The Crimson Quarry spat nothing back. No pulsating cores lay half-buried in shattered stone. No ancient spell tomes lurked beneath crumbling archways.
No shards of raw arcane power waited for claiming. Every trove, every hidden stash, every glittering fragment had been consumed—ravenous, unrelenting. In Fallen dungeons, treasure is not emptied but devoured.
I stood alone in the heart of the ruined arena. The corrupted mist, once thick as blood, evaporated in the sudden rush of hot, dry wind.
The last embers of crimson light winked out. Around me, great walls of rusted sandstone and blackened obsidian fell silent.
Veins of red energy, once throbbing like living veins, dulled to ochre and fell still. Dust drifted in lazy spirals, settling over broken pillars and splintered crates.
My laughter had died on my lips. Only a settling hush remained.
No Jareth, No Lyra, No Dain, and No Mira. Only me.
I closed my eyes and drew in a slow, steady breath. The cavern air tasted of iron and regret.
My hand clenched into a fist. "I'll grow stronger," I whispered, voice low but fierce. "Strong enough that this never happens again." It was more than a hollow promise—it was a vow, hammered into my heart.
Beneath my boots, the earth shivered. The quarry's boundary could hold its shape no longer.
With a crack like tearing fabric, a rift of pale blue light split the dusty ground at the arena's rim.
Motes of arcane energy swirled, drawing me forward. No choice but forced ejection. I stepped through the fissure and vanished.
I emerged onto a flat, steel-reinforced platform where the Bureau response team had formed up: armored personnel with humming mana scanners slung over their shoulders; hovering drones mapping residual energy; medics clutching diagnostic wands.
They froze when they saw me—alone, ashen-faced, armor scuffed and stained.
"Where's the rest of your party?" barked the nearest officer, voice tight with urgency.
I met his glare without flinching. "Dead," I said evenly.
A stunned silence rippled down the line. Helmets tilted, scanners blinked in confusion. Another officer stepped forward—tall, precise in bearing. "What happened here?"
"Dungeon state alteration," I replied. "It became Fallen." My words fell like stones. I watched as their eyes darted from me to the empty platform, searching for some trace of survivors. Their scanners flickered, reading erratic mana signatures.
The lead officer's jaw clenched. "You'll need to come with us for official report and verification."
"I understand." I nodded once and followed without resistance.
Inside the Bureau's facility, the interrogation chamber felt cold, antiseptic. Fluorescent panels overhead cast hard shadows.
A single agent sat across a metal table—gaunt, dressed in austere gray, eyes glowing silver with innate lie-detecting enchantments. Some Players rely on steel; others, on truth.
He steepled his fingers. "State your name."
"Alexander Cain."
"You understand that falsifying information before the Bureau is punishable under imperial law?"
"Yes."
His silver eyes glinted. "Did Crimson Quarry become a Fallen dungeon?"
"It did."
"Did you sabotage your party intentionally?"
"No."
"Did you have prior knowledge of its collapse?"
"No."
The agent's lean frame relaxed as the lie-detector's glow dimmed. He leaned back with a small nod. "Subject is truthful." The other officers exhaled collectively—relief mingled with sorrow.
"You're free to go." One of them pushed back from a console. I stood, dusting sand from my clothes.
I left the chamber and reentered the Bureau lobby. The vast hall fell silent again as I crossed it—whispers trailing behind me like ghosts.
Runes glimmered along the vaulted ceiling, and banners of the Bureau's sigil fluttered in the filtered light.
In the main corridor, a new presence emerged to block my path: a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in dark armor embossed with the Obsidian Crest.
Condensed mana pulsed visibly around him—he was a Rank B, one of the region's premier guild enforcers. I saw him before on an advertisement I could recall.
"Cain," he said softly, voice low but carrying. "You survived Crimson Quarry."
"Yes," I replied, meeting his steady gaze.
"And your companions?"
"They didn't," I answered without flinching.
He studied me, brows drawn in concern and calculation. "We reviewed the logs. Fallen anomaly confirmed. Solo boss elimination registered." His eyes flicked to the faint scars on my armor. I remained silent, waiting.
He offered a data pad. "Join Obsidian Crest."
I glanced at the device, then back to him. "What role?"
"Combat specialist. Probationary rank. Full benefits."
Stable resources. Elite dungeon access. Accelerated merit. Everything a Player craves—yet I hadn't survived Crimson Quarry to enter a gilded cage.
"I'll agree temporarily," I said. "Grant me an evaluation period. I need to see if we're compatible."
His brow lifted, a spark of approval in his gaze. "You're negotiating?"
"I am."
A faint smile curved his lips. "Very well. Temporary contract. You may withdraw after one operational cycle."
"Agreed." We exchanged digital confirmations. For now, I would learn from them—and when I built my own guild, I'd know exactly who to recruit.
I didn't linger in the Bureau. I turned toward the spell exchange wing. Since Infinity became mine, mana exhaustion had become a relic of the past: every spell drained precisely half of my total MP without ever depleting me. Sustainability was guaranteed.
Corridors hummed with arcane engines as I entered the exchange hall—its walls lined with shimmering wards and shelves of floating tomes.
Holographic glyphs danced above a central terminal. I tapped the interface and accessed the Spell Catalog for Rank D and below. Defensive, utility, burst—each category scrolled before my eyes.
Three spells caught my attention: Mana Sphere (D), a spherical barrier of condensed arcane energy; Danger Sense (D+), a heightened, precognitive awareness of threats; and Explosion (D), a focused detonation of raw mana. I pressed purchase. Books coalesced in midair, suffusing the hall with soft blue light as runes spiraled across their covers. For higher ranking books, a direct item teleporation system was used.
At the same terminal, I glimpsed my proficiency caps: Magic Blast (C+ <0/100>), Rock Formation (D <5/100>), Forest's Embrace (D <5/100>), Greater Boost (E <5/100>). But now, thanks to Absolute Sage's evolution, those ceilings had risen to a full 100. A thin, satisfied smile touched my lips.
"Learn." The spellbooks dissolved into streams of mana-script. Instantly, I absorbed their blueprints: geometry of defensive layering, algorithms of instinctive threat modeling, equations of compression-detonation calculus. Three new spells slotted into my repertoire.
Without hesitation, I initiated a Quality Upgrade. Mana Sphere → Protection Sphere (C). Danger Sense → Greater Danger Sense (C+). Explosion → Greater Explosion (C). The transformations were seamless: the barrier's resilience doubled, predictive perception honed to razor clarity, the detonation cone tightened even as its force amplified.
I exhaled, feeling Infinity's promise pulse through every vein: limitless spellcasting without collapse, sustained battlefield supremacy.
At the terminal I pulled up the dungeon registry—Rank D, solo eligible. A grin curved my lips as the confirmation chimed.
Rolling my shoulders, I felt no strain, no dread—only anticipation. If the Fallen crucible had forged me, this next descent would be practice.
And this time, I would cast every spell until the world could no longer keep pace.