Kaelen's first week in the Training Dungeons blurred into a cycle of sweat, blood, and solitary resolve.
No teammates. No shortcuts. Just repetition and rot.
Day after day, he entered the simulated dungeons alone, his greatsword never resting, carving through endless waves of enemies.
These were the Beginner Dungeons—designed for new cadets, filled with goblins, giant rats, and small wyverns.
For most students, they were an introduction.
For Kaelen, they were a crucible.
Each room tested fundamentals: footwork, reaction time, stamina.
No flashy skills. No EXP surges.
Leveling didn't come yet—not until nineteen, when students were permitted into real dungeons beyond school walls.
These simulations weren't about progress.
They were about endurance.
—
The First Blood
The stale air clung to his lungs.
Moss-covered stones lined the corridor.
Somewhere in the dark, something moved.
A goblin lunged first—green skin stretched thin over wiry limbs, its jagged blade aimed for Kaelen's throat.
Too slow.
Kaelen stepped forward, not back.
His greatsword tore the air in a wide arc, splitting the creature open before its shriek could finish.
Black blood sprayed across the wall.
Two more charged.
One slashed his ribs.
He didn't flinch. But the sting remained—faint, lingering, like heat pressing under torn skin.
He turned, slammed the hilt of his sword into the attacker's jaw, then drove the blade through its center.
The final goblin shrieked and jumped—but Kaelen was already moving.
One swing. A clean sever.
Silence returned.
His breath was uneven.
A dull ache spread across his side, and the weight in his legs had grown heavier since the last encounter.
Still, he stood tall—sword gripped tight, blood dripping at his boots.
He looked down at the carnage.
Not out of horror—but calculation.
Every cut, every drop spilled, was data.
This wasn't rage.
This was precision through pain.
Every swing had to mean something.
Every breath had to earn tomorrow.
—
A Lesson in Waiting
Back at the academy, Professor Roderic Arlen stood before the class.
Tall, silver-haired, robed in dark tones traced with silver lines of his rank.
His eyes were colder than the dungeon stone, and his voice struck with iron finality.
"You are not Adventurers yet," he began.
"Not until you've finished school. Not until you're nineteen."
"Everything you face now is controlled. Monitored. Limited."
"Real dungeons do not forgive.
Real leveling begins after this phase.
And with it, real death."
Kaelen sat in the back.
His sleeve was torn.
A line of dried blood marked his forearm, and the side of his collar still bore the stain from the earlier strike.
Other students gave him sidelong glances—some curious, others uneasy.
He didn't return the looks.
He didn't care about graduation.
He wasn't here to earn titles or approval.
He was here to sharpen the only thing left of himself.
And every swing, every cut, was getting closer—to the real thing.
To the real world.
To the monsters that started it.
To the moment it all ends.