The two days passed faster than I expected.

  I spent most of it training—practicing mana circulation, getting used to the way it felt flowing through my body during movement, during combat, during stillness. It was different from just knowing it was there. Actually using it required a kind of focus I hadn't developed yet. Like learning to walk all over again.

  I'd charge forward and the mana would surge too strongly, throwing off my balance. I'd try to reinforce my claws and channel too much, making them brittle instead of stronger. I'd attempt to combine venom with piercing claw and lose concentration halfway through, the two abilities collapsing into nothing.

  Mana is harder to control than it looks.

  But slowly, gradually, I started to find the rhythm of it.

  The mermaid watched from the lake's edge, occasionally correcting me with a few precise words.

  "Less force. You're strangling it, not guiding it."

  "Stop thinking about the destination. Focus on the flow."

  "Your left side is leaking mana every time you move. Fix it."

  She never sugar-coated anything. No encouragement, no praise. Just observations, delivered flatly, like she was reading from a manual.

  But somehow that was exactly what I needed.

  On the second evening, as the underground crystals above dimmed toward their version of twilight, I finally managed it.

  Venom coating my claw—staying on the claw—as I launched it forward.

  The projectile hit a tree across the clearing, and the bark immediately began to hiss and bubble where the venom made contact, eating into the wood with a satisfying sizzle.

  I stared at it, barely believing it had worked.

  I did it.

  "Finally," the mermaid said from behind me, completely unimpressed. "Took you long enough."

  I turned to look at her, unable to keep the grin off my face despite her tone.

  "You could at least pretend to be impressed."

  "I could act impressed," she said, floating closer with that serpentine grace. "But this is to be expected, considering us monsters have more compatibility with mana than other creatures. What matters now isn't that you can use it—it's how efficiently you use it. How skilled you become."

  I tilted my head. "Efficient?"

  She gestured at the lake behind her. "Think of your core like this lake. If you use half the water just to cast a single spell, then in a real fight, you'll run out of mana quickly—even if you have large amounts stored. Having mana but not knowing how to use it efficiently is useless."

  Her blue eyes met mine seriously.

  "That's why more than the total amount of mana, it's important to be efficient at using it. Two fighters with the same capacity—the one who wastes less will always win."

  I nodded slowly, processing this. So raw power isn't everything. It's about control.

  "Here," she said suddenly. "Watch."

  She raised her hand, and I felt mana gather around her—a small amount, precise and controlled. Wind began to swirl in her palm, forming a tight sphere no bigger than an apple. It spun faster and faster until it became a miniature tornado, perfectly contained.

  "This uses maybe... ten percent of my total mana," she said calmly.

  Then she released it. The wind sphere shot forward and slammed into a tree, carving a deep gouge into the bark before dissipating.

  "Now watch this."

  She raised her hand again. This time, I felt a surge of mana—wild, uncontrolled, flooding outward like a broken dam. Wind exploded around her in chaotic gusts, branches shaking, water spraying from the lake.

  When it settled, she'd created another wind sphere—identical in appearance to the first.

  She launched it.

  It hit the same tree and carved an almost identical gouge.

  "That," she said, breathing slightly harder, "used thirty percent of my mana. Same result. Three times the cost."

  I stared at the tree, then at her.

  "That's... inefficiency."

  "Exactly. In a real fight, I could cast that spell three times with control, or once while panicking and wasting energy." She lowered her hand. "Most creatures fight the second way. They throw everything they have at problems until they collapse from exhaustion."

  That's what I've been doing. Just surviving on instinct and brute force.

  "So just because I know how to use mana now doesn't mean I've mastered it," I said slowly.

  "Correct. You have a long way to go, dragon-boy."

  She floated back toward the lake, and I thought she was done with the lesson—

  But then she spoke again, her voice softer.

  "That said, there are some prodigies—or monsters born with absurd gifts—who have so much mana it looks like they never run out, even when they're inefficient." She paused, staring out at the water. "Though usually, creatures with that much capacity also have extremely high sensitivity to mana, so they naturally become efficient anyway."

  Something in her tone made me curious. Almost... wistful?

  "So you can measure how much mana someone has?" I asked.

  "Not precisely without special tools—orbs that measure mana capacity during ceremonies or evaluations. But you can sense the general magnitude if you're trained enough. The scale goes from 0 to 1000."

  My breath caught. A thousand. That's the maximum?

  "What happens when someone has above 900 or 1000?"

  Her expression grew distant, and she was quiet for a long moment.

  "It's extremely rare. I've heard stories—legends, really—of individuals with that much power. They become... figures of legend. Heroes. Conquerors. Calamities." Her tail moved in slow, thoughtful patterns. "With that much mana, they can fight for hours, days even, without exhausting themselves. They reshape battlefields. Entire nations rise or fall based on their decisions."

  She looked at me, and something complicated flickered in her eyes.

  "That kind of power... it changes everything. The world treats you differently."

  That much power, huh?

  I thought about the goblin shaman—how it had filled the entire clearing with flames, how the temperature alone had made the air shimmer. And he is not stronger than mermaid .

  What would someone with a thousand look like? What could they do?

  "Though I've never actually met anyone with that much mana myself," the mermaid continued. "Most powerful creatures I've encountered sit around 400-500 at best . Still formidable, but not... world-shaking. like myself "

  So even she who is so strong does not consider herself too be gifted at all.

  "I see," I replied quietly.

  A comfortable silence settled between us for a moment. The gentle sound of water lapping against the shore filled the space.

  "It feels really nice to talk to someone after so long," I murmured, more to myself than to her.

  But she heard me.

  Her gaze shifted back to me, and something in her expression softened—just for a moment.

  "It sure does," she said quietly. "When there's no hate between anyone... when one can just live peacefully without fear or suspicion..."

  For a brief moment, I saw past the strong, guarded personality she maintained. Saw something vulnerable underneath—like a child with pure intentions who'd been forced to build walls around herself.

  She's been alone for a long time too. Maybe even longer than me.

  "Yeah," I said, because that was the only thing I could say that felt right.

  The atmosphere shifted—growing heavier, more introspective. I could feel the weight of unspoken things between us.

  I decided to change the subject before it became too much.

  "You mentioned that monsters like us have more compatibility with mana—not like other creatures?" I asked.

  She seemed grateful for the shift in topic, her posture relaxing slightly.

  "Yes. Because our cores are more naturally suited for mana absorption and circulation. Also, most monsters aren't intelligent—they survive purely through instinct. That instinctive connection to survival makes mana usage almost automatic for them. An advantage born from necessity."

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  She began counting on her fingers, as if reciting something she'd memorized long ago.

  "Then there are elves, who have strong affinity toward magic itself because of their connection to the World Tree—an ancient source of pure mana. Beastmen are physically stronger and excel at transformation magic, shifting between forms. And dwarves..." She smiled faintly. "Dwarves are masters at creating and using magic tools—enchanted weapons, artifacts, things that store and channel mana mechanically."

  My mind reeled.

  Elves. Dwarves. Beastmen.

  This world really is mythical.

  Though at this point, after everything I'd seen—dragons, phoenixes, magical forests underground—I probably shouldn't be surprised.

  Still, there was one thing she hadn't mentioned. The one thing I needed to know.

  "There are no humans?" I asked carefully.

  The moment the word left my mouth, her expression changed.

  Her eyes narrowed. Suspicion flickered across her face, sharp and immediate.

  "How do you know about humans?" she asked slowly, each word deliberate. "You were born in this dungeon. You said you didn't know much about the outside world. So how do you know that word? How do you know they exist?"

  Damn it.

  I'd slipped. Let my guard down because the conversation felt so natural.

  I didn't reply.

  The silence stretched between us, heavy and uncomfortable.

  She studied my face for a long moment—searching for something, trying to piece together a puzzle she didn't have all the parts for. I could see the calculations happening behind her eyes.

  She's too smart. She's going to figure out I'm not what I seem.

  Finally, she sighed—frustration and curiosity warring in her expression—and decided not to press further.

  "Humans do exist," she said quietly. "In fact, out of all the sentient races, they're the most diverse. They use magic, transformation techniques, and magic tools. They adapt to everything. Learn from everyone. That's what makes them dangerous."

  Relief.

  Hope.

  The feelings surged through me so strongly I almost didn't hear the rest of what she was saying.

  Humans exist. Which means I can meet them. Explain my situation. Try to find Alice.

  "Our first destination after escaping this dungeon," I said firmly, meeting her gaze, "is meeting with humans."

  The mermaid's eyes went wide.

  "Nope. Absolutely not." Her voice was sharp, almost panicked. She moved closer, tail coiling beneath her in agitation. "Let me make this very clear—humans, elves, beastmen, dwarves—all of them view monsters as threats. Kill-on-sight threats. And for us monsters, those creatures are equally dangerous."

  She was right in front of me now, crimson eyes intense, almost pleading.

  "It's instinctively driven into them and us. The moment they see you—a dragon, even a young one—their hands will go to their weapons. They won't ask questions. They won't hesitate." Her voice dropped. "I don't know why you want to meet humans, but I'm telling you right now—it won't end well. You'll be dead before you can say a word."

  The tension between us thickened. The air felt heavier.

  I met her gaze steadily, unflinching.

  "I cannot tell you my full situation right now," I said carefully, choosing each word with precision. "But meeting humans is necessary. I need information. I need to understand this world. And I need to find..." I stopped myself. "...something important. Without trying, I won't know what path I should choose."

  Her tail lashed against the ground—frustrated, worried, angry.

  "You're going to get yourself killed."

  "Maybe. But I have to try."

  "Why?" The word came out almost desperate. "Why risk everything for creatures that will never accept you? You're a monster to them. That's all you'll ever be."

  Because Alice is out there somewhere. And she might be with them. She might need me.

  Because I'm not really a monster. Not yet.

  But I couldn't say any of that.

  "Because I don't have a choice," I said simply.

  She stared at me for a long, tense moment. Then she turned away sharply, tail swishing in irritation.

  "Fine. Do whatever you want," she said, voice tight and clipped. "But don't expect me to clean up the mess when you get a sword through your throat."

  She paused at the water's edge, then looked back at me—expression conflicted.

  "If—if—we're doing this suicidal plan, we observe from a distance first. Far distance. We don't approach until we know exactly what we're dealing with. Agreed?"

  A compromise.

  "Agreed," I said.

  She didn't look satisfied, but she nodded curtly.

  "Though I still don't understand," she muttered, more to herself than me, "why you're so interested in meeting humans—so curious about other creatures—when you're a dragon yourself. Dragons don't usually care about other races unless they're threats or food."

  I looked at her, genuinely surprised. "What do you mean by that?"

  She studied me for a moment, those analytical eyes dissecting every detail of my reaction.

  "Nothing," she said finally, waving a hand dismissively. "Just... thinking out loud."

  But I could tell she was filing away every inconsistency, every strange behavior, every word I said that didn't quite fit what a monster should know or care about.

  She suspects something. She just doesn't know what yet.

  "Anyway," she said, breaking the tension, "let's sleep. We're leaving tomorrow, and it's getting dark now."

  "Yeah."

  As I watched her move back toward the lake, I couldn't help but feel grateful despite the argument. Her knowledge about this world, about magic, about the different races—it was invaluable. More than she probably realized.

  And she was worried about me.

  When was the last time someone was worried about me?

  Before she could disappear beneath the surface, something made me call out:

  "What should I call you from now on?"

  She stopped mid-motion, turning around slowly. Surprise flickered across her face—genuine, unguarded surprise—as if the question had caught her completely off-guard.

  For a moment, she just looked at me. Then a faint smile tugged at her lips.

  "Auralis," she said softly. "That's what you should call me from now on."

  Auralis.

  The name felt important somehow. Like she'd given me something precious.

  Then her expression shifted into a smirk.

  "But I'm still calling you dragon-boy."

  I sighed, shaking my head, but I couldn't stop the small smile.

  She laughed—a short, genuine sound—and murmured something as she turned away.

  "You really are full of surprises."

  And then she slipped beneath the water, leaving only ripples behind.

  I stood there for a moment longer, staring at the lake's surface where she'd disappeared.

  Auralis.

  A name. Not just "the mermaid" anymore.

  We're really doing this. Traveling together. Leaving this place.

  I looked up at the crystal-studded ceiling far above, glowing faintly in the twilight.

  Alice, wherever you are...

  I'm getting closer. I'm learning. I'm getting stronger.

  Just wait a little longer.

  I'll find you.

  I settled down beneath the tree, exhaustion finally catching up to me.

  Tomorrow, we'd leave the safety of the lake.

  Tomorrow, the real journey would begin.

  And somewhere out there—in a world of humans and elves and magic I was only beginning to understand—Alice was waiting.

  I have to believe that.

  It's the only thing keeping me going.