Chapter 22

I look at the big turtles and take a deep breath.

They haven’t spotted me yet, but those are

big fuckers

.

Each one is the size of a full wagon, with craggy shells that glow faintly at the seams. Their heads are squat and thick, and when one of them snaps its jaws at a magma rock nearby, it crushes it like it’s made of chalk.

Sir Greyson had told me that Emberdeep used to be a Silver-ranked Dungeon, but most of the traps were deactivated long ago by Knights patrolling the perimeter. They don’t regenerate, he said. It’s why people still use places like this to train low-rankers.

Still. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near those jaws.

I step forward and summon Hell’s Sword.

Mana rushes through me, tracing clean through my corrected veins. The moment it takes form, the sword doesn’t just appear—it floats.

It hums at shoulder height, golden-red and rimmed with flame, as if daring anything in range to step closer.

I’ve fixed most of its primary flaws by now. The levitation effect—some kind of remote stability node—activates automatically when I shift into the right stance. That’s the key. It only hovers when I don’t over-extend.

The blade tilts slightly as I guide it toward the nearest turtle.

The turtle’s head turns.

Then I release.

Hell’s Sword bursts forward like a whip of flame. The sharpened arc punches straight through the turtle’s eye and buries itself in the creature’s skull. The turtle snaps reflexively at the sword but only catches a piece of stone, which it pulverizes instantly with its crushing jaws. A beat later, Hell’s Sword retracts back to me with a hiss.

The turtle lurches, shudders—and collapses.

Weak, but deadly,

I think.

If I had fought that thing up close, it would have turned my bones to powder with those maws.

I glance at my updated status again.

Name: Jacob Cloud

Skills:

Iron Grip Lv. 95 (Iron)

Minor Endurance Lv. 87 (Iron)

Minor Night Vision Lv. 32 (Iron)

Minor Vibration Sense Lv. 21 (Iron)

Minor Cookery Lv. 34 (Iron)

Minor Strength Lv. 91 (Bronze)

Light Lv. 67 (Bronze)

Pickaxe Mastery Lv. 81 (Bronze)

Minor Mineral Sense Lv. 72 (Bronze)

The Grimoire Extraordinaire (Rainbow)

Mana Pool Lv. 71 (Silver)

Hell’s Sword Lv. 68 (Gold)

Fire Shield Lv. 70 (Silver)

Fire Armor Lv. 74 (Silver)

Fire Slash Lv. 52 (Silver)

I trained in between breaks while Felisia was refining Water Dash and also at night. Three days of sprints, slashes, mana compression. Hell’s Sword alone took most of my attention.

It was harder than I thought.

I shift my stance and try to flick the blade mid-air—trying to adjust the arc with just a nudge of my palm and a twist of will. But there’s resistance. A wobble in the flight.

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I step backward, slow and cautious, as the two remaining turtles start dragging themselves toward me.

My eyes narrow.

There’s something wrong.

Hell’s Sword isn’t reacting cleanly. There’s a snag in the control—not in the casting, but the guidance. The blade tilts too far to the left. I try to re-center it with another mana pulse.

It lurches, steadies, but still feels… off.

That’s when I remember the Grimoire’s earlier assessment.

Flaw: "Lateral Mana Drift – Remote control feedback loop destabilized due to inconsistent channeling between left shoulder and right palm."

Back then, I thought I had fixed it. The vein routing looked stable, and the damage drop-off vanished. But now that I’m moving—now that my weight shifts—I feel it. The feedback twists the wrong way.

I hadn’t fixed it.

I’d just masked it.

And now that I’m walking, dodging, breathing out of sync, the flaw resurfaces.

"Alright," I whisper, eyes on the turtles crawling closer. "Let’s fix this for real."

I step to the side, keeping my weight fluid, and force mana up through my right leg instead of my centerline. I feed it diagonally through the sternum into the shoulder, and from there down through the palm, routing through the side arm veins the Grimoire had highlighted in green.

The moment the pulse clears my hand, the wobble disappears.

I cast again.

Hell’s Sword bursts outward with a crack, arcing smoothly in a spiral path and burying into the next turtle’s chest.

No tilt. No drift.

Just clean, searing impact.

The turtle thrashes once. Then it dies.

"Two down," I mutter.

The third one roars and lunges forward. I brace myself.

"Let’s see if the fix holds."

Hell’s Sword circles behind me, then launches forward like a comet.

This time, it flies like it was born to obey.

I hear a few notifications once the engagement ends.

You have earned enough experience to qualify for Level 1.

Attention: you haven’t picked a class yet. Pick a class if you want to level past Level 1.

That message was expected. What catches me off guard is the sound of footsteps behind me. I whirl around and find Valerius Shelford, flanked by two rough-looking men.

Several more turtles are crawling toward us, yet I dismiss Hell’s Sword. Those three are probably classed. Hell’s Sword tears through unclassed fighters and weak monsters, but my control is still shaky, especially while it floats, and they would dodge it with ease.

I lick my lips.

“Well, well, well—rat,” Valerius says, calling up his own Hell’s Sword for show. “You never have the guts to face me directly.”

“What do you want, Valerius?” I ask, edging backward toward the turtles.

“You know very well, peasant. How dare you humiliate me?”

I grin. “Humiliate you how?”

“You tricked me into buying those worthless

Fire Field

skill-shards!”

“I didn’t trick you. I told you the price up front, but you acted like the arrogant fool you are, and you paid for it.”

Valerius flashes a thin smile at his two thugs. “Kill him.”

The big one strides forward. I glance at the turtles closing in and activate the

Grimoire Extraordinaire

to check the reach of their jaws. A red aura appears around them; if I step inside that zone, they will pulverize me. I never knew the Grimoire could do this, yet rainbow-grade skills ignore most limits, and a monster’s bite probably counts as a skill.

I pivot and sprint just outside the danger ring. The goons are classed, yet they can’t be higher than Level 20. A real knight would never accept a job like murdering an unclassed man; discovery would earn them a lifetime ban from every guild and, most likely, a public execution by Lord Clearwater. They stop at the turtles’ perimeter and slash at the creatures, but by the time they finish I am already deeper in the dungeon, out of sight.

“Chase the bastard!” Valerius shouts, yet I keep running. It is time for him to pay.

They oblige, but they step straight into the Molten Snappers’ danger zone. The first turtle lashes out. The mercenary intercepts the beak with a slanted guard, steel screaming against keratin. He blocks the bite by a finger’s breadth, yet the shock ripples up his arm, and he staggers. The second mercenary circles wide, trying to flank me, although another turtle intercepts him.

I turn on my heel and sprint along the edge of the Grimoire’s crimson bands. Charred gravel sprays behind me, and molten rivulets spit where my boots land. My heart drums, yet a grin creeps onto my face because the math is simple: two half-trained killers against three apex reptiles bred by magma. They will bleed minutes while I gain distance.

A roar of frustration echoes through the tunnel.

I keep moving, weaving between basalt pillars and spurts of sulfur. Every dozen strides I glance back. The mercenaries finally extract themselves and break into a run.

Valerius’s voice rattles the cavern one final time.

“Run, rat. I will skin you when I catch you.”

I do not waste breath on a reply.

Level 1 can wait. Choosing a Class can wait. Hunting funds, forging skill, and grinding flaws down to nothing can wait as well. For today, survival comes first.

I slip behind a curtain of black-glass stalactites, pressing my shoulders to the cool obsidian. Footfalls and curses echo far behind me. The mercenaries are still following the straight tunnel, not knowing that I went the other way.

Good.

Next, the traps

, I smile to myself.