The third chamber was hotter than the first two combined.

  The heat struck the moment we stepped inside, so fierce that my first breath caught in my throat. It was as if the air itself carried the sting of smoldering coals.

  The faint taste of ash lingered on my tongue. The ring on my finger grew hot against my finger, pulsing faster, and I soon found myself glancing at it as if it were a wound that needed watching.

  Ilyra didn’t slow. She kept her pace as if the chamber had been built for her convenience.

  “A lot more vents in this section,” she said. “Watch your footing. The floor cracks.”

  Ragna walked beside me with her chin up. “You said that about chamber two.”

  “Chamber two had smaller vents,” Ilyra explained. “These ones will take your ankles and work their way up.”

  Ragna’s mouth twitched. “Finally.”

  “It isn’t funny,” Elayne said, and her tone made it clear she’d already decided she didn’t like this dungeon.

  Ser Harlan kept to the rear, his hand never leaving his sword hilt. He didn’t have the twitchy tension of a young man on edge. His age and calm painted him in a way that said he knew what to do if things turn bad.

  The tunnel widened into a cavern, and Cindermouth showed us what lived in its walls.

  Ash Skitters clung to the stone in clusters. They weren't very strong, and they were small, the size of my forearm, segmented, hard to see unless they moved. Their eyes reflected the orange light in little flashes.

  These were an annoying bunch. They thrived in the heat and humidity of the vents, feeding off the mineral-rich deposits that accumulate there. Their presence played a crucial role in maintaining the balance within Cindermouth by breaking down excess minerals and preventing the vents from clogging.

  “Don’t bother them,” Ilyra said. “They only attack if you corner them.”

  “And if we do?” I asked.

  “They explode.”

  Ragna glanced up at the wall. “Everything explodes in this place.”

  “I thought you'd be used to it. Ah, are they not found in the Volcanic Islands?” Ilyra asked, and it sounded like an insult disguised as a question.

  “Nah, massive drakes rule the volcanos, these little things can't survive,” Ragna explained, prompting Ilyra to cough.

  The cavern split into three passages then. Ilyra hesitated for a moment and then took the left one. She trusted her maps more than she trusted the world.

  With every step, the heat pressed in closer. I checked my Aura out of habit.

  [Aura: 5789/7000]

  I’d kept a thin film of Aura around my forearms for the last hour, just as Ragna had told me to. In the upper tunnels, it hardly mattered. Down here, I felt the drain with every breath. The red layer wavered each time I exhaled too sharply.

  Ilyra glanced back once. “Your glow is drunk.”

  I frowned. “My what?”

  “Your Aura,” she said, as if I was slow. “It’s flickering a little. You’re bracing against the heat instead of letting it sit.”

  “Apologies my lady, I didn’t realize I was supposed to cooperate with a volcano.”

  She scoffed. “Just stop treating Aura like a separate shield,” she said. “It’s part of you. If you clench it, it breaks faster. But I'm just a [Mage], don't listen to me.”

  Ragna made a satisfied sound. “Told you, you didn't listen. How does it feel to get lectured by a mage?”

  Ilyra pointed her chin at Ser Harlan. “Ask the old timer if you want a lesson. He’ll explain it properly.”

  The old knight didn’t even look at me. “I don't mind, but not in the tunnel,” he said. “Later. Another thing to stay alive for.”

  Elayne leaned over and whispered. “That is Sir Harlan's idea of encouragement.”

  Well, I wouldn't mind free lessons from an old time Aura user. Even though a knight’s way of using aura was much different than a barbarian.

  Something moved ahead. It was low and fast, and too quiet for its size. I only caught it because of my Dragon’s Eye.

  A Magma Hound came out of a side tunnel with its shoulders rolling. It was bigger than the dozen we'd seen in chamber two. Thin lines along its hide glowed, and the stone clicked under its claws.

  [5th Ascension]

  “Careful, this one's stronger,” I warned Ilyra who was already moving.

  Ilyra lifted a hand. “Nope, this one's my training dummy.”

  Ragna made a noise of protest, but it died in her throat when Ilyra stamped her foot.

  The floor split.

  Roots burst from stone that should not have grown anything. They wrapped the Hound’s legs before it could leap, then climbed and tightened around its torso.

  It was quite the sight. The roots snapped and while the hounds snarled and spat molten clumps that burned holes through the first roots.

  More roots came up at once, thicker and faster. They replaced the burned strands without hesitation, as if Ilyra had been waiting for the Hound to try.

  Ilyra walked up to it and stopped a few steps away. She moved two fingers.

  The roots tightened.

  I heard bone crack. The Hound’s howl turned wet, then stopped.

  “Lovely.” She stepped around the corpse and kept going. “Let’s continue.”

  Ragna stared at the dead beast. “Hey, you didn’t let me swing this time either!”

  “I can't believe you're still complaining, I commend your spirit. Don't worry, you’ll get your chance,” Ilyra said. “That one wasn’t worth sharing.”

  I followed, but my eyes kept drifting back to the spot where those roots had forced their way out of stone.

  Her Class was life and wood, in a place that should have killed both. The roots should have withered the moment they touched air, but they held on long enough to finish the work. That told me just how far she’d pushed her Class.

  She hadn’t come here for a stroll. She’d come here to sharpen herself, to separate herself from the young ladies who'd rather enjoy a tea while gossiping.

  Impressive.

  ****

  We went deeper.

  The tunnels twisted and branched. Ilyra never hesitated. She ignored what could be ignored and killed what needed killing. Ash Skitters scattered away from our boots. Sulfur Wisps floated near the ceiling, pulsing with unstable light.

  Ragna got a bit too excited seeing the flying bulbs.

  “Uhm, Ragna, don’t hit those,” Elayne said, and she pointed with two fingers, careful not to raise her hand too high in case something mistook it for a spell.

  “...I wasn’t planning to,” Ragna's smile fell slowly.

  “No, really. If one goes off, the others follow,” she added.

  Ragna rolled her shoulders. “Everything explodes in this place. Volcanic Islands are much more fun,” she said, and this time she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

  Twenty minutes in, something dropped out of a crack in the ceiling and landed in the middle of the passage with a scream that made my teeth ache.

  It was a creature of fur and muscles. The creature had three tails, each tipped with a glowing ember.

  [6th Ascension]

  “Magma Triple-Tail Monkey,” Ilyra said, and she stepped back without shame. “Sir Harlan.”

  “I can take care of it,” Ragna said.

  “I can too, but we're not here to risk our lives,” Ilyra insisted. “Just watch the old timer do his work.”

  Harlan stepped forward.

  He didn’t rush nor did he flare his Aura. He moved the way a door closes.

  The huge monkey lunged, tails whipping forward. Harlan met the first tail with his blade, slid inside the second, and cut the third at the base. The monkey screamed again, and Harlan’s sword went through its spine before it could find its footing.

  It took a few seconds. It looked simple, which was the worst part.

  The creature collapsed. Harlan wiped his blade against the stone and sheathed it.

  Ragna’s eyes were sharp now. “Old man, you're down for a fight?”

  Harlan returned to the rear without a word.

  I watched him walk and ran the numbers I didn't like running. I was 5th Ascension, Level 58, far from 7th Ascension which went from Level 100 to Level 149.

  Harlan was 7th Ascension, and I had no reason to believe he was a low one. I felt a cold sweat prickle down my back, and it wasn't really from the heat. It emphasized the gap between us, not just in levels but in the mastery etched into every step he took.

  The gap wasn’t just in levels. It was in restraint. He wasted nothing, not even a step, and easily got the result. I tried my best being efficient too, which wasn't the barbarian style, but was too good.

  If we fought, I wasn’t sure I’d last long enough to learn anything from it.

  That should’ve bothered me. I realized it didn't. Instead, I felt excited.

  I felt the urge to grow.

  ****

  While realising that maybe I had spent too much time with barbarians, we kept walking.

  Chamber four opened into a larger space with a high ceiling, and when we completed it, there were multiple downward exits.

  We truly were in hell now. Heat vents dotted the floor, hissing, and the air shimmered above them.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  One could only wonder how bad the fifth chamber would be.

  “Let us take some rest,” Ilyra said. “No more than ten minutes, so enjoy yourselves.”

  “In this hell?” I asked and sat with my back to the wall, she didn't reply.

  Ragna yawned and dropped beside me with her club across her lap, like she expected a monster to ask permission before showing up.

  “This is so boring, Thorvyn,” she said.

  “Because nothing is trying to eat you,” Elayne replied.

  “That’s the problem.”

  Elayne checked her ring. The metal had cracked earlier during a heat spike. Ilyra had replaced it without ceremony. Elayne’s hand was still bandaged where the heat got through.

  “How does it feel?” I asked.

  She flexed her fingers. “It works. It just hurts a little.”

  “Ring holding?”

  “So far,” she said, then glanced at me. “You’re handling the heat better than I expected.”

  “Valtherian blood,” Ragna said before I could answer.

  Elayne looked her over. “You’re built for everything, apparently.”

  Ragna smiled. “We are.”

  I checked my Aura again.

  [Aura: 5412/7000]

  The numbers weren't dangerous yet, but the drain was constant. Deep down, each tick of loss felt like a countdown. If the Aura fell close to zero, which it won't as long as I didn't get into a serious fight, but if it did, I would be left exposed to the oppressive heat that could lead to even heatstroke.

  Now that we were deep enough, it's best I stop spending Aura on testing and start using it with absolute necessity. Every numerical drop from now on carried the weight of urgency, a prelude to potential disaster.

  Ten minutes passed. Ilyra stood and pointed at one of the exits.

  “Let’s head to chamber five. We clear it and head back up.”

  We followed her into the tunnel, going down the stairs.

  Halfway through, I heard voices ahead.

  They weren't monsters. But people. There was shouting, grunting, and the sound of metal striking something softer.

  Every dungeon was a maze, and the entry point could drop you anywhere. That was why we hadn't come across people before, but that was about to change.

  Ilyra slowed. Harlan moved up beside her, his hand already tight on his hilt. Humans didn't necessarily mean enemies, but we couldn't trust anybody in a dungeon.

  We rounded the corner.

  A well-dressed man waited at the back of the cavern. His clothes were too fine for this place. A crossbow hung at his side, loaded but idle. His hands looked better suited to a wineglass than a weapon.

  What the hell?

  I was confused by the sight.

  In front of him, six fighters in mismatched armor were finishing off a wounded Magma Hound.

  They moved like trained people, but there was no coordination. They were taking hits they shouldn’t have taken.

  What are they doing? And what is he doing?

  I was confused, unsure what was going on. Then I saw the collars.

  Metal bands around their necks, glowing faintly with runes that pulsed with their movement. Only the well dressed man stood free of those.

  Ah. Slaves.

  The Hound was almost dead. Cuts and burns covered it. One of its legs dragged. The slaves kept going anyway, striking until it started to sway.

  When it was close enough to call it safe, the well-dressed man raised his crossbow and fired.

  The bolt took the Hound in the throat. It collapsed, twitching, then went still.

  The kill notification floated before the man and he read it, from the looks of it, before smirking in satisfaction.

  I stopped walking. “Hey, Ilyra, what the hell is that?”

  Ilyra exhaled. “Battle Slaves. It’s far too common in dungeon cities. The slaves do the heavy work, and the master simply lands the last hit.”

  So they really are slaves. I was suddenly reminded that this was a medieval world, and I didn't like that reminder.

  One of the poor slaves was bleeding from a deep gash on his arm, his expression a color of pain. The merchant pulled out a potion and… drank it himself, and that healed the small scratches on his cheek.

  He didn’t offer a potion to any of his slaves. He didn’t even look worried for them. He just reloaded his crossbow and waited.

  My hand drifted toward my axe.

  “Thorvyn…”

  I had to stop myself, feeling Ilyra at my shoulder and the weight of the moment, even if I didn’t know the law here.

  “Explain something to me. Is he using the slaves to farm levels? But how does that even work?” I asked, keeping my voice level. “The System doesn’t give full experience for last hits. Merit matters.”

  “It’s different for slaves,” Ilyra said. “The collar binds them to their master’s will. The merit counts as his. It's like using a sword to kill someone. The… even the System recognizes ownership.

  Ragna’s grip tightened on her club, a large scowl on her face. Elayne’s face turned hard, but she was clearly used to it.

  My jaw clenched. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Yes,” Ilyra said. “But it’s not illegal. Well, I guess. To be very specific, slavery is banned in Ethenia, you can't buy and sell people here. However foreigners can bring ‘property’ in. That man looks Velandrian.”

  One of the slaves hesitated before limping toward the merchant, blood dripping. The merchant said something. The slave flinched and stepped back.

  “The Divine Cult pushed the Empire to abolish slavery,” Ilyra continued. “The Emperor of that time agreed but had to compromise. Buying and selling people inside the Empire is banned, but foreigners can bring slaves, and… citizens can travel out, buy, and come back. Merchants stay happy.”

  There were a lot of things I wanted to say here. But one word explained it all. “Ironic,” I said.

  Ragna frowned at me as we walked. “Iron-nick?”

  “Not iron,” I said. “Ironic. It means it's the opposite to what should be expected.”

  Ragna’s mouth tightened. “So it’s a joke.”

  “That’s politics,” Ilyra replied.

  I looked at her. “So who’s the good guy, really? The Emperor or the Demon who runs the so-called Demonic Cult?”

  Ilyra shrugged, and for once the gesture didn’t feel smug. It looked tired. “Beats me.”

  We moved on.

  I didn’t look back at the collars because I didn’t trust what my feet would do if my eyes kept seeing them.

  Ragna walked beside me in silence for a while. When she finally spoke, her voice was low.

  “So much for ‘civil people’,” she said. “Ironic, you called it?”

  I was a little sad that she had to learn that word in this manner.

  ****

  Maybe noticing our mood, or maybe she too disliked what we saw, Ilyra decided to pause her training for the day.

  We were at the Gilded Cinder now, and it was the sort of tavern that tried to hide the monster blood and mining dust it was built on. It was a little pretentious.

  The floors were glossy and clean. The booths had curtains, and the staff wore matching uniforms and smiled too much. The menu was written in fancy script, and the prices were listed in silver instead of copper.

  Ilyra, ever the rich young lady, already had a booth reserved near the back. She ordered for all of us without asking. It was irritating, but the food was good enough that I let it go.

  There were a lot. Roasted meat in heavy sauce, warm bread, and a series of veggies I couldn’t name. Ragna ordered something called a Cindermouth Special, which was a little surprising since I thought she didn't like the place as much. It was a bowl of red-orange stew that looked like it had been made out of spite.

  Ragna took one uncertain bite and then her smile widened. “Yes! Thorvyn! Look, finally, someone in this country knows how to cook!”

  Elayne leaned away from the steam. “No offence, but… that’s not cooking. That’s what you feed a man when you want him to confess a murder. Isn't it too spicy?”

  “Your tongue is weak,” Ragna said.

  “My tongue is alive,” Elayne replied.

  I ate in silence.

  The food was great, I loved every bite, but… the collars lingered in my mind, along with the System’s neat little notification.

  Not as a modern man, but as someone who loved freedom, I abhorred slavery. It went against my philosophy, and bothered me at a deep level.

  There was a soft creak. The doors opened.

  A young man entered, dressed in silk and gold. He somewhat reminded me of the merchant from earlier. His brown hair was styled, his boots polished, and his face looked untouched by trouble.

  There was another reason he reminded me of the merchant. Because behind him came a series of slaves.

  There were eight of them. Different races, different faces, all with the same metal collars. Two young women in revealing clothes flanked the man like ornaments. The rest stood behind him, silent as a wall.

  The staff didn’t stop them.

  “What the hell's this? This is a reputed establishment, slaves aren't allowed.” It was obvious that Ilyra was annoyed. It took a moment, but then she blinked in recognising. “Ugh, fuck. It's that bastard.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Veric Ashton,” she said. “The eldest son of Baron Torvald Ashton, who's the City Lord of Harrowgate.”

  Veric Ashton paused for a moment, eyes falling on us. Ilyra, and then Ragna. I was about to gauge his eye out when he took a booth across the room. The two women sat close, feeding him by hand. They giggled at his jokes and smiled, but it wasn't real.

  “Since Ethenia bans slavery, even if there are loopholes, shouldn't the son of a baron respect the laws?” I asked, turning to Ilyra.

  “It's a little… different since its Torvald. The Baron is a 7th Ascension adventurer,” Ilyra explained. “Back in the day, he was the leader of a gang that ruled the city. So the Empire gave him the title of baron and made him the city lord because it was easier than managing this city themselves. Recently, I heard he's on his deathbed. Wasting sickness. His sons are fighting over inheritance.”

  “So he's a criminal by origin, and doesn't really care about noble ethics. Makes sense. Tell me about Veric,” I said.

  “He’s the oldest son,” Ilyra said. “But he's a lazy bastard, so he's not that strong. He's always used his father's money and status to travel the world, sleep with prostitutes, and buy slaves from around the world. Typically it's all soft girls, but… looking now, looks like the rumors are true.”

  “Go on.”

  “He knows that to continue enjoying his lavish life, he must inherit his father's title. His father is dying, and all his brothers are desperate to inherit the title. And so recently, he’s been using Battle Slaves to farm levels and catch up to his brothers.”

  So they're mostly Battle Slaves? I looked at the slaves behind Veric. The two girls that were feeding him were weak, they likely only served one purpose. But the others were strong.

  Despite their strength, they had the look of people broken at the shoulders and in the eyes. Most of them, anyway. Two of them stood out.

  One was a wolfman. He was tall, scarred, and alert. He stood like a guard who hadn’t forgotten what pride felt like. His posture conveyed a spark of defiance in his posture.

  His fists occasionally tightened whenever the young bastard said something to the girls, almost imperceptibly, as if he was clenching invisible chains.

  It was a small gesture, but I noticed it. It spoke volumes. It was a reminder that hope could smolder even in chains.

  The other was a woman, and although her ears were too small to notice at first, I just knew she wasn't a human.

  Her skin was dark in a gorgeous way, with faint patterns that caught the light. Pointed ears. She had gold eyes in a premium sort of way. Her curves were tight, chest popping upwards, and her shoulders were defined. She was strong.

  [7th Ascension]

  A black tail flickered from behind her. So she was a… hmm, what was she? A black cat demi-human?

  She didn’t wear the same collar as others, hers was golden with a red glow, light like a choker. From what Ilyra told me earlier, that was a higher form of Slave Brand without the need of a thicker collar; its complexity made her less able to flee her position. And yet, she didn’t carry herself like a slave. She looked contained, not defeated.

  There were gold marks on her neck under the collar, and also across her dark skin, gold tribal markings that looked old. She looked more like living jewelry than a slave – not because she wore a lot, but because she looked like that.

  “What a rare sight,” Ilyra said quietly, and then nudged me. “Look at the Gold-Marks. Those are marks of the Ashkari People, a tribe of Black Panther demi-humans. I never expected to see one enslaved.”

  The panther woman’s gaze swept the room, taking in faces the way Harlan watched for shadows. When her eyes reached our table, they paused.

  She looked at Ragna first, at her build, the Valtherian tattoos, and the red hair. An odd look flickered there. Was it recognition, or interest? Or maybe the simple fact that Ragna didn’t look away from anyone.

  Then the woman’s eyes slid to me. I met her eyes, and it felt like stepping into a fight I hadn’t agreed to. There was a question there, and it wasn’t gentle.

  I decided to look away first. Staring at a noble’s slave in a city like this was likely not a good thing, and I wasn't here for trouble.

  Ragna leaned closer. “You see that? She's hot. Look at those curves, damn.”

  She was less curvy than Ragna, built more for speed rather than overwhelming strength. But she was right.

  “I see it,” I said.

  “She’s really strong, too,” Ragna said, and her voice had that edge she got when she found someone worth measuring herself against.

  “I can see that too.”

  Ragna’s mouth tightened. "I want to fight her."

  Elayne looked flustered. "Uhm…"

  Ragna ignored her. "Look at her. She’s wearing a collar and she still looks so ready."

  I lowered my voice. "She’s a Battle Slave, her role is to stay alert.”

  "I know," Ragna said, and this time there was anger in it, not excitement. "That’s the problem. I don't like that bastard over there."

  Only then did I understand that her urge to fight seemed less about the thrill of the battle and more about a need to restore something that had been twisted and broken.

  It was as if violence, to her, seemed like the only pure expression of justice in a world that lacked it.

  As much as Ragna's perspective was alien to me, it forced me to have a reflection.

  This was a different world. So would raising a weapon against a slave owner truly impart justice? Or was it merely dressing vengeance as righteousness?

  The thought lingered, unsettling my mind, as if daring me to find a different answer amid the heat and chains that defined this place.

  Across the room, Veric said something, still lounging as if comfort was his right.

  The black panther woman turned her head toward him, the movement so controlled it almost hurt to see. She didn't look afraid tough.

  The moment between us snapped when Veric looked at us again while talking.

  A moment passed as he stood up, “Is that Lady Ilyra?! I didn't know my sister-in-law had come to visit my city.”

  The obvious fake greeting grated against my ears. Veric Ashton walked over.

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