Wor-en studied the fifteen dungeon scrappers gathered in front of him. Fewer than he’d expected. Fifteen wasn’t nothing, but the budget for this raid had clearly gone elsewhere—thirty-five certified adventurers from the guild would’ve eaten coin faster than fire through paper. Whoever held the rights this cycle had chosen a different gamble. Interesting. Risky. Maybe they’d been tipped off about a drop inside. Something rare enough to justify the move.

  “Circle around me when we reach the trap sites,” Wor-en said, voice clipped, steady. “The builders are faster than the stories.”

  Eyes widened among the group.

  “You’ll see Great Bee Foragers first,” Wor-en continued. He let the silence after that stretch, weighty. “If one appears, you kill it. Immediately. If it flees—”

  “It’ll call the Great Bee Guards,” someone finished, hushed.

  “Indeed,” Wor-en said. “And if they come, we don’t fight. We die. All of us.” He let his gaze sweep the group again, measuring shoulders, grips on weapons, how many twitched when he spoke the word die. A few were seasoned. Too many were not.

  He stepped down the line, forcing himself to memorize faces. It was a habit, one he hadn’t broken even after years of watching half those faces vanish.

  Then he stopped.

  Three of them flinched beneath his eyes. Masks—bear, cat, dog—hoods low, cloaks drawn. Two were clearly younger, slender frames under the fabric. The third, a woman perhaps mid-twenties, stood beside them, a little shorter, the three of them were as if trying to fold themselves into the background.

  “Do I know you?” Wor-en asked, studying them.

  They shook their heads in perfect unison.

  Wor-en narrowed his eyes. Familiar. He couldn’t place it, but the recognition gnawed at him. He breathed out, quiet, and activated [Observation].

  Readouts flickered across his sight—equipment battered, well-used. But.. Hiding. They were hiding something.

  He let the skill fade, jaw tightening. He’d been wrong before—faces blurred together after years of raids. But something about these three scratched at the edge of memory.

  “Very well,” he said at last, voice even. He turned away, boots crunching on stone. “Form up. We move beyond the safe zone.”

  The group fell in behind him. The three masked figures lingered a breath too long before following. Wor-en didn’t look back—but the unease followed him like a shadow.

  …

  The tunnels pressed in around them, stone walls damp and unwelcoming, the air cold enough to bite at their teeth. Kana adjusted her grip on her bowstring as they walked, the woman beside her—shorter, brown-haired, face round but sharp with curiosity—kept stealing glances.

  “It’s rare for me to meet women close to my height,” the woman named Lett said at last, voice carrying just enough to be heard. “You’re young nobles, aren’t you?”

  The trio stiffened. Masks hid their faces, but not the tension in their shoulders.

  Suri leaned into Boris and whispered, “She’s not talking about you. Just us.”

  Boris grunted, low and annoyed, but kept silent.

  Up ahead, Wor-en raised a fist. His figure loomed in the torchlight, flanked by the thick-shielded tanks. The motion froze the group instantly. A raised fist meant one thing. Magical trap.

  The silence deepened. Torches guttered in the stale air. The dungeon swallowed sound, every drip of water echoing like a whisper too close.

  Kana leaned closer to Suri. “Monster nearby?” she whispered.

  “Nothing,” Suri replied, her voice tight. “The tunnels twist too much. My illusions... Too dark—I could be missing something.”

  Kana nodded grimly. This dungeon wasn’t like the others. No faint glow from the walls, no glittering moss or crystals to guide them. Just black stone swallowing the torchlight whole. Every shadow felt like a mouth, waiting.

  As instructed, they formed the circle. Tanks braced the outer edge, weapons ready. Melee strikers crouched low, coiled for movement. Supports and long-ranged fighters tightened their ranks behind them, eyes on Wor-en.

  Wor-en crouched at the base of the cave wall, fingers brushing along runes so faint they might have been cracks. His movements were precise, practiced—he unraveled the magic trap faster than most could even read the lines. In less than two minutes, the sigil bled light and fizzled into nothing.

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  “Next sector,” Wor-en said, marking his map on his hand.

  Relief started to spread through the circle. That was when the buzzing began.

  Low. Trembling. The kind of sound that vibrated in your ribs before your ears caught it.

  Kana’s head snapped upward. From the darkness of a side tunnel, wings glittered like shards of obsidian catching torchlight. Then it emerged—the Great Bee.

  Its body filled the tunnel, larger than most dungeon bosses Kana had fought. Six barbed legs scraped the stone. A stinger as long as a spearhead gleamed with venom that smoked against the damp air. The thing shrieked, the sound piercing enough to rattle bone, and lunged. Straight for Wor-en.

  The frontlines were ready. Shields slammed down, halting its strike an arm’s length from Wor-en. A dagger flew, striking—only to clatter harmlessly against its armored hide. The Great Bee shrieked again, fury building, wings beating like a storm.

  “Push it back!” someone bellowed.

  Skills arced through the dark—fire roared, ice cracked, lightning seared. The Great Bee screamed and faltered. Kana raised her bow, ready to loose, but the others finished it. The monster collapsed, convulsed, then dissolved into mist.

  For a heartbeat, the group breathed again. One of the tanks groaned, clutching a bruised arm where the stinger had slammed into his shield, the blow hard enough to numb his flesh. A [Cleric] pressed glowing hands to the wound, knitting bone and sinew back together.

  Then another hum.

  Everyone looked up. Another Bee hovered high in the tunnel mouth, its multifaceted eyes reflecting the torchlight like shards of ice. It paused when it saw the mist where its kin had vanished. The group stilled. The Great Bee turned.

  “No!” someone shouted. “It’s going to call in reinforcements!”

  Skills flew, wild and desperate, but the creature was already pulling back. Out of range.

  Kana didn’t think. She loosed.

  The arrow cut through the dark, whistling. She didn’t aim for its body—too thick, too armored. She aimed for the wings.

  The arrow struck. One wing shattered, torn to ribbons. The Great Bee screamed as its balance failed, its huge body plummeting to the stone floor. Tanks surged forward, weapons crashing down, melee fighters stabbing through joints and gaps in armor. The Bee writhed, then fell still.

  For a moment, silence reigned.

  Then Bann whistled low, turning to flash Kana a grin and a thumbs-up.

  Her bowstring still hummed from the shot. Kana breathed out slowly, heart hammering against her ribs. That had been too close. And it was only the beginning.

  ….

  The appearance of the Great Bee Foragers around the magical traps stopped startling anyone after the first few encounters. That was their nature—dungeon scavengers. They patrolled the traps, carrying off the dead bodies, back to their queen. The boss of the fruit dungeon.

  Kana’s arrows always went for the wings. No hesitation. No wasted motion. The Foragers’ carapaces shrugged off steel, and even magic splashed uselessly across their bodies unless concentrated. But a wing—cripple that, and the mages could burn them down while the frontlines hammered their legs. A rhythm formed. Buzz, wings shattered, spells flared, monsters fell. Again. Again. By the time Wor-en finished unraveling the twenty-fifth trap, it felt almost like routine.

  “Good work,” Wor-en said, his voice calm but carrying. He brushed dust from his gloves. “That should be the last of them. We’re heading back. My job here is done.”

  Relief rippled through the formation. Boots turned, torches lifted, the weary line of adventurers retreating toward the safety of camp. Kana adjusted her mask as they went.

  Then Wor-en fell in step beside her. “Smart. Always the wings. Your arrows are unusually fast, too. You should consider applying to the Adventurer’s Guild.”

  Kana froze. Her throat tightened around the words she couldn’t let slip. If he heard her voice… if he recognized it… No. She only nodded. Once. Silent.

  Suri and Boris were already gone, fading into different positions in the group, careful to separate themselves from her. Cowards, Kana thought, though she was grateful for the cover. Because it’s going to be more obvious if the three of them stick around.

  Wor-en left her then, striding toward the raid leader for a quick, quiet exchange. And then—he was gone. Stepping out of the dungeon as if nothing had happened.

  The three of them exhaled at once.

  “Finally,” Suri muttered.

  “I swear,” Boris grumbled, “he was watching us the entire time.”

  “Do you know him?” Asha asked, tilting her head, eyes bright with curiosity.

  Suri leaned close, whispering, “One of the academy’s professors. Our advisor.”

  “Ohh…” Asha’s grin widened with understanding. “That explains why you three were acting like mutes. If he’d recognized you, he’d have yanked you out himself.”

  “I hope it will end that peacefully,” Boris said, grimacing under his mask.

  Before they could press further, the raid leader strode into the center of the camp, voice booming. “The traps are cleared. No casualties. We move to the next stage. The Fruit Dungeon is open for us.”

  The cheer that followed didn’t ease Kana’s tension. If anything, it made her fingers itch against her bowstring. Wor-en might have left—but his words still clung like a warning.

  Kana paused.

  Wor-en’s task had been finished—he should already be gone. The rational part of her told her that. Yet unease coiled through her chest, cold as the winter wind outside the dungeon.

  Her gaze drifted back over her shoulder, toward the section of tunnel where they’d disabled the magical traps. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. And yet… something was there. A heaviness pressed against her senses, a shadow that had no shape, no sound, no sight. The smell came first—very miniscule, metallic, clinging. The smell of death.

  Kana’s lips parted, her breath shallow. Was this her skill, [High Awareness], sharpening her instincts beyond reason? Or was it something deeper—something more? Or was it just her imagination?