**Chapter 25: Into The Dark Alone**
The heavy iron gates of the Duchy’s main courtyard creaked shut behind me, severing the warm morning light of the manor grounds from the wild, untamed road ahead.
Mother stood atop the stone balcony, her silk cloak catching the crisp autumn breeze. She didn't wave. She didn't call out last-minute warnings. A Duchess of our bloodline didn't cling to her children when sending them off to war; she demanded perfection and expected survival. In her eyes, I saw the fierce, unyielding pride of a family that had ruled these cold northern lands for centuries. We were not merely nobility—we were the apex predators of this territory.
"Do not stain our crest with cowardice, son," her voice reached me through a soft pulse of wind-element mana, clear as a bell. "Return as a butcher, or do not return at all."
"I will return, Mother," I muttered under my breath, adjusting the leather straps of my scabbard. "And I'll bring the heads of whatever is lurking in the dark."
Sir Brandon rode beside me on his heavy warhorse, his scarred face grim beneath the shadow of his steel helm. As we rode toward the western edge of the fief, he took the time to drill the administrative realities of dungeon management into my head—a crucial lesson for any future ruler.
"Dungeons aren't just death traps, Young Master," Brandon explained, his gravelly voice low. "They are the financial bloodstream of your house. Every rift that opens on Duchy land is legally the sole property of the Duke. We classify them, secure the perimeter, and control the flow."
He pointed toward a distant ridge where a faint, shimmering tear in spatial magic pulsed against the tree line.
"Adventurers and mercenary bands can't just walk in. They purchase permits from our tax collectors at the forward camps. And the cost?" Brandon chuckled darkly. "Thirty percent of every mana core, rare herb, or monster hide harvested inside goes directly to the House treasury. If a commoner tries to hide a core? We hang them at the entrance as a reminder. Dungeons keep our army funded and our borders armed."
"A heavy tax," I noted.
"A necessary one," Brandon countered sharply. "Without our soldiers keeping the dungeon tides from overflowing into the surrounding villages, those commoners wouldn't survive to farm, let alone hunt. The strong protect; the weak pay."
An hour later, we arrived at the staging camp of the first target: an E-rank dungeon known as
The Hollow Den
. The perimeter was heavily fortified with wooden palisades, guarded by two dozen of our House's armored soldiers. The air around the rift smelled of ozone, damp earth, and decaying flesh.
Brandon dismounted, drawing his massive claymore and driving its tip into the dirt. "Alright, Young Master. I'll take point. You watch my footwork, stay two paces behind, and—"
"No, Sir Brandon," I interrupted, stepping past his horse.
Brandon blinked, a scowl deepening the scars on his cheek. "Excuse me?"
"You stay here," I said, my hand resting on the hilt of Erebos. The dark blade hummed against my palm, its pulse matching my heartbeat. "You heard my mother. I need battle instinct forged in blood. Having an A-rank knight standing over my shoulder like a nervous nanny defeats the entire purpose. I enter alone."
"Young Master, that is madness!" Brandon barked, taking a heavy step forward. "The Duchess commanded me to supervise you! If you die in there, your father will skin me alive!"
"My life is directly on the line only if I fail," I replied coolly, turning to look him dead in the eye. "If an E-rank dungeon is enough to kill me, then I am unworthy of wielding a Mythical soul weapon, and I am certainly unworthy of leading this Duchy. Stand guard outside, Sir Brandon. That is an order."
Brandon opened his mouth to roar a protest, but the cold authority in my voice—backed by the faint, suffocating aura of my dual-element core—made him freeze. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ground together, but ultimately, he bowed his head.
"If you are not out in six hours... I am coming in after your corpse," he growled through gritted teeth.
"Fair enough."
Without another word, I walked past the nervous camp guards and stepped straight into the shimmering, tear-like entrance of the rift. The air twisted around me, the light vanished, and a heavy, suffocating dampness slammed into my senses.
I was inside.
High above the camp, hidden in the dense canopy of the surrounding forest, two cloaked figures watched the entire exchange through scrying lenses.
"Did you see that?" one whispered, a raspy, taunting laugh bubbling in his throat. "The little noble brat actually left his babysitter at the gate! He went in completely alone!"
"Foolish arrogance," the second assassin sneered, his fingers tracing the poisoned edge of his curved dagger. "These spoiled high-borns think holding a fancy sword makes them gods. He just walked straight into a dark tube with no exit."
"The master said to wait for the right moment, but this is a gift from the gods," the first whispered, drawing a dark, mana-dampening veil over his shoulders. "We slip in past the guards using the shadow-blend talismans. By the time that old knight realizes the boy is taking too long, we'll already have his head... and that Mythical blade."
The two shadows melted off the tree branches, drifting silently through the canopy toward the rift like vultures descending on a corpse.
They thought they were stalking helpless prey. They thought a boy raised in a palace was soft, fragile, and ripe for the slaughter.
They didn't know that deep inside the dark, bloody tunnels of the dungeon, the boy was waiting—and the dark blade at his hip was hungry.