Dante hacked through the Wilds' tangled briars, his breath fogging in the frostbitten air. His leather armor creaked with each step, the adventurer's bag weighing on his shoulder, the black sword strapped to his back, its etched flames hidden under a ragged cloak. At Level 10, his Blade of Darkness and Flame class burned in his gut, stats and skills—Ember of the Void, Ashen Reaver, Cinder's Grace—pushing him forward. Aetherion's Guild was a distant peak, its C-rank gates locked to scrubs like him, and Valewood's F-rank quests—killing rats, hauling firewood—gave shit for experience, barely worth the dirt on his boots. His stats showed the grind's grind:
• Strength: 38
• Agility: 46
• Endurance: 29
• Intellect: 34
• Spirit: 38
Dante needed battles that broke him down and built him up, loot that meant something, levels that got him closer to Aetherion. The Wilds were crawling with F-rank dungeons, their Aether-heavy air thick with promise—monsters to kill, rewards to take. His class and sword were his alone, secrets he'd keep until he could shove his name in Aetherion's face. For now, he'd fight, bleed, and climb, nobody at his side.
Back at the Valewood Guild, he'd overheard talk of The Bone Pit, an F-rank dungeon a day's hike west, rumored to hold some rare Aether relic but overrun with undead and traps that'd rot your flesh. The goblin cage still haunted him—those women, chained, broken. He pushed the memory away, jaw tight. Feelings didn't get you levels, and levels were all that mattered. He set out, boots crunching ice, the Wilds' Aether buzzing like a drawn blade.
The dungeon's entrance was a black gash in a dead hill, bones scattered around it like spilled dice, the air reeking of rot and something sharper, like burnt metal. Aether hung thick, sour, making his skin crawl. Dante pulled his cloak tighter, sword hidden, and stepped inside.
The cave was a butcher's nightmare, walls jammed with skulls, dim Aetheric light pulsing like a dying heartbeat. His boots crunched bone dust, every sound loud in the stillness. A rattling started—bones shifting. Three skeletal warriors staggered out, their frames glowing faintly, rusted swords in bony hands, eye sockets lit with green Aether.
Dante: "Get the fuck out of my way, you piles of scrap."
He yanked his sword free, its black blade catching the faint glow. They rushed him, swords scraping. His Agility kicked in, body twisting past a blade, Strength driving his swing through the first skeleton's chest. Bones exploded, Aetheric ichor spraying like spilled ink. The second swung, its sword nicking his arm, pain hot and quick.
Dante: "That all you got? Pathetic."
He roared:
Dante: "EMBER OF THE VOID!"
Black fire blasted out, smashing the second skeleton. Its bones blackened, collapsing into ash, Aether wisps curling up. The third came at him; Dante blocked, metal screeching, and hacked its skull off, shards flying. His stamina dipped, breath steady but sharp. The sword hummed, pulling Aether from the remains. His stat window blinked—just a sliver of experience, not enough.
Dante: "These bastards are barely worth the swing. Where's the real challenge?"
The tunnel turned, air getting thicker, like breathing rot. Traps were everywhere—bone spikes shooting from walls, patches of green mist that burned his nose. His Agility kept him moving, dodging spikes, holding his breath through the mist, eyes scanning every shadow. The Aether's hum grew, nasty and wrong, like a wound gone bad. The tunnel spat him into a huge chamber, floor covered in bones, walls scratched with runes glowing sickly green. Ten skeletal warriors stood ready, led by a Skeletal Champion, a hulking thing with iron-laced bones, swinging a cursed axe that dripped Aetheric slime.
Dante: "Now we're talking. Let's see if you can make me bleed, big guy."
The skeletons charged, their clattering filling the air. Dante was a blur, slicing two apart, their spines snapping, ichor splashing his armor. A blade grazed his thigh, blood trickling.
Dante: "Damn it, you're starting to annoy me!"
He bellowed:
Dante: "ASHEN REAVER!"
Fiery shadows wrapped the blade, cutting a skeleton clean in half, bones scattering like broken toys. The sword drank Aether, its next swing heavier, smashing another's arm off, ichor gushing. The Champion roared, axe coming down hard. Dante rolled, the floor cracking, bone chips slicing his cheek.
Dante: "Son of a bitch, you hit like a mule!"
More skeletons rushed him, swords flashing. One drove its blade into his side, blood soaking through his armor, pain like fire.
Dante: "Fuck this! You're not taking me down!"
He roared:
Dante: "CINDER'S GRACE!"
Fiery Aether flared, his wounds stitching just enough to keep him standing. Stamina was low, but his focus was cold, hard. He bellowed:
Dante: "EMBER OF THE VOID!"
Black fire tore through three skeletons, their bones melting into ash. The Champion swung again, axe grazing his shoulder, bone screaming. Blood poured, his vision wobbling.
Dante: "Damn this thing! I'm ending you now!"
He tightened his grip, spotting his chance. The Champion lifted its axe, but Dante was faster. He roared:
Dante: "ASHEN REAVER!"
The blade, thick with Aether, ripped through the Champion's chest, iron bones splitting, ribs shattering like cheap glass. Ichor sprayed, the giant crashing down in a steaming pile. The last skeletons froze, and Dante mowed them down, blade relentless, the chamber a mess of ash and bone. Silence hit, his breathing rough, blood dripping.
A faint moan came from a side tunnel. Dante stiffened, sword up, heart pounding. He followed, boots sticky with ichor, and found a pit dug into the stone. Inside was a mass grave—dozens of bodies, men, women, kids, their flesh gone, bones jumbled together. Runes glowed around the pit, pulsing with necrotic Aether, some botched ritual's leftovers. The sight punched him in the gut, worse than the goblin cage's horror. His stomach twisted, rage and shock mixing, but he kept his cool.
Dante: "What the hell is this? This ain't just killing—it's sick."
He climbed into the pit, bones crunching under him, looking for something, anything, to make sense of it. The kids' skulls, tiny and cracked, hit him hardest, a sick echo of those caged women. He muttered:
Dante: "Whoever did this, they're worse than monsters."
Buried in the bones, he found a torn journal page, covered in crazy runes and a name—Valthar, Necromancer. It rambled about Nether-tainted Aether, experiments, and other lairs in the Wilds, some plan to twist the world's lifeblood. Dante shoved it in his bag, jaw clenched. He wasn't out to save anybody, but shit like this couldn't just sit.
He searched the chamber, grabbing what he could—bone daggers, a cracked Aether relic that hummed faintly, three small Aether crystals. He packed them up, more for the Guild than himself. The sword pulsed, Aether heavy in the air. His stat window lit up:
• Level Up! Level 12 Reached!
• Strength: 44
• Agility: 52
• Endurance: 34
• Intellect: 40
• Spirit: 44
• New Skill: Shadow Ember (Level 1) – Fast, single-target black fire slash. 15% chance for Corrosion (-5% Endurance, 30 seconds). Strength/Intellect scaling, low stamina cost.
Dante tried it, shouting:
Dante: "SHADOW EMBER!"
A streak of black fire sliced a skeleton's remains, ash exploding.
He sheathed his sword, its flames fading, and walked out of the pit, blood and ash stuck to his armor. The journal sat heavy in his bag, a hint of worse things coming.