The dungeon swallowed them whole, torches flaring against stone, until I was left outside with the green recruits and the sound of axes on wood.

I worked alongside them, dragging brush and hauling logs, but my mind wouldn't settle. In my last life, I'd always been first through the door. The one to breach, to take the risk no one else wanted. I'd faced odds too long to count, and somehow survived them all. That was my strength—throwing myself into the storm and walking out the other side.

Now? I couldn't take risks. My health wouldn't allow it. A blade to an organ, a single mistake, and I'd fall. Worse than that—I wasn't even allowed to choose. Daran's refusal, Lira's soft plea, even Kelan's careful reasoning—they'd forced me to the sidelines for my own good. I understood it. Maybe they were right. But it didn't feel like freedom.

How was I free, if others could chain my choices for me? Even if the chains were forged out of care, not cruelty.

I knelt in the dirt, closed my eyes, and tried to shape my mana again. Threads of light flickered between my fingers, slipping and unraveling as my Will pushed against them. A blade, a shield, a sphere—all failed, collapsing in sparks. Sweat stung my eyes. Each collapse scraped me raw.

And yet, every failure whispered something back. Freedom wasn't just about charging headlong anymore. Maybe it never was. True freedom wasn't blind risk, it was control. It was power to decide how the fight would be shaped. Even if I couldn't wield a sword, I could wield something else.

I thought of Kelan's strength blooming under my brand, of Lira's steady hands, of Daran's barked commands whipping men into soldiers. They were all buildings. I had to build, too.

I clenched my fist, the last threads of mana bleeding away. "One step at a time," I muttered. I might not be first through the door anymore. But I would damn well decide which doors opened.

I could feel the Dao in my chest blossom, answering my thoughts like a living flame. Every reflection, every hard-learned lesson fed it. This was what they meant by building a Dao—it wasn't something given, it was something forged, hammered into shape by the weight of living. And I'd certainly had enough opportunities to learn.

It pulsed through me now, strong and steady, denser than when I'd first touched it in that hidden valley. Back then it had been a spark, a whisper of something greater. Now it was a light mist that spread within my dantain. In the core of my being, growing heavier, more certain with each step I took.

Exploration—the thrill of stepping into the unknown, of seeing places no one else had claimed. Watching others grow beneath my hand, carving their own paths into the world. Maybe even the thought of a new bond, something unlooked-for and sharp, like the way my gaze always found Lira when I wasn't paying attention.

Freedom wasn't just running where you pleased. It was this—the laughter of friends around a fire, the satisfaction of building something with your own hands, the weight of choice in shaping not just your path but the lives around you. It was the joy of doing what you wanted, yes, but also the restraint to know when what you wanted might chain someone else.

That balance—between hunger and restraint, exploration and responsibility—that was what my Dao was becoming.

The oak stood solid in front of me, unmoved by the sweat already running down my back. I gripped the axe, swung, and felt the jar of impact travel up my arms.

Swing. My Dao stirred.

It wasn't like mana. Mana obeyed. You bent it to your will. Forced it into shape. But my Dao? It resisted. It moved like a stubborn recruit, dragging its heels, demanding to know why before it took a single step.

Swing. Another chip flew.

I pushed harder, tried to cram it into the channel I wanted—and it balked. Slippery, evasive. Then, in a flicker of instinct, I stopped pushing. Instead, I let it feel the strain in my muscles, the ache of bone and tendon, the raw demand for strength. I showed it—not commanded it—that this was the path forward.

And then it surged.

Not because I forced it, but because it chose to. Like guiding someone down a hard road they didn't want to walk, until they finally saw for themselves it was the only way worth walking.

The axe bit deeper this time, tearing halfway into the oak with a crack that echoed across the clearing.

Pain burned through my arms, shoulders trembling with the effort. Hard work. Ugly work. The kind no one wanted. The kind everyone avoided if they could. But it was the work that made you better. That built scars into armor. That carved out weakness until only strength was left.

That was my Dao. Freedom wasn't about easy choices—it was about the hardest ones. About choosing the path that sucked, the one that cut you open, because at the end of it you were more than you were before.

I swung again, and this time my Dao rushed forward willingly, rushing to meet the strike. The oak groaned and toppled, crashing to the earth in a spray of splinters.

I stood over it, chest heaving, not triumphant but… certain.

The Dao didn't want to be shackled. It wanted to be convinced. Guided. Just like people. Just like me.

The hardest paths make the hardest people.

The oak lay broken at my feet, but the real crack was inside me. Something shifted—no, rushed—as though the world had been waiting for me to understand before it finally let loose.

Qi poured in. Not a trickle, not the faint mist I'd felt before, but a torrent. It surged through my meridians, wild and furious, hotter than fire and colder than ice all at once. My breath hitched. My knees almost buckled.

I forced myself to stand straight, dragging the torrent inward. My dantian pulsed in response, that fragile cloud of formless mist suddenly bloating, threatening to rip me apart.

Compact it.

The command rose from instinct, not thought. I clenched down with everything I had—Willpower, focus, sheer stubborn refusal to break. I forced the rushing Qi into my core, crushing it tighter, denser, packing the vapor down until the fog became a storm-cloud, until the storm-cloud became something harder, heavier.

Pain burned behind my eyes. My bones hummed, marrow vibrating like struck steel.

The Dao in me roared, not as resistance but as agreement. Yes. This is the path. Hard, ugly, unbearable—and necessary.

I sucked in a breath that tasted like iron and lightning. My body shook with strain. Every thread of Qi fought me, writhing and bucking like it wanted to tear me apart. But I didn't yield. I convinced it. Showed it that this was where it belonged. That this compression wasn't a prison, but strength.

And then—

It collapsed inward, detonating silently. My dantian blazed, brighter and denser than before. The loose mist I had once carried was gone, replaced by something compact, heavy, molten with power. A single drop floated within my dantian power rolling off of it that couldn't compare to what was there before.

The rush stilled. My body trembled, drenched in sweat. But I could feel it: the step upward. I wasn't an Initiate anymore. I'd crossed into something greater, something sharper.

Qi filled me, expanded me, and for a heartbeat I felt limitless.

Then the moment passed, leaving me heaving for breath, staring at the fallen oak.

But I knew. I had climbed.

Harold drew in a ragged breath, the axe head still quivering in the trunk of the oak. His body hummed, Qi still rushing through him, compressed and burning inside his dantian like a new sun. The ground beneath his boots had given way—snow and brush blasted back, a shallow crater ringed around him where the surge of power had spilled loose.

When he turned, the recruits were frozen mid-swing, tools and training staves held slack in their hands. Wide eyes stared at him as though they'd just seen a myth step into flesh. One of the younger men dropped the branch he'd been hauling, mouth open.

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"He… advanced," someone whispered. The words rippled through the group, disbelief mixing with awe.

Their gazes clung to him—hope, fear, hunger. They had been scraping by on scraps of courage and borrowed strength, and now they'd witnessed something rare: a cultivator leaping forward before their very eyes.

Harold tightened his grip on the axe and straightened, chest rising and falling like a bellows. He could feel the new density of Qi in him, a weight that settled into his bones. But in their eyes, it wasn't just progress. It was proof that in this place, under his watch, growth was possible.

I noticed the insistent notification in the corner of my eyes and opened it up.

Through the union of Qi and Mana, you have forged a new path.

New Skill Gained:

Freedom's Surge (Tier 3)

Effect: Infuses Qi and Mana into physical movements, enhancing them with the essence of your Dao of Freedom.

Current Rank: Level 1

Notes: Power scales with Willpower and Dao comprehension.

My eye brows raised as I saw it was a tier 3 skill. I wonder if that was because of the type of qi or if it was just that hard to combine qi and mana together like I did.

I opened the next one.

System Notification You have taken a step on your path, Squire.

Cultivation Advanced: Initiate → Squire

Qi reserves increased.

Dantian capacity expanded.

Physical durability and spiritual resilience improved.

"Others break under chains. You turn them into paths."

The recruits were still whispering among themselves when motion on the Dungeon entrance caught my attention. A figure broke through first—broad stone covered shoulders, a miner's gait. Kelan.

He carried someone across his back. My heart clenched until I saw the auburn hair and steady rise of breath. Lira. Her eyes were open, exhausted but calm, her arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders. Relief hit me like a hammer.

Behind them came Auren, pale but uninjured, bow strung and ready. Ferin walked a step slower, his dogs pressed tight to his legs, their hackles half-raised.

Daran brought up the rear, face carved from stone. But what followed him froze the recruits where they stood.

Two kobolds stumbled into the clearing—undead. Their eyes glowed faint green, flesh stretched thin over brittle bones, but they marched in step, weapons still clutched. They stopped just behind Daran like obedient hounds.

The recruits gasped, several drawing tools as if they were swords.

"Stand down!" Daran barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through panic. "They're bound. They won't harm you unless commanded."

The undead shifted but didn't move, their presence heavier than their size should allow.

Kelan eased Lira down, careful as if setting a relic upon the earth. She caught my gaze, managing a thin smile. "We… found out what type of dungeon it was."

Her voice carried more than exhaustion. It carried the weight of a trial survived.

The recruits' awe of me shrank in the shadow of what had just walked out of the dungeon.

I hurried forward, the recruits parting as I passed. My eyes stayed fixed on Lira, searching for blood, for wounds, for anything that explained why Kelan carried her.

"Lira," I said, crouching as Kelan eased her onto a stump. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

She shook her head faintly, strands of auburn hair clinging to her damp forehead. Her breath came slow but steady, no rasp of pain. "Not hurt," she murmured. "Changed."

"Changed?" My stomach knotted.

Her gaze slid past me to the kobolds—dead things standing unnervingly still, their eyes lit with eerie fire. Then she looked back at me, and I caught the flicker of pride beneath her exhaustion.

"The dungeon is more dangerous than we thought," she said, voice low but steady. "The kobolds… they're no rabble. Their tunnels are laced with traps so subtle we'd have never noticed without Auren and Kelan feeling the stone itself shift under their touch. And the creatures…" She drew in a ragged breath. "Every single one we met was Tier Three. Crossbowmen who fired from shadows. Berserkers that threw themselves into our lines without fear. Shamans chanting behind them, binding it all together. It wasn't a fight—it was a killing ground."

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself not to glance at the undead kobolds again.

"The first encounter alone would have broken us," she continued, her eyes flicking toward Daran. "If he hadn't shattered their formation… we'd be bones in there now. Kelan could barely hold one off on his own."

Her words settled like iron in my chest. Not just danger—calculated, vicious opposition. A dungeon meant to grind people down, not test them gently.

Daran's voice cut through the murmurs, firm as steel. "We would've lost people without her." He folded his arms, face grim. "Kelan's armor wasn't near enough to stop the blows from Tier Threes swinging with Dao behind them. She kept him standing when any other healer would've run dry. Without her, he'd be dead."

Kelan shifted uncomfortably at that, but he didn't argue.

Daran's eyes flicked toward Lira. "And when she advanced… she didn't just take a healer's path. She chose—"

"Not chose," Lira interrupted softly, shaking her head. Her voice was still faint but carried a strange, steady resonance. "Guided."

Her hand drifted toward the faint glow of her brand. "I could feel it pressing the path into me—the way my soul and Dao fit together. Life and death, never apart, always intertwined. My connection to both is stronger than before. I didn't pick this class. It was pressed into me by what I already am."

She glanced toward the undead kobolds, then back at me. "When I felt the group breaking, I knew they needed help. I didn't even think. I pressed my death-qi and mana into the fallen berserkers, forced them to turn their fury on their own kin."

Her breath caught, and Kelan's jaw tightened at the memory.

"But raising two Tier Threes…" She shivered, a hand brushing her temple. "It nearly tore me apart. The strain dropped me where I stood. That was when they carried me out."

The silence that followed pressed heavier than any snowfall. Two kobolds—Tier Threes, once snarling monsters—stood docile at her command. And Lira, the quiet girl who once only whispered prayers, now sat pale and shaking on a stump, her power remaking the rules of what was possible.

Ferin crouched low, running his hands across the fur of his hounds. They whined softly, ears flicking, as if unsettled by the stench of death that clung to the kobolds. He soothed them in low tones, fingers checking their paws, their ribs, as though the act of care might push away the unease.

Auren stood with Kelan a little apart, their voices a soft murmur. I caught fragments—stone traps, shifting walls, the way the dungeon seemed almost alive beneath their touch. Kelan's hand still shook faintly when it brushed his pickaxe, but there was a steadiness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

I straightened, forcing strength into my voice. "Let's get everyone back. We'll eat, warm up, and then talk this through properly. Whatever happened in there, it's better discussed when we're not standing by the dungeon."

There were nods, murmured agreements, the subtle relief of having a direction. The recruits shifted, shouldering tools, their eyes darting uneasily between the undead kobolds and Lira's pale face.

As I moved to gather them, I felt a weight on me—Daran's gaze. He hadn't budged, arms crossed, his recruits waiting just behind him. His eyes weren't on the kobolds, or even on Lira. They were fixed squarely on me.

Not looking. Seeing.

When he finally spoke, his words slid through the air like a blade. "Lira isn't the only one who advanced… is she?"

I let Daran's stare hang a moment before I answered. "I advanced," I said evenly. "Not like Lira—no new class, no sudden power. My Dao. It… grew. I'll explain, but not here. It can wait until we're back."

Daran's jaw flexed, but he gave a curt nod. That was all the acknowledgment I'd get.

"Form up," I called, and the recruits straightened, falling into a loose column. Ferin whistled softly, his dogs darting ahead as he and Auren moved to the edges, ranging out into the trees. The rest of us walked in silence, the only sounds the crunch of snow, the creak of leather, and the faint rasp of steel at our sides.

It was a quiet march back, the kind where thoughts spoke louder than words. Every one of them carried the weight of what they'd seen inside the dungeon—or, in my case, what I hadn't.

The treeline thinned, the plateau opening up before us. Kelan's marked stones jutted like the skeleton of a barely started tower. Smoke curled from the longhouse chimneys, a promise of warmth and food.

That was when the quiet shattered.

"—Auren!" The voice cracked across the air, sharp as a whip.

I looked up. Rysa stood at the top of the slope, hands on her hips, auburn hair catching the light like fire. Her glare could have melted stone.

"You better wish you got hurt in there," she bellowed down, "because if you didn't, I'm going to do it myself for running off dungeon diving without a word!"

Auren froze mid-step, shoulders stiff. "Rysa… it's not what it looks like!"

"It looks like you went into a dungeon," she snapped back. "Without telling me. Again."

He half-raised his hands, backpedaling as he called up the hill. "Technically, I didn't go in—I scouted! That's completely different!"

"Scout or dive, you still left me here with nothing but rumors and worry," she shot back. "You think I wouldn't notice you gone?"

"I—look, I was with Kelan and Ferin, alright? I wasn't alone!" His voice cracked as he scrambled for a better excuse. "And we… we had healers! Proper ones! I mean other ones! Your heals are better!"

"Keep talking," she said, voice low and dangerous even from a distance, "dig that hole deeper, see if you can bury yourself before I get there."

Ferin barked out a laugh, clapping Daran on the shoulder as Auren bolted uphill, bow clattering at his back. He moved like a boy caught stealing bread, darting toward her with desperate pleas trailing behind.

"Rysa, come on—please! At least let me explain before you kill me!"

The rest of us just watched him run, tension draining out into sharp bites of amusement. After the weight of the dungeon and breakthroughs alike, it felt almost human again—danger still looming, but laughter chasing at its heels.

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