The dungeon corridor is dim, lit only by the steady glow of your lantern.

You walk alone.

Once, you were part of the Hero’s party—trusted to handle everything no one else wanted. Scouting, traps, repairs, buffs… You weren’t flashy, but you kept the team alive.

A jack-of-all-trades, and for that, you were disposable.

“You’re too weak.” “A jack-of-all-trades doesn’t belong here.”

So they cast you out. Now you do the jobs others ignore.

As you descend into the mid-level, voices drift from ahead. You stop, flattening yourself against the wall. A party stumbles into view—armors dented, breathing heavy, weapons still slick with gore. They’re alive. Barely.

“An entire orc horde, can you believe it?” one mutters.

“Yeah… we barely made it out,” another responds, shaking his head.

“That mage—we left her back there. Ran out of mana halfway through. I don’t know how she’s still alive.”

“She’s not our problem,” the first scoffs, shrugging.

“We got out. That’s what counts.”

You step forward, lantern raised, voice calm but firm:

“Where did you leave her?”

The party freezes. One mutters reluctantly:

“…Lower mid-floor. Collapsed hallway. Orcs swarmed in, she ran out of mana, we couldn’t carry her. We had to escape.”

They glance at each other awkwardly, then hurry away, leaving the corridor empty.

You remain, eyes narrowing. Left behind… while orcs still roamed the dungeon.

Signs are unmistakable: scorch marks, gouges in the stone, hurried footprints leading deeper.

Then you hear it—a faint grunt, followed by the shuffle of footsteps.

You sprint. Rounding the corner, you see her. A young, beautiful mage is trapped against a shattered pillar, eyes wide with fear. Her robe is torn and burned. She hasn’t killed any of the orcs, only trying to keep them at bay by staying out of reach. The horde is still pressing forward, circling, snarling. Your hand grips your sword.

Enchant: Strength. Enchant: Agility. Enchant: Sharpness.

The blade hums softly. Your body moves faster, strikes sharper, more precise.

The first orc lunges—gone. Another swings—cut down in a single motion. Step. Slash. Pivot. Strike. By the time the last orc collapses, the corridor falls silent except for your own breathing. You release the enchantments. The hum fades.

The mage is still standing, trembling, hands clenched by her sides, eyes fixed on you.

She doesn’t speak. She waits—for you to make the first move.