Grim had hoped—prayed, even—that bootcamp wouldn’t start at the crack of dawn.

  He was wrong.

  A deafening BANG BANG BANG on his door jolted him awake.

  “Rookies! Up and outside in five minutes!” a gruff voice barked.

  Grim groaned, his entire body protesting movement. He had barely recovered from yesterday’s humiliations, and now they expected him to train at this ungodly hour? Adventurers were truly the most masochistic creatures alive.

  His summoned rabbit, curled up near his pillow, yawned before hopping onto his chest. It stared down at him expectantly.

  “Five more minutes,” Grim muttered, closing his eyes.

  The rabbit headbutted him. Hard.

  “Ow! You little—”

  BANG BANG BANG!

  “FOUR MINUTES!”

  Grim groaned louder, rolling out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a corpse being exhumed. The wooden floor was cold, the air was colder, and he was starting to deeply regret everything.

  In his past life, as a dungeon, he hadn’t needed to wake up. He had existed in a state of constant awareness, his minions acting as his hands, his traps deterring intruders. But now? Now he was stuck in this weak, fleshy body that needed sleep—and worse, had to be woken up by force.

  Truly, this was suffering.

  Splashing cold water on his face, he stumbled outside, where a dozen other recruits stood in varying states of grogginess. At least he wasn’t the only one suffering.

  And then, the instructor arrived.

  Grim took one look at the man—scarred, muscle-bound, and radiating the aura of someone who drank pain for breakfast—and realized, with a deep and profound certainty, that today was going to be absolute hell.

  The guild’s training grounds were a wide, open field behind the main hall, outfitted with sparring dummies, archery targets, and various battered wooden weapons stacked in racks. A few seasoned adventurers milled about, watching with mild amusement as the recruits were herded into place.

  The instructor, a veteran swordsman named Garrick, scanned the group with eyes that seemed to pierce straight into their souls.

  “Welcome to bootcamp,” he said, voice like gravel. “Your first lesson—adventuring is dangerous. If you can’t survive this, you won’t last a day out there.”

  Grim wasn’t sure what this was, but he already hated it.

  “First test—dodging,” Garrick continued. He gestured to a pile of wooden training weapons. “You’ll each partner up. One person attacks. The other dodges.”

  That sounded simple enough.

  “And just to make sure you take it seriously,” the instructor added with a wicked grin, “if you fail to dodge, you get hit.”

  Ah. There it was. The suffering.

  Grim barely had time to process that before someone handed him a dulled wooden sword and shoved him into a practice ring.

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  Across from him stood a recruit who had clearly done this before—broad-shouldered, confident grip, already grinning in anticipation.

  Grim swallowed.

  The instructor raised a hand. “Begin!”

  Grim moved—

  Or rather, he tried to.

  His body, still sluggish from sleep, did not respond with the speed of a seasoned fighter. Instead, he tripped over his own foot and dodged purely by accident, falling sideways as the wooden sword whistled through the air where his head had been.

  He landed with all the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes.

  Silence.

  Then, laughter. Lots of laughter.

  His opponent chuckled, adjusting his grip. “Lucky fluke.”

  Grim didn’t argue. He scrambled to his feet, trying to muster some kind of dignity. His rabbit, perched on the fence, looked deeply unimpressed.

  His opponent swung again—this time aiming lower, forcing Grim to react.

  His instincts screamed at him. Years of watching adventurers navigate his dungeon told him exactly what to do. Dodge roll—

  His body did not cooperate.

  Instead of a clean evasive maneuver, Grim twisted awkwardly, stumbled, and—

  BAM.

  The wooden sword smacked into his ribs.

  Pain flared. His breath whooshed out in an undignified wheeze, and he crumpled to the ground like a poorly constructed golem.

  The instructor exhaled slowly. “You’re lucky that demon rabbit is on your side.”

  Grim wheezed from the ground. “That makes one of us.”

  The rabbit, as if sensing its cue, hopped onto Grim’s chest and headbutted him. Again.

  The recruit who had just smacked him grinned. “Gotta admit, you’re good at falling down.”

  Grim groaned. “Glad to be of entertainment.”

  Garrick shook his head. “Alright, swap roles. Maybe you’ll do better on the attacking side.”

  Grim doubted it. But at this point, he’d take anything over being a human punching bag.

  He pushed himself up, took hold of his wooden sword, and prepared to embarrass himself again.

  Grim took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. Alright. If dodging wasn’t his strong suit, maybe attacking would be.

  Sure, his body was weak, his coordination was questionable, and he had the reaction speed of a particularly slow-moving gelatinous cube, but he had something his opponent didn’t—

  …Actually, he had nothing.

  But he did have a stick, and sometimes that was enough.

  Across from him, his sparring partner smirked, lowering his stance. “Alright, rookie. Let’s see what you got.”

  Grim gripped the wooden sword and lunged forward—

  Only to immediately overstep, lose balance, and swing way too early.

  His opponent didn’t even have to dodge. He just leaned slightly to the side, and Grim’s strike sliced through nothing but air.

  WHOOSH!

  The momentum carried Grim forward, and before he could correct himself, he tripped. Again.

  THUD.

  Flat on his face.

  A long silence followed. Somewhere off to the side, his rabbit dramatically covered its face with its paws.

  The other recruits started snickering. Even the instructor pinched the bridge of his nose like he was reconsidering all his life choices.

  Grim groaned into the dirt. “I hate this.”

  His opponent, to his credit, at least had the decency to look slightly guilty as he helped Grim back up. “You, uh… you swing with a lot of enthusiasm,” he offered.

  “Great,” Grim muttered. “Glad my enthusiasm is combat-ready.”

  “Again,” the instructor said, crossing his arms. “And don’t throw yourself at the ground this time.”

  Grim exhaled slowly. Fine. If swinging like a warrior wasn’t working, maybe he needed to approach this like a dungeon.

  His mind raced. He wasn’t a front-line fighter. He had always relied on his monsters and traps to do the work for him. He needed a strategy. A trick.

  His eyes flicked to his rabbit, still perched on the fence.

  An idea formed.

  A stupid idea.

  But at this point, he was willing to try anything.

  He adjusted his grip on the wooden sword, trying to look serious. His opponent readied himself, expecting another clumsy charge.

  Instead, Grim lifted his free hand—

  And pointed dramatically.

  “BEHIND YOU!”

  His opponent blinked. “Huh?”

  Grim’s rabbit leapt from the fence, launching itself like a furry missile directly at the man’s head.

  “WHAT THE—?!”

  The recruit flailed as the rabbit latched onto his face, kicking wildly. Panic ensued.

  Grim seized the moment.

  BONK!

  His wooden sword smacked against his opponent’s side, a perfectly clean (if completely underhanded) hit.

  A stunned silence followed.

  Then, the instructor burst out laughing.

  “Oh, you cheeky little—” he shook his head. “Unorthodox. Dishonorable. Absolutely ridiculous.”

  Grim grinned, still holding his wooden sword. “But effective?”

  The instructor chuckled. “I’ll give you that.”

  His opponent, still pulling rabbit fur out of his hair, muttered, “Not fair. That thing’s a demon.”

  The rabbit flicked its ears smugly.

  Grim smirked. Maybe he could survive this after all.