A gigantic black spider stirs in the depth of the Boss room.

I wake fully for the first time. The core is clear. The rooms answer when I think. The shadows move when I ask.

I am not a servant anymore.

I am myself.

Finally, after a long labor, I have transcended the rules of the Dungeon.

I have gained sentient.

I am no longer a normal Intermediate Diamond Rank Boss.

I have now reached Level 600 through much labor. One more kill—just one more, and I will finally be able to break through True Diamond, collapse the Dungeon, absorb its power, and go out in the real world.

There's nothing that can stop me.

I have been upgrading in silence.

The Dungeon Boss of the Long Shadows Grotto has undergone a very complex and rare evolution process that only less than 1% of all Dungeon Bosses ever begin. And those who actually make it through the other side are even less.

The result, however, is to be able to absorb the Dungeon Core and become a real monster, a menace for the outside world.

The spillages caused by such Dungeon Bosses always end up in terrifying slaughters. The Boss, absorbing the Core, can jump even an entire Rank, meaning that strong Knight have to be summoned. And they're not always near nor ready for such an event.

I changed the room. The floor is no longer flat.

Trenches cut lines through the center. Gates sit inside the walls. I can open and close them. I can split the group in one breath.

I am Level 600. One more kill, and I leave this shell. I will break through. I will take the core. I will walk into the world.

They open the door.

They're mine.

I only have one weakness, but I managed to hide it well.

It's so well-hidden I'm invincible!

Then, suddenly, the almost-evolved monster hears something that makes him almost fall to the ground.

"The Boss is actually stronger than we expected, but apparently there's a spot under his shell that exposes his vital organ… What? Yeah, there. Wait, let me point it toward it for you, Orrivane."

* * *

Professor Veythra Drazhal looks at the crates that Jacob Cloud and her niece are moving into her office with a raised eyebrow.

"It took you guys longer than I expected. How many Shadow Mimics did you meet?"

Iskara shows a face but refuses to speak.

"A few," Jacob replies.

What's up with them? Did they finally…

"Alright," Professor Veythra takes out a red Skill Crystal and gives it to Jacob. "This is your reward, then."

Iskara looks tense, Veythra thinks to herself as she hands Hellraiser Sword to Jacob.

"Thanks. I'll let you know how it goes when I absorb it."

"You're not absorbing it now?" Veythra is confused. "What are you waiting?"

"His Skill evolved through the killing of Shadow Mimics."

"A natural Skill Crystal Integration?" Veythra is even more stunned. "Your Luck knows no boundaries, Jacob."

* * *

I step into the Blacksmith Quarters of Ytrial. The air is thick with heat and the smell of molten metal. Hammers strike rhythmically somewhere deeper inside the forges.

Not all Knight become fighters. A good chunk of them, in fact, are craftsmen.

I want to retrieve mine before seeing my mother again. I'm not sure whether I'll leave immediately or not for the Elite Dungeon she had for me, but… I kind of want to show off what I got from Rafnov's inheritance. The high-grade Platinum I got is of unparalleled quality and Mana density. I don't know why I care so much about showing off like this… but I do.

"I'm here for the commissions," I say, stopping in front of a desk.

The quartermaster looks up from a list.

"Garin's forge. That way. I haven't heard from him—I'm not sure it's done yet."

Not done? After so long?

"Sure, I'll go check," I nod toward the Quartermaster.

* * *

The Mithril Golem that Master Rafnov assigns to watch over Jacob Cloud stands silently in a far corner of the Blacksmith Quarters. No one notices it, and that is exactly how it prefers it. Its invisibility isn't perfect—but close enough. Only the strongest mages or those with specialized detection Skills can sense its presence, and the golem makes sure to avoid such people whenever possible.

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The heat of the forges doesn't bother it. In truth, it enjoys it. The warm air and the smell of metal remind it of the bowels of the earth, where it first takes shape under Rafnov's hammer. The steady rhythm of the hammers, the ringing of steel, the low hum of Mana through molten ore—all of it feels familiar, almost peaceful.

From its shadowed corner, the golem's crystal eyes follow Jacob Cloud as he's about to find out that there's been a problem with his order.

Let's see if he deserves to take the second step into my master's legacy.

* * *

I walk back into a large forge and spot four apprentices working near the main forge. They stop when they see me. The one in charge, an Elf with silver hair tied back and a spotless apron, glares openly.

"I'm Lathrasiel. Master Garin's Apprentice," he says with an open look of disgust. He lingers on the Elven vowels in his name.

Damn it

He doesn't say anything else. He just keeps giving me that look. Disgust.

I know why. Saving Nimirea wasn't exactly something her people appreciated—especially when it came down to killing a bunch of noble Elves.

Elves like him think humans shouldn't touch what they can't understand.

"Jacob Cloud," he says flatly. "What do you want?"

"Just making sure my armor's ready," I reply, pretending not to notice the tone.

I step closer to the forge, and the sound of low snickering reaches me. The other three apprentices—all Elves—don't even bother to hide it. They glance at me, share a grin, and go back to pretending they're busy.

Lathrasiel doesn't smile. He folds his arms, chin slightly raised. "Your order," he says, "has been blacklisted for the time being."

I blink. "Blacklisted? What are you talking about?"

"The Platinum you brought isn't being used," he says calmly. "It's been sent for smelting with lower-grade materials. I don't believe it to be of high enough quality."

"You did what?! " I say, feeling like I'm about to blow a blood vessel in my brain.

Lathrasiel doesn't flinch.

"It was my decision alone," he says smoothly. "The purity didn't seem consistent."

"Did you even test it?!" I shout.

The three apprentices behind him snicker again, pretending to polish tools they've already cleaned. One mutters something in Elvish that earns a quiet laugh from the others.

Lathrasiel tilts his head, unbothered. "Testing takes time. And frankly, I didn't see the need. Platinum from the mines you frequent is… unreliable. It's better used for lower-grade commissions."

I clench my fists. "You threw away Heritage-Grade material because you felt like it? That was retrieved in a special—damn it! Where's my Platinum?!"

Lathrasiel doesn't even blink. "Melted," he says simply. "Already mixed with a Bronze batch and shipped it. You should have delivered something worth refining if you wanted it treated seriously."

For a moment, I can't speak. My brain just stops.

"You—you melted it and gave it away?"

He shrugs, all calm grace. "Don't take it personally. Mistakes happen when one doesn't understand quality control. We can provide you with replacement ore. As long as you pay for the difference in quality."

The apprentices snicker again. One of them mutters, "Maybe humans can't tell Platinum from tin."

I turn toward them, voice sharp. "Say that again."

They go silent, but the smirks stay.

"You're going to tell me exactly which furnace you dumped it in," I say, stepping closer. "Then you're going to help me recover every single fragment."

"It's gone. There's no retrieving it."

I take a step forward.

"You're going to regret that decision."

He smirks faintly.

"Unlikely. You should be more grateful we're still considering your order at all."

Lathrasiel's tone turns sharp. "Of course, you wouldn't understand," he says, raising his voice just enough for the other apprentices to hear. "You're one of those Knights—always swinging your swords, never thinking about how the blade was made. Typical."

The others laugh under their breath again, encouraged.

He goes on, smiling faintly. "You people think craftsmanship is something you can buy with your titles. You have no idea how much work goes into real forging. You just fight, destroy, and then come crawling back for more equipment you don't deserve."

My jaw tightens. "You're saying I don't understand quality?"

"I'm saying you wouldn't recognize it if it cut you in half," Lathrasiel replies.

I take a step forward. "You melted Heritage-Grade Platinum, mocked me, and now you're lecturing me about craftsmanship? You're lucky I haven't melted you."

That wipes the smirk off his face for just a second. The forge goes quiet.

Lathrasiel recovers quickly, folding his arms again. "You don't seem to understand how real forging works," he says, his tone turning lecturing. "At higher levels, it's not the ore that determines quality—it's the Blacksmith. The ore is nothing without the hand that shapes it."

The three apprentices behind him nod in agreement like a chorus. One even laughs. "He probably thinks good ore magically turns into gear on its own," another says.

"Exactly," Lathrasiel continues, clearly pleased with himself. "That's the difference between a craftsman and a fighter. You rely on what's given to you. We make what you rely on possible."

I stare at him. "You mean to tell me you melted Heritage-Grade ore and are now lecturing me about value?"

He smirks. "Heritage-grade? Please. Your batch barely registered as Platinum when I saw it. I did you a favor. You'd only have embarrassed yourself wearing armor made from that trash."

For a moment, I actually get what he's saying. He's not wrong—at higher levels, craftsmanship can make or break an item. Even the best materials need precision, experience, and control.

But then the rest of it hits me. My Platinum. The Platinum from Rafnov. Gone. Melted into a Bronze batch.

The reasoning stops mattering. My stomach twists. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears.

"You give me back that Platinum," I say, quiet and low. "Or there will be consequences."

Lathrasiel snorts. "Consequences? From you? What, are you going to murder me like you did those others of my kind?"

I ignore his provocation.

"You'll replace it with other Platinum, you said," I say. "That's not good enough. I want the ore I brought."

"It's all the same," he replies. "Platinum is Platinum. The real difference is in the forge."

"Then let's test that," I say before I can stop myself. "If it's all the same, we'll prove it. You and me. We each smelt an ingot and we each pick the ore. Whoever makes the better ingot wins."

He blinks, then laughs. "You? Smelt? Fine. You'll embarrass yourself."

"If I win," I say, keeping my voice level, "before I fetch your master and undo what you did, I will slap you three times."

"I shall slap you when you lose," Lathrasiel smiles.

The three apprentices laugh harder.

"Let's start," I say with a thin smile. "My hands are really itchy."

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