Dante trudged into Valewood Guild as the afternoon sun dipped, the weight of his new Ashen Flame Armor settling in. The enchanted darksteel alloy and reinforced leather clung to him, its smooth black surface glinting with faint crimson energy lines that pulsed with strength. The breathable combat suit underneath kept him comfortable, sleek pauldrons and vambraces moved with ease, and a classic black cape—fireproof and fastened with a rune clasp—draped from both shoulders, adding a sharp edge. The leggings and grip-enhanced boots felt solid yet light. After tearing through The Lava Veil, he'd climbed to Level 15, and the armor's power still thrummed in his veins. Time to make it official.
The guild hall hummed with its usual noise—drunken boasts, rookies scanning the quest board—until Dante approached the counter. The clerk, a scrawny guy with a scruffy beard, squinted at the stats sheet Dante slid over.
Clerk: "Level 15? From F-rank scraps? You're messing with me."
Dante shrugged, leaning on the counter. "Look again. I don't mess around with numbers."
The clerk's eyes widened as the data confirmed—Strength 69, Agility 81, Endurance 53, Intellect 62, Spirit 74. A hush fell, heads turning. Dante stayed cool, waiting.
Dante: "E-rank time. Where's the stamp?"
A burly adventurer with a scarred cheek stepped up, staring at the armor. "That's no regular gear. Where'd you pull it from?"
Dante glanced at him, keeping it straight. "Found it in a rough spot. Took some doing to get."
The guy grunted, impressed but curious, while a woman with a notched bow edged closer. "That's not some blacksmith's junk. How'd you score it?"
Dante: "Let's just say I handled a tough job. That's all you need."
Murmurs spread, a mix of awe and envy, but the clerk broke in, stamping his rank card. "E-rank approved. You're something else, Dante."
He tucked the card away, the armor's smoky aura drawing more glances. Then a grizzled hunter at the bar, ale sloshing in his mug, waved him over. "Got word you might care about. Undead popping up in Ashenwood—rotting corpses stumbling around. More every day."
Dante's mind shifted. Ashenwood wasn't far, and those undead stirred dark thoughts—the enslaved women from Chapter 4, the mass grave in Chapter 5. A necromancer's work felt too close to ignore. He nodded, sipping a cheap beer.
Dante: "Sounds like a mess. Could be worth checking."
The hunter shrugged. "Guild's got a bounty, but no one's touched it. Your funeral if you try."
Dante leaned back, testing the armor's fit. "Damn, this is snug!" he muttered, flexing his arm. The crimson lines glowed faintly, and he smirked. Undead or not, he'd turn it into another notch. The Wilds stretched ahead, and Ashenwood's shadows were calling.
The guild hall's noise picked up again, but Dante's thoughts lingered on the hunter's words. Undead didn't just wander up without cause. The scars on Lirien's fiery skin flashed in his mind—Nether chains, a necromancer's touch. The enslaved women, their hollow eyes, and the mass grave's stench tied back to that same dark magic. If a necromancer was stirring in Ashenwood, it could be the same bastard—or worse. He cracked his knuckles, the armor's weight grounding him. Level 15 and E-rank were just the start.
A rookie with shaky hands approached, eyes wide. "That armor… it's glowing. Did you kill something huge for it?"
Dante: "Something like that. Stay out of lava pits if you want to try."
The kid backed off, and a grizzled swordswoman nearby chuckled. "Lava pits? You're either crazy or lucky."
Dante: "Bit of both, I guess."
She nodded, respecting the grit, and turned back to her drink. The clerk called out, sorting papers. "E-rank quests are up now, Dante. Pick your poison."
He scanned the board—goblin patrols, merchant escorts—but his eyes stuck on Ashenwood. The bounty was modest, but the undead angle pulled him. Rotting flesh, shambling corpses—it wasn't just a random spawn. The necromancer from the Wilds' rumors, maybe the one behind Lirien's chains, could be raising hell again. Dante's jaw tightened. Those women deserved justice, but for him, it was about crushing the threat and stacking his legend.
A merchant with a nervous tic sidled up, eyeing the armor. "That gear's unreal. You selling?"
Dante: "Not a chance. Earned it the hard way."
The guy huffed and wandered off. Dante stretched, the armor's flexibility surprising him. The crimson lines pulsed stronger with each move, and he felt the stats kick in—hits would land harder, magic would burn brighter. He muttered to himself, "Gonna need this for whatever's in that forest."
The hunter caught his eye again, leaning over. "Heard the undead are slow, but they're piling up. Some say they glow green—Nether-touched, maybe."
Dante's gut twisted. Nether again. The mass grave's green mist, the enslaved women's chains—it all lined up. A necromancer was out there, and Ashenwood was the next fight. He finished his beer, the taste bitter.
Dante: "Green, huh? Might be my kind of hunt."
The hunter raised his mug. "Good luck. You'll need it."
Dante stood, the cape swaying as he moved to the board. The E-rank quests were a step up— tougher goblins, a bandit camp—but Ashenwood's undead bounty stood out. He tore the notice down, the paper crinkling in his grip. Level 15 gave him an edge, and the armor's boosts—30% to all stats, 35% crit chance jumping to 65% after a skill, 50% crit damage, 50% fire and darkness, 30% defense—made him ready. The necromancer, if it was him, wouldn't know what hit.
He glanced at the guild's map, Ashenwood a dark smear to the north. The forest's edge was a day's trek, and the undead could mean a real fight—gory, bloody, just how he liked it. The enslaved women's faces lingered, their deaths a fuel he'd use. Not for honor, but to smash the source and climb higher. He adjusted the armor, the fit perfect now, and headed out, the Wilds waiting with its next challenge.