Certain that Blake would fall in line, Ronan turned and walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Blake didn't move.
His mind churned, looping over the same questions again and again.
In situations like this, survival itself was considered a miracle. There were no stories where everyone made it out. None that mattered, anyway. Accidents, dungeon breaks, sudden gates, someone always died. Usually most of them.
Why would this be any different?
Blake looked down at his hands.
He had a life. A small one, maybe, but it was still his. A steady job. A routing. A place to go home to. And his older sister, who had spent her savings on a ring he still hadn't returned. Who believed, somehow, that he could still find happiness.
Would he really throw all of that away… for strangers?
For people whose names he didn't even know?
The answer should've been easy.
Logic told him to survive. To walk out. To accept that the world was cruel and that good intentions didn't keep people alive. Ronan was right about that much.
Blake clenched his jaw.
But every time he imagined himself stepping past the exit. Hearing screams behind him, knowing exactly what he'd done, something twisted painfully in his chest.
If he walked away now…
What would he have left?
Ronan stood by the lectern, arms crossed, watching.
Blake spoke quietly with the civilians, his posture calm, his voice steady. Whatever he said, it worked. One by one, their anxious expressions shifted into something closer to resolve. When they finally began walking toward the arena, Ronan's eyes narrowed.
Blake met his gaze.
A single nod.
That was all Ronan needed.
Good. He chose right.
Once everyone had gathered, Blake stepped forward, placing himself where all of them could see him. Ronan stayed half a step behind, silent and imposing. "Alright," Blake said. "We're going to do this cleanly."
He pointed toward the arena and the distant exit beyond it. "Ronan and I will distract the knight while you run. No stopping, no looking back. The moment you enter the arena, sprint straight for the exit."
The couple exchanged a nervous glance but nodded.
"The knight will react once someone moves," Blake continued. "As soon as it does, Ronan will draw its attention using a tank skill." He paused, then added, "That'll give us time to keep it occupied."
Ronan blinked.
That wasn't what they'd discussed.
Blake caught his eye and gave a quick, almost imperceptible wink.
Ronan's surprise faded into a thin, amused smile.
So he's committing to the act.
Blake went on, his tone confident. "Once the knight switches targets and closes in on Ronan, I'll attack it from the opposite side. That should force it to focus on me instead."
The cashier swallowed. "And… you'll be okay?"
Blake nodded. "I'll use a restraining skill to slow it down. Just enough time for me to reach the exit after you." The old man inclined his head slightly, accepting the explanation without question.
Ronan finally spoke. "You hear that? No hesitation. You run, we handle the rest."
The knight stood motionless in the arena, sword resting calmly against the stone. And as the civilians prepared to move, Blake felt his heart hammer painfully in his chest.
This was it.
Once they stepped forward, there would be no taking it back.
"Now!"
The civilians ran. Footsteps pounded against stone as they rushed into the arena, fear stripping away hesitation. The exit shimmered brighter with every step they took toward it.
Blake and Ronan stayed behind.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the knight moved.
Stone cracked beneath his feet as he turned, armor groaning as if awakening from a long slumber. His head tilted, just slightly before his gaze locked onto the nearest presence.
The cashier.
She gasped as the pressure crashed down on her, her legs nearly giving out as the knight began to advance.
"R-Ronan!" she cried, glancing back.
She saw him.
And for a brief, hopeful moment, she waited for the glow of a tank skill. A shout. A taunt.
Anything.
Ronan met her eyes.
And smiled.
Then he turned away.
He ran toward the exit, falling in step with the others without a shred of hesitation.
The realization hit her like a physical blow.
"No…" she whispered.
The knight raised his sword. The blade hummed, a faint ripple of sword aura forming along its edge. The air itself seemed to split in anticipation. Blake's heart slammed against his ribs.
This was the moment Ronan had planned for.
The moment Blake was supposed to look away.
The moment the world proved once again that survival belonged only to the ruthless.
The knight's sword began its downward arc.
Blake moved.
He slammed into the cashier, shoving her out of the way as the sword carved through the air where she had been standing, missing them both by inches.
"RUN!" Blake shouted.
She stumbled, barely keeping her footing. Blake grabbed her wrist and pressed the ring into her hand. "Take this," he said, breath ragged. "Please. Return it to my sister."
Her eyes widened. "W-What about you–"
"Go!" he snapped, turning back toward the knight.
Behind them, Ronan watched for half a second.
"...Idiot," he muttered.
Then he leapt through the exit without looking back.
The cashier ran.
Blake stood alone.
The knight straightened, sword lowering into a ready stance as its attention fully settled on him.
No allies.
No escape.
No lies left to tell.
Only a level one mage, standing between a fallen knight and the consequences of his choice.
Blake ran.
Not toward the exit, but away from it, dragging the knight's attention with him. He didn't know. He couldn't. All he could do was move, stumble, and pray his body held together for one more second.
The knight advanced without urgency. Each step was calm. Certain.
When the sword came down, Blake barely twisted aside. Steel tore through his shoulder instead of his spine, the impact flinging him across the stone. Pain exploded, white-hot and immediate.
He rolled, gasping, forcing himself back up.
Another strike.
This time it caught his side. He felt ribs crack, felt the world tilt as he hit the ground again. Blood soaked into his clothes, warm and slick. It wasn't that Blake was skilled enough to avoid death.
It was that the knight wasn't trying.
The knight didn't use skills.
Didn't release sword aura.
Didn't even change his stance.
He didn't need to.
To the knight, Blake was already dead.
A corpse that just hadn't finished falling yet.
Blake's vision swam as memories bled into the edges of his sight. Late nights at work, quiet train rides, his family's smile when he was still with them.
I'm sorry.
Through blurred vision, he saw movement. The cashier stood at the edge of the arena, tears streaming down her face as she looked back at him. Their eyes met. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.
"...Thank you," she whispered.
Then she turned.
And ran.
The exit flared once more as she stepped into it, and disappeared.
Blake collapsed to one knee, breath coming in shallow, broken gasps.
The knight stepped closer, sword rising for the final time.
Then…
The blade stopped.
It hovered inches from Blake's throat, sword aura frozen in the air like fractured glass. The pain vanished. The sound vanished. Even the pressure of the dungeon disappeared.
Everything had come to a halt.
His body was frozen in place, locked mid-breath, mid-thought. Panic flared briefly, until he realized something strange.
He could still think.
Only his consciousness remained free.
Before him, light gathered, forming a familiar yet alien shape.
A system panel.
Not the translucent window he had grown used to, but something deeper, older. Its surface was smooth, unadorned, the text etched into it carrying weight beyond mere information
Why do you live?
Blake's mind went blank.
Why… did he live?
The question felt unfair. Too heavy. Too large to answer in a moment like this. Thoughts tumbled over each other. His job, his sister, the quiet routines that made up his days. He tried to answer properly. Carefully. Honestly.
"I… don't know," he admitted. "I've never been good at answering things like that."
The panel waited.
Blake swallowed and continued, words coming slowly, unevenly.
"But if I had to say something…" He paused. "I think I live for the happiness of others. Even if I don't amount to much myself… if I can help the people I care about smile, or keep living, then maybe that's enough."
The panel pulsed faintly.
Then why did you choose this path?
Blake exhaled.
"Because I didn't have a choice," he said. Images flickered through his mind. The exit closing, Ronan's back as he ran, the cashier's tears when faced with death.
"There was a life waiting for me outside the dungeon," Blake said quietly. "But the same was true for them as well."
His chest tightened.
"The difference is… they still had a future. People waiting for them. Chances I never got." His voice steadied, acceptance settling in. "My fate was sealed the moment I stepped in front of that sword."
The panel remained silent for a long moment.
Then, a new line appeared.
What do you wish for?
Blake didn't hesitate.
"I wish for strength," he said.
"The strength I never had."
Not for glory.
Not for revenge.
Just enough to protect what he loves.
The panel pulsed once again.
Then, as if answering a call long overdue, new words carved themselves into its surface.
Valheim hears your call.
The light vanished.
Time resumed.
The sword moved.
Streel screamed as it continued its descent–
And then stopped.
A hand caught the blade.
Blake's eyes widened as cracks of light ran across the frozen limb, flesh and bone knitting themselves together in midair. The arm finished forming first, veins pulsing with raw vitality, before the rest followed.
The air twisted violently.
Mana roared outward as a figure forced himself into reality. The pressure was immediate, crushing and undeniable. Blake barely managed to grab onto a broken slab of stone as the ground beneath him fractured.
A man stood between him and the knight.
He was tall and broad, built like a living weapon. His body was wrapped in the tanned skin of a massive beast, its fur matted and scarred, draped over his shoulders like a trophy taken long ago.
Scars crossed his exposed skin, each one earned rather than healed. His presence wasn't refined or controlled, but loud and primal.
A barbarian.
He flexed his newly formed hand once, fingers tightening around the knight's blade.
Then he smiled.
"Been a long time since I went back to the living," he said, voice deep and rough, like stone grinding against stone.
The knight reacted instantly.
Sword aura flared.
But it was too late.
The barbarian stepped forward and threw a single punch. The impact detonating upon contact.
The shockwave tore through the arena.
Stone shattered. Armor crumpled. The knight was obliterated, its body breaking apart into fragments that scattered across the ground. Whatever force animated it vanished instantly, its last signs of life dying out without resistance.
Silence followed.
The barbarian turned his head toward Blake.
He smiled.
Then his form began to fade, dissolving into light as quickly as it had appeared, leaving nothing behind as if he had never been there at all.
Before Blake could even begin to process what had happened, system panels flooded his vision, level-up notifications stacking one after another. He tried to call up his status window, desperate to see what level he had reached, but his vision swam as blood loss caught up to him.
The dungeon trembled.
Cracks spread across the walls as everything began to collapse. Gritting his teeth, Blake forced himself to move, stumbling toward the exit with what little strength he had left. He barely made it through before the dungeon gave way entirely.
The moment he heard distant voices. Shouting, panicked, and real, his body finally gave out.
Blake collapsed.