---
I couldn't leave Mira alone among them.
That single thought was enough to make the decision for me.
I stepped forward—and the dungeon answered.
The stone beneath my feet collapsed without warning, liquefying into a thick swamp that swallowed my legs in less than a second. Mud dragged at my balance, cold and heavy, pulling me down as if the ground itself wanted me buried.
Then suppression descended.
My mana froze.
My weapon vanished.
Every external skill—sealed.
Only one thing remained.
A healing clover floated before me, forcibly bound to my hand, its glow steady and merciless.
Then I saw it.
The goblin.
The same one from my first path.
Its grin was unchanged.
The task was simple.
Survive.
---
Path Nine — Endurance and Regeneration
The goblin moved.
Pain followed.
Every strike shattered bone. Every fall drowned me in mud. The swamp clung to my body, slowing my movements, punishing hesitation. Healing too early wasted mana. Healing too late meant death.
I learned that quickly.
I died.
Again.
And again.
Survival wasn't about healing faster.
It was about healing correctly.
Through repeated death, three spells took shape.
Aggressive Regeneration —
A full-body restoration. Flesh closed, bones reknit, organs stabilized—but slowly. Pain lingered, stretched out, unavoidable.
Fifty failures before it stabilized.
Steady Regeneration —
Faster. Cleaner. Efficient.
But shallow. It restored surface damage and moderate wounds, incapable of saving me from fatal injuries.
Eighty failures before consistency.
Then I tried to combine them.
The backlash tore my body apart before either spell could finish.
Again.
And again.
Only when I stopped thinking of them as spells—and instead as functions within a domain—did it work.
A Healing Zone formed beneath my feet.
A star-shaped formation etched itself into the swamp, ancient symbols rotating slowly around its core. Mana from the environment—and from the goblin's own body—was drawn in, cycling endlessly through the formation. Within its radius, even fatal wounds closed, as long as the domain held.
It took over a hundred deaths to stabilize it.
When the goblin finally fell, the swamp dried.
The path opened.
---
Path Ten — Shadow Discipline
Darkness greeted me.
No enemies.
No sound.
Then I died.
No pain. No warning. Just sudden absence.
Again.
And again.
Only after dozens of deaths did I understand.
They didn't kill bodies.
They killed shadows.
The enemies only existed when light touched them. In darkness, they were everywhere—and nowhere. Every blind attempt ended with my shadow being torn apart, my existence severed at its root.
Shadow magic wasn't normal mana manipulation.
It was soul ignition.
Curse Weaver's voice echoed once, distant and cold, explaining what I couldn't perceive on my own. Shadow required concentration inside the soul realm—not the body.
My first attempt burned my nerves instead.
It took one hundred and fifty deaths to stabilize the process.
When I finally coated my blade, it wasn't pure shadow.
Only fifty percent.
The rest was dragon-born shadow fire.
The system hesitated.
Then accepted it.
That was enough.
I didn't fight elegantly after that.
I fought efficiently.
Hands first.
Legs next.
Fear last.
Only one shadow begged.
I gave it an easy death.
---
Path Eleven — Trial of the Doom Bringer
This wasn't a dungeon.
It was a judgment.
The Doom Bringer stood before me—not at his peak, but close enough that the difference was meaningless.
Every spell I cast vanished.
Every domain weakened.
His presence distorted space itself, crushing mana flow, denying adaptation. This wasn't resistance—it was authority. His domain overwhelmed mine because there was no counterbalance. When Nyx had been present before, she weakened it.
Now, I was alone.
One punch split the sky.
Another erased the air between us.
I died hundreds of times without landing a single hit.
At the one-thousand-and-first attempt, my mind fractured.
---
> [Mind and Soul approaching total collapse]
[Emergency vessel granted — 6 hours]
The dungeon released me.
Before I broke completely.
I stood by a lake.
The world felt distant, unreal, as if I were still half inside the dungeon.
Then I heard it.
Crying.
A small boy stood near the academy's garden gate, his face red, breath uneven, fear spilling out in broken sobs. I moved before thinking, crouching in front of him, steadying his shaking shoulders.
His village was ten minutes away.
Mana beasts.
I told him to run inside the academy.
I promised him I would save his parents.
He looked at me like that promise was the only solid thing left in his world.
I ran.
When I arrived, the battle was already ending.
A man stood bleeding, holding a broken spear. The moment a mana bear entered my vision, it struck him down. I killed the beast instantly and rushed to him, trying to heal—
He stopped me.
"Are my children safe?"
I nodded.
That was enough for him.
He died before the spell could take hold.
I ran further.
His wife lay still among the ruins.
Cold.
Too late.
The remaining beasts turned toward me.
Grief replaced thought.
Ten thousand water bullets formed in the air, silent and precise, piercing every mana beast in the village. When it was over, nothing remained that could be recognized as a body.
At dusk, the boy found me by the lake.
"Where are my parents?"
I couldn't answer.
Tears fell—mine before his.
He wiped his face and said quietly, "Don't cry. It's not your fault."
That hurt more than any dungeon ever had.
Ryn exhaustion was deeper than his body. His thoughts felt fractured, stretched thin, as if one more step would cause something inside him to tear completely. He remained by the lake, unmoving, the weight of everything finally forcing stillness upon him.
Aeldir saw it.
And chose not to interfere.
Some states couldn't be interrupted without breaking the person further.
He turned away.
---
Back at the academy, Mira sat silently while Lysandria remained nearby, helping her understand the surroundings and the unfamiliar language. Winter recess had emptied most of the corridors, leaving the halls unusually quiet.
Mira frowned.
Something felt wrong.
She looked up at Aeldir.
"You're hiding something," she said.
Lysandria translated.
Aeldir didn't deny it.
Mira stood.
"Take me to him."
Aeldir hesitated.
Then nodded.
---
They found them near the lake.
Ryn was asleep, his body slumped against the ground, breathing steady but strained. Even in rest, his brow was furrowed, his hand clenched as if holding onto something invisible.
Tears traced silent lines down his face.
Nearby, the child slept as well, curled close, exhaustion finally claiming him. Tear marks stained his cheeks too, dried by the cold night air.
No words were spoken.
Mira stepped closer and knelt beside her brother. She didn't wake him. She didn't touch him at first.
She simply looked.
Then she gently pulled a cloak over both of them, careful not to disturb their sleep.
"He tried," she said softly.
Lysandria translated, though the words barely needed it.
Mira's hands trembled slightly as she rested them in her lap.
"That's why it hurts."
No one replied.
The night passed quietly.