The night after the ritual was a deep, dreamless void.

I woke not to the gentle sunlight of Selorn, but to the feeling of being scraped.

My mana core, which had been pushed to its absolute limit channeling Drakerlor's divine, abyssal power, felt raw, like an open wound.

Every muscle in my body ached, a protest against the violent surge of energy I had forced through it.

And then, there was the other new sensation.

...hungry... Master... hungry... feed...

It wasn't a sound. It was a persistent, telepathic itch at the back of my skull. A low, constant, primal need radiating from the [Awakened Abyssal Wyrmling Egg] nestled in my dimensional storage.

It was no longer a dormant object; it was a conscious, bonded, and very demanding life form.

The 30-day timer had begun, and the countdown was being punctuated by this incessant, needy whisper.

I groaned, pushing myself out of bed. The floor felt cold under my bare feet. "Right. Fine. I'm up. Stop whining," I muttered, knowing full well it couldn't hear my words, only my intent.

The telepathic plea quieted slightly, shifting from a demand to a state of simple, expectant hunger. It was going to be a long month.

I bypassed the guild's bustling common hall, skipping the celebratory breakfast. I couldn't face the questions, the back-slapping, or my father's beaming pride.

Not yet. I needed to focus. My first priority was the egg. My second was the lingering, venomous threat of the Iron Vipers. And my third... was the awkward, impending "talk" Maria Frostheart had promised me. A formidable to-do list.

My first stop, however, was the Weaver's District. I needed information, and I now had allies who specialized in it.

The Thorne workshop was already open when I arrived. The difference from my last visit was night and day. The oppressive gloom was gone.

The front shop, though still modest, was clean, the windows washed, and a new, hand-carved "Open" sign hung on the door, the runes on it glowing with a fresh, steady light.

I stepped inside. Elina was at the counter, neatly organizing a tray of newly carved communication runes, humming softly to herself. She looked up when the bell chimed, and her face lit up with a smile so bright it seemed to warm the entire room.

"Michael! You're back!"

"Elina." I smiled, a genuine, easy smile. "You look... better. How is he?"

"See for yourself," she said, gesturing to the back workshop..

I walked through the curtain. Master Thorne was standing at his main workbench, not sitting. He was... working.

His hand, no longer trembling, held a fine-tipped runic chisel, and he was meticulously carving a complex sequence onto a steel gauntlet.

The mana flowing from his fingertips was steady, precise. He looked thinner, yes, but his eyes were clear, his posture strong.

He paused his work as I entered, placing the chisel down with reverence. He turned to me, his gaze clear and sharp.

"Michael," he said, his voice no longer a raspy whisper, but a firm baritone.

"The elixir... it didn't just heal me. It restored me. My mana core feels cleaner than it has in a decade."

"I'm glad it worked, Master Thorne," I said, leaning against a work table. "I told you I just got lucky."

"Luck," Thorne scoffed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"The merchant you 'found' must have been a saint, then. No matter. The debt of House Thorne stands." His expression turned professional.

"You are not here for pleasantries, I assume. You have that look. The same one you had before you went into the hills. You need something."

I was continually impressed by the old man's perception. "I do," I admitted.

"I need information. Not on cures, this time. On monsters. Specifically, a C-Rank entity: the Shadow-Wraith."

Thorne's brow furrowed. Elina, who had followed me in, gasped.

"A Shadow-Wraith?" Elina breathed, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Michael, those are... they're Class 3 Malevolent Spirits. They're intangible. Academy reports say they can drive a man insane before his sword even leaves its sheath."

"Which is why I need to know where to find one," I said flatly.

Thorne was silent for a long moment, his gaze analytical. He was calculating the risk, my motives.

Finally, he gestured to a towering, dusty bookshelf in the corner. "Elina, fetch the Pre-War Bestiary of the Western Marches. The one with the grey binding."

"Father, that's a restricted text—"

"He is my patron," Thorne said simply, his voice leaving no room for argument. "He gets our resources."

Elina nodded, her expression grim but obedient, and retrieved the heavy, ancient tome.

For the next hour, the three of us huddled over the brittle, yellowed parchment, our fingers tracing faded ink descriptions.

The lore was just as my game memory recalled. Shadow-Wraiths were C-Rank, intangible, and fed on despair.

They were often found in places of great tragedy, such as old battlefields, abandoned prisons, or...

"Here," Elina whispered, her finger landing on a cross-referenced local map.

"The Whispering Crypts. Just south of the city, in the Blighted Marshes."

Thorne nodded, his face grave. "I remember the stories. A D-Rank dungeon, but... it's been 'Sealed' by the Hunter's Association for fifty years. Officially."

"Why?" I asked, playing dumb.

"A team from the old Hunters' Guild—before your father's time—went in,"

Thorne explained, his voice low. "Nine of them. Only one came back. He was... broken. Mind shattered. Kept screaming about 'shadows that ate his soul.'

They said the psychic pressure was unbearable. Lacking a high-rank Priest or a Mentalist, the Association declared the dungeon 'unclean' and had the Earth mages seal the entrance.

No one's been back since."

I stared at the map. A D-Rank dungeon with a C-Rank boss and a psychic aura that drove hunters insane. It was perfect. It was a dungeon no one else would dare compete for.

"I need to get in there," I said.

"Michael, that's suicide," Elina protested. "You can't fight something you can't touch."

"Maybe I can," I said, tapping the Bestiary. "The book says their intangible state falters under pure, consecrated light... or when they are bound by specific ancient runes."

Elina looked at her father. "Rune-scribing. That's... that's our specialty."

Thorne nodded slowly. "We could create [Spirit-Mark] seals. Temporary runic enchantments that, when applied to a weapon, allow the blade to strike spiritual entities.

And [Ghost-Touch Vials] to contain the ectoplasm, if you managed to harvest it."

He looked at me, his gaze sharp. "But it would be dangerous, expensive, and require precise materials."

"I have the funds," I said simply. "How quickly can you make them?"

"Two days," Thorne said.

"If you can source the silver-ingots and the quicksilver for the binding solution."

"Done." I stood up. "I'll have the materials delivered within the hour. Thank you, Master Thorne. Elina."

Elina walked me to the door, her face pale with worry.

"Michael... why are you doing this? Risking your life for a monster no one else will hunt?"

I paused at the door and gave her a small, reassuring smile.

"It's for a quest, Elina. A personal one. Don't worry, I don't plan on dying."

She didn't look convinced, but she nodded. "Be careful."

I left the workshop, my mind already on the next phase. I had a target: the Whispering Crypts. I had a way to fight: the Spirit-Mark runes. Now I needed an alibi.

I ducked into a quiet alley and made a call on my old, non-Academy phone.

"Victor."

"Boss! Good to hear your voice! How's the family? How's the—"

"I need a new contract," I cut him off, my voice all business.

"Aegis Holdings is now interested in 'resource expansion and land assessment' in the Blighted Marshes, south of Selorn. I need you to draft a formal, high-priority, and confidential survey mission. "

"Send it exclusively to the Willson Guild. It needs to look official, urgent, and profitable."

Victor, long past questioning my bizarre requests, didn't hesitate.

"The Blighted Marshes? Nasty place, boss. Full of bogs and spirits. But you got it. I'll have a contract with a 5-million-Ren upfront 'assessment fee' on your father's desk by this evening. That should give you the perfect cover to take your team anywhere you want out there."

"Good. That's all." I hung up.

My plan was set. The egg would be fed.

I walked back towards the guild hall, the afternoon sun warming my face.

I was so focused on the Crypts, on the runes, on Victor's call, that I almost didn't notice the change in the atmosphere.

As I turned the corner onto the main market street, I saw it.

Smoke.

Thick, black, acrid smoke, billowing from the direction of the East Road, where the guild's warehouses were.

And then, the sound of the city's alarm bell, ringing frantic, desperate notes.

"Fire! Fire at the Willson Guild warehouse!"

"It's an ambush! The caravan!"

My blood turned to ice.

I didn't wait. I didn't think. I ran.

I activated [Swift Step], my body blurring, pushing past stunned civilians, my heart hammering against my ribs with a new, cold dread. No. Not them. Not now.

I arrived at the East Road just as the caravan—or what was left of it—came limping into view. The lead wagon was ablaze, the valuable Ogre-hides and materials reduced to cinders.

Two junior guild members were carrying a third, who was clutching a bloody stump where his arm had been.

My father, Darius, stumbled off his horse, his face ashen, his sword-arm hanging limp and dark with a black, viscous substance.

"Father!" I roared, skidding to a halt.

"Michael!" he gasped, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

"It... it was the Vipers. They came out of nowhere... faster... stronger than before. They... they weren't trying to steal the cargo, son. They were... they were trying to kill us."

My gaze snapped to his arm. The black substance wasn't just blood; it was corrupting his flesh, black veins spiderwebbing up his arm from a deep dagger wound.

It was the same demonic energy from the cursed dagger.

Gregor. He hadn't waited for me to hunt him. He had come for my family.

"Marcus!" I yelled, searching the chaotic scene. "Where is Marcus?!"

"Here," a strained voice called out.

My brother was leaning against the burning wagon, his usual calm shattered.

He was clutching his side, blood seeping between his fingers. His face was pale, his breathing shallow.

"That bastard... Gregor... he's different," Marcus panted, his cultivator's senses clearly reeling from what he'd encountered.

"His power... it's not human. It's... tainted. Demonic."

Rage, purer and colder than any ice I had ever wielded, flooded my system.

The whispers of the hungry egg, the awkwardness of the Heart-Stone proposal, the politics of the Academy—it all vanished, burned away by this single, searing clarity.

Gregor, fueled by Magnus's agent and a demonic pact, had crossed the one line I would never, ever forgive.

He had touched my family.

My [Hidden Quest: The Serpent's Rot] flashed in my vision, its objective clear.

[Investigate and dismantle the guild before their corruption spreads. (15/100)]

Dismantle?

No. That wasn't enough.

I turned to my father, my voice dropping to a temperature that made the nearby flames seem cold.

"Where is their guild hall?"

Darius blinked, his pain-filled eyes confused. "What? Michael, no, you can't—"

"Tell me," I commanded.

"…North-side docks. Warehouse 13," he whispered, finally understanding the look in my eyes.

"Good." I turned to the remaining, terrified guild members. "Get him and Marcus to Master Thorne, now.

Tell Elina it's a demonic curse—she'll know the purification runes. Go!"

They scrambled to obey.

I stood alone for a moment in the street, surrounded by the smoke of my family's burning livelihood.

The whispers in my mind were no longer just the egg.

They were Drakerlor's ancient, booming voice, sensing my rage, my absolute, murderous intent.

"…YES, CHILD…" it hummed, a sound of dark, predatory satisfaction. "…LET IT BURN. SHOW THEM WHAT IT MEANS TO PROVOKE A DRAGON."

I didn't bother with an alibi. I didn't bother with a plan.

I just drew Draken, its dark blade seeming to drink the shadows of the burning alleyway, and began to walk towards the docks.

(To be continued )

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