They weren’t even sure when his name had been mentioned—only that the sound of it, Wor-en, snagged in Boris’s ears.

  Boris slipped out of the press of bodies, tiptoeing for a better look.

  The torchlight was faint. He squinted, and then his heartbeat quickened. A sudden, raw fear gripped him. Not the kind he’d felt when a beast charged him. Not even the dread his father could draw from him with a single glare. This was something deeper. Instinctive. He ducked low before he even realized he was moving.

  “It’s really Professor Wor-en,” Boris hissed, loud enough for Kana and Suri to hear.

  Both girls immediately crouched, following his motion, the three of them forming an urgent little knot in the crowd.

  Opel frowned, noticing them. “What are you doing down there?”

  “A strategy meeting,” Suri said too quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her whisper carried an edge. “And the strategy is that we’ve got a bigger problem than dungeon monsters.”

  Boris adjusted his mask with shaky fingers. “He wouldn’t recognize us. Right?” His voice cracked with doubt, betraying the hope in his words.

  …

  Kana blinked. She wasn’t the default party leader. That meant—impossible though it felt—someone here out-leveled her.

  Her core group—Suri, Boris, and herself—remained intact, but the lines of light hovering before her eyes now carried other names. Asha. Opel.

  She hesitated, then reached for something new.

  [Invite Asha?]

  [Invite Opel?]

  [Yes] [No]

  Kana tapped yes.

  Asha glanced up at nothing, eyes unfocusing. “Oh. It popped up again?”

  Opel made the same motion, muttering, “Didn’t expect that.” His hand twitched in the air, and a beat later he nodded. “Yeah. Always left.”

  Kana let out a quiet breath as their names locked into place beneath Boris’s on her list.

  But there was a bigger problem. The trio stiffened as Wor-en strode past. His presence pressed on them like a highly venomous snake—if he found out, it would be all for nothing. He spoke to adventurers nearby, eyes scanning. Observing. And when his gaze brushed past their masks, each of them ducked their heads. Body stiffened.

  “You three are unusually quiet.” Asha’s voice cut through the tension, bright, direct as always. “Chickening out?”

  “No,” Boris said. But his voice cracked low, too brittle to carry weight.

  Asha shrugged. “Alright then. Tents first.”

  Their wagon had brought more supplies than most groups could afford. Two sturdy tents went up. One for Boris and Opel. The other for Kana, Suri, and Asha.

  When they were finally alone, Suri pulled the others close, whispering fiercely. “What do we do? Of all people, he’s here. Prof Wor-en. I don’t want him anywhere near us.”

  “We’re disguised,” Boris said, tugging his mask as if to remind himself it was still there. “Different gear, cloaks, faces hidden. As long as we’re careful—”

  “He’ll recognize our voices,” Kana cut in. “So we stay quiet when he’s near. And we keep our distance. Always.”

  Before they could settle into their unease, a voice broke in.

  “Finally found you.”

  Lett. She sauntered toward them, a smug grin in place.

  As she spoke, another group drew near—the dungeon scrappers Asha had vouched for. Four of them. Their gear was clearly in good condition, their stances wary, but something about them rang honest. Kana studied their [Cleric] in particular—looked more like a tank than a support. Though, still a blessing in a dungeon raid.

  For now, she trusted them. Or at least, she trusted Asha’s word.

  And that would have to be enough.

  …..

  A massive board stood in the center of camp, its surface dominated by an intricate sprawl of lines—tunnels twisting and knotting like a spider’s web.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “This,” Wor-en said, standing beside it, “was the actual map. Before.”

  His voice carried in the silence, the fifty gathered adventurers leaning in.

  “But as you all know,” he continued, tapping the board with a calloused finger, “the dungeon is never the same every cycle. The dungeon monsters might still be the same. The dangers remain. But the Great Bees Builders…” His eyes swept the crowd, hard and cold. “The Builders are craftsmen of death. Every cycle.”

  Kana’s stomach tightened.

  “They construct magical traps,” Wor-en went on. “Magical traps meant to break you, scatter you, bury you alive. Some will hurl you into depths from which there is no return. Others will paralyze, poison, or burn you where you stand.”

  He stabbed a finger toward the section just outside the labeled safe zone. “They favor these parts here. Where you feel strongest. Where you feel safest.”

  A few mutters passed through the adventurers. One man swore softly.

  “I’ll be on point,” Wor-en said. “My task is to disarm what the Builders leave behind. You—” his eyes swept across the dungeon scrappers, voice like stone striking steel, “—cover me.”

  He let that hang, heavy. Then added, “From time to time, you’ll see Great Bee Forragers. Kill them quickly. Don’t hesitate.”

  Kana swallowed, throat dry. She’d heard the stories. Before Wor-en, the first stretch of a dungeon cycle was practically a slaughterhouse. One trap tearing apart the party’s formation meant roles shattered—healers separated, vanguards cut off, mages exposed. Death followed. But Wor-en… he was the difference between above fifty percent survival and almost none.

  Still, being close to him made her skin prickle.

  “What happens after he’s done?” Boris whispered.

  The answer came not from Wor-en, but from a man at their side. Lauren, the [Cleric] looking tank, Broad-shouldered, “He leaves. Once the traps are cleared, Wor-en doesn’t stay.”

  Kana and Suri both exhaled in relief, a sound almost lost to the murmurs around them. Relief, but not safety. Not yet.

  It meant they only had to endure him—the weight of his presence—for the first phase. After that, the dungeon itself would be the only enemy.

  And that, Kana thought grimly, was bad enough.

  …..

  The main tent hummed with a kind of forced quiet. Enchantments around the canvas drank sound—voices folded inward so whatever was said here could not leak to the wind. Seven figures sat in a half-circle, faces lit by a single lantern that did not dare cast too bright a light.

  Raydon Kergastel looked every inch the leader his name promised: broad-shouldered, jaw hard as whetstone, plated armor polished to a dull silver. He scanned the list of groups outside, then let out a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren’t edged with worry. “I don’t think they’ll help,” he said flatly. “Those dungeon scrappers out there—they’ll die on the first day.”

  Kus, who carried himself like a [Swordsman] should—square and restless—snorted. “Tried the veterans,” he said. “They won’t come. Not after what happened last cycle. They’re… broken in ways even gold coin can’t fix.”

  “You sure your gold’s been spent wisely?” Raydon’s voice held no malice, only the blunt question of a captain who must account for his choices.

  Kus shook his head. “Rum’s statement said the new faces are the best we can find on budget. That’s all we can hire.”

  Raydon didn’t need to be told the truth of it; the ledger had already told him. Noble households paid handsomely for dungeon rights, and even then the sum was finite. Paying guild rates for over thirty certified adventurers guild members would have bled their coffers dry. They’d managed more than last time—fifteen extra hands—but the number still left a bitter aftertaste. One attempt. That was what the house demanded. Finish the dungeon in one push, or be called failures who’d pay for their ambition with lives.

  Ion, a lanky earth variant [Mage], rubbed his temple and pushed a small crystal of focus between thumb and forefinger. “Boss,” he said quietly, “we need to see the bigger picture. Casualties are inevitable. Everyone out there knows what they signed up for.”

  That was both the truth and the knife. Raydon thought of the faces he’d scanned earlier—young men with hopeful eyes, a bit older men with resigned ones. They had all volunteered for this gamble.

  Outside their tent, the ritual was the same across campaigns: preserve the main force for the mid and end fights. Let the early chaos be handled by them. The first corridors would be a gauntlet of traps and swarms—tests that would chew grief into parties that were unready. The builders made traps to scatter formations; forragers—unthinking packs—would press and press until someone made a mistake.

  Raydon felt the familiar coil of resolve tighten in his chest. He let his [Iron Will] kindle, a small, personal discipline. Nothing flashy—a quiet steel in the mind. He needed it now: to steady decisions, to keep fear from making him order young men into needless death.

  “Two hours,” Lory said, breaking the pause. She was one of the three silver-rank pillars of the raid, a fire-mage whose competence radiated heat even in the dim. “Two hours until we enter the zone. Is that too early?”

  Mirodin Might—half a mountain in a man, a [Champion] whose boots had crushed more than one monster’s skull—shifted. He looked old before his years, more by soul than by age. “We got no choice,” he said. His voice carried the blunt logic of a man expecting wounds. “There’s only fifteen of them. Most will not stand the early swarm.”

  Raydon’s hand closed into a fist. He saw the ledger again, felt the weight of the house’s expectations, heard the hollow thump of the tent stakes driven into cold earth. He felt the truth that always came before a raid: leadership was less about glory and more about accepting those costs that could not be avoided.

  “Two hours,” he said, the decision falling like an order the moment it left his lips. “We move on our schedule. Prepare the men. Keep reserves back for the midline. If the dungeon scrappers die, we learn from it and we do not let the same mistake happen twice.”

  There was a soft assent from the others—no cheering, no clapping. Just the businesslike movements of people setting a plan into motion. They left the tent in pairs, the hush of enchantment swallowing their steps.

  Raydon stayed a heartbeat longer, staring at the map pinned on the inner wall—trails looped and crossed, the dungeon drawn as if it had teeth. He thought, not for the first time, that hope and planning were not the same thing. One fed the heart; the other kept men alive.

  He brushed the map with a thumb, tasting the cold metal of inevitability, and walked out.