Chapter 3 : The Dead Dungeon's (1)
The air train hummed beneath me, a low vibration that was more felt than heard. Outside the window, endless streaks of steel lines and shimmering light painted the horizon. The magnetic rails suspended us midair, a marvel of engineering and mana science, yet to me it felt almost surreal like something I had only skimmed past while scrolling through the webnovel chapters in my old life.
Air trains were designed for speed and silence. Aerodynamic, sleek, capable of gliding at six hundred kilometers an hour while barely disturbing the air around them. From my seat in the private compartment, I could almost believe I was floating above the world itself.
A soft chime rang overhead.
"We will be departing shortly. Please remain seated."
The doors sealed shut with a muted clank. A subtle force pressed into my chest as the train lifted off the platform. My eyes stayed on the glass pane, watching the station fall away as we gained height, the magnetic cables glowing faintly under the evening sun.
Summer lingered in the air, though it was already past nine. Pale gold light bathed the landscape, stretching shadows across the cityscape below. I leaned back against the cushioned seat, stretching lazily, though my thoughts were anything but calm.
I wasn't here for sightseeing. My destination was Ironfang Ridge, one of the broken mountain ranges formed after tectonic upheavals reshaped the world during the Second Cataclysm. Somewhere within its scarred peaks lay a long-forgotten dungeon , dead, abandoned, stripped bare of beasts and traps. Yet hidden in its hollow depths was something only I knew of: the [Limitless] Artifact.
I knew because I had read it in the comments section of the novel.
Or rather, the SBS — "where readers would ask the author ridiculous questions and sometimes get canon-breaking answers. Most of those Q&As were throwaway fun. But one stuck with me.
"Author, is there ever going to be a powerful Axemanship manual in the story? Axes are so underrated!"
The author had replied casually:
"There's only one of that level, hidden in a dead dungeon beneath Ironfang Ridge. But nobody will find it since no character in the main plot uses axes."
At the time, I laughed. Axes? Who wanted to main axes in a fantasy power-trip? The protagonist had swordsmanship cheats, spear prodigies, and aura-based fist techniques. Axes were considered crude heavy, inflexible, lacking grace. In reader forums, axe users were memes at best.
And yet, here I was.
My profession window displayed in plain text:
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Status
Name: Kael Arden
Rank: G
Strength: G
Agility: G
Stamina: G-
Intelligence: G
Mana Capacity: G
Luck: E
Charm: G-
Profession: [Axemanship Lv.1]
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I stared at the word Axemanship every time I opened my status, and every time I felt the same bitter-sweetness. This wasn't the protagonist's sharp and glorious sword path. This wasn't even the brutal spear or the balanced staff. It was an axe. A weapon mocked for requiring only strength, dismissed as "woodcutter's steel."
But I knew better.
Somewhere in that lifeless dungeon lay the only true Axemanship Art Manual — the one that could elevate the profession from ridicule to fear. And no one but me, Kael Arden, reincarnated reader of this world, knew it existed.
The thought stirred something inside me. A mix of apprehension and hunger.
The announcement jolted me out of my thoughts.
"Next stop: Station 24 — Ironfang Ridge."
Through the window, jagged silhouettes appeared on the horizon, mountains that looked more like shattered teeth than peaks. Ironfang Ridge. Born from continents colliding, the earth forced upward until stone split into violent, angular towers. In the novel, it had been little more than a passing setting. For me, it was about to become the birthplace of my new path.
The train slowed, then descended gracefully onto the elevated platform. A hiss of air accompanied the release of the cabin doors. Grabbing the small travel bag at my side, I stepped onto the platform, the last warmth of daylight brushing against my skin.
I inhaled. The air here was sharp, tinged with pine and minerals. Real. Tangible. No matter how many times I reminded myself this was the world of a story I had read, the scents and textures kept telling me otherwise.
"Not a novel anymore," I muttered.
The station was quiet compared to the capital only a handful of people disembarked. Most avoided this region. The Ridge wasn't a place of comfort or beauty. It was a graveyard of stone, its valleys echoing with winds like mournful cries.
Shouldering my bag, I began the trek toward the base of the mountains.
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The climb was harsher than I'd imagined.
"Huff… huff…"
My boots scraped against uneven rock as I hauled myself upward, the bag tugging at my shoulder. The terrain was brutal, a natural defense against the unprepared. No beaten paths, only jagged ridges and loose gravel that made every step treacherous.
I had written off the difficulty in my head, thinking mana would make the climb easier. But I was still only rank G. My stamina drained fast, lungs burning, hands raw from gripping stone.
The only advantage I had was the faint mana circulation I'd managed to learn enough to dull muscle fatigue, not enough to feel like an actual climber's aid.
After two hours of scrambling, I paused against an outcrop, gazing upward. The third highest peak loomed above, its shadow swallowing the sky. That was where the dead dungeon rested.
Unlike other dungeons, which radiated chaotic mana or hummed with beastly presence, this one was silent. Stripped of life long ago, its halls empty, its core extinguished. But because it was dead, it was overlooked.
That was the irony. Everyone hunted living dungeons for beast cores and artifacts. No one bothered with a husk. Which meant the [Limitless] Artifact had lain untouched for decades, waiting for a fool or a visionary.
I wiped sweat from my brow and pressed onward.
By the time the sun began sinking behind the peaks, I had lost feeling in my arms. Fingers scraped raw, legs trembling.
Yet I climbed. Not because I wanted glory, but because this was my only chance. Without the manual and without the [Limitless] Artifact, I was nothing but a side character destined to fade into the shadows of the protagonist's story.
The wind howled, cold and biting, cutting into my exposed skin.
I clung to the rock face, teeth gritted, every movement deliberate. One slip here would mean a long fall and a broken body.
Then I froze.
The air shifted.
Not the natural wind, but something else. Subtle. Ancient. Like a whisper brushing past my ear. My gaze snapped upward, and I spotted it: a protruding slab of stone, unnaturally flat, half-buried against the ridge wall.
Recognition struck like a spark.
In one obscure footnote of the webnovel, a reader had once asked: "If the [Limitless] Artifact exists, how do you find it?" The author had coyly replied: "Look for the stone that doesn't belong."
And here it was.
My pulse quickened. Fingers trembling, I dragged myself closer, pressing against the slab. Beneath my palm, faint etchings revealed themselves — weathered runes, long faded but not erased. The stone wasn't part of the mountain. It was a door.
A door to the dead dungeon.
My chest tightened, not with exhaustion, but with exhilaration.
I had found it.
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