"Just go! Save yourself and get out of here!"
There was no need for her to say it twice.
The sharp urgency in Lena's voice snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts.
Without a second's hesitation, I turned and lunged into the portal.
From Lena's perspective, it must have looked like I was fleeing the dungeon—desperate to escape with my life.
But she was wrong.
My destination wasn't the dungeon's exit.
It was the reward room.
The moment I passed through the portal, my vision blurred.
The world around me twisted into a disorienting whirl of color and shadow.
For a brief moment, I felt weightless—untethered—like I was floating in a void.
And then, just as suddenly, it was over.
The chaotic battlefield was gone.
The sound of Goblins shrieking and blades clashing was replaced by silence.
When my sight cleared, I was standing in a completely different part of the dungeon.
The reward room.
I exhaled slowly, steadying my breath, and took a step forward.
My boots made a faint, hollow clack against the smooth stone floor, and golden light shimmered along the ancient runes carved into the walls.
The air was cool and still, untouched by the battle raging behind me.
I had only taken a few steps when a voice suddenly rang out.
[Do you feel grateful to others?]
[Do you feel grateful toward your parents?]
[Can you sacrifice yourself to save others?]
The voice was soft, almost reverent, echoing faintly throughout the chamber.
But I ignored it.
It wasn't a test—just the remnants of the saint's consciousness.
The master of this dungeon.
His final thoughts, lingering like a forgotten prayer.
I paid them no mind.
I wasn't here for sentiment.
I was here for the rewards.
Two of them, to be exact.
The first was the reason I had come here in the first place—the Bottle of Pure Tears.
It was exactly as described in the novel.
A slender, crystalline vial containing a single, shimmering tear.
It was so clear and radiant that it almost seemed to glow—a drop of liquid silver suspended in glass.
This was the fortuitous encounter I had been aiming for all along.
But the second reward…
That was the surprise.
An artifact.
A simple, unadorned silver ring resting on an ornate pedestal.
Its appearance was plain—unremarkable, even—but I knew better.
The Oath of the Saint.
A powerful relic, imbued with the will of the dungeon's creator.
In the original story, it was an item the protagonist was destined to obtain.
But there was no protagonist here now.
In the original story, no one had ever found it.
It was lost.
Forgotten in the shadows of the dungeon.
But not this time.
I reached out, my fingers brushing the smooth metal.
The moment I picked it up, I felt a faint warmth pulse against my skin—a subtle thrum of magic.
For a moment, I considered slipping it on.
But it wasn't the right time.
Not yet.
Instead, I carefully slipped the ring into my pocket and turned my attention to the real prize.
The Pure Tear.
I stepped forward and gently lifted the vial.
The crystal felt cool against my fingers.
And just as I took it, the saint's lingering voice returned.
[I have sacrificed everything to save others.]
[I even sacrificed myself too.]
[But in the end, I wasn't able to save anyone.]
I slowly uncorked the vial and brought it to my lips.
The tear slid down my throat in a single, smooth gulp.
Cool.
Almost soothing.
Like drinking liquid light.
And as it flowed into my body, the saint's final words echoed softly in my mind, almost as if timed perfectly.
[I hope this power of mine, which failed to save anyone, will come to aid you in your time of need.]
My chest tightened.
Thump.
My heart pounded once.
Then again.
And then, a third time, stronger than before.
The Pure Tear, now transformed into raw energy, surged through my body.
It felt as though my blood had turned to fire—pure and invigorating—but instead of burning, it filled me with strength.
My sluggish limbs felt lighter.
The stiffness in my movements was gone, replaced by refined, fluid grace.
I clenched my fist, feeling the difference.
My stamina surged.
My mind felt sharper.
It was working.
The saint who had created this dungeon was no god.
He hadn't been some legendary warrior or a mighty sorcerer.
He was just a man.
An ordinary person who had wanted to save others.
But he lacked the strength.
He failed.
In the end, he had been sacrificed to the Goblins he sought to protect people from.
His talent was unique but not particularly remarkable.
A talent called Undying Will.
And now, thanks to the Pure Tear, I had gained a weaker version of it as a trait.
[Eternal Return.]
It was nowhere near the saint's original talent, but even the weakened version was invaluable.
The trait refined the quality of my soul, restoring both my life force and Primal Qi each day.
It was subtle but powerful.
A slow, steady regeneration that would allow me to recover over time—stronger and more enduring.
It wasn't flashy.
But it was the kind of strength that made the difference between survival and death.
And now, it was mine.
I took a slow breath and stretched my fingers.
My movements felt lighter.
Faster.
Sharper.
The sluggishness from the earlier fight was gone, replaced by a newfound precision.
I flexed my hands once more and smirked faintly.
Now, I thought, feeling the faint warmth of the ring still in my pocket.
It's time to save her.