THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

In the world of Ternion, dungeons were not mere caves or ruins—they were fragments of power left behind by the Sovereigns, those ancient beings who once shaped reality itself. Like echoes of their might, these dungeons appeared across the land, some permanent fixtures that defied time, others temporal anomalies that vanished as mysteriously as they emerged.

The Adventurers' Guild, Valhalla, maintained strict oversight of these dangerous domains. Under their classification system, dungeons were ranked from C to S tier, each category representing not just difficulty, but the quality of rewards one might claim—if they survived.

C-rank dungeons were common, perfect for novice adventurers seeking to prove themselves. B-rank challenged seasoned teams, while A-rank dungeons required elite coordination and skill. S-rank dungeons were rare and devastating, often claiming more lives than yielding treasures.

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But Lysora County housed something different.

The Leviathan's Abyss defied conventional ranking. Without a discoverable boss room, the guild officially classified it as an A-rank dungeon, though many suspected this was a gross underestimation. Its predictable emergence throughout the year made it a source of both wealth and tragedy, drawing adventurers from across the continent.

Today, the coast of Lysora County trembled.

The first signs came with the sea's rebellion. Waves crashed against the docks with unprecedented fury, sending ships rocking in their moorings. The water churned as if something massive stirred in its depths.

Then it began to rise.

From the turbulent waters, a tower emerged—a colossal structure of ancient stone and gleaming metal that stretched toward the heavens. Water cascaded from its surface in sheets, revealing intricate patterns that pulsed with ethereal blue light. As it rose, the surrounding sea began to still, its surface hardening into a crystalline bridge that connected the shore to the tower's base.

The beach had transformed into a makeshift festival ground. Merchants hawked their wares from colorful stalls—potions, weapons, armor, and supplies for those brave or foolish enough to enter the tower. Food vendors competed with calls advertising their specialties, the aroma of grilled meats and spiced delicacies filling the air.

Through it all, Valhalla's officials maintained rigid order. Stationed at checkpoints along the crystalline bridge, they meticulously examined identification papers and guild certifications. Their faces were stern, having seen too many overconfident adventurers never return.

"Remember," one official announced, his voice carrying over the crowd, "this dungeon's A-rank classification is provisional. Enter at your own risk, and may the Sovereigns have mercy on your souls."

Yet still they came. Veterans with scars that told stories of past attempts. Fresh-faced recruits dreaming of glory. Merchants hoping to claim rare materials. All of them watching as the tower's blue glow pulsed like a heartbeat, calling them toward whatever fate awaited within the Leviathan's Abyss.

None of them could have known that at that very moment, deep within the tower's heights, their fate was being decided by a battle between powers that transcended mortal understanding—a clash that would forever change the nature of this mysterious domain.

*******

Through the bustling crowd, six mysterious figures in crimson cloaks approached the checkpoint. Their synchronized movement caused conversations to falter, creating an unusual pocket of silence that followed their advance.

"Identification," the official demanded, his voice carrying the weight of routine authority.

The lead figure reached within his cloak, producing a carefully folded parchment. As the official unfolded it cautiously, his eyes caught the wolf's insignia at the bottom—the personal stamp of the Guild Master himself. His hands trembled slightly with anticipation.

"You may... proceed," he managed, stepping aside with unprecedented haste.

Whispers erupted among the waiting adventurers. Twenty minutes was the standard verification time, yet these mysterious figures had passed through in mere seconds. The murmurs grew louder as the cloaked party crossed subsequent checkpoints with the same ease.

"This is bullshit!" The voice boomed across the beach. A mountain of a man stepped forward, his broad sword gleaming in the morning sun. Muscles rippled beneath scarred armor as he pointed accusingly at the crimson-cloaked group.

Like hell I'm letting these privileged bastards act like they own the place, the brute thought, his grip tightening on his sword. If enough of us protest, we could rush in first. Take the prime hunting spots before these nobles claim everything.@@novelbin@@

His thoughts froze mid-stream as one of the cloaked figures simply... appeared before him. One moment he was preparing to rally the crowd; the next, slender fingers wrapped around his throat with impossible strength.

"I don't appreciate obstacles," a feminine voice spoke from beneath the hood. Luna's grip tightened ever so slightly. "Especially ones that delay my master's plans."

The predatory aura that emanated from her silenced not just the brute, but every potential protester in the vicinity. The very air seemed to grow heavy with killing intent.

"Now, now, Luna," Salomonis's smooth voice cut through the tension as he lowered his hood, crimson hair catching the morning light. "Let's not cause trouble for our dear David. The path ahead is what matters, yes? The guild can handle such... minor inconveniences."

Luna clicked her tongue in annoyance but released her grip. The brute collapsed, gasping, as she turned away with fluid grace to rejoin her companions.

"My sincerest apologies for the disruption," Salomonis offered the nearby officials a theatrical bow, his golden eyes twinkling with amusement. "You know how eager some can be for their first taste of real adventure."

The lead official waved off his concern, clearly relieved at the peaceful resolution. "No harm done, sir. Please, proceed at your convenience."

As the six crimson-cloaked figures made their way across the crystalline bridge, their forms silhouetted against the towering structure ahead, conversations slowly resumed on the beach. But now they carried a different tone—one of speculation about who these people really were, and what power they wielded to make even Valhalla's strict protocols bend before them.

None noticed the knowing smile that played across Salomonis's lips, or the way Luna's hands still twitched with unspent violence. The stage was set, and the real performance was about to begin.