An ice-cold wind whipped mercilessly against us, feeling like a thousand tiny needles piercing my skin the moment we stepped out of the protective gloom of the mine shaft. The sudden drop in temperature was enough to steal the breath from my lungs, a stark reminder that the world outside didn’t care about my recent victory. It was a biting, primordial cold that seemed to resent our very presence.

  Corbin had already made it unmistakably clear: we were retreating because I had become reckless. We trudged back toward the Clayborne farm, the silence between us heavy and jagged. I watched my boots vanish into the deep powder with every step, but my mind was a chaotic theater. The image of that frozen goblin haunted me, burning itself behind my eyelids every time I blinked. If Corbin hadn't been there, I’d have a rusted axe buried in my skull right now, likely being slowly devoured by the very creatures I thought I had mastered.

  The thought awakened a cold, crawling dread in my gut—a realization of how thin the line between "hero" and "corpse" really was. I didn't have myself under control. The victory over the first few goblins had made me arrogant, fed me a false sense of invincibility—especially after I had granted one of them a "merciful" death. I had felt noble. Superior. What an absolute load of shit. I was just a kid playing with matches in a room full of gunpowder.

  “Corbin, I… I’m sorry,” I called out, my voice struggling against the howling wind as we waded through the white expanse. “I should have stayed vigilant. That was stupid of me. And… thank you for saving my ass.”

  A long, heavy sigh escaped him, visible as a plume of white mist that was instantly snatched away by the gale. “It’s not like I enjoy chewing you out, kid. I really don’t,” he explained, casting a thoughtful, sidelong glance at me that lacked its usual mockery. He opened his mouth a few times, searching for the right words before finally settling on them. “But you have to understand that this isn't a pleasure trip. This is just the first step of a damn long road before you’re even remotely ready to compete in the Adept Tournament. The stakes there won't be a goblin's axe—it'll be the intricate, deadly games of the nobility.”

  He paused, his eyes hardening into flint, reflecting the dull grey of the sky. “Do you know what would have happened if Tristan had been here? He would have cleared this entire irregular dungeon solo without breaking a sweat. He would have moved on to the next threat without a second thought.”

  Irregular dungeon? I looked at him, the term unfamiliar and jarring. “What exactly is an irregular dungeon? And what makes it different from, say, the dungeon in Millstone?”

  Corbin licked his lips and rubbed his arms, shivering. “Do me a favor and summon your wind sphere. You owe me that much if I’m going to give you a lecture out here.”

  Concentrating hard, I wove the mana. It took more effort than before; my core was tired, the energy felt sluggish like half-frozen syrup. A minute later, we were trudging through the snow inside a bubble of relative calm. The wind was diverted around us, and the biting chill softened into something manageable.

  “Much better. Now we don’t have to scream just to hear each other,” Corbin said with a satisfied, if weary, grin. “So: The dungeon in Millstone has existed since… well, forever. It’s a natural feature of the world’s mana vents. But this mine back there? It only recently became a home for goblins. Goblins don’t usually live in mines—they hate the cramped, structured feeling of human excavations. They rarely even live in caves; they prefer small, shabby villages in the deep woods. But most importantly… Goblins might be stupid, but they aren't suicidal. They would never just attack human settlements like this without a massive power backing them up. They know exactly what follows. That’s why we call these places irregular dungeons—locations that are suddenly infested by monsters in a way that just doesn't make logical sense. It means something has shifted. Something has pushed them out, or something is pulling them in.”

  I caught his meaning and pondered the implications. Something has shifted. The thought was unsettling. Tristan would have mastered this place alone? To be fair, if that boy marched in there as a literal stone golem, what could the goblins even do to him? At worst, a cave-in might be a threat, and even then, I wouldn't be surprised if he could swim through rock.

  Still, the realization stung. To hear that the opponent I had defeated would have swept this place effortlessly, while I would be dead without help, gnawed at my pride. It was a bitter pill to swallow, tasting of iron and failure. I was getting stronger, yes, but the gap between me and the "true" elite still felt like an ocean.

  We continued in silence. The blizzard began to taper off into a soft, relentless fall, and soon the Clayborne farm loomed out of the white haze. The fortress-like appearance of the place—boarded windows and piled logs—spoke of the fear I had partially caused. Smoke curled invitingly from the farmhouse chimney, and from a distance, we could hear the rhythmic thwack of an axe splitting wood. It was a lonely, desperate sound in the vast silence of the woods.

  As we drew closer, I saw Orin. His face was a mask of concentrated rage, his skin pale and stretched tight over his cheekbones. He swung the axe high above his head, bringing it down with brutal force onto the logs. With a grunt, he wrenched the blade free and set the next piece. Before he could swing again, his eyes found us. His expression was a volatile mix of expectation and deep-seated uncertainty. He looked like a man waiting for his sentence to be read.

  “D-did you find the stronghold?” he asked, his voice cracking as we came within a few meters.

  Corbin didn't even acknowledge him, walking straight past the man and toward the house as if Orin were part of the landscape. I stopped, facing the farmer. The smell of old sweat and desperation hung around him. “Yes, we found it. They’re nesting in an old mine shaft not far from here.”

  I didn't like the way his eyes lit up—a dangerous, desperate spark igniting in the hollows of his face. It was the look of a man who thought he could buy back his soul with blood. “I’m coming with you next time,” he said with grim conviction, his grip tightening on the axe handle until his knuckles turned white.

  “No. You’re staying here,” I countered sharply. “What you do with the goblins that wander onto your property is your business. But you’re not coming into that mine. You’d be a liability. End of discussion.”

  Turning away, I followed Corbin. I wasn't here to help Orin Clayborne reclaim his lost honor or act as his personal vigilante. I was here to train, and I didn't need the distraction of a man with a death wish.

  Before I could reach the door, Otis came stomping around the corner of the stable. He carried a massive stag over his shoulder—a twelve-pointer at least. My eyes widened; the beast must have weighed at least two hundred and fifty kilograms, yet he hauled it as if it were a bag of grain. With a gruff nod, he passed me and headed toward the stable.

  He moved with a sudden, startling efficiency that betrayed his "meat-hunk" appearance. I watched, fascinated despite the gore. He wasted no time, hacking off the antlers with a few heavy blows and tossing them into the snow. Then, he bound the stag’s hind legs with practiced knots and hoisted the carcass upward using sheer brute strength, the heavy winter coat straining across his broad back, until it dangled upside down from a crossbeam.

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  Otis placed a bucket beneath the head and drew a short knife that gleamed dangerously in the twilight. With one long, fluid motion, he unzipped the animal from belly to throat. A torrent of dark, nearly black blood splashed into the bucket, steaming in the cold air. The heavy scent of copper and warm animal fat hit me like a physical wave, thick enough to taste. Otis reached deep into the open cavity, and there was a wet, sucking sound as he let the steaming innards—stomach, intestines, heart—slide out into a waiting wooden tub. It was a bloody, visceral mess, but he performed the task with the practiced ease of a man shaking out a rug.

  My stomach did a slow roll. Despite the morbid fascination, the sight of the cooling steam rising from the carcass was too much. I turned away with a shiver and finally entered the house.

  A cozy warmth and the scent of burning pine embraced me. More importantly, it smelled like real food—savory and rich. My stomach growled loud enough to be heard over the crackling fire. The atmosphere inside, however, was tense enough to snap. Corbin was already at the table, uncorking a bottle of ale with a satisfying pop. Idris stood by the hearth, stirring a large iron cauldron, his face illuminated by the orange glow of the embers.

  And Jory? He was sitting in the corner on the floor, his father’s sword lying across his knees. He was glaring at all of us with as much malice as a ten-year-old could muster, his eyes following every move Corbin made.

  I sighed and walked over to Idris, peering into the bubbling pot. I saw lentils, potatoes, thick chunks of bacon, slices of sausage, carrots, and a scattering of herbs. It wasn't gourmet, but to my starving senses, it looked like a gift from the gods.

  “Did anything happen while we were gone?” I asked, leaning against the warm stone of the hearth.

  Idris looked at me with a tired smile, though his eyes remained wary. “No, everything’s fine. His father,” he gestured with his chin toward Jory, “was very quiet. He went out to chop wood a while ago, didn't say a word. And your… servant…” He paused, sighing thoughtfully.

  Oh no, please don’t tell me Otis caused trouble. “What about the meat-hunk? Otis?”

  Idris let out a genuine chuckle and nodded. “Actually, Otis was… helpful. Surprisingly engaged. While we were unloading the carriage, a small group of goblins tried to jump us from the treeline. Otis made short work of them. He didn't even use a proper weapon for the last one—just a piece of the carriage's spare axle. He spiked their heads on poles behind the house and has been patrolling the perimeter ever since. I can’t say a bad word about him.”

  I blinked, stunned. I had expected the bare minimum from him, maybe some grumbling and half-assed guarding. “Did you tell him to go hunting?”

  Idris looked perplexed. “Hunting? No. He just disappeared into the woods for an hour. I thought he was slacking off, honestly.”

  I made a face and gently steered Idris by the shoulder toward the window. I pointed out at Otis, who was currently skinning the giant stag under the lean-to with surgical precision, the hide coming away in one perfect sheet.

  Idris’s eyebrows shot up. “That… is a massive deer. If he butchers that even halfway well, we’ll be eating like kings for a month. We won't even need half the supplies I bought.” He shook his head in disbelief and went back to his stew. “Go ahead and bring the two of them in for dinner when you’re ready. It's almost done.”

  I shrugged and headed back out into the cold. The wind slammed into me again, and I pulled the door shut quickly. I watched Orin for a moment; he looked up from his woodpile, his eyes darting to me before returning to his work. He looked smaller than he had months ago.

  Moving with a bit of a grimace, I walked over to Otis. I had to admit, watching him work was impressive. I stood silently beside him as he carefully separated the hide from the meat. Every cut was coordinated, every pull intentional.

  “My father was a hunter,” Otis said, his voice gravelly but steady. He didn't look up from the stag, his hands moving with rhythmic grace. “In a small mountain village. He fed the whole town during the winters. I spent half my childhood helping him. I hated the smell back then. Then I became an adventurer, and out here, it’s eat or be eaten. Since dying wasn't on my list of things to do, I figured I might as well eat well.”

  That explained it. A man traveling far from the comforts of a village needed to be self-sufficient. I hadn't expected such fine, delicate work from those massive, scarred hands. I continued to watch until he broke my concentration.

  “My Lord, I—I…” The big man hesitated, licking his lips nervously.

  “Grim. Not ‘My Lord’. I don’t like bootlickers, understood?” I replied, my tone annoyed but lightened by a small huff of a laugh.

  Otis nodded and stopped for a moment, the knife poised over a leg joint. He finally looked at me, his eyes searching. “You were right about what you said back at the tavern. If I had won, I would have taken your gold. I would have made a scene, laughed at you. And… I want to apologize for that. Not because you're a mage, but because I was being a prick.”

  The words came out heavy, as if they were difficult to move. His face was full of uncertainty. Am I dreaming, or is today the day of miracles? I wondered if I’d inhaled some toxic fumes back in the mine. I tilted my head, and Otis took it as a cue to continue.

  “When I was younger, I traveled the land, saw things… but I ended up stuck in Millstone. The mine owner, Cassius Pelf, always needs blades to protect the silver and the workers from the things that crawl out of the dungeon. He pays well enough that we can drink every night and keep our gear sharp, but never enough to actually leave or retire. It's a trap. A gold-plated cage. So, a lot of us… we fall into the bottle. When I’m drunk, I’m not myself. I did you wrong. Who challenges a kid to a match like that? Anyway, I’m truly sorry, and I want to settle my debt to the best of my ability.”

  I took a breath. That took a lot of strength—to admit fault like that to someone half your size. It was a reminder that everyone carries their own baggage, that we are all, to some extent, products of our environment and our pasts. The "monsters" in Millstone weren't just the ones on the crosses.

  I reached out my hand.

  Otis stared at it, horrified. He looked at his own hands, which were covered in blood and gore. Panicking slightly, he knelt and scrubbed his palms with clean snow until the red was gone, leaving his skin raw and pink. He stood back up with a crooked, embarrassed grin and took my hand in a grip that could have crushed it, but was instead incredibly gentle.

  “I’d be happy if you kept supporting us with this kind of reliability. Idris said you did great work today. Thank you for that.”

  Otis looked surprised, nodding slowly. “Thank you for the trust. But I want to be honest… the last time I tried to stop drinking, I wasn't exactly pleasant to be around. The shakes get bad. I’ll try not to cause trouble, I swear, but… if I do, I’m sorry in advance.”

  I nodded understandingly and jerked my head toward the house. “We’ll worry about that if it happens. Come on, let’s get some food. The stag isn't going anywhere.”

  Otis grinned, a weight seemingly lifting from his shoulders. We walked toward the house, and I called Orin over as we passed. The man’s face brightened at the mention of food, a flicker of humanity returning to his eyes, and he followed us with a quickened step.

  Orin opened the door and had barely cleared the threshold before Jory threw himself around his father’s neck, the sword clattering to the floor. Otis had to duck significantly to get through the frame. I followed, pulling the door shut behind me.

  In the final split second before the latch clicked, I saw something.

  At the edge of the forest, partially obscured by a thick pine, stood a figure. A goblin. But it was huge—far larger than the ones I had fought. It didn't move. It just watched, its eyes reflecting the faint light from the farmhouse window.

  When I pushed the door back open an inch to get a better look, the spot was empty. Only the shifting shadows of the trees remained.

  With a sinking feeling in my gut, I closed the door for good, the warmth of the house suddenly feeling very fragile, like a candle flickering in a storm.

  3 Months Later

  The flame in my hand reflected in the dark puddles on the floor of the mine, casting long, dancing orange shadows against the damp stone. I’d grown used to the damp and the cold over the winter, but the air in this deep shaft felt different today. It didn't just smell like wet rock anymore; it smelled like copper and ancient, stale air.

  My heart skipped a beat when I heard Corbin speak from the darkness ahead.

  “What the hell is that…”

  There was something in his voice I had never heard before. A faint, unmistakable tremor of unease. Of fear. And if Corbin was afraid, we were in serious trouble.