On the seventh day, before the sun had even fully risen, Faust and Rust stood among the many people gathered in front of the village gates. There were around two hundred people, far more than Faust had expected, comprising hunters, laborers, and guards.

  A few horses were mixed in, carrying cargo and weapons for the short journey to the dungeon entrance, which was expected to take three or four days. The free equipment had already been distributed. While it was indeed free, it was not high quality.

  Faust, for example, received a worn-out piece of leather for his chest and a kettle helmet already dented by something. Something was better than nothing, so he wore them. At his waist, he carried a slightly sharpened axe provided by the guards.

  At the head of the group was the village leader, mounted on a brown horse. He spoke carefully to the agitated mass.

  “Today, we shall depart. Our journey to the portal should not be a long one, and the path is relatively safe. I’ve had scouts confirm it beforehand; the most we should encounter are a couple of corrupted beasts.

  “Once we leave, we will not return until our goal is completed. That means anyone who flees or gives up mid-journey will be on their own. The guards and I will be responsible for the group’s protection until we arrive, but we expect every volunteer to be able to take care of themselves.

  “Food will be given twice a day, in the morning and evening. Healing materials will be available to those who need them, though I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Finally, he raised a double-edged sword. It was pristine silver, without imperfections, clearly of a quality far superior to anyone else’s weapon. Then, he spoke in a firm, resolute voice:

  “Remember! We are doing this to protect our way of life—White-Star Village! Our memories, dreams, families, everything! We will make death cower and close that damned dungeon. Let’s depart!”

  With his speech finished, the dual wooden gates of the village opened. The village leader was the first to leave, followed by his guards, then the horses, and finally everyone else, including Faust and his uncle.

  They marched into the forest, their progress significantly slowed by the dense woods. Their steps were not synchronized like soldiers', and their equipment was not standardized. They carried no flags or banners, united only by the goal of clearing the dungeon… or, for some, merely reaching it.

  Faust had not changed his mind; he would die inside. He had some basic knowledge about dungeons from books he’d read in the past, though these never went into specifics and used dungeons merely as extras.

  From what he could gather, despite never having entered one himself, dungeons usually presented people with a unified "goal." Once that goal was completed, the dungeon would be finished. That was the extent of his knowledge on the topic.

  The books he’d read were of poor quality, meant for entertainment rather than information. Unfortunately, he had no access to "real" books containing important world knowledge. For commoners, even knowing how to read was a rare boon; he had taught himself. As far as he knew, his uncle could read some words but was not a strong reader.

  Since walking was boring, Faust let his thoughts wander to pass the time.

  If we reach the dungeon in three days… then on the fourth day, I will be dead. But how would I track time inside? Counting day cycles doesn’t seem efficient. Do seasons exist there? I doubt it. Well, I’ll find out when I arrive…

  Could Uncle get more of that wine? It tasted better than I expected. Oddly, I didn’t get drunk. Maybe it was just a sip, or perhaps I’m a good drinker. But I’ve never drunk before, so that’s unlikely. Unless I’m a natural?

  Do people who are naturally resistant to alcohol even exist? Curious… Uncle is definitely neither a natural nor a good drinker…

  Faust furtively observed his uncle walking a few steps ahead.

  Or maybe he is? He snapped out of the addiction easily, was he never an alcoholic to begin with? No, that’s impossible... he definitely was… and still is. He just drinks less now. What did Uncle do before everything happened?

  His body seems strong, and he has too many scars to be a laborer. Maybe a hunter? But if so, he’d use a bow, not a sword. A guard? That could fit, but his sword is too different from the guards’ straight, double-edged blades. His is a strange saber, thinner than normal, and made of black metal. I wonder what it is.

  Is it a different type of metal, or a fusion like bronze? I’ve never read about it. Since he uses a strange sword… it’s unlikely he was a guard. Hm… was he a mercenary?

  Scratching his head, Faust shook it but couldn’t dislodge the thought.

  It makes sense. A strong body means he trained a lot; scars mean he fought a lot... and they look like cuts instead of the working type. His unique weapon also fits… Mercenaries in books work in groups. I wonder if he had one. Wait! Why am I assuming he was a mercenary? Maybe he wasn’t…

  His eyes locked on the dirt and grass, Faust walked on, lost in thought, failing to notice the group had stopped.

  Bam!

  His face hit his uncle’s back, forcing him to halt.

  Without turning, Rust simply said, “They’re distributing food and allowing a few minutes’ rest. It’s time.”

  What? Already? Time passed quickly.

  Waiting, Faust was eventually handed his share of food by a guard carrying a basket: a dry piece of bread and some strange type of jerky. He ate patiently. He wasn’t out of breath, but some of the older men were.

  Soon, the group resumed its advance. Faust was near the rear, so he couldn’t see much of what was happening ahead.

  Not that it mattered much.

  …

  Night fell over the forest, and the leader ordered the group to stop and rest. The villagers would sleep while the guards kept watch.

  Leaning against a tree next to his uncle, Faust fell asleep quickly, having slept poorly the previous night.

  He dreamed of nothing and woke the next morning. His uncle had somehow acquired two bottles of wine and given them to him. Faust suspected he had either stolen them or convinced a guard, but since the guards didn’t seem to care, he kept them.

  The journey through the forest progressed slowly. Though mostly peaceful, occasionally a beast would appear, and the guards would quickly dispose of it.

  Strangely, at one point, the caravan met a group of mercenaries. Faust, at the back of the caravan, didn’t see much but learned of it through gossip.

  Apparently, the village leader was oddly amicable with them. After a conversation, he convinced them to join. This news wouldn’t have spread so quickly if not for one fact: their leader could use mana.

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  Faust caught a few distant glimpses of him. He was a handsome man with golden hair reaching his neck and white skin that complemented his blue eyes, which sometimes seemed to look back and strike Faust’s soul… it was weird, sending a shiver down his spine. At his waist, a dark metal longsword bobbed as his horse moved.

  With him was a woman, a beast tamer from the looks of her. She seemed to be the group's second-in-command. Pale, with white hair and light blue eyes, she had an ethereal appearance.

  According to loose tongues, they were named Chris and Illya. A small roach like Faust had no hope of interacting with them directly.

  Gradually, the number of aggressive beasts grew, meaning the dungeon was not far.

  Around this time, something strange happened to Faust. He would sometimes stop briefly for no reason or lose his train of thought. He inadvertently blamed the dungeon—if it could corrupt creatures, why not influence humans?

  Two more days passed. During this time, he never needed to draw his axe. His uncle even procured another bottle of white wine, which was tasty.

  They exchanged few words; it was impossible to pretend they were genuinely close. Faust didn’t resent his uncle, but he didn’t love him either. Their interactions had always been minimal. His main curiosity was why his uncle had come to the dungeon.

  After three and a half days of travel, the forest began to thin. In the distance, they could hear voices, murmuring, and the sound of metal clashing, mixed with loud laughter.

  Finally, the scene revealed itself to Faust as they advanced.

  A camp had been formed in a large clearing, filled with tents and wagons laden with food and drink. It was so crowded it was impossible to look anywhere without seeing people.

  Most wore black clothes and sparred with others similarly dressed. Faust easily identified them as being from Black-Star Village. There were also people in long robes of varying yellow tones, many of them women.

  Looking at his own group, Faust noted they seemed far more disorganized. But before he could ponder this, his attention was captured by something else.

  In the center of the camp, guarded by two people and a small wooden fence, was a huge floating ellipse that sometimes shifted into a circle or an egg. It shone bright white, then shifted to darker colors before returning to white.

  Around it, leaves moved and the air shifted direction in rhythm with its warping form and hue. Even sunrays seemed to avoid it, casting a strange, formless shadow around it.

  Faust couldn’t look away; it was hypnotic. As if by some innate knowledge, he murmured at the sight:

  “The dungeon…”

  Just meters away was the entrance that would lead to his death. What would he experience inside before dying? He hoped it wouldn’t be too painful.

  As soon as they arrived, the village leader announced in a voice loud enough for his people to hear:

  “Rest for today. Enjoy the time. I will attend to some matters.” He looked at the blonde man. “Chris and his group will assume temporary leadership. If anything happens, speak to him.”

  What?

  That was the only thought in Faust’s mind as his focus was torn from the portal. Why was leadership given to Chris so suddenly?

  The other villagers seemed equally confused, but deep down, they all had an idea why.

  Mana users were thoroughly respected. The life of one mana user was seen as more valuable than a hundred normal villagers—that was their power. In his entire life, Faust had only seen one person capable of using mana: the village leader.

  Chris was said to be a mana user, though Faust hadn’t witnessed it himself.

  Whatever, he shrugged it off. It doesn’t matter who commands me. Once I enter that dungeon, I’ll go off on my own.

  As the village leader walked toward a large tent—capable of holding five or six people, its cloth made of multi-colored, noble-like details—Faust assumed it was where the other leaders waited. How did the leader know that? Was it common practice?

  Faust squinted. Something felt wrong, but he couldn’t pinpoint what; his senses were just ringing an alarm.

  Before he could think further, Chris spoke, his voice energetic yet commanding:

  “My name is Chris." he started, "The village leader tells me most of you have no experience with dungeons. In that case, I’ll summarize a few things you should know.”

  That is useful…

  The villagers shared that thought and paid close attention.

  “Initially, upon entering a dungeon, you will be given a goal. That goal is the same for everyone, make no mistake on that. Once the dungeon is entered, it cannot be left until it is closed, meaning the goal must be completed.

  “It’s impossible to know the danger levels. Some pose no threat, while others could…” He paused, choosing his words. “…prove difficult, let’s say.”

  They could easily kill, that’s what he means...

  “Inside dungeons, many things can happen, but everyone should appear at the same starting point, so we can progress as a group. That’s why the other villages are gathered here as well. Besides, inside there, you have no need to eat, drink or sleep, although I would recommend doing so for a couple reasons… just trust me on that.”

  The man was strangely knowledgeable. The village leader must have told him everything; at least, that’s what Faust assumed.

  “Be careful. Dungeons are usually unpredictable, so it’s necessary we work together. I will be responsible for your protection, alongside your leader and my companions.”

  The man finished his speech with a smile.

  The reassurance of a mana user declaring his protection felt powerful, and the villagers shared that emotion, cheering and applauding the mercenary. But Faust only grew more suspicious.

  Besides knowing too much, the man acted too much like a good guy after knowing them for only a couple of days. If books had taught him one thing, it was that people who tried too hard to appear good were usually hiding something.

  Apparently, Faust wasn’t alone in this thought. A few other villagers, including his uncle, remained silent, their faces twisted in suspicion. Faust glanced at his uncle, then said, tilting his head:

  “I’m going to walk a bit. See you later, Uncle.”

  Rust nodded in response and went his own way. Not long after, the entire White-Star Village group began to scatter around the camp.

  Faust went to the camp’s outskirts where he could be alone. There, he climbed a tall tree, standing on a thick branch over three meters from the ground. He untied one of the three wine bottles from his belt—this one half-drunk—and took a sip, observing the lively camp from above.

  With the sun filtering through the leaves and casting dappled shadows across the clearing, Faust felt strangely emotional as he reminisced about his uncle’s words.

  “Everyone has a reason… and I just haven’t found mine, he says...”

  He took a sip, his vision growing slightly hazy as he observed the camp below.

  Huh? Maybe I can get drunk after all.

  Shaking his head, his uncle’s phrase kept resonating in his mind until a faint connection surfaced: A short tale he had read long ago, one he had nearly forgotten but now could remember in near perfection.

  Recalling the story, he murmured to the wind:

  “A wolf wished to devour the moon. Each night, it would climb the mountainous ribs of the tallest peak, ascending higher with every attempt, yet never reaching the moon.

  “Whether its dream was too grand or too ridiculous, the wolf paid no mind. It climbed ever higher, focused solely on the silvery prize just beyond its grasp.

  “The mountain was home to many deer, slaughtered in the wolf’s single-minded pursuit. ‘One day I will reach it,’ the wolf claimed.

  “Leaving a trail of blood behind, it cared for nothing else, climbing relentlessly. Eventually, it reached the peak.

  “There, it found a bear far larger and stronger than itself. ‘What do you seek, wolf?’ the bear asked. ‘The moon,’ the wolf replied. ‘Foolish. How can you seek what is beyond your reach?’ The bear grew angered by such stupidity.

  “The wolf did not answer at once, but glared at its goal. ‘It is more foolish to live without a dream. So what if it seems impossible? I will keep trying. There are other mountains, other paths. One day, I will devour it.’

  “Enraged by this answer, the bear attacked the fearless wolf. The fight was one-sided, and the wolf was fatally wounded. ‘Leave my mountain, foolish wolf, and never return,’ the bear grumbled, proud in his victory.

  “Too injured to fight on, the wolf began its descent. But as it left, it told the bear, ‘The true fool is one who accepts staying where they are. Your mountain may be the highest peak you know, but you cannot be certain. In time, mountains fade, just as we will. My dream is immaterial—it does not depend on my life.’ The bear was stunned by such boldness, but the wolf continued, ‘I wonder, when you meet your end, what will be left of you?’”

  Faust took another sip of wine. “Well… the wolf is killed by the bear after that, so I don’t really see the point. Dreams are immaterial and won’t exist after the wolf dies either… The author must have been a strange person.”

  Leaning against the main trunk of the tree, Faust carefully closed his eyes and let the cool post-winter wind embrace him. A soft smile touched his lips as sleep began to pull him under, and a quiet thought surfaced almost against his will:

  I wonder... what will be left of me?