"Sleep well, my little wolf."
A voice like moonlight. A warmth that once felt eternal. A mother's embrace.
For a fleeting moment—Alistair felt safe.
Then—the illusion shattered.
His eyes snapped open.
Gone was the warmth. The scent of lavender. The gentle hum of a mother's lullaby.
In its place—cold leather seat.
He sat in the backseat of a luxury car, its interior bathed in the dim glow of passing streetlights. The quiet hum of the engine was the only sound, a mechanical whisper against the silence.
Outside, the city blurred past the tinted windows—a world that never slept, never stopped, never cared.
Alistair exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples.
That dream again.
Lately, it had been happening more often. Flickering remnants of a past long lost, whispers of a woman whose warmth had once been his entire world.
A warmth he would never feel again.
His black eyes, cold and unreadable, adjusted to reality.
Sentimentality was a weakness.
Dreams were nothing more than the dying echoes of a boy who no longer existed.
He straightened his posture, smoothing out the folds of his dark, noble attire. Black and emerald embroidery traced the fabric—the mark of his lineage.
House Vaelthorne.
One of the most powerful duke families in the Aurelian Empire.
And today, he was heading toward one of their dungeons.
***
At just sixteen, Alistair had already reached D-Rank—an achievement that took most Awakened over a decade, if they ever achieved it at all.
But he was different.
A prodigy. A monster in human skin.
That's what they called him.
"Vaelthorne's Young Demon."
"The Cold-Blooded Prodigy."
"A genius cursed with cruelty."
Even among nobles, he was feared. Admired for his strength. Resented for his brutality.
Not that he cared.
Power didn't need admiration.
It only needed acknowledgment.
And today—he would prove once again why he was on a different level.
His destination: The Verdant Abyss.
A D-Rank Dungeon, managed by his family's guild—The Verdant Order.
For normal Awakened, D-Rank dungeons were death traps. Even well-equipped hunting teams struggled to clear them.
For him?
Just another training ground.
The car slowed to a stop.
Outside, the entrance to The Verdant Abyss loomed—a massive stone structure reinforced with mana-infused barriers, surrounded by heavily armed guards and guild officials.
Dungeons were not to be taken lightly. Dungeon Breaks were catastrophic.
As Alistair stepped out of the car, all eyes turned to him.
Some in awe.
A group of hunters whispered amongst themselves.
"That's him…"
"The Vaelthorne prodigy…"
"He's running the dungeon solo again?"
"Tch. Freak."
Alistair ignored them. He was used to it.
Without a word, he strode toward the entrance.
A guild official—a middle-aged man in a tailored uniform—hurried forward, bowing deeply.
"Lord Alistair," the man greeted. "You've scheduled another solo dungeon run?"
"Yes."
Alistair handed over his identification.
The official hesitated. "A-Are you certain? Even though it's a D-Rank dungeon, it's known for its high monster density—"
Alistair glared.
The man's breath caught in his throat.
Even without words, the weight of Alistair's presence was suffocating—the aura of a predator honed through blood and battle.
"I don't repeat myself," Alistair said flatly.
The official swallowed hard and nodded quickly, stepping aside.
"Of course, Lord Alistair. You may proceed."
The dungeon gate rumbled open, revealing a swirling abyss of green light.
Without hesitation—
Alistair stepped into the darkness.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere changed.
The air grew thick with mana, humid with the scent of damp earth and something… predatory.
The dungeon stretched before him—a vast underground labyrinth, its walls entwined with thick, pulsating vines. Shadows slithered across the cavern floors. Unseen eyes watched him from the darkness.
Alistair drew his sword—a black blade infused with nature magic, crafted specifically for him.
Then—he moved.
The first attack came from the shadows.
A Venomfang Wolf lunged from the underbrush—its fur bristling with toxic thorns, fangs dripping with corrosive venom.
Too slow.
Alistair's blade flashed.
A single stroke.
The wolf's head hit the ground before the body even realized it was dead.
Blood sprayed across the cavern floor.
Two more wolves emerged—silent, calculating, waiting.
Alistair exhaled.
Then—he vanished.
A flicker. A blur.
By the time the first wolf sensed him, his sword was already slicing through its spine.
The second pounced—only to meet a wall of razor-sharp vines.
Alistair extended his left hand, emerald energy surging to life. Thorned tendrils erupted from the ground, piercing the beast, lifting it into the air before ripping it apart.
Blood splattered onto his dark attire.
But he didn't stop.
More monsters surged forward.
Lesser Dryads—twisted, plant-like creatures with humanoid forms.
Razorbeak Raptors—avian predators with steel-cutting talons.
A Juggernaut Treant—a moving fortress of bark and stone.
Any normal hunter would have retreated.
Alistair didn't.
This was exactly what he wanted.
He didn't just fight.
He slaughtered.
His sword sang through flesh and bark, each strike precise, each movement flawless.
Monsters fell one after another, their screams lost in the chaos.
Even as wounds tore across his body—his regeneration knitted him back together.
Even as exhaustion crept in—his resolve crushed it beneath his will.
This wasn't just training.
It was an obsession.
He had to be stronger.
He had to surpass every limit.
He had to be unstoppable.
Because weakness?
Weakness was unforgivable.
***
After hours of carnage, the dungeon itself reacted.
The air grew heavier, charged with mana.
The ground shook.
Then—
A roar.
A sound that split the very earth.
Alistair's cold eyes lifted.
From the shadows, something immense stirred.
A colossal beast emerged, its body covered in obsidian bark, veins pulsing with crimson mana. Its eyes burned with primal fury.
A D-Rank Dungeon Boss.
The Verdant Tyrant.
Alistair tightened his grip on his sword.
Then—he stepped forward.
Without hesitation. Without fear.
Because this was what he lived for.
To fight.
To grow.
To conquer.
And he would not stop—
Not until he stood above all.
TO BE CONTINUE...