For the next few hours, the tunnels echoed with steel and sweat.
Lucien led the trio through formation drills, ambush simulations, and real skirmishes against the wandering goblins that still lingered inside the Rift.
Every move he made carried the weight of experience.
Every instruction was sharp, precise and born from years of discipline on ancient battlefields.
"Swordman, your stance. Wider. You'll fall the moment you take a hit like that," he barked.
"Yes, sir!" the young swordsman grunted, correcting his posture.
"Archer, your arrows... focus on rhythm, not speed. You shoot faster when you breathe slower."
And then there was Clara. The young mage stood in the middle, her staff trembling slightly in her hands as she muttered the words of a spell. A small orb of flame flickered above her palm, no bigger than an apple.
It shimmered weakly, then burst forward, striking a goblin in the chest. The creature screamed and collapsed.
Lucien froze for a second there.
Magic.
The firelight reflected in his brown eyes, and for the first time since his arrival in this strange world, he felt something close to awe.
He had seen miracles, yes... visions, divine light, acts of faith that defied nature. But this… this was different. It was raw, controlled through will alone.
Clara turned to him, cheeks flushed from the effort.
"I can only cast a few of these," she said shyly. "They take too much mana. After that, I can't move for minutes."
Lucien nodded slowly, still studying the fading flames.
"Then you'll hold your fire unless we're surrounded. Romain takes the rear guard. Léon leads the front with me. Keep formation, always."
The three of them nodded in unison.
Hours passed. Sweat dripped. Steel clashed. And little by little, their movements began to align.
They weren't soldiers yet, but they were starting to move like a unit.
When the last goblin fell, Lucien raised a hand.
"Enough. Rest."
Clara sat down immediately, pulling a small pack from her side and producing water bottles and sandwiches wrapped neatly in paper.
"I made these this morning," she said with a tired smile.
Léon nearly collapsed next to her. "You're a lifesaver."
Romain chuckled softly. "We'd be dead if he hadn't shown up," he said, nodding toward Lucien.
Lucien didn't sit right away. His instincts kept him standing, scanning the tunnels for movement. When he finally joined them, he placed his sword beside him, within arm's reach.
They ate in silence for a while before Léon spoke up.
"So, uh… we never asked your name. Or your class."
Lucien looked at the three young faces staring at him.
"Lucien," he said finally. "Lucien de Mireval."
"De Mireval?" Romain repeated. "That sounds… noble."
Lucien gave a faint smile. "A long time ago, perhaps. My class is Blacksmith."
The three exchanged surprised looks.
"A Blacksmith?" Léon blinked. "But you fight like a Knight!"
Lucien turned his gaze toward the flickering torchlight and said quietly, "Maybe I was one… once."
The group fell silent again.
In that quiet, with the smell of smoke and steel in the air, something like respect began to settle between them.
They pressed on, deeper into the Rift.
Hour after hour, their formation grew sharper, their timing tighter. Lucien watched with quiet pride as each strike, each spell, and each arrow found its mark.
By the time they reached the massive iron doors at the end of the corridor, the trio moved like a proper squad.
The air grew heavy, thick with the familiar tension that came before a boss fight. The doors were carved with runes, faintly glowing blue, and the ground trembled with the sound of something large breathing on the other side.
Lucien stopped a few meters short and turned toward them.
"Very well," he said, voice steady. "You're capable of clearing this kind of dungeon now without much trouble. But never let your guard down. One second of carelessness..." his gaze hardened "and one of your comrades dies."
The three straightened up instinctively.
"Yes, sir!" they shouted in unison.
Lucien sighed and rubbed his temple.
"Stop with the sir. I'm barely older than you."
Léon blinked. "Wait, really? How old are you?"
Lucien looked at him, then shrugged. "Seventeen."
There was a pause.
Then all three shouted at once, "What?!"
Romain pointed at him, half in disbelief. "You're my age!"
Clara gasped. "You're only a year older than us?"
Léon added, "No way... then you must spend all your time in dungeons!"
Lucien chuckled quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Something like that."
He turned toward the door again, gaze fixed on the runes as they pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Now, head back. You've done enough for today."
Léon frowned. "And you? You're not coming?"
Lucien rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. The steel thrummed faintly, that strange mechanical hum he'd started to hear more often lately.
"Me?" he said, eyes narrowing toward the sealed gate.
"I've got an appointment with an old friend."
The torches flickered, throwing long shadows over the stone walls as he stepped forward, alone, toward the boss chamber.