The forest surrounding the Sunken Spire didn't feel like nature; it felt like a waiting room for the dead. The trees were twisted by the leaked mana of the dungeon, their roots gripping the earth like skeletal fingers.
Victoria moved through the underbrush without a sound, her robes trailing over the moss like a shadow. She was still adjusting to the weight of her own skin—the ghost of the Puppet Master’s touch still made her mana feel jagged, like a blade that hadn't been properly honed after a battle.
She stopped when she smelled smoke. Not the clean scent of a campfire, but the acrid, desperate smell of green wood and burning cloth.
In a small clearing, she found the source of the rot.
A young man—barely twenty, by the look of his soft jawline—was hunched over a sputtering fire. His gear was brand new, the leather of his boots still stiff and unscarred. He was fumbling with a pot, his hands shaking so violently that he spilled water into the embers, sending up a hiss of steam.
Beginner, Victoria thought, her eyes narrowing. Or a fool seeking a quick fortune.
She didn't reveal herself immediately. She watched as a Venom-Skitterer—a spider the size of a dinner plate—lowered itself from a branch directly above the boy's neck. Its mandibles dripped with a neurotoxin that would have paralyzed him in seconds.
Victoria didn't move her body. She simply looked at the spider.
"Compress."
A localized pocket of gravity snapped shut around the insect. It didn't just fall; it was pulverized into a tiny, wet speck before it even touched the boy’s shoulder. Eran didn't even notice. He just wiped sweat from his brow and cursed at his fire.
Victoria stepped into the light.
Eran jumped, his hand flying to a sword that was strapped too high on his hip. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he scrambled backward. “Who’s there? I—I’m armed!”
“If you were armed, that Skitterer would have been dead three minutes ago,” Victoria said, her voice like ice.
Eran froze, his eyes wide as they landed on her. She didn't look like the heroes in the songs. She looked like a woman who had walked through hell and found the temperature to her liking. “You’re… an adventurer? A mage?”
“I am Victoria Smith. And you are a corpse that hasn't stopped breathing yet.”
Eran swallowed hard, his bravado vanishing. “I’m Eran. Eran Vale. I just… I wanted to get to the first floor. I thought the outskirts were safe.”
“The outskirts are where the dungeon discards its waste,” Victoria replied, stepping closer.
As if on cue, the bushes rustled. A pack of Gnasher-Goblins—starving, feral things with jagged teeth—emerged. They didn't have the organization of the war-band she’d slaughtered on Floor 5, but for a boy like Eran, they were a death sentence.
Eran drew his sword, the steel singing a nervous, high-pitched note. “Get back, Victoria! I’ll handle them!”
Victoria didn't move. She watched as the lead goblin lunged. She waited until the creature was inches from Eran’s throat before she flicked her wrist.
A wave of force hit the pack, not killing them, but slamming them into the trees with enough pressure to daze them. They scattered, yelping in pain.
“Heroics will get you buried in a shallow grave, Eran Vale,” Victoria said, her amber eyes locking onto his. “If you want to survive the Spire, you have to stop trying to be a protagonist and start trying to be a survivor.”
Eran stared at her, the awe in his eyes replacing the fear. “You… you did that without even a word.”
“I will help you reach the supply cache on the outer rim,” Victoria stated, already turning back toward the dark maw of the entrance. “But I am not your shield. I am your shadow. You will listen, you will watch, and you will learn that every choice in this place has a price in blood.”
Eran gripped his sword, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at the dark forest, then at the woman walking into the abyss. He realized then that his life hadn't started when he bought his sword—it started the moment this woman decided he was worth a lesson.
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