrust his staff forward, flame bursting from the tip. The goblins shrieked as fire engulfed them. Arrows whistled, striking throats and skulls with cruel precision.
It was over in seconds.
Eron's pulse hammered anyway. The stench of burnt flesh filled his nose. His palms were slick against the straps of his pack.
One goblin darted past the chaos, dagger raised, sprinting toward the rear.
Eron's body moved before his mind. A spark leapt from his palm, weak and small, striking the goblin's chest. It stumbled just long enough for the leader's sword to cleave it in two.
The goblin fell at his feet, eyes still wide, dagger clattering across the stone. Blood pooled quickly, the metallic smell choking. Eron froze, staring at the corpse. He had never killed anything before. Not like this. His throat went dry.
The mage turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "Stay back," he snapped. "Don't waste your candle sparks."
The others laughed. Even the porters smirked.
Eron bit the inside of his cheek and said nothing.
---
By the time they reached the seventh floor, sweat gleamed on brows, though not from exertion alone. The scout crouched at the mouth of the corridor, eyes narrowing.
"…Strange," he murmured. "No slimes. No goblins. Floor 7 should've been crawling by now."
The healer shifted uneasily. "The air feels heavier the deeper we go. Like the mana's been… dragged down."
The mage dismissed it with a flick of his hand. "Monsters wander. It happens."
The leader's voice was firm. "Whatever the case, stay sharp. We adapt."
Eron followed quietly, ears straining. He heard only the drip of water, the shuffle of boots, the faint rattle of his own breath.
---
They entered a wide chamber. The torchlight barely touched the far side. The ground was rough, clawed in places, littered with bones. The smell hit first—wet fur, copper, and musk.
Then came the growls. Low, rumbling, vibrating in his chest.
Red eyes flickered in the dark. One pair. Then three. Then half a dozen.
"Wolves," the scout hissed. "Too many."
The first lunged. The shield-bearer met it with a slam, steel ringing. Another darted to the side, but an arrow caught its flank. More came, larger than expected, with thick fur and gleaming fangs.
"These aren't Floor 7," the healer breathed. "They're stronger…"
The wolves struck in waves. Steel clashed. Fire roared as the mage hurled a blazing orb into their ranks. The leader cut down another with a single, precise swing.
Eron stumbled back, clutching his pack, breath shallow. Too fast. Too real. If one breaks through, I'm dead.
One did, snarling, jaws wide. The archer's arrow pierced its eye an instant before it reached him. Blood sprayed across the stone, hot and real against his cheek.
The battle raged for minutes that stretched like hours. The wolves circled, snarling, leaping at weak points. The shield-bearer's arm buckled under a strike. The mage gritted his teeth as his flames flared brighter, scorching fur and flesh. The leader's sword never slowed, cutting a path through the dark.
When it was finally over, the chamber reeked of blood and smoke. Charred corpses smoldered. The shield-bearer's arm dripped with blood. The archer hissed as he pressed a cloth against his thigh, where a wolf's fangs had torn through the fabric. Blood seeped quickly, but he stayed upright, bow still clutched tightly in his hand.
The healer worked quickly, hands glowing as she murmured prayers. Cuts closed, bruises faded, but exhaustion lingered in every face.
"They're wolves from Floor 8," the scout said grimly. "No mistake. What are they doing here?"
The leader wiped his blade clean with a rag. His face was hard. "Doesn't matter. We move forward."
The healer frowned, lowering her staff. "If monsters from deeper floors are rising… something's disturbing the balance."
The silence that followed carried more weight than their packs. Even the usually smug mage said nothing.
At last, the leader gave the order. "Form up. We dive to Floor 8."
The torches sputtered as they moved on, shadows stretching long across the walls.
Eron walked at the back, silent, watching blood drip from his pack straps where a wolf's claw had grazed it. His legs were steady, but his mind was racing. He didn't fully understand what the others feared, only that the tension in their voices said enough.
Something was wrong with the dungeon.
And they were walking straight into it.