The trio hadn’t expected this.

  As their wagon creaked up the frost-bitten road, the dungeon loomed ahead—but not as a lonely cave or half-buried ruin as Kana had pictured. Instead, an entire wall encircled the site, a thick ring of stone that looked like it belonged to a fortress. A heavy iron gate stood open, wide enough for two wagons to pass through side by side. Guards in layered mail checked each group, their hands resting on halberds.

  When the wagon rolled inside, the air shifted. Voices filled the street like a tide, a hundred conversations weaving together: merchants hawking wares, smiths hammering steel, cooks stirring steaming pots of broth for early risers. Stalls crowded the path, selling sharpened blades, bundles of arrows, even charms and trinkets that sparkled faintly with mana.

  “Looks like a small town,” Boris muttered, gawking. His breath clouded the air.

  Suri wasn’t surprised. She only gave a knowing hum, already seen this coming.

  Opel rumbled from across the bench. “You may not believe it, but this place was a ghost town for years ago. Empty houses, shuttered windows, not even rats left. Then the rumor spread—the Fruit Dungeon had recovered.”

  Kana leaned forward, her voice quiet but certain. “And everyone came back.”

  “Like a festival,” Asha added, her eyes scanning the stalls.

  But her smile didn’t last. “Don’t mistake the noise for safety. Just because we’re first doesn’t mean we’ll be the last. The Fruit Dungeon… it took five attempts to clear it last cycle. And that was considered fast.”

  Kana nodded; she’d read the accounts. “The average is closer to ten attempts before the boss finally falls.”

  “Indeed,” Asha said. “Which means our task is simple: survive. Take the coin, learn what we can, and let the others break themselves against it. If we prove our worth, if we live, they’ll invite us back. They always do.”

  Her voice dropped, grim. “That is… if you’re willing to go again. Most aren’t.”

  The wagon slowed. The coachman snapped the reins once and called back, “We’re here.”

  Masks were donned—thin cloth, more for tradition than disguise—as the trio stepped down. Opel hefted his shield, Asha her staff. Together they followed the flow of adventurers into the heart of the fortified town.

  The dungeon itself dominated the square, a gaping wound in the earth where stone steps descended into shadow. Torches blazed around it, casting long, shivering lines across the crowd. Two hundred people at least milled about, some haggling for supplies, some already boasting of strategies, others standing stiff in polished armor beside nobles who whispered behind gloved hands.

  Then a man climbed the steps before the dungeon and raised his voice. “We will now do a roll call of the parties gathered here!”

  The crowd shifted, groups forming tighter knots.

  “Paradise Group?”

  “We’re here!” a man bellowed from the far side, his companions lifting their weapons in salute.

  One by one, more groups were called—names shouted, cheers or grim nods in reply. The list went on until—

  “Young Group?”

  Asha lifted her right hand. Her voice rang clear. “We’re here!”

  Boris snorted, elbowing Suri. “We are young. But I don’t think the same applies to you and Uncle Opel.”

  Asha’s lips curved. “We were young, once. Long before you were born. But look around—except for those two beside you, I’d say we look the same age.”

  Suri broke first, giggling. Kana tried to smother hers, but the laugh slipped out anyway. Even Opel couldn’t contain his laugh.

  …..

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  Wor-en exhaled slowly, a breath steaming in the winter air. His eyes swept across the gathered crowd—fifty souls, armored and cloaked, bristling with steel and hope. He counted them the way he always did before a raid. Faces, shoulders, postures. Excited grins, nervous glances, hardened stares. Half of them would not return.

  And still… he understood. Once, long ago, he had been one of them. A younger man with more eagerness than sense, clutching a weapon as if conviction alone could keep him alive.

  A man in a fine coat raised his voice, drawing the attention of the restless adventurers. “To ease some of your worries, as in years before—Sir Wor-en will be joining us again this cycle.”

  Dozens of heads turned toward him. Wor-en felt the weight of their eyes but merely lifted a hand in acknowledgment, the gesture more habit than pride. The fame had crept up on him over the years—his knack for spotting the dungeon’s magical traps, for placing the right people in the right formation, for dismantling magical traps where others saw only glowing doom. It was his skill [Observation], yes, but more than that, it was years of seeing where monsters hid their cruelty. He’d learned to predict them, and because of that, more people walked out alive.

  Thirty percent more, by the last count.

  It was never enough.

  The announcer’s voice carried again. “We will also be led by a low-silver rank adventurer of great promise, Sir Raydon Kergastel. His family has purchased the rights to this cycle’s entry.”

  Wor-en’s hands came together in a slow, measured clap with the others. He knew the system well enough—the kingdom’s auction for the fruit dungeon rights. Nobles bought their chance, gambling on treasures within. Sometimes they struck fortune. Other times they came home with nothing but bodies and regrets because the dungeon loot was not good enough to recover their loss. Still, the tradition persisted.

  A man in gleaming armor strode forward, drawing every eye. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his silvered plate etched with lines of enchantment. His helm hung at his side, revealing a jaw as sharp as his voice.

  “My class is [Knight],” he declared, his tone steady, brash. “Each of you was handpicked. We aim to finish this dungeon in one attempt.”

  The declaration rippled through the crowd, murmurs breaking out like sparks in dry grass. Some scoffed, some shifted uneasily. One attempt? Madness. Yet his conviction rang like steel striking stone.

  Wor-en studied the young man carefully. Brave words, yes—but not empty. The Kergastel name carried weight, their house famed for producing knights rumored to be strong enough to rival generals. Reinforcements had come with him, polished and disciplined. The man believed what he said.

  Whether belief was enough…

  Wor-en’s jaw tightened.

  The prayers began, a solemn chorus spoken beneath clouded breaths. Then, one by one, the fifty filed toward the dungeon’s gate. The entrance shimmered above the earth, a wound in reality glowing with bluish light, edges rippling as if it hungered for them.

  And then they stepped through.

  ….

  Ban scanned the makeshift camp as groups spilled into the open ground near the dungeon entrance and exit point—the safe zone area, each claiming a patch of dungeon soil as if it were sovereign territory. Canvas went up fast—tents pitched, fires coaxed into life, equipment laid out with the discipline of habit. Everyone wanted to look prepared, though most of them were only pretending.

  Ban’s eyes flicked from face to face, filing away expressions, stances, the weight people carried in their steps. Too many strangers. Too many he wouldn’t trust to hold a rope if his life dangled from it.

  And then—finally—some people he knew. Personally.

  “Asha! Opel!” His voice cracked across the field, and relief tugged at his grin. He pushed past a cluster of dungeon scrappers, weaving between packs until he reached them.

  Asha raised her brows. “Ban? Didn’t know your group joined.”

  “We changed our group name for this. This is expected of us.” Ban folded his arms. “But not expected of you.”

  Opel chuckled and offered a fist. Ban bumped it with a thump that rattled their gauntlets. “A gold coin is hard to refuse,” Opel said.

  Ban grunted agreement, then noticed the ones standing just behind them. Three figures. The first—a mountain of a man, broader even than Opel, his face hidden behind a carved bear mask. At his sides, two girls: one with skin pale enough to stand out even in winter light, the other dark as night, both masked—dog and cat, color of the eyes were also covered by their mask though part of their neck was still visible.

  Ban’s mouth split in a grin. Realizing, he clapped his hands together. “Oh! So these are them. The famous trio everyone’s whispering about.”

  He tilted his head, studying the masks. “You sure you’re going to keep those on the whole raid?”

  Asha’s sigh came tired, the sound of someone already tired of answering the same question. “They have their reasons.”

  Before Ban could press further, Lett smacked the back of his head. “It’s obvious, you idiot.” She jabbed a finger at the trio, eyes narrowed. “Nobles sneaking into dungeons. That’s what you are, isn’t it?”

  The three stiffened—just enough for the accusation to land like a blade drawn too close to the skin.

  Lett’s smirk widen. “Looks like I hit the nail.”

  Opel’s smile was the forced kind, the kind that tried to dissolve tension before it became steel. “Well,” he said carefully, “let’s just put it that way.