The air was crisp, almost perfect. Thin rays of sunlight pierced the gray clouds above the fourth floor. The elves had only cleared the paths where they intended to place mines, leaving the rest to fester.

  Dane didn't share their appreciation for the ecosystem. He hunted the local wildlife with brutal efficiency. This early stretch of the dungeon, he'd realized, was insect-themed. Spiders skittered through the underbrush, their mandibles twitching, but even knowing they couldn't pierce his skin, they still made his spine crawl.

  The dungeon had stopped rewarding him with normal loot. Now it gave him boss cores. Experience from the lower-level monsters was negligible, but the boss cores? Those seemed to have the same energy, regardless of the boss's level. The Imperial System seemed to be reclaiming old tutorial assets and repurposing them. The Earthbound System didn't have any such inventory. Dane kinda missed looting armor or mana trinkets. Now, every dungeon drop only grew his system. If he stopped absorbing dungeon cores, the number of lives that he would have to kill to fuel it scared Dane. He would pile millions of bodies up if he didn't find something sustainable.

  The Scarlet Legion maintained a strong presence on these lower floors. Unfortunately for them, their would-be assassins hadn't accounted for Huntsman. They glowed scarlet like walking beacons, and Dane carved through the ten posted there with ruthless precision.

  The third and second floors followed the same pattern. Resistance was light, and he slaughtered them as easily as the bugs.

  "Two more cores down," Dane muttered, more out of habit than anything.

  The pull toward the 50th floor gnawed at him; the newly unlocked teleporter to the 49th glimmered with promise. Every instinct screamed at him to go, to finish what he'd started.

  "Just go."

  "This doesn't matter."

  The spirits bound to his axe whispered again.

  With a sigh, Dane opened a portal to the command tent and signaled his infiltration team.

  Dane didn't linger on formalities or words that felt heavier than necessary. Behind him, the teleporter pulsed faintly, a wavering shimmer promising a path deeper into the Forsaken Caverns. It was dark, tangled, and crawling with unseen dangers. Amelia, Ada, Jason, and Anthony waited just beyond, their expressions composed, eyes steady with that quiet kind of focus born from countless missions like this one. They were the strike team, the ones who would slip in unseen and rip apart the elves' operations from within.

  He spoke, his voice calm but resolute. "I'm the distraction. You four slip in through the telepad. Hit their supply lines, their comm nodes, anything that keeps the whole system alive." He paused for a moment, letting the weight of it settle between them. "There is no room for mistakes."

  Amelia gave a slight nod, the faintest crease of determination crossing her face. Ada flexed her fingers slowly, the midnight of her staff absorbing what little light filtered into the tent. Anthony's jaw tightened, silent as always, but Dane could see the way his eyes sharpened, ready for whatever came. Jason's hands moved with practiced ease, checking his gear one last time, precision in every motion.

  They stepped into the portal without a word, swallowed instantly by the familiar hum and flicker of teleportation, vanishing from the quiet command tent and emerging somewhere deep in the winding corridors of the dungeon.

  Dane turned toward the wide cavern entrance, an open expanse carved into the rock where the elves maintained their watch. The faint, eerie glow of their armor flickered like distant stars in the gloom, a fragile beacon of control amidst the creeping chaos. The patrols were tightening, their presence growing heavier with every step Dane took toward them.

  Then the first arrow flew, a whispering streak of sound that shattered the silence and shattered a shard of stone nearby. The hunt was underway.

  Dane stepped into the open, and the cavern suffocated him with cold and darkness. It was hard to shake the memories that he had from his time as a slave, but he used that as fuel for his rage. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and the faint metallic tang of blood. The elves emerged from the shadows, a flood of scarlet armor glinting dimly under the gray light filtering from above. Their movements were stiff, almost mechanical, as if missing something vital.

  It wasn't their skill faltering. It was the power cores that they lacked. Dane chuckled internally. There would be no easy kills from the humming engines that fed strength and speed into their armor. Without them, however, their reflexes dulled, their strikes lacked the usual snap. But that only made them more relentless, like lumbering beasts driven by instinct rather than thought. They came in waves, countless and unwavering in purpose.

  Dane adjusted his grip on the axe, the familiar weight grounding him as the first guard closed in. His swing was wide and deliberate, cutting through the thick plates with a hiss and spray of sparks. The soldier staggered but did not fall to the ground. Instead, he pushed forward, the motion slow but unyielding, like a stone rolling downhill.

  There was no grace in this fight. No dance. It was brutal and methodical.

  A second guard rushed in from the flank, and Dane pivoted, blocking the blow with his forearm. The dull clang of metal echoed in the cavern, and pain lanced through his skin, sharp but fleeting. He twisted, driving the butt of his axe into the soldier's chest, cracking the plate beneath and sending the elf tumbling backward.

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  But more were coming. The ground seemed to pulse with their approach, red armor flashing like a sea of blood under a sick sky. Their strength was gone, but the sheer weight of numbers pressed against Dane like a physical force.

  He fought with the patience of a predator, striking only when openings appeared. His breaths were controlled, steady, the rise and fall of his chest syncing with the rhythm of the fight. Each swing was measured: slice, parry, strike again. No wasted motion, no reckless fury. Efficiency, plain and simple.

  A jagged shard of stone spun off a block, narrowly missing his eye. Maybe I should have asked Murphy for a helmet after all, Dane thought and shook his head, forcing his focus back on the relentless tide. One by one, the guards fell, but the pile grew quickly, the bodies stacking in uneven heaps.

  The radios in the Elves' armor began to malfunction. His team had done it. Without the comms, it would be harder to round up the remainder of the floor. Dane was finally getting a chance to use his skill dynamite.

  Dane felt the bite of a glancing strike against his ribs, sharp and burning, but he pressed forward, a lone beacon in the scarlet storm. The spirits in his axe whispered, urging him onward, reminding him that every moment he held their attention was one step closer to the sabotage team's success.

  The air grew heavier with the noise of clashing metal and shouted curses, but Dane's mind was a razor's edge of calm amid the chaos. And he would burn bright enough to draw them all in.

  Shouts echoed from the far edges of the caverns, a ripple of panic that blossomed into chaos as Dane carved forward, every movement deliberate, every swing of his axe a controlled eruption of violence. He was a living signal flare, burning bright and dangerous, drawing eyes, pulling attention, igniting a wildfire of distraction.

  Somewhere behind him, through the tangled maze of tunnels and shadows, his team was already deep in the heart of the Forsaken Caverns, striking swift and silent blows that would shatter the elves' hold.

  And Dane? His task was straightforward. Keep the chaos burning, keep the spotlight on himself long enough for the sabotage to succeed, and for the forsaken depths to tremble with the promise of upheaval. He used blink to create space and gave his pursuers the slip. Finding himself at the large gate of the stronghold. It had been rebuilt, and Dane could make out ruins that kept water out.

  He crouched low, the weight of his axe replaced momentarily by the familiar heft of the explosives strapped to his belt. His fingers moved deftly, placing charges at the base of the gate, practiced motions born of countless raids and near-death experiences. Every click of the detonator set felt like a countdown, a quiet beat closer to chaos.

  With a breath pulled tight like a bowstring, Dane retreated a few steps, eyes narrowing on the gate. His heart hammered, but he kept his expression calm and unreadable.

  Then, with a low boom that shook the cavern walls and sent a shower of stone and splintered metal into the stale air, the charges detonated. The gate buckled and groaned before collapsing inward in a deafening crash. Dust and smoke billowed like a living thing, swallowing the entrance.

  The sound was a signal. A shockwave of alarm rippled through the elven forces, their tight formation splintering as they surged to contain the breach.

  The echoes of the shattered gate still vibrated in the stone when Dane channelled space mana. A mass of sparks and shadows opened up, revealing the familiar shimmer of a portal that blossomed in the center of the cavern floor. It was a rippling portal. Through it, the hazy forms of his reinforcements materialized, solidifying with purpose.

  Forty strong. Mostly spearmen and archers, their armor worn but sturdy, eyes sharp and unflinching beneath battle-hardened brows. They spilled forth like a dark river flooding a broken dam.

  The spearmen locked their shields tight, their long shafts thrust forward in deadly lines, bristling with disciplined menace. Behind them, archers took position, arrows notched and drawn with silent focus, the faint twang of bowstrings ready to unleash a storm.

  Dane moved among them like a captain gathering his sons for war, his presence a steadying force amid the growing chaos. He felt the weight of their trust in him, a silent promise carried in their steady gazes.

  "Hold the line," Dane commanded, voice low but clear. "Push forward, cut off their reinforcements, and keep that pressure."

  The troops answered with a battle cry that rippled through the cavern, a sound like thunder rolling over stone. Spears thrust, shields clanged, and arrows whistled into the dim light.

  The elves faltered as the spear tips found their marks, piercing joints and chinks in the armor that the power cores once concealed. Arrows rained down, swift and precise, finding the gaps between plates and shredding the enemy's lines with surgical efficiency.

  Dane's axe carved a path alongside them, each swing a beacon amid the surge of soldiers pressing deeper into the camp.

  Around them, the cavern walls echoed with the clash of steel and the cries of the fallen. The front gate's breach was no longer just an opening; it was a promise fulfilled, a foothold wrested back from the crimson tide.

  Dane's breath came steady. Every sense stretched to its limit.

  Dane didn't wait. He sprinted forward, weaving through the scattering defenders with the precision of a hunter. The scarlet glow of their armor flickered like dying embers in the gloom, desperate to regroup, to hold their lines. But now their front had shattered, the tide breaking wide enough for reinforcements to flood in.

  He roared a battle cry, a raw sound born of years buried beneath oppression and rage. It echoed through the caverns, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

  The clash was brutal, the sounds of steel striking steel mingling with ragged breaths and the wet impact of bodies hitting stone. Dane's senses sharpened, picking up the metallic tang of blood, the acrid bite of smoke, and the chorus of battle cries and curses blending into a fierce symphony.

  The elves fought with desperate fury, but the breach had shattered their cohesion. Their powerless armor no longer granted them dominance, only the will to resist, fragmented and fraying under the assault.

  A shadowy figure stepped through the chaos as if the clamor of battle was nothing but background noise. Dane's heart tightened. He knew that silhouette, the one who had crushed his party beneath a collapsing floor, the Shadowman.

  He moved like a ghost, silent and unyielding, weaving through spears and arrows without so much as a flinch. The spearmen lunged, their weapons striking air and armor with muted clangs, but none could touch him. Power radiated off him like heat from a forge, an invisible force field that repelled every desperate strike.

  Stopping mere feet from Dane, the Shadowman's cold gaze locked onto him.

  "She wanted you to have this." With a slow, deliberate motion, he extended his hand, revealing Amelia's bow. It was unmistakably hers. The weight of the wooden weapon was heavier than steel in Dane's grasp.