Chapter 4: A Child Entered the Dungeon

Finally, the wagon stopped with the screech of wheel brakes as the horses ceased taking another step.

Silvester had to stay hidden in the tight supply sack under the wagon bar for thirty-six hours. His young body felt so sore that he could feel his back aching and cramps in his legs from staying motionless during the journey.

Through his Close skill, he suppressed his hunger, locked away his thirst, and contained his internal body heat against the cold forest air. To the outside world, he was no different from his bag of lockpicks.

Voices began to sound above the floorboards. They were sharp, strong, and filled with the pride of veteran adventurers.

"Listen, everyone! Unload the magic potion boxes first! Get the tents and wall post sets up before nightfall! The wind is quiet, so stay observant!" Silvester couldn’t see the speaker, but he was sure it was a huge man carrying a broadsword.

"Sir Adam, the guild leader wants the offensive team at the open entrance of the dungeon within an hour. The number of beasts on the top floor is higher than usual," said a young man’s voice.

"Let them be," a loud, deep voice answered. His movements were heavy, marked by the clank of full steel armor standing in the dirt. "Additional monsters will serve as a warm-up for our offensive team. Now, move, warriors!"

Silvester waited a short while until the footsteps in heavy armor faded away toward the main camp.

He activated his Locksmith’s Eye and shifted silently to peer outside. The world out there hummed with power. The campsite was filled with the smell of fresh air, grilled meat, horse sweat, and the sensation of raw mana threads rising from the earth.

He slipped his tiny hand out, touching the inner mechanism of the heavy metal lock securing the wagon’s supply crate.

Open.

Click.

The four internal pins lifted and shifted together. Silvester caught the shackle before the lock could hit the ground, opening the wooden door just enough to see out.

Cold, foul air rushed into the tight space, carrying the sour odor of rotten meat and the sulfuric stench of the Southern Novarian Dungeon—a name he had overheard from one of the mages during the journey.

Silvester slipped out and dropped onto the oily ropes, making almost no sound as he touched the ground. He stayed low and checked if anyone was still near the wagon. Once sure, he reached up to the lock and used his Close skill. The metal lock clicked back into place with a reverse push.

No one would ever suspect the box had been opened.

Sliding carefully between the wagon wheels, Silvester looked toward the main camp.

A wide staging area stood near guards at the mouth of a massive cavern that looked as though the ground had split open for miles. Fog clung to the upper ceiling while a purple mist drifted up from the dark depths where sunlight could never reach. Beams from magic stone searchlights atop wooden watchtowers were focused on the cavern’s grand arch—the entrance to the first floor of the dungeon.

More groups milled about. Some were burly men clad in monster hides with massive war axes on their shoulders; magic users wore fine robes and carried staves; guards bore heavy shields.

It appeared he was about to witness a full-scale guild raid.

Silvester focused on their power rather than their faces.

With the help of his Locksmith’s Eye, thin lines of mana became visible. Every fighter had their own magic pool, but the way the mana behaved around them differed wildly. Low-skill fighters had loose, leaking mana threads that drifted from their skin like steam from a warm cup of tea. The mana threads around the veteran fighters led by Sir Adam moved with discipline, wrapping tightly around their bodies.

Silvester locked his gaze onto Sir Adam’s party of five: Sir Adam, clad in full steel armor with a broad blade strapped to his back and a shield on his arm; the three-star mage, Julian, a heavy-set woman holding a tall staff topped with a blue magic stone; Arnold, a gaunt mage-archer carrying a bow and quiver; and two scouts wearing lizard-leather coats with war axes slung over their shoulders.

"Keep the four-corner formation as we move deeper into the tunnel," Sir Adam ordered, his voice echoing inside his steel helmet. "We reach the tenth floor by nightfall. Don’t waste time on minor monsters."

"Understood, Captain," Julian answered, adjusting her silk robe. She gripped her staff, and her mana threads began to surge.

Silvester watched Julian’s casting technique with quiet, analytical wonder.

To an ordinary observer, a three-star mage casting a spell was a display of high-tier magic—flashes of light, ancient chants, and summoned elements—but to Silvester, it was a simple assembly line.

To form a basic level-three magic wall, Julian had to draw power from her core, channel it through three nodes in her left shoulder, pass it through four nodes in her arm, and release it from her fingertips. The entire process took her 1.5 seconds.

"So slow," Silvester thought, remaining hidden in the shadows. He kept his heart rate at fifteen beats per minute while maintaining a primed flow of magic in his shoulder pathways, ready for immediate release. He could cast far faster, though if hit in the shoulder while primed, the entire spell path would overload and detonate.

The party stepped past the massive iron gates, heading down into the dark, sloping tunnel that led to the dungeon’s first floor.

Silvester trailed them, staying fifty paces behind.

The dungeon was vast and freezing, damp with water dripping from stalactites overhead.

The walls were composed of smooth black stone, with faint blue flora glowing inside the cracks. The air grew thick, and dense mana pressed down with increasing weight as they descended.

Sir Adam’s party moved with practiced efficiency.

When a swarm of six-foot-tall, iron-skinned insects with razor-sharp mandibles scuttled down from the ceiling, Sir Adam didn’t even slow. Stepping forward, his broadsword blazing with a red aura, he bisected three of the beasts in a single swing.

Behind him, Julian raised her staff.

Click.

Click.

Click.

From Silvester’s perspective, the visible nodes inside Julian’s arm snapped into sequence. A lance of condensed blue lightning shot from the tip of her staff, incinerating the insects and melting sections of the stone wall into molten glass.

"Nice kills," Sir Adam grunted, wiping black monster blood from his blade. "These upper floors are a piece of cake. Let’s keep moving."

The party laughed, chatting comfortably as they descended toward the winding paths of the lower floors. Confident in their strength, they treated the dangerous descent like a stroll through a garden.

Fifty steps behind them, moving silently through the deep shadows near the cavern ceiling, Silvester followed like a ghost.