Sleep never came.
Blake changed into a hoodie and stepped back out into the night, letting the cool air hit his face as he broke into a slow jog. The streets were mostly empty at this hour, mana-lit lamps casting long shadows across the pavement.
His thoughts ran faster than his feet.
By the time he slowed to a stop, his lungs burned lightly and his head felt clearer. He sat down on a bench overlooking the street, shoulders slumping as the tension finally drained from him.
Blake sighed, long and deep.
Looking back, maybe this was enough.
He had his answer now. A clear one. No what-ifs left hanging in the air. The system hadn't glitched. The ring hadn't failed. There was no cruel trick hiding behind false hope.
This was simply his limit.
He glanced down at the ring once more, turning it slowly between his fingers. The faint red gem caught the light, glowing softly before he closed his hand around it.
With a thought, the ring vanished.
Stored safely in his inventory, one of the few privileges he'd been granted as an Awakener. A small mercy. A reminder that, at the very least, the system hadn't completely forgotten him.
Blake leaned back against the bench.
"Maybe I can't chase that dream anymore," he murmured to no one. But he was still here. Still working. Still surviving in a world that had learned to move on without him.
That had to be enough.
At least for now.
On his way back, Blake couldn't help drifting into a different version of reality.
One where he had mana.
He imagined it easily. Too easily. A life where his status window didn't end in zeroes, where effort actually turned into results. He'd be richer, that much was certain. A better apartment. Fewer late nights. A life that didn't feel so narrowly balanced on survival.
He wouldn't be exceptional.
Not like his younger siblings, who had awakened with hidden classes and had explosive potential. He would never reach their heights.
But he would still belong.
He would still be invited home.
The thought lingered longer than he expected.
If success was the only thing that decided whether he was family… then what had they ever been to begin with?
Blake slowed his steps.
Family wasn't supposed to be conditional. It wasn't meant to disappear the moment someone fell behind. Yet the distance had come so easily, so cleanly, as if he'd failed a requirement he'd never agreed to.
He exhaled, breath fogging in the night air.
Maybe that was the hardest part. Not losing the dream, but realizing how fragile those ties had been all along.
Blake made a brief stop at the new convenience store on the corner, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft chime. The place was brightly lit, shelves neatly stocked, still carrying that faint scent of new plastic and disinfectant.
The cashier glanced up and waved.
Blake returned the gesture out of habit before moving deeper inside.
Near the window, a couple sat close together, laughing softly as they fed each other spoonfuls of ice cream. They looked young. Carefree. Completely absorbed in their own little world.
Blake passed by without comment.
At a nearby table, another customer watched the scene with a visible grimace, their expression mirroring Blake's own thoughts, somewhere between mild disgust and secondhand embarrassment.
Yeah. Enough of that.
Deciding he'd had more than enough emotional turbulence for one night, Blake headed toward the drinks aisle and grabbed another energy drink from the cooler. Cold. Familiar. Reliable.
As he turned away, something tapped lightly against his back.
"Excuse me," a voice said.
Blake turned to see an old man standing behind him, hunched slightly, eyes sharp despite his age. He held a small shopping basket in one hand, the other gesturing vaguely toward the aisles.
"Could you help me find something?" the man asked politely.
Blake nodded without thinking.
"Sure," he said. "What are you looking for?"
The old man was frustratingly vague.
"Something sweet," he said at first.
"Not too heavy."
"Something she likes."
Blake walked him through aisle after aisle, narrowing it down through patient guesses until they finally stopped in front of a small shelf near the back. The old man's eyes lit up.
"That's the one," he said, nodding. "She likes this."
He placed the item into his basket with care, then turned back to Blake with a warm smile.
"Thank you," he said. "I needed it for my wife."
Blake waved it off with an easy smile of his own. "No problem."
The old man returned the wave and shuffled toward the register. Blake headed to the counter after him, setting his energy drink down. He already had the exact amount in hand.
No delays. No surprises. He just wanted to go home.
The cashier scanned the can.
Nothing happened.
She frowned and tried again.
Still nothing.
"That's… odd," she muttered.
Blake tilted his head. "What is?"
"The scanner isn't working," she said, tapping the screen. "It was fine a second ago."
As if on cue, the lights flickered.
Then they went out.
The refrigerated shelves fell silent. The soft hum of the store vanished, replaced by an abrupt, unnatural quiet. Phones around the room went dark. The holographic ads in the windows fizzled out mid-animation.
Every piece of equipment that relied on electricity failed at once.
Blake's stomach dropped.
In the center of the convenience store, the air began to twist.
Space folded inward, spiraling into itself as a familiar, horrifying shape took form. Shadows stretched and bent, walls groaned as if reality itself were being pulled apart.
A dungeon.
Customers screamed.
The cashier stumbled back from the counter.
The world lurched.
Blake's eyes locked onto the spiral as the dungeon fully manifested, its dark spiral swallowing the center of the store.
He felt weightless for a split second before the ground slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Sounds blurred together. Shouts, gasps, someone retching nearby before everything settled into an eerie stillness.
Blake pushed himself up.
They were still in the center of what had once been the convenience store, but it no longer resembled anything familiar. The walls were gone, replaced by a distorted space stretched outward into darkness. Faint, pulsing light illuminated the area, but shadows twisted unnaturally along the edges.
Blake's eyes followed the others.
The couple from earlier clung to each other, white-knuckled and trembling.
The cashier crouched low, muttering to herself.
The person from the table shifted nervously, glancing at every corner for a way out.
The old man stood quietly, shaking from the sudden situation.
Then Blake noticed it.
Far ahead, in the distance, a massive arena had formed. Towering stone walls and tiered seating encircled the only visible exit. The stadium's design was precise, almost ceremonial, and in its center stood a lone knight, armor battered and dark, sword held point-down before him.
Looking past the arena, he saw the dungeon's exit.
The problem?
They had to get through the arena.
Inspecting it closer, he saw that there was a stone tablet on a lectern just before the steps to the arena glowing faintly, its runes pulsing with ominous light. Blake stepped closer, drawn by curiosity, and read the text etched upon it.
Chivalry is dead.
The sword was once a path.
A vow. A restraint.
But the world strayed.
Honor faded.
Steel became indulgence rather than duty.
Now, only judgment remains.
All who stand before the blade shall know death.
The cashier approached Blake and took a look at what was on the lectern. She squinted at the stone tablet, tilting her head. "Do you… understand that?" she asked.
Blake blinked. "Yeah," he replied, a little confused. "I can read it fine."
She looked at him in surprise. "You can?"
He nodded slowly. "It's probably because I'm an Awakener."
Her eyes widened slightly as she looked him over, clearly reassessing him. "You don't really seem like one."
Blake let out a short, humorless breath. "Yeah. I get that a lot."
She gestured toward the tablet. "Then what does it say?"
Before Blake could answer, the man who'd been sitting alone at the table earlier stepped closer. "Iuf he can read it," he said, glancing around at the others. "Then he should tell everyone. No reason for only one person to have information."
The couple stopped whispering to each other and looked over. Even the old man turned his attention toward Blake, quiet but attentive.
Blake hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
"Alright," he said.
He cleared his throat and read the tablet aloud, word for word. As the meaning settled over the small group, the air seemed to grow heavier with each line. When he finished, silence followed.
Blake exhaled. "Whatever this dungeon is… that message is probably important. It's not just flavor text."
He glanced toward the distant arena, the knight still standing motionless at its center. "It's most likely a clue. Something we need to understand if we want to reach the exit."
Ideas began flying almost immediately.
"Maybe it's about proving honor?"
"No, it literally says death."
"What if only one person has to fight?"
Every theory eventually circled back to the same conclusion.
They'd have to face the knight.
The man who sat alone at the table earlier rubbed his face and let out an irritated sigh. He glanced around the group, eyes sharp and critical.
"A couple civilians, an old man, a cashier, and…" His gaze stopped on Blake. "One Awakener who looks like he's never stepped into a dungeon."
He clicked his tongue.
"Great. Just great."
He straightened up and crossed his arms. "Listen. Most of you wouldn't last five seconds out there." He gestured vaguely toward the arena. "If you want to live, you stop panicking and start listening."
His eyes settled on Blake again. "You. You said you're an Awakener, right?"
Blake nodded. "Yeah."
"Name's Ronan," the man said curtly. "Level 13. Tank." There was no pride in his voice, only blunt fact. "And whether you like it or not, you're the only one here who even has a chance of contributing."
Blake hesitated, then sighed. "I'm Blake. Mage."
Ronan raised an eyebrow. "Mage?"
"Yeah," Blake said quickly. "But don't get your hopes up. I'm only level 1."
The words hung there.
Ronan stared at him for a long second.
"...You're joking."
Blake shook his head. "I wish I was."
Ronan let out a sharp laugh, rubbing his temples. "Unbelievable. A level one mage. In a dungeon with a boss gatekeeper." He looked away, clearly annoyed. "Figures I get stuck with this."
The cashier opened her mouth as if to protest, but Ronan cut her off.
"Doesn't matter," he said. "Weak or not, you're still awakened. That puts you ahead of everyone else here." His gaze hardened. "So unless you want to die hiding behind civilians, you're working with me."
Blake swallowed.
"I'll do what I can," he said quietly.
Ronan snorted. "You better."
"Why didn't you bother leveling up?" he asked.
Blake opened his mouth to answer–
But Ronan had already turned away.
"Tch. Whatever."
He strode toward the stone tablet, squinting at the glowing runes. "You sure about what this says?" he asked without looking back. "Because this looks like complete gibberish to me."
Blake frowned. "I'm sure. I could read it clearly. Back then and now."
Ronan clicked his tongue. "Great. So only mages can read dungeon flavor text now?"
"That's not what I said," Blake replied, but Ronan was already pacing.
"Doesn't matter," Ronan muttered. He turned his attention to the arena beyond the tablet, eyes narrowing as he studied the knight standing motionless at its center. "Looks like a trigger-type gate."
He took a few cautious steps forward, just close enough to feel the air change.
"Bet he wakes up the moment someone steps inside the arena."
Before anyone could stop him, Ronan bent down and picked up a small stone.
"Hey–" Blake started.
Ronan threw it. The rock sailed through the air toward the knight.
It never reached him.
A sharp metallic sound rang out.
The stone split cleanly in half midair, the two pieces clattering harmlessly to the ground before ever touching the armor.
Silence followed.
The knight hadn't moved.
Hadn't shifted his stance.
But the pressure in the air spiked, heavy and suffocating.
Ronan slowly lowered his hand.
"...Yeah," he said flatly. "That confirms it."
The cashier's voice trembled. "Confirms what?"
Ronan didn't look away from the arena.
"The only thing keeping us alive is the trigger for the boss."
Ronan motioned for Blake to follow him.
"Come here," he said, already turning away.
Blake hesitated, then stepped aside with him, far enough that the others couldn't hear. Ronan glanced back once, making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop, before lowering his voice.
"This gate," Ronan said, "is way above our level."
Blake frowned. "How can you tell? It doesn't look that way."
"Do you remember the rock?" Ronan interrupted.
Blake nodded. "Yeah."
"That wasn't just a clean cut," Ronan continued. "That was sword aura."
Blake's breath caught.
Ronan's expression darkened. "Not only did it slice the rock in half without the blade moving, it did it with perfect precision." He clenched his jaw. "That's not a beginner dungeon trick. Boss monsters don't even get that until at least level thirty."
Blake felt a chill run down his spine.
"If that knight actually decides to swing," Ronan said, "we won't even see it happen."
He glanced toward the arena, where the knight still stood unmoving, sword resting calmly before him. "This isn't a fair fight," Ronan said. "It's an execution."
Silence stretched between them.
Blake took a slow breath.
"Then we don't kill it," he said.
Ronan looked at him sharply. "What?"
Blake gestured toward the far side of the arena, where the exit shimmered faintly beyond the stone ring. "The dungeon's exit is already open. We don't need to clear the boss."
Ronan followed his gaze, jaw tightening as realization set in.
"...You're saying this isn't a trigger-type gate?" Ronan questioned him.
"No," Blake said. "I think it's a mix between a trigger-type and a survival-type. The knight isn't guarding loot. He's guarding the path. There's probably a level condition for only low levelled awakeners to enter."
Ronan folded his arms. "Even if that's true, we still have to get past him."
"We don't," Blake corrected. "Not all of us."
Ronan paused.
Blake continued, voice steadier now. "If we can distract it, just long enough for everyone to reach the exit, then we're done. No victory condition. No kill requirement."
Ronan stared at him for a long moment.
"...You're sure?"
"The exit's wide open on the other side," Blake said. "In most dungeons, the exit would only open if the boss monster is killed."
Ronan exhaled slowly. "Which means someone's going to have to draw its attention."
Blake nodded. "Yeah."
Silence hung between them, heavy with implication. Ronan glanced back at the others. The shaking couple, the cashier gripping her arms, the old man standing quietly to the side.
"...This plan only works if the distraction survives long enough," Ronan said flatly.
Blake swallowed. "I know."
Ronan didn't answer right away.
Instead, he exhaled slowly… then shook his head.
"You're still thinking like this is a rescue mission," he said.
Blake frowned. "What does that–"
"Thay don't all have to make it out," Ronan cut in.
Blake stiffened.
Ronan lowered his voice further. "Think about it. Only the survivors get to tell what happens in a dungeon. No one verifies the details. No one can." His eyes were sharp, calculating. "As long as we walk out alive, the story becomes whatever we say it is."
Blake stared at him. "You're saying we leave them?"
"I'm saying we don't throw our lives away for people who can't contribute," Ronan replied flatly.
He gestured subtly toward the others one by one.
"The couple?" he scoffed. "Panicking. They'll freeze the moment that thing moves."
"The cashier?" Ronan shook his head. "No combat training. No endurance."
Then his gaze landed on the old man.
"And him?" Ronan said quietly. "He probably doesn't even have many days left to live. You really want to die here so he can walk out?"
Blake felt something twist painfully in his chest.
Ronan leaned closer. "This is how dungeons actually work. People don't talk about it because it's ugly. Survival isn't fair, and it's never heroic."
He straightened slightly.
"They won't survive," Ronan went on, "But while the knight's busy cutting them down, we move. Straight for the exit." Blake's voice came out strained. "And you want me to tell them this?"
Ronan shook his head. "No. I want you to convince them to go first."
Blake recoiled. "You want me to lie to them."
"I want you to sell it," Ronan corrected. "You're the only one who can read the tablet. You already have their trust, all you have to do is sweet talk them into it and they'll listen."
Blake's hands curled into fists.
Ronan continued, calm and relentless. "Tell them it's the only way. That we all have to rush together. That hesitation means death." His eyes hardened. "They don't need to know we're not following."
Silence stretched between them.
"If you do this," Ronan said quietly, "we both walk out alive. We tell the guild what we want. No one questions survivors."
Blake realized then that Ronan wasn't asking him to fight.
He was asking him to betray.