The carriage ride took four hours.

  Long enough for the initial excitement to fade, but not long enough for the tension to disappear.

  Dungeons weren’t places you simply walked into.

  Once discovered, they were catalogued. Their depth measured. Their monster density evaluated. From that moment on, they became restricted zones.

  Management fell to the guilds.

  They didn’t control dungeons in the sense of ownership, but they regulated access. Who entered. How deep they were allowed to go. Under what conditions. The goal wasn’t profit or exploration—it was containment.

  An unstable dungeon could expand.

  A mismanaged one could collapse.

  And either outcome meant casualties.

  That was why entry was tied to licensing.

  The combat license existed as a universal standard. It didn’t differentiate between mages, swordsmen, or hybrids. Only capability mattered. Survival potential. Risk assessment.

  Grades ranged from F to S.

  Each dungeon grade corresponded to a minimum license requirement. Entering below that threshold wasn’t just discouraged—it was illegal.

  Normally.

  There was one exception.

  Party entry.

  As long as at least one member met the dungeon’s required grade, the group was permitted entry. Responsibility transferred to the highest-ranked individual. Any incident, any violation, any deviation—accountability followed them.

  That was the only reason I could be here.

  I didn’t have a license.

  Age restriction made sure of that. No registration before fifteen. Academy or guild—it didn’t matter. Until then, ability went unrecorded.

  Lyra had an A-grade license.

  Which meant that legally, I was her responsibility.

  __

  We finally arrived at the area where the dungeon was located.

  The carriage slowed near the outer checkpoint.

  Stone markers lined the road ahead, etched with the dungeon’s designation. A single letter, carved deep and clean.

  C.

  The gate itself wasn’t grand. Reinforced metal set into natural rock, with a small outpost built beside it. Two guards stood watch, their attention shifting to us the moment we stepped down.

  Lyra handed over her license without a word.

  The change was immediate.

  Posture straightened. Tone sharpened. An A-grade carried weight even when nothing else did. One of them checked the marker again, then glanced at me.

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  Their eyes lingered.

  “He entering too?”

  Lyra nodded.

  Hesitation followed.

  Not suspicion—calculation.

  I could see it in the way they looked me over. No visible insignia. No license. Too young to be here officially, but not young enough to dismiss outright.

  Noble child.

  That was the conclusion they reached without saying it aloud.

  It wasn’t uncommon. Noble families sent their children to dungeons for real combat experience once training reached its limits. Usually around fourteen. Supervised. Controlled. Documented.

  This fit—mostly.

  Except for one detail.

  I was twelve.

  They didn’t ask my name.

  They didn’t recognize me.

  I hadn’t made any public appearances, and no one outside our mansion had reason to know who I was. To them, I was just another early-start case, brought along under an A-grade’s responsibility.

  One of the guards exhaled and stepped aside.

  Lyra lifted her hand, pulling out a small pouch. She dropped coins onto the counter—fifteen silver for the C-grade dungeon. The guard counted once, then again, before nodding and stamping our entry on the log.

  “C-grade clearance confirmed. Party entry permitted under A-rank supervision.”

  I watched the coins slide across the counter.

  Copper, silver, gold.

  One hundred copper to a silver. One hundred silver to a gold. Ten thousand copper to a single gold. Numbers that could be whispered casually by nobles, but in reality meant months of sweat for anyone else.

  A commoner earned roughly 50–60 copper a day. Over a full month, they might scrape together 1,500–1,800 copper.

  A dungeon entry fee of 15 silver was beyond imagination for most. Wages of a month. The math was simple: survival was a priority, adventure was a privilege. It prevented suicidal entries.

  The gate loomed ahead, heavy and silent, waiting to swallow anyone foolish enough—or daring enough—to step inside.

  We stepped inside. The air changed immediately.

  Lyra stayed a few paces behind, her eyes scanning, alert. I could feel her watching every movement, every decision I made. Not with distrust, but expectation. She had the license, the experience, and the authority. I had only training and will.

  The first wave of creatures came—, insect-like things, chitin glinting under the faint dungeon light. I exhaled.

  Light flowed from my hand, spreading evenly. Shadows retreated, revealing every movement of the insects before they reached striking distance. I shaped the uneven floor beneath me into shallow rises and bumps with Earth, stabilizing my footing. My sword stayed loose at my side, ready.

  One of the creatures charged. I shifted Dark toward it—not to harm, but to make it heavier, to slow its momentum. It faltered, stumbling against the invisible weight I applied. Perfect.

  Fire followed—not a blast, just a sudden flare, small and quick, meant to startle and distract. The insect hesitated, confused by the sudden shift of light and heat.

  That was all I needed. Wind followed the swing of my sword, a slicing gust that carried the blade’s edge cleanly into the creature’s side. It toppled to the ground.

  Two more emerged from the shadows. I repeated the sequence: stabilize footing with Earth, illuminate the corridor with Light, slow their movement with Dark, distract with Fire, finish with Wind-enhanced strikes. Each step had to be precise; misjudge timing, and the next attack would hit me.

  Lyra’s eyes followed, calm, calculating. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. Every movement I made was an exam, every success a quiet acknowledgment. I had to apply everything—fire, light, dark ,earth, swordwork—together or fail.

  We advanced like that, deeper into the dungeon, killing monsters on the way. Each step brought a new test.

  I could feel the difference between practice and real combat. Practice had rhythm, predictable timing, even footing. Spells and swings were repeated over and over until muscle memory ruled. But real combat… real combat was messy. The monsters didn’t pause. They didn’t wait for openings. They reacted to my presence, my attacks, my distractions. Each moment required adjustment, each swing a decision in a living equation.

  Deeper still, the corridor widened into a circular chamber. Mana pulsed unevenly through the floor, walls, and ceiling. I sensed it before I saw it—tiny disturbances, pockets where the flow shifted unpredictably. Another monster appeared, larger than any before. Its momentum was heavy, every strike carrying force that practice had never prepared me for. I adjusted with Earth, braced, pressed Dark to slow its step, flared Fire to distract, and slashed with Wind-driven force. It staggered, not downed, but delayed enough to move past it.

  I advanced carefully, combining abilities fluidly, when the ground beneath me suddenly pulsed. Mana tore through the floor in a violent ripple. My body was yanked, displaced, spinning through space, and then I hit hard.

  Alone. The creatures, the corridor, Lyra—all gone. Only the thrum of raw power filled the space. I realized instantly: this was no ordinary dungeon chamber. This was the trap—the teleportation meant for the boss.