The labyrinth felt like an endless maze of artificial stone corridors and wide chambers.
Glowing ore studs dotted the walls at even intervals, casting enough light to see several meters ahead clearly.
I advanced carefully, but so far, no traps seemed present.
Stepping into a broader room, I caught movement in the shadows ahead.
It was a horn rabbit—horned, rabbit-shaped monster, fast but frail. Even beginners could handle one.
I triggered the storage bracelet on my left wrist, materializing my sword into my right hand.
(It's been too long since I last gripped a blade properly.)
No need for buffs against something this basic. I'd rely on my unenhanced body.
I approached slowly. The rabbit spotted me, raised its horn, and charged headfirst.
"Way too slow."
After grinding against deep-layer beasts just yesterday, this thing moved like it was in slow motion.
I waited until the last possible moment, then slipped half a step aside.
The rabbit streaked past. I swung upward in a smooth arc.
The blade followed the path I pictured perfectly, slicing clean through its belly with almost no resistance.
The body dissolved into black mist, dropping a small magic stone in its place.
"…Body still remembers how to swing, huh? I overdid the safety margin. Time to drop floors faster."
It was a dull fight, but just wielding the sword again felt good enough.
I kept moving, running into goblins and slimes. They came one at a time, so I cleared them without breaking a sweat.
Never once lost my bearings. This "maze" was nothing compared to the great labyrinth's lower depths.
Airflow patterns and tiny tells made the route obvious.
On the third floor, enemies finally started grouping up.
Still just packs of the same dim-witted monsters. I could manage without buffs, but I wanted to get the timing back, so I cast support magic on myself.
Support magic boosts allies' physical stats or gear—or weakens foes, though strong monsters resist it.
Specialists in this are called enchanters.
The role is cursed with misfortune. Years in it taught me that firsthand.
Enchanters live chained to timers.
Cast a basic Strength Up, for example. It's not permanent; it fades, and the duration shifts per person.
Magic resistance varies individually, so effect length does too.
That means tracking every party member's countdown and refreshing before it drops off.
Worse, most see enchanters as backseat casters—buff and chill while others fight.
Plenty of parties, including the hero's, dump command duties on them too, since they're "just observing."
A lot of that attitude traces back to those freakishly talented enchanters who made it look easy.
I juggled multiple timers, refreshed at the exact second, layered new buffs on the fly, barked orders—all simultaneously.
And because the results are subtle, praise is rare.
The effort-to-recognition gap is glaring. It's straight-up unfair.
Buffed, I shredded the monster pack in moments, no close calls.
When they were down, I held position, scanning the area while waiting out the effects.
"One-eighty seconds flat. Clean number—easy to track."
My personal buffs lasted exactly three minutes.
I'd self-buffed before, but always prioritized the team's timers, so I never clocked my own.
Now that I knew, I started testing variations.
Fights timed to end right as the buff expired, refreshing mid-combat.
Mixing attack spells into melee.
Trying out my custom creations in live scenarios.
One of my originals delivers huge power at the cost of ridiculously short duration.
Syncing it with teammates used to be hell.
On myself, though? Perfect control over timing. Massive improvement.
After almost twenty skirmishes, I was fusing my old swordsman habits with yesterday's enchanter flow into a new rhythm.
"Jack-of-all-trades, huh…"
My base physical stats sit smack in the middle among explorers. Nowhere near A-rank elite.
Magic-wise… for whatever reason, I can't cast anything advanced or higher.
I'm average. Thoroughly ordinary.
But even mediocrity has its edge.
I can absorb techniques that any diligent normal person could learn—and I pick them up fast.
I hit functional level quickly; true mastery still demands grind, though.
Classic jack-of-all-trades.
Even so, I vowed to grow stronger the day I registered as an explorer.
Hitting walls early didn't mean I could quit.
The only path left was to devour every scrap of knowledge and skill I could reach.
If effort could make an average person do it, I'd push until I broke the ceiling.
My casting speed now outstrips high-rank explorers.
Deep magic theory let me invent originals no one else has.
Body control—martial forms, mechanics—I drilled until I could at least hang with the top tiers.
Aneiri's "jack-of-all-trades" jab might still fit right now.
It's not a nice term.
But if I keep pushing forward… couldn't that evolve into true versatility?
I'll never let anyone call me a useless jack-of-all-trades again.
One day, they'll call me an all-rounder. A genuine universal talent.