The world snaps back into focus with a jolt.

Heat hammers into my face, even harsher than Emberdeep, and it smells like burnt glass and old alchemical reagents.

I blink.

The portal dumped me in a chamber so wide it could swallow Clearwater's main square three times over. The walls arch high, glassy and warped, veined with shimmering blue and veins of angry red.

No one waits at the entrance. No safety rail. No checkpoint. Just me, alone, standing on rough crystal with my reflection staring back from a hundred jagged shards.

A system prompt hovers in the air.

[Welcome to the Smoldering Glass Crucible — Elite Dungeon]

All exits sealed.

The only path is forward.

Solo-clear required for completion.

Alright. Let's see what Guildmaster Dorn's deathtrap is really like.

The first step crunches glass under my boots. The sound snaps through the empty space, creating an eerie echo.

I move slow at first, letting my eyes adjust to the refracted light. A narrow corridor stretches ahead, marked by lines of blue runes—these must be the safe path.

The clerk guy said that the blue runes in here signal the safest path. There's no way to avoid all the traps, but he says that the rooms with red crystals are loaded with traps.

At the same time, I think to myself, they're probably full of loot, too, aren't they?

The walls are slick with condensation.

More than once, my foot nearly slides on a patch of glass dust, but I catch myself before I can lose balance.

I push ahead, boots scuffing glass dust, and let the Grimoire flicker behind my eyes, watching for danger.

The hall stretches into a fork.

On the left, a tunnel gapes, walls bristling with thick red crystals. The veins here run wild, almost feverish, glowing with trapped heat and flickering light.

On the right, a broad door opens into a huge, almost empty chamber—no monsters, no visible traps, just a cavernous space filled with silence and a few scattered, knee-high pillars of smoky glass.

From everything the guide said, and what little Sir Greyson drilled into me about this Elite Dungeon, the red-crystal rooms aren't on the main progression path.

They're booby-trapped side chambers.

Detours.

The Guild always warns that the best loot forms where the magic pools, where the arrays haven't been swept in years.

These rooms won't get me closer to the end, but if there are natural treasures—glass hearts, mana seeds, maybe even rogue Skill Shards—they'll be there.

Normally, when the Knights sweep a Dungeon, the one breaking the traps gets first pick of whatever's inside.

"Knights who sweep for traps always go in first," I mutter to myself. "They break the arrays, take the treasures, then let the teams through. That's the only way to pay for the work. In a run like this, they're the only ones who walk out richer than when they came in."

That's why you see old knights grumbling about "side hustle runs"—they clear the path, haul out the weird treasures, and leave the main route for trainees.

Here, there's nobody else.

Anything I find, I keep.

I check my footing, roll my shoulders, and let the heat soak in. I take three steps toward the main corridor—the safe path—but my instincts gnaw at me. Red crystals mean danger, but they also mean rewards. If I play it safe, I'll finish the Dungeon with a handful of Skill Shards and maybe the Meditation crystal, if I'm lucky. If I take a risk, I might find something good.

I eye the red-crystal room.

Anyone else at level nine would be signing their own execution by entering there. But me?

I smile.

I have a Rainbow Skill that is perfectly suited for this.

I open the Grimoire Extraordinaire as I step into the red room, which suddenly starts humming. The ghostly blue pages flicker behind my eyes, mapping the energy veins all through the wall.

There's a network of glassy threads beneath the floor—runes, traps, latent enchantments, all primed.

I force myself to breathe slow and steady. I channel mana into the Grimoire, focusing on the flaws. The Grimoire pulses a warning.

[Trap Array — Glassfire Mana Beams]

Primary Effect: Seven Mana lenses focus and fire in sequence, vaporizing the entire room.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Trigger: Pressure plate at the second step, or excess heat above ambient threshold.

Flaw: The entire array draws power from three crystal cores embedded in the pillars—if you sever those, the trap can't fire.

Holy… I look at my feet. One more step and I would have died.

Ok, I gotta be more careful. Next time, I'll run the Grimoire first, then enter.

It's not one trap. It's the kind of death array that wipes parties of Knights. If I miss a core or mistime a step, I'll die faster than I can blink.

But it's just the kind of trap a Gold or Platinum Knight would have to deal with.

Me?

Again, Rainbow Skill.

[Grimoire: Glassfire Array Core Mapping…]

A diagram shimmers—three pillars at the far end of the room, each one studded with a bright orange crystal, each crystal pulsing in time with the veins in the floor.

I bet those crystals are probably very valuable.

I see channels of power that come from the crystals, probably runes or something that's used to keep them together.

I can probably sever those without damaging the crystals themselves…

The first core sits on the leftmost pillar. I line up the shot, pulse mana through Hell's Sword, and launch a compressed slash—tight as a wire, as the Grimoire instructed. The blade of fire lances across the room, shattering the channels that lay right beneath the glass.

A great halo floats above the Guild's main floor—an arc of light nearly two stories tall, glowing with shifting runes and painted lines. It's a Dungeon Map, a Mithril Skill, and it makes every head in the hall crane up and those hanging on the stairs tilt their heads to try and guess what's happening.

Guildmaster Dorn stands beneath the ring, hands clasped, a little too satisfied with himself. The map displays the first floor of the Smoldering Glass Crucible—dozens of rooms, each rendered in smoky light, tiny motes representing traps, hazards, and moving threats. The red chambers pulse menacingly. A single green dot marks Jacob's position.

"Gather round, folks!" Dorn calls, projecting his voice so everyone can hear. "You wanted to see what happens when a mud-rat with a death wish enters an Elite Dungeon unswept? Today's your lucky day. The rat's marker is live—Smoldering Glass Crucible, first floor! Let's see how long it takes before we need a mop. Place your bets with my assistants, I'm anxious to make some money off this disgrace for Clearwater!"

The crowd—half adventurers, half bored noble brats, the rest guild officials—jostles for position. Felisia stands just off to the side, jaw tight, arms folded so hard her knuckles go white. Sir Greyson hovers behind her, eyes glued to the map.

"He's barely made it ten meters," Dorn crows. "Look at that, how slow—"

But this time, the words hang for a beat.

Everyone in the guild quiets. The noise drains out of the hall as Jacob's marker moves, slow and steady, toward the first fork. All eyes track the little green dot, watching as it hesitates at the branching path.

The room goes dead silent. A few of the adventurers tense up, their betting slips halfway to their mouths. Someone mutters under his breath.

No one expected him to do it. No one expects him to be this bold.

Jacob's marker turns, slides directly toward the first red-crystal chamber—the most dangerous on the map.

A breath catches in the back row. You can hear the coins freezing in midair.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then Guildmaster Dorn breaks the tension, laughing out loud—cruel, performative, shameless, his voice filling the silence with poison.

"There it is!" Dorn shouts, slapping his thigh. "What did I tell you? The little rat just walked into the red room. You can't fix stupid. You warn him and he does it anyway. Dead in a minute, I guarantee it. He might as well have slit his own throat. Watch closely, folks—this is how overconfident idiots end up as stains on the glass."

A few in the crowd snicker, relieved to have someone tell them what to feel. A handful just keep staring at the map, waiting for the kill.

The map flickers—Jacob's marker crosses the threshold, and every trap in the room lights up like a bonfire.

Dorn starts to grin.

"Let's see how many seconds he lasts, shall we? Should we start counting?"

A few guild officials laugh, trading silver coins and muttering side bets.

"I give him five seconds," someone says. "Ten, if he's lucky. Isn't that a vaporizing array?"

"He'll explode like confetti."

"What a foolish kid. He deserves it for what he did to the Shellford Family."

Felisia's voice slices through the crowd.

"You'll eat your words."

Dorn grins.

"Lady Felisia, I've seen what happens to 'geniuses' who wander into the Crucible. They become stains, if they're lucky. If he makes it out of the first room, I'll triple the payout on him surviving the floor."

"I'll take that action," Sir Greyson says, taking a large bar worth five hundred platinum coins. "What are the odds for the first floor? And who's paying, Guildmaster Dorn, you or the guild?"

"The guild doesn't accept bets," a clerk sighs from the side.

"Yes," Guildmaster Dorn grins at Sir Greyson and accepts the bar of platinum. "I'll take that. Wow, this is mana-enfused? Sir Greyson, you really trust that kid. A pity that you shall lose all this money now."

"The odds, Dorn," Sir Greyson says, narrowing his eyes. "Out of the first floor? One-to-ten. If he makes it after that red room, I'll make it one-to-thirty for you."

Everyone starts placing bets with Guildmaster Dorn to make sure that they get a piece of that platinum bar off Sir Greyson.

"I'll place the same bet," Felisia says, interrupting everyone. "Five hundred platinum coins."

She takes out a piece of parchment, scribbles on it, and hands it to Guildmaster Dorn. Every Bank in Clearwater knows of Lady Felisia and would immediately allow her to withdraw such an amount of money.

Sir Greyson frowns but says nothing.

His eyes never leave the shifting green dot on the map.

Suddenly, the Dungeon Map shivers—a pulse of blue-white flickers over one of the red chambers.

Dorn's eyes widen.

"What—? That's the array activating. He must've set off the glassfire beams."

The whole hall quiets. Adventurers lean forward. Someone whistles. Dorn's mouth twitches, ready to call the bet in his favor.

But the next second, the room on the map dims—the rune cluster goes dark. The red warning fades. The green dot moves forward, unscathed.

A young Bronze-ranked adventurer blurts, "Did he just—disable—the whole array?"

"That's not possible!" another exclaims.

"It's a trap that could kill a Gold Rank Adventurer!"

Felisia lets out a tiny exhale. Sir Greyson cracks a smile.

Dorn's laughter dies in his throat. He tries to cover it. "He got lucky. Must have stepped just right. That array hasn't killed anyone in years. The next one will."

Dorn's face goes red. "Just you wait. The next room—look, that's the Core Trap Chamber. It's only a matter of time."

He doesn't see Felisia and Sir Greyson share a look—a silent, wordless confidence that no one else in the hall understands.

The map cycles. The Crucible holds its breath.

But Jacob Cloud keeps moving forward.

Someone mutters from the side.

"I wonder what he got from that side room. He stopped for a few moments. Must have been something interesting."

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