(POV: Third-Person)
Inside a quaint tavern, the atmosphere was thick with despair.
"When are they gonna send someone in the Silver ranks…" A middle-aged man in scuffed combat gear sighed, nursing his tankard.
"It's the only dungeon near this town. We need it to survive…" he muttered, rubbing his temples.
"Maybe you should stop having ale every day and start cutting costs," another man chuckled, gnawing on a drumstick.
"Besides, there's nothing we can do but wait. Silver ranks don't bother with backwater towns like ours…" he added with a solemn glance.
"That's true. I just wanna go back in, man… It's been almost a year."
"Yeah, well… no one's stepping near it since the Manaburst."
SLAM!
The tavern doors burst open.
A towering man clad in full plate armor stomped in, dragging thick iron chains behind him.
"I heard this pathetic town's begging for a Silver rank," the man growled, lips curling into a smirk.
"Hey, you better show some re–"
CRASH!
The man with the tankard flew across the room, crashing into the wall from the sheer force of a backhanded blow.
"Before you run that pig mouth of yours, know who you're speaking to. I'm Silver rank," the armored man snarled.
Everyone fell silent.
THUD.
A boy hit the ground, dragged forward at the end of the chains. His pale hair and dull grey eyes gave him away.
"That's… a Veilborn," someone whispered.
"That guy must be rich…"
The man kicked him in the ribs, forcing him to crawl and grovel. No one dared speak up.
"What the hell are you gawking at? Get me a drink!" he barked.
The tavern owner stumbled over himself to bring the best wine he had, hands trembling.
Minutes passed. The man drank. The boy just wiped the blood off the side of his mouth.
"Call your town mayor!" he suddenly barked, eyes scanning the stunned crowd.
"U-uhm… Sir, we can't just—"
SWOOSH!
A chair shattered beside the tavern owner, missing him by inches. Glass and wine exploded across the bar.
Everyone clenched their jaws in silent fury.
"A-as you wish, good sir…" the owner fled out the door.
…
Time passed.
The tavern owner returned, breathless, dragging a plump, nervous man behind him.
"Good sir! Are you the Silver-ranked adventurer Glenn spoke of?" the mayor asked, forcing a smile.
"That's right. Listen up, pig. I'll clear your dungeon problem… for a price."
The mayor's smile faltered.
"And what would that be, good sir?"
"Twice your town's annual income."
The words hit like hammers. The mayor's knees buckled.
"G-good sir… Isn't that a bit much?!"
"Is it? What do you think your 'money' will be worth if that dungeon breaks open and wipes this cesspit off the map?"
The mayor swallowed hard.
"Good. I want half of it by sundown. I head in tomorrow," the man declared, yanking the boy along.
"I'll be scouting the place till then."
He stormed out, the boy's chains scraping against the floor.
"S-sir…" Glenn whispered. "Do you know who that man might be?"
"I have an idea…" the mayor murmured, face pale.
…
Outside the dungeon entrance, white-skinned goblins with blood-red markings lingered among the trees.
"Bloodseal goblins," the man sneered. "This might actually be fun."
He grabbed the boy by his hair and yanked him forward.
"Tell me how many there are. Or I rip that scalp clean off."
"Y-yes, master…" he whimpered, his eyes glowing faintly as he gazed into the distance.
"F-from what I can sense… around twenty-three…" he whispered.
"Good. Prepare my weapon."
He scrambled to the supplies and pulled out a long, fabric-wrapped object.
"It's time these pigs learn the name of the Dread Butcher!" he howled, ripping off the cloth.
A massive butcher's blade, nearly two meters long, gleamed in the sunlight.
SWOOSH!
He swung once—air screamed, trees snapped—and four goblins were cleaved in half.
"Time to hunt," he grinned, dragging the boy behind him. Rocks and thorns tore at his body as he stumbled helplessly in his wake.
…
THWACK!
THUD!
Deep within the dungeon…
Zeren finally knocked out the last Roomba unit.
"HELL YEAHH!!"
(He said in his mind. No mouth, remember.)