Arios kept walking. The forest path seemed endless, but he didn't slow down, pushing past the agonizing protests of his fatigued body. His wooden sword stayed at his side, always ready, a meager weapon against a seemingly inexhaustible illusion. His uniform was torn at the sleeves and chest from countless claws and near hits, though none had cut him deeply—a testament to his flawless defense. His movements remained sharp, though his muscles ached from the constant, demanding rhythm of battle.
The dungeon hadn't let him rest once. Every time he stepped into a clearing, monsters came. First wolves, then hybrids, then humanoids, then new variations. He had already lost count of how many he had cut down, measuring time only in dissolved mist and fresh opponents. The mist never cleared, and the path always stretched forward.
