I reached the dungeon at dawn.
I had slept barely two hours.
The guardian stood before the sealed entrance like a living wall.
He was young—no older than twenty-eight—but the density of his mana pressed against the air itself. Muscular. Disciplined. Wrapped in full knight armor traced with pure gold trim. An S-rank. His black eyes were sharp and unreadable. A long sword rested at his side, a large mana crystal embedded between hilt and blade.
"Identification," he said.
I raised my insignia.
He traced a sigil through the air. The lion's eyes on my badge flared brittle red. The barrier responded instantly, parting without a sound.
The dungeon lay beneath the castle, buried deep enough that even locating it required memorizing the academy manual. I had learned one thing quickly about Elfiriah Academy—it never stopped surprising me.
The moment I stepped forward, the world shifted.
Blue flames ignited along the prison chambers lining the circular lobby.
Teleportation.
The dungeon entrance functioned as a convergence point: six prison-like gates arranged around a central tower. Those near the tower descended via rotating stairs. Those farther away were summoned directly.
The flames beside me brightened.
The princess appeared.
For a moment, I didn't react.
Then I understood.
This was the dungeon lobby.
"Why are you here?" Lysandria asked, confused. "Aren't you usually with Aeldir?"
I didn't answer.
The Curse Weaver's condition echoed in my mind.
Do not speak in this vessel unless it concerns dungeon clearance or survival.
I shook my head once.
She frowned—but before she could speak again, the gate opened.
I moved first.
The bow formed in my hand—pure mana, fire shaping its body while shadow-flame condensed at the arrowhead. I surged forward at a speed no student could match.
Goblins scattered.
They were slow. Loud. Poorly trained.
Thirty died before they understood they were being hunted.
The remaining swarm turned toward Lysandria.
I heard it then.
A scream.
I reversed instantly.
She was surrounded—nearly fifty goblins pressing in. Blood stained her leg. Her insignia glowed blue, a protective shield holding just long enough.
I loosed a single arrow.
It spun midair, splitting into sparks that landed lightly on each goblin's armor. They laughed.
Then I snapped my fingers.
They became ash.
The guardian arrived a breath later.
One swing of wind mana erased the remaining stragglers without collateral damage.
"You should stay together," he said sharply.
Then his gaze fixed on me.
"I know what you are," he said calmly. "If you fail to escort her safely, I will kill you. Student insignia or not."
I nodded.
Lysandria tried to stand—and collapsed again.
"I'll call a medic," the guardian said.
"No," she replied through clenched teeth. "I have emergency potions in my room."
He studied her briefly. "…Then take her."
I hesitated only a fraction of a second.
I did not lift her against my chest. I did not carry her in my arms.
Mana condensed silently.
The sword manifested behind me, sliding across my back and shoulders, its edge dulled and suppressed.
I steadied it with both hands, keeping my body completely out of reach as she settled onto the flat of the blade.
Her weight never touched me.
She noticed.
Her breath hitched—but she said nothing.
The guardian's eyebrow rose slightly. He understood.
I suppressed my mana completely.
"Hold on," I gestured.
She stiffened at the sudden absence of mana—but complied.
I ran.
The corridors blurred. Senior students noticed only a swift rush of air. One froze. Another laughed it off.
The third listened.
I didn't slow.
Stairs. Turns. Levels.
"My room is on the next floor," she said weakly.
I ignored it.
"Room thirty-seven," she snapped.
I corrected course.
Her door opened silently. Her roommate slept, unaware.
I guided the sword down and transferred her gently onto the bed. Only then did the weight leave my hand.
The time limit burned.
Purple-black light devoured the edges of my vision.
"Thank you," she whispered, eyes fixed on my mask.
Then I vanished.
Footsteps echoed moments later.
Three senior girls entered, alert and suspicious.
"What was that light?" one asked.
"A healing spell," Lysandria replied evenly. "It failed."
She shifted slightly, wincing.
"There's an emergency potion attached beneath my bed. Hand it to me."
One of them frowned but complied, retrieving the bottle and passing it over.
"You should report this," another muttered.
"I will," Lysandria said calmly.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Only then did she realize—
He had carried her without touching her even once.