The air on the second floor was thicker, carryng the iron-rich stench of stronger prey. High Goblins and High Orcs—creatures that would be a nightmare for an average B-Class squad—stood in their path. They were larger, armored in crude iron, and possessed a flicker of cruel intelligence in their eyes.
It didn't matter. To this party, they were just slightly larger ants.
"Formation Delta. Don't waste mana," Mosin commanded. His voice was a calm tether in the damp darkness of the dungeon. He didn't even lift a hand; his psychic influence rippled outward, subtly slowing the Orcs' reflexes just enough to make them walking targets.
Meijin was a blur of silver and shadow. He didn't just kill; he erased. One moment a High Orc was raising a rusted greataxe, the next, its throat was a fountain of dark gore before it could even register the Assassin’s presence.
"Too slow," Meijin whispered, flicking blood off his blade as he stepped over a decapitated goblin. "Michael, you're missing the one on your six."
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
Michael didn't even turn. He stepped back, slamming the rim of his massive shield into the skull of a sneaking Lone Wolfthat had leaped from the shadows. The sound of crushing bone echoed through the corridor. "Got it covered, kid. Focus on your own sector."
Behind the wall of steel, Mythy walked with his hands tucked into his pockets. The 13-year-old S-Class Mage looked profoundly bored. Occasionally, a wolf would try to bypass the vanguard, lunging toward the rear. Mythy wouldn't even chant. A small, concentrated spark of mana would flare from his shoulder like an automated turret, vaporizing the wolf's head mid-air before it could get within three meters of him.
"This is a joke," Mythy muttered, his voice cracking slightly with the remnants of childhood. "Mosin, why are we even bothering with the small fry? I could just level this entire floor and find the stairs in five minutes."
"Logic, Mythy," Mosin replied without looking back. "We don't know why the exit sealed. Until we understand the 'Log' of this place, we conserve resources. Stomping ants with a hammer is a waste of a hammer."
They moved through the second floor like a hot knife through butter. Every ambush by the Lone Wolves was predicted, every High Orc charge was dismantled. It was a masterclass in coordination.
But as they reached the end of the hall, the air temperature didn't just drop—it vanished. The stone walls began to bleed a dark, viscous liquid that defied the laws of gravity, crawling upward toward the ceiling.
High Lone Wolf or visualizing the S-Class party, drop a comment or hit me up in the DMs. Let’s build this dark fantasy IP together.
