With a smaller group, their speed increased significantly—many times faster than before. Still, Rust’s mind was elsewhere.

  They crossed the swamp with unmatched efficiency, killing dogs in their path and, luckily, avoiding all other creatures.

  Even so, the dogs were annoying. Fighting them over and over, day after day, week after week, wore on the mind.

  Every human had limits. Strip the skin from a body, and it would die. Cut it in half, and death was certain.

  But the worst was mental. Rust noticed his companions, though eager to survive, were barely holding on. Constant fighting for survival was exhausting, inhuman.

  They needed time to rest, to recompose and continue. But the dungeon did not allow it for everyone. They would rest briefly, only to be attacked again and forced to move on.

  Truthfully, even Rust was tiring. But he had a reason—a clear, loud reason that forced him to survive and escape this place.

  He had failed once to honor the memory of his family. He would not fail twice. Reaching the end of this place was the least he could do... or at least attempt.

  But alone? No. Even with his current group, it would be difficult. He needed to be better prepared, to gather more allies, to improve himself. Only then could he dream of leaving alive.

  Rust’s concentration broke at the sound of howling, dogs were near. Without hesitation, he unsheathed his saber. His allies reacted just as quickly, transformed by now from villagers into hardened warriors.

  Soon after the howls, the dogs revealed themselves, scattered among the dead trees, their fur dark and eyes glowing with aggression.

  They rushed forward. Rust and his allies held a defensive position.

  The first dog closed in; its head was split by the axeman’s blow. The next was shot down by the archer, a single arrow to the chest.

  The man who specialized in concoctions spread oil in a line ahead, then ignited it with two stones, forcing the dogs to break formation.

  Immediately, Rust sprinted forward, his blade piercing coldly between a dog’s eyes, spraying hot blood.

  …

  With a swipe, Faust cleaned the excess blood from his blade.

  This room—the forest room—was far larger than he had imagined. He still hadn’t found the exit, though he had an idea where it was.

  The distance was simply too great.

  Blood seeped from a claw injury on his chest, quickly sealed by mana. He sat atop the body of a small bear, its head reduced to pulp by repeated blows.

  He touched the closing wound. “Damn it, Beak. Not my fault. How was I supposed to know this bastard would get faster right before dying? The dogs didn’t do that, neither did the snakes… or the wolves… and whatever those things are, I bet they don’t either.”

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  Beak was used as a pointer, aimed at a small creature dead beside the bear. Faust hadn’t killed it—the bear had. The creature resembled a monkey illustration Faust had once seen in a book, but its limbs were longer and it bore little fur.

  Its face wasn’t beautiful either, with jagged teeth and eyes that were now crystalline but had once been a vivid green. In fact, these creatures looked more like miniature humans than monkeys.

  “I wonder how strong these are… Maybe we’ll find one as we go further, Beak.” Faust looked intently at Iron-Beak, which still maintained its prime appearance. Even after all they had been through, the hundreds of creatures slain by it, the blade remained undamaged, unchanged.

  The same could not be said for Faust. His body had grown stronger over the course of the dungeon. His muscles were well-developed, fibers twitching with every movement. Unfortunately, due to lack of food, his body hadn’t grown larger; if anything, it was thinner than before.

  He glanced at his feet, both marked by the attrition of high-velocity combat. The skin had torn and rebuilt many times, until it no longer chafed from friction.

  His hands were callused, dry, the skin rough and nails broken. Thankfully, Faust was not someone who cared much for appearances; otherwise, he would have been shocked every time he saw his reflection in a puddle of blood. In an even better turn, his only companion wasn’t someone who could complain about appearances either.

  That was one reason they made a great duo. “Isn’t that right, Beak?” Faust said, his crimson eye gently observing the metal.

  “Yes, that is right.”

  Faust smiled at the answer. “You get it!”

  Then he shook his head and used the bear’s fur to clean Beak a little more.

  He couldn’t let his friend stay dirty, could he?

  Once done, he stood and stretched, still not letting go of Beak.

  “Well, we’ve rested enough. Let’s keep going.” He jumped off the bear, touching it as he used the sacrifice rune. The creature’s body dissolved into ash in a matter of seconds, absorbed through the sigil on his forearm.

  Then he focused his hearing, straining for any sign of movement. Using a technique he had recently developed, he willed mana to move.

  It flowed from its near-still cycling around his heart, up his neck and finally into his empty eye socket. Once there, he could “see” it—small, flickering, swirling masses of formless blue energy.

  If he could channel it properly into his functioning eye… he had tested it once. The energy shocked him, his eye bursting with pain as blood seeped from behind it.

  The same happened when he tried to move mana into his ears—he went deaf for a long time before hearing returned. His theory was that his control remained too poor to safely enhance such sensitive areas.

  Still, it was much better than before. He could now move mana throughout his body, enhancing it to the point that enemies who once posed a challenge were now child’s play. Faust thought using mana would be unnecessarily complex, but once he stopped trying to actively control it, using it became easier and eventually second nature.

  It was a sixth sense, in a way. He could “feel” it and use it as naturally as if he always had. It flowed through his muscles, his blood, his capillaries, his skin... everywhere.

  Unfortunately, he had to admit that what that bastard Chris said was mostly true. While using mana within his own body had become natural and instinctive, attempting to project it outside led nowhere. He couldn’t cast spells or shape external magic, so he simply discarded that path and focused on what he could do.

  He didn’t know how long it had taken him to finally use it at will, but it didn’t matter. The moon never moved; everything remained the same beneath it. Time was not on his list of preoccupations.

  As he walked through the forest, he heard something... then “saw” it. A small mass of energy ahead. It was weak. Weak meant not much mana. Which meant either the target was dying, or it was simply weak: an easy prey.

  Faust lowered his stance and sprinted toward it, hidden by tall grass and trees. Once close, he leapt into a tree, angling himself toward the enemy before striking with a clean slash.

  Instantly, blood poured like a fountain, and the mana dissipated like smoke. Before him lay a small humanoid creature covered in fur, its body promptly sacrificed as well. Its form turned to ash, blood swirling in the air before being absorbed by the sigil on his forearm.

  “Not enough,” he said. “Far from it.”

  Without wasting time, he searched for his next prey.