The stone corridors of Marlow’s ruins stretched endlessly before the party, worn smooth by centuries of decay and coated in dust that clung to armor and boots alike. Prince Cillian’s boot heels echoed against the ancient stone as he led the vanguard, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Two weeks had passed since they had first set foot in the ruins, and the frustration was beginning to show on his face. The outer area around the dungeon proper had been manageable—goblins, simple ambushes, and scattered traps—but progress had slowed drastically as they penetrated deeper into the labyrinthine complex. The first floor had required three days of careful clearing, and now they stood on the 18th floor, exhausted yet alert.

  Even with their training and experience, the sheer number of foes they had faced had been staggering. Hundreds of goblins, and then hobgoblins, had filled the early levels, leaving the corridors littered with bodies. Despite their numerical advantage and superior skill, the troops had been forced to move cautiously; goblins were cunning in their stupidity, capable of ambushes, traps, and misdirection that could easily turn a straight march into chaos.

  Three hundred men had been left outside the dungeon to guard against any unseen forces while the remaining hundred soldiers—Cillian’s vanguard—moved cautiously through the floors, followed closely by a contingent of adventurers and the temple envoys. The vanguard’s job was simple in concept but brutal in practice: clear the dungeon, survive the traps, and ensure the cleanup force of adventurers could operate without interference.

  Cillian’s eyes swept over his companions, noting the subtle ways each contributed to the survival of the group. Vel Auilinwood, the elvish Royal Forest Guardian, had proven indispensable. Her bow, strung with taut golden threads of elven craftsmanship, sang with precision. Every arrow found its mark, neutralizing scouts and triggering traps with uncanny timing. Her keen senses had warned them of dangers minutes before any human soldier could have noticed.

  [Vel Auilinwood | Age: 22 | Race: Wood Elf | Level: 60 | Main Class: Royal Archer | Sub Class: Spirit Summoner | Title: Royal Forest Guardian, Daughter of the Forest]

  Cillian allowed himself a brief nod of approval. “If it weren’t for Vel, I’d probably be writing funeral arrangements instead of leading this mission.”

  Next, his gaze fell upon Luim Trill, the temple monk and master of Qi-based martial arts. Cillian had seen many Qi masters during his campaigns, but Luim’s style was unlike anything he had witnessed. With a flurry of punches and kicks, the monk moved with such speed that goblin after goblin was reduced to bloody pulp before they could react.

  [System Observation – Luim Trill | Age: 42 | Race: Human | Level: 60 | Main Class: Brawler | Sub Class: Priest | Title: Monk, Protector of Light]

  The monk’s gauntleted fists hammered with precision, each strike carrying the weight of energy channeled through years of practice. Yet Cillian also noted the exhaustion creeping along the monk’s expression—despite decades of training, the relentless pace of the dungeon was taxing even someone of Luim’s caliber.

  Then there was Saintess Liliam Minelle. Initially, Cillian had been concerned for her well-being; the young woman, barely eighteen, seemed delicate beneath the heavy robes of the temple. But as battle after battle wore on, she revealed herself to be a backbone for the vanguard. Her buff spells were cast with preternatural efficiency, healing injuries before they became serious, sustaining momentum in ways that impressed even the hardened prince. And then he had noticed it—subtle, almost playful—a flicker of golden fur wagging behind under her dress during a moment of casual observation after a light praise of her abilities.

  [Lilian Minelle | Age: 18 | Race: Demi-Human | Level: 45 | Main Class: High Priestess | Sub Class: White Archmage | Title: Saintess, Maiden of Light]

  Cillian had not been the only one surprised by her demi-human traits; her abilities complemented her combat presence in a way that was both rare and effective.

  The two paladins, Sunette and Agitha, were an unstoppable wall of steel and divine conviction. Black-plate armor glinted in the torchlight, white accents highlighting their twin towers of strength. Shields raised, weapons poised, they practically steamrolled through enemies like they were nothing more than sandcastles.

  Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

  [Sunette | Age: 25 | Race: Human | Level: 50 | Main Class: Knight | Sub Class: Priest | Title: Paladin]

  [Agitha | Age: 27 | Race: Human | Level: 50 | Main Class: Knight | Sub Class: Priest | Title: Paladin]

  The paladins’ presence allowed the adventurers and soldiers to advance without fear of being overrun, their combination of defense and offense creating a corridor of safety amid the chaos.

  For days, the party carved a bloody path through the ruins, clearing goblin forces that had once seemed insignificant but had now proven relentless. Every floor was a warzone of cunning ambushes, pits, and minor horde attacks. Their pace was slowed not by strength, but by the careful calculation required to avoid turning their own numbers into fodder.

  But the relative safety ended abruptly at the 16th floor. A warband of orcs had entrenched themselves there, far stronger and more disciplined than the goblins they had encountered. The clash was immediate and brutal.

  Cillian’s sword flashed as he commanded the frontline. “Formation! Shield wall forward!”

  The paladins moved in unison, absorbing the initial charge while Vel’s arrows whistled through the air, felling the largest of the orc fighters before they could close. Luim’s fists tore through clusters of orcs with precision, and Saintess Liliam’s buffs ensured the soldiers could withstand the punishing strikes.

  The battle was grueling. Orcish strength and cunning made every step forward a challenge, and the vanguard took casualties despite their skill. But the real terror came once the orc warband was forced downward—toward the 18th floor, trespassing into the domain of the Direwolves.

  Golden eyes emerged from the shadows, and snarls echoed through the corridor. The Direwolves, guardians of the deeper floor, struck with the coordinated ferocity of the orcs themselves. Cillian’s heart sank as the first massive wolf lunged.

  “Fuck! Vel! Positions!” he barked, and arrows flew in perfect sequence, cutting down the first attackers before they could reach the line.

  Luim pivoted, fists and feet moving with unparalleled speed, shredding wolves with movements that seemed almost superhuman. Saintess Liliam flared in power, her spells keeping both soldiers and adventurers alive as the combined pressure of orcs and wolves threatened to overwhelm them.

  Cillian’s own blade danced between them, striking with deadly efficiency, combining swordplay and elemental spells to cut through the relentless onslaught.

  Despite the chaos, an unsettling pattern emerged—the orcs and wolves fought ferociously but never descended further into the 19th floor. They had reached the invisible boundary of fear. Whatever lay beyond was enough to drive them into submission, to refuse further advance even in death.

  “Floor nineteen…” Cillian muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the clash of steel and roar of beasts. The vanguard held the line, but the aura of dread was palpable. Every soldier, every adventurer, felt it in their bones: something waited below that none dared approach.

  By the time the fight subsided, the 18th floor was a massacre. Cillian’s men were battered, exhausted, and bloodied, yet alive. He took a slow breath, surveying the carnage. Goblin, hobgoblin, orc, and wolf bodies littered the hall, marking their hard-won victory.

  He looked at his companions, his eyes taking in the disheveled but triumphant forms of Vel, Luim, Liliam, and the paladins.

  “Everyone… regroup,” he commanded. “We’ve survived. But the next floor… I can feel it.”

  Vel’s emerald green eyes met his, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “I thought you said we were professionals, Cillian. This is just another day in the ruins, isn’t it?”

  Cillian’s gaze darkened, calculating. “Professional doesn’t mean invincible. Floor nineteen is… different. Keep your focus.”

  The soldiers and adventurers cleaned their weapons, tended the injured, and strengthened their formation. They could all feel that what lay beneath was beyond the known threats of Marlow’s lower levels.

  Cillian crouched slightly, brushing dust from his armor. “The numbers, the strength… It’s like the dungeon itself is organizing the defenses now. The monsters… they’re scared of something below. That is our next obstacle.”

  He glanced at Vel. “You, keep your eyes open. Something is waiting for us, and it won’t be small.”

  Her bow tightened in her grip. “We’ll see it together.”

  The vanguard rested briefly, each member aware that their survival had been a combination of skill, luck, and unyielding discipline. Floor nineteen awaited them, an unseen menace cloaked in silence, its presence palpable even through the cold stone beneath their feet.

  Cillian sheathed his sword, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. He had trained for campaigns, political intrigue, and the battlefield—but nothing could fully prepare him for the unknown lurking below.

  “Ready yourselves,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “Because from here I sense, luck alone won’t be enough.”

  And as they set their sights on the stairwell leading down, the shadows of the 18th floor stretched long behind them, a grim reminder of the cost of survival—and the horrors that might wait below.