The swamp should've gone quiet.
It didn't. It breathed in—like the whole Annex smelled fresh meat and decided on seconds.
We were thirty meters past the Warden's kill circle. The pylons here stood taller and meaner—iron ribs half-swallowed by peat, blue sigils pulsing like sick veins. Lotus pads tiled the water in a fat green quilt, but there were gaps: black channels sliced between pads, narrow and straight, like somebody had cut hallways into a lake. Thread flags Hana tied on the way in hung off cattails behind us, little white whispers pointing home.
Water hugged thigh-high. Every step made a wet kiss and tried to keep my boots. The mist wasn't drifting anymore; it pressed. Crowd-at-a-concert pressed. Knew-my-name pressed.
[Fog-Mire Annex — Ring 3 Cleared (3/5).]
[Ambient Hazard ↓ 12% for 20m.]
[Note: Energy density recovering abnormally fast.]
Jax scanned the black channels like they'd grown teeth. "Something's off," he said finally. Not a joke in sight. He flicked a fat leech from his gauntlet and wiped the smear on a lotus pad. "Sweeps don't bounce back this fast."
Hana didn't look up from her kit. Vial, stopper, twist—clean movements that made my own hands feel clumsy. "On paper, sweeps cap at C," she said, voice even. "On paper." She gave the thread tether on my wrist a quick tug: a quiet you're with me, don't drift.
Mikey adjusted his shield for the third time in a minute. The thing was almost as nervous as he was. "We still pushing?" he asked. "Because my legs are voting no, and I respect democracy sometimes."
"We're pushing," Jax said, rolling his shoulder until it popped. "You can file a complaint with management when we get out. I'll sign it."
"Management is the swamp," I said. "And it already hates us."
Hana's mouth ticked like she might almost smile. "Stay tight. If you lose your footing, say it. I'm tired of fishing people out by the ankle."
Mikey blew out a breath. "Copy. No heroic swan dives. I left my cape at home anyway."
"Good," I said. "Capes are terrible in mud. Learned that the wet way."
We started forward again—pads sighing, water tugging at our knees—pretending we all believed this was still a C-cap sweep and not whatever the hell it was trying to be.
Ring 4 opened with attitude. Fog Hounds came in welded pairs, two skulls sharing one spine like a budget cut. Mire Crawlers hauled themselves over pad edges with too many elbows clicking. The mist kept stealing voices. Ethan, be boring.Show me, reckless. Rent. The last one made my left eye twitch.
I worked edges—don't be a hero, be a box cutter. Step—stab—Step—stab. Fangpiercer hummed when I put it where it wanted. Hana's dust hung in the air like someone traced bones in charcoal: "Seam. Two seconds." Jax bullied everything gravity could help bully. Mikey bulldozed straight lines through a place that hated straight lines.
We hopscotched pad to pad. The black channels cut sightlines to eight, maybe ten meters. Anything beyond that was white lie.
Another finger of swamp climbed my thigh. The mist quit breathing and started eavesdropping.
The channel ahead opened into a little murder bowl—nine meters across, pads gone, water black and flat like polished hate. Three pylons made a crooked triangle around it: stubby one at five o'clock (half sunk), split one at eight (leaning like it drank a lot), a tall one at high noon with magic stuttering like a bad heartbeat. No cover. No high ground. Just "come stand here and die loud."
That's where it poured itself together. Ten meters out. Dead center.
Fog thickened into a tall shape like somebody filled an invisible man with freezer burn. Layers slid on until it wore overlapping reed-plates, glossy with dew, edges thin enough to shave a thought. A branch-crown grew out and kept growing—antlers if antlers were made by a swamp with opinions—catching droplets that strung into trembling beads.
The face? A smooth white mask. No eyes, no mouth. Just a hairline crack down the middle with a faint blue pulse under it, like a vein that hadn't decided to be alive yet.
It didn't stand on water. It stood on pressure. Air went glassy under its feet, twenty centimeters above the pool, and the surface bowed like it was holding its breath for it. Every inhale tugged the whole bowl inward. Every exhale let it sag back. Gross tide, party of one.
Right hand dragged a cleaver made of condensed fog—glass-slick, reed-wrapped grip. Drops fell off the edge and burned pale rings into any lotus pad dumb enough to drift close. Nice warning labels.
I mapped the math: five-o'clock pylon = shallow angle; eight-o'clock lean buys half a heartbeat of screen; noon pylon is your only "height" and it's lying. Six meters of open bowl to cross if you're brave or me.
The system chimed, cheerful as a smoke alarm:
[Warning: Threat level exceeds dungeon parameters.]
[Anomaly Detected: Fog Tyrant (A-Rank).]
[Note: Semi-tangible. Adaptive resistance. Weakness: twin core nodes along central axis (sternal / lumbar). Vulnerability window: 0.8s.]
"Great," I said. "Boss room with no room. And a cosplay mask."
Jax's blade dipped a hair.
Hana's jaw set. "The cycle is warped. Keep your eyes up. Don't chase anything stay in formation."
Cool. Me again? Lot C says hi.
"Maybe it's my personality," I said. "Places get fucked up."
Nobody laughed. Mean.
The Tyrant gave us one lazy swing to say hello.
"Anchor!" Mikey slammed his shield. The dome bloomed—steel light curving the swamp back. The cleaver hit. Church bell, but pissed. Hairline cracks raced the dome like spiders sprinting.
"Off-center it!" Jax chopped the air. Grav Pull seized the pressure shelf under the Tyrant's feet and yanked it a half-step sideways. The white mask twitched; a faint sternal pulse flashed through the chest like a fishbone of light.
Hana flicked dust. It clung to nothing and made edges anyway—reed-plates, crown-spikes, a blue line down the center. "There. Window's thin."
I moved.
[Lightning Step: 1/3]
[Cooldown: 2s]
[Bonus: +100% strike speed applied.]
Fangpiercer slid for that front-axis glow.
[Fangpiercer Critical]
[Armor Penetration: 30%]
The Tyrant shrieked in three borrowed throats at once. Cold punched my ribs so hard my lungs forgot the rules.
[Absolute Regeneration Activated]
[Trauma: intercostal contusions, cold shock. Cooldown: 3s.]
The dome screamed. Cracks spread.
"Mikey!" Hana snapped.
"I got—" He didn't.
Second swing. The dome shattered like cheap ice.
Mikey shoved the shield up on stubborn and twenty years old. It saved his chest.
The cleaver took his leg below the knee like it changed its mind about him halfway through.
He screamed and the sound cut the mist in strips.
[Ally Condition: Mikey Tran — Critical.]
The system warmed my ribs, stitching injuries I didn't even get time to own. Mikey's blood steeped the water black. That's the difference. SSS cheat. Real life.
Hana was already there, hands sure, thread dust hissing white-hot. Jax met the next swing on steel and a grunt that wasn't a word.
"Ethan." Hana didn't look at me. "Put it down."
No pressure.
The Tyrant cocked its head toward me. The hairline crack down its mask pulsed blue and Mara's voice came out of the nothing: Be boring.
Lightning pulled on my bones. Knees itched.
"Not now," I told the slideshow brain. "Later. Maybe."
I slid back over the pads and nearly ate swamp. My boot hit something hard under the muck. Not bone. Not root. Metal.
I glanced down. A curved blade jutted from the sludge like it had been planted there just for me. Matte black, water sliding right off the edge without sticking.
"…no way."
I yanked it free. Cold ran up my arm, a low whisper instead of Fangpiercer's hum.
The system coughed like it had been waiting to ruin my day.
[Loot Acquired: Gloamthorn (A-Rank, Dagger).]
Effect: Off-hand attack speed +20%. First strike from concealment deals bonus damage. Note: Optimized for dual-wield pairing. Binding Signature: Ethan Cross.
I stared at it. Then at the swamp. Then back at it.
"Right. Just lying around in the middle of ring four. Sure. Totally normal. Has nothing to do with the three question marks glaring at me in the Luck stat. Nope. Not suspicious at all."
Fangpiercer thrummed like it was glad I'd brought home a friend. Gloamthorn purred like it wanted blood right now.
I spun them both once, sloppy. My brain whispered, two knives means twice the ways to stab yourself, genius.
Then.
[Lightning Step: 1/3]
[Cooldown: 2s]
[Bonus: +100% strike speed applied.]
I slid inside the mask's reach. Close enough to hear nothing, which was somehow worse.
Fangpiercer bit the upper node.
[Fangpiercer Critical]
[Armor Penetration: 30%]
Gloamthorn chased the lower spark on instinct.
[Gloamthorn Strike]
[Off-hand acceleration applied.]
The Tyrant screamed in my voice this time—Be boring—like a mirror with opinions. Cold slapped me sideways; I bounced off a leaning pylon and my back lit up.
[Absolute Regeneration Activated]
[Trauma: lumbar strain, dermal lacerations (back). Cooldown: 4s.]
Cooldown ticked red. No Step. No heroics. Just survive.
Three. Two. One.
[Absolute Regeneration Restored]
[Injuries recovered: lumbar strain, dermal lacerations (back).]
Door open.
Step.
[Lightning Step: 1/3]
[Cooldown: 2s]
[Bonus: +100% strike speed applied.]
Through the ribs. Close enough to hear nothing because fog doesn't breathe.
Left hand—Fangpiercer—bit left core.
[Fangpiercer Critical]
[Armor Penetration: 30%]
Right hand—Gloamthorn—slid for the twin.
[Gloamthorn Strike]
[Off-hand acceleration applied.]
The Tyrant screamed in my own voice. Be boring. Rude.
Cold slapped. It tore sideways to drag me into the cleaver. My hip clipped a pylon and my back lit.
[Absolute Regeneration Activated]
[Trauma: lumbar strain, dermal lacerations (back). Cooldown: 4s.]
"Timer," I hissed.
Couldn't Step. Could die. Why now?
I let my legs go loose and slid away with the pull. The cleaver missed my skull by a rent notice. Jax crashed into the blade with both arms and all of his future shoulder pain. Hana's threads bit a rib and yanked it just enough.
Breath. Count. Three. Two. One.
[Absolute Regeneration Restored]
[Injuries recovered: lumbar strain, dermal lacerations (back).]
Door opened.
Step.
[Lightning Step: 1/3]
[Cooldown: 5s]
[Bonus: +100% strike speed applied.]
Inside again. Tight. World a circle of bone and two tiny lights playing chicken.
Cross-cut.
[Fangpiercer Critical]
[Armor Penetration: 30%]
[Gloamthorn Strike — Concealment Bonus]
Both pulses popped like bulbs under a heel.
The Tyrant's arms went slack. The cleaver dropped and didn't bother the surface again. The face knot unraveled and gave me a last little mouth twitch in someone else's voice. Then nothing.
[Target Defeated: Fog Tyrant (A-Rank, Anomaly).]
[EXP Gained: +12,000]
The swamp exhaled like it had been holding that in since breakfast.
I stood there with two knives and a heartbeat that thought it was a drummer. Fangpiercer hummed high. Gloamthorn purred low. The band on my wrist pulsed once like mine.
Mikey was still white. Still here. Hana's wrap job looked like art and triage had a baby. Jax stood over them, blade down, chest up, pretending posture could hold the sky.
"Chest," Hana said. Not a request.
It had already bloomed. Fog pretending to be wood pretending to be a prize. It thunked onto a Lotus pad like a pet bringing a dead bird.
"Don't," Jax said to it, because apparently we talk to boxes now.
The system ignored him.
[Loot Acquired: Fog Tyrant Core (A-Rank).]
[Loot Acquired: Mistwoven Cloak (Rare) — Dampened step, +evasion vs. projectiles.]
[Loot Acquired: Rib-Knot Charm (Rare Component).]
[Loot Acquired: Thread Resin (Fine) x4.]
[Loot Acquired: Swampglass Phial (Rare) x2.]
[Loot Acquired: District Scrip (2,600 credits).]
The chest kept a few crumbs for show. Hana clocked that. She also clocked me. Nothing said. Everything said.
Then the casino bell.
[EXP Gained: +12,000]
[Note: Anomaly-class threats yield ×3 EXP. Warden's Echo Band effect applied (EXP ×2).]
[Level Up → 12]
Stat Points +5
[Level Up → 13]
Stat Points +5
[Level Up → 14]
Stat Points +5
[Level Up → 15]
Stat Points +5
[Level Up → 16]
Stat Points +5
[Level Up → 17]
Stat Points +5
[Level Up → 18]
Stat Points +5
[Level Up → 19]
Stat Points +5
[Level Up → 20]
Stat Points +5
[Milestone Bonus: +20 Stat Points awarded.]
[Total Stat Points Gained: +65]
[Job Quest Available.]
[System Note: Current growth rate exceeds regional threat curve. Expect escalated opposition.]
I didn't grin. My stomach did a backflip and failed the landing.
"Pack it," Hana said. Voice steady. Hands gentle on Mikey. "We're done. Jax, carry. Ethan, cloak him."
I swung the Mistwoven Cloak around Mikey's shoulders. It drank sound. I wished it drank blood.
We moved. The Annex tried to be possessive for another thirty meters, then gave up. Pylon sigils sank from angry blue to hospital white. The mist went back to mumbling my name like a habit it couldn't kick.
Handlers at the fringe stared at us the way people stare at a car crash they can't help watching. They took Mikey fast. Someone put a cred chit in my hand like they were sorry for it.
Hana gave a report that was all knife. Ring clear. Anomaly boss. Casualty stabilized. Recommend survey. She left out the part where I blinked through a monster and carved light. I noticed the omission and didn't know whether to say thanks or why.
Mikey caught my sleeve as they lifted him. His skin was hot. "Don't tell my mom I screamed."
"You didn't," I lied. "You called it a bitch and bit it."
He tried to laugh. Hurt himself trying.
Jax clapped my shoulder. Too hard. Almost friendly. "You still look like an F-rank. You fight like a problem. I'll mind my own business."
"Great policy," I said. "Very healthy."
Hana looked at the band, then Gloamthorn, then me. "Gear that chooses you makes you visible. Try not to glow."
"I'm… working on boring," I said.
"Good." She almost smiled. Or my eyes lied.
They rolled Mikey away. The mist behind the fence breathed like it was disappointed we'd left.
After
I got paid. Not "buy a house" money. "Buy food that wasn't grose." money.
I bought fried chicken. Good box. Grease halo. I added something green to impress my doctor who doesn't exist. It tasted like lawn in January.
At home, the system waited like a cat on the counter.
[Status Window]
Name:
Ethan Cross
Level: 20
HP: 180 / 180
MP: 0 / 0
Strength: 50
Agility: 46
Endurance: 14
Intelligence: 6
Wisdom: 5
Luck: ???
Skills:
— Absolute Regeneration (SSS-Rank)
— Lightning Step (SSS-Rank)
— Twin Fang Style (Passive)
Equipment:
— Fangpiercer (A-Rank, Bound)
— Gloamthorn (A- Rank, Bound)
— Mistwoven Cloak (Rare)
— Warden's Echo Band (Unique, Bound): EXP x2, Physical Damage x2
[Stat Points Available: 60]
[Job Quest Available.]
Sixty sat there like a buffet. Touching anything felt like telling the city I was weird on purpose.
I closed it before my fingers did something honest.
Shower. The water lied about the color for a minute. I let it.
Bed. Two knives within arm's reach because I'm brave but not dumb. The band pulsed once. Proprietary.
Lot C had the Guardian. Fog-Mire coughed up a Tyrant on a sweep. Both times I was there. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's the things glued to me. Maybe the swamp likes me in a way that ends with my corpse on a pamphlet.
The system slid the last envelope under the door.
[Job Quest — Threshold Reached.]
Select a Path.
— Blade Dancer (Offense): Amplify critical vectors. Extend Step chains. Open riposte windows.
— Stone-Blood (Defense): Temper regen cooldowns. Add stagger immunity frames. Guard counters.
— Slipstream (Mobility): Reduce Step cooldowns. After-images. Micro-telemetry evasion.
[Hidden Path Detected.]
Description fragment: "Forge protocols. Material conversion. Growth scaling."
Current limit: A-Rank output.
[Recommended.]
[Note: Selection influences public signature detectable by higher-tier scanners.]
Public signature. Translation: once I pick a job, every fancy guild scanner in the city will see me glowing like a bug zapper. Hunters normally get one boring ability and it stamps their little aura forever. Me? I'm supposed to be F-rank trash with no tricks. If I suddenly light up with a whole new signature, every inspector in Arcadia is going to ask how I grew a second soul overnight.
Great. Exactly what a guy hiding an SSS cheat sheet from the world wants. Nothing screams please dissect me louder than showing up on a scan like a Christmas tree.
And then there's the "hidden path." Forge protocols? Material conversion? Growth scaling? That sounded less like a combat job and more like I was about to start a trade school. The system even had the nerve to stamp Recommended on it, like my horny murder-app wanted me to take up carpentry.
Tomorrow? No. Later this week. I'd visit Mara. Tea that tastes like regret. Maybe she tells me to sleep. Maybe she tells me to stop chasing knives with more knives. Maybe she explains why the system thinks I should be hammering swords out of monster teeth.
Tonight I ate chicken over the sink like a king with bad habits and told myself I'd pick a job when the city wasn't listening.
Rent's still due. Mrs. Dobrev still texts me knife emojis. Mikey still has a hospital bracelet instead of a leg. Hana still files me under problem. Jax pretends he didn't see. The dungeon probably has my name on a whiteboard.
Be boring, the fog had said.
I'll try. Sexy optional.
Sleep found me anyway.