Etzel noticed Level Eight most when he stopped looking for it. There had been no dramatic transformation, no sudden realization that the world had become slower, and no overwhelming surge of strength.
He was simply—better. A little faster, a little more balanced, a little more capable of making his body obey what his mind had already decided.
Unfortunately, DK had noticed too. “Again.”
Etzel reset his stance. “You know, some people celebrate progress.”
DK raised the wooden sword. “We are.”
“This feels suspiciously like training.”
“It is.”
“That is not celebrating.”
DK attacked, and Etzel reacted. The wooden blade came toward his left shoulder, his spear rising almost before he consciously completed the decision. Wood struck wood. Etzel redirected, stepped, recovered.
DK stopped. Etzel blinked. That had been—clean.
He looked at his hands. “I don’t feel stronger.”
DK attacked again, and Etzel barely blocked. “You are.”
Etzel stared at him over the crossed weapons. “You could have answered normally.”
“You would not have believed me.”
“That is an unfairly accurate assessment of my personality.”
DK stepped away. Etzel rolled his shoulder. Level Eight was not making decisions for him; it was making the distance between decision and action slightly smaller. He liked that. A lot.
“Again.”
This time Etzel initiated. He showed DK a line toward the ribs—weight forward, eyes committed, spear tip aligned. False Line.
DK did nothing. Etzel changed direction anyway. The wooden sword intercepted him. Etzel frowned. “Again.”
Second attempt: different line, different signal. DK did not react, and intercepted. Etzel narrowed his eyes.
Third attempt: Etzel made the lie subtler. DK’s sword shifted. There!
Etzel immediately changed to the real attack. DK changed too. The sword snapped around the spear shaft, locking it.
Etzel stopped. DK stopped. Etzel looked down at the trapped weapon, then slowly looked up. “You lied.”
“Yes.”
“You pretended to believe my feint.”
“Yes.”
“I dislike progress.”
DK released the spear. “False Line does not control the opponent.”
Etzel rubbed his wrist. “It influences a decision.”
“Yes.”
“But they can lie about the decision.”
“Yes.”
Etzel sighed. “That makes considerably more sense when I’m the one doing it.”
“Again.”
Etzel raised the spear. “One day I’m going to develop a technique called Rest.”
“Then practice it later.”
“That was cruel.”
The message from Maerin arrived shortly after breakfast. Etzel opened it immediately:
Maerin: Sector 14 update.
The humor disappeared.
Etzel: Go.
Maerin: The humanoid is still outside the dungeon.
Etzel frowned:
Etzel: Still?
Maerin: It hasn’t entered.
Maerin: It hasn’t attacked anyone.
Maerin: It has barely moved.
Etzel looked toward DK. “The figure is still there.”
DK waited. Etzel read the next message:
Maerin: Dungeon instability continues to increase.
Etzel typed:
Etzel: Because of it?
The answer came quickly:
Maerin: Unknown.
Etzel closed his eyes: Etzel: I’m beginning to hate that word. Maerin: Good. Scientists use it often.
Etzel stared at the message, then looked at DK. “She’s getting funnier.”
“No.”
“I think she is.”
“No.”
Etzel put the communicator down. The Authority had maintained the exclusion zone—no one was being allowed near the dungeon without clearance, the unknown humanoid had made no attempt to force entry, and it simply waited while the gate continued reacting to its presence.
Then another message arrived:
Maerin: They’re sending a specialist.
Etzel picked the communicator back up. The feed became available less than an hour later, showing that the Authority had established a temporary observation post well outside the dungeon entrance with equipment, sensors, armed Hunters, technicians, and one man walking toward the gate.
Etzel leaned closer. The newcomer looked disappointingly ordinary—maybe early thirties, dark hair, plain field clothing beneath a light protective coat, no enormous weapon, no dramatic armor, and nothing about him announced: I have been summoned because reality is behaving incorrectly.
Etzel typed:
Etzel: Who is that?
Maerin: Specialist.
Etzel: That explains nothing.
Maerin: Correct.
Etzel lowered the communicator. “I walked into that.”
“Yes.”
The man stopped several meters from the unknown humanoid with no weapon drawn, though the Authority personnel behind him were considerably less relaxed, several having weapons ready. The humanoid turned its narrow head and watched.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
The specialist spoke: “You want this closed?”
A pause. “Yes.”
The voice still sounded rough, unused. The man nodded toward the dungeon: “Why?”
Silence—long enough that Etzel wondered if the conversation was over. Then the humanoid answered: “Wrong.”
Etzel leaned forward. The specialist did not: “What is wrong?”
The figure looked toward the gate. Its answer came slowly: “Still open.”
Etzel’s expression changed. DK said nothing.
The specialist looked at the dungeon—not surprised, not frightened, but interested. That worried Etzel more.
For the next eleven minutes—nothing happened. At least, nothing Etzel considered interesting. The specialist walked around the entrance, stopped, read sensor output, asked for historical measurements, moved again, stared at the gate, asked another question, waited, and stared some more.
Etzel shifted in his chair. “Is his Ability staring?”
DK looked at him. “You do that.”
Etzel went quiet. Several seconds passed. “That was unnecessary.”
DK returned his attention to the feed. Etzel did too. Then he noticed something: the man was not looking for damage, not exactly. He kept asking about function—gate pressure, energy circulation, formation stability, closure behavior, anchor condition. Every question was about how the dungeon worked.
Etzel sat straighter. “He’s looking for a rule.”
DK glanced at him. “Perhaps.”
Not a Flaw—that was what Etzel would have searched for, something real, something exploitable. The specialist appeared to be doing something adjacent, but different. He was trying to understand the mechanism itself.
The man finally stopped beside one of the technicians: “Gate closure protocol?”
The technician answered through the feed: "When a dungeon is completed and its anchor collapses, structural energy decays. The gate loses stability and closes."
The specialist looked toward the entrance: "What keeps this one open?"
"The anchor."
"No."
The technician paused. Etzel did too.
The specialist continued: "The anchor keeps the dungeon stable." He pointed toward the gate: "Something else keeps the door open."
The humanoid moved—not toward him, just its head. For the first time since the specialist arrived, it appeared genuinely interested.
Etzel saw it. “So did it.”
DK nodded.
The specialist requested more data: energy flow, old measurements, current measurements. Then he asked the technicians to separate incoming and outgoing readings. Several minutes passed before a technician spoke: "There’s contamination in the return flow."
The specialist crouched beside the sensor display: "Contamination?"
"Very low."
"How low?"
"Below normal operational relevance."
"Then why is it consistent?"
Silence. Etzel smiled slightly; he liked this man.
The technicians recalibrated and ran the measurement again, but the result remained: energy flowed outward from the dungeon, expected, but beneath it—almost hidden—something was flowing back in. Not much, but constant.
The specialist stood: "There."
One technician answered: "That amount shouldn’t be enough to matter."
"Then remove it."
"We don’t know the source."
"I didn’t ask you to remove the source." The man stepped toward the gate: "I asked what happens if the flow stops."
Etzel’s smile disappeared. “Oh.”
DK looked at him. “He’s going to test it.”
“Yes.”
The Authority did not seem enthusiastic. Two personnel moved forward, but the specialist raised one hand: "Stay there."
"Renn—"
So, a name: Renn.
The man ignored the warning. He stopped just short of the gate, his hand rising—not touching, a few centimeters from the surface.
For several seconds, nothing happened. Then the observation system flashed:
Etzel leaned forward. A second line appeared:
[Classification: ???]
“Helpful.” DK remained silent.
Renn’s eyes stayed fixed on the gate. The energy readings shifted. One technician spoke immediately: "Return flow is dropping."
Another voice: "Forty percent."
Renn’s hand began to tremble: "Sixty."
A thin line of blood appeared beneath his nose. Etzel’s expression changed. “That hurt him.”
“Yes.”
“Eighty-two.”
Renn’s fingers curled, his breathing audible through the feed: "Return flow approaching zero."
Then—the dungeon gate moved. Etzel stood.
Not much. Barely visible. But the outer edge contracted. One technician shouted: "Gate diameter decreased by one-point-seven percent."
Another measurement: "Two-point-one."
Renn dropped his hand. The effect ended. He stepped backward—not collapsing, not falling, but his other hand immediately caught his wrist. Blood reached his upper lip. The return flow resumed, and the gate stopped shrinking.
Etzel stared. “He changed something.”
DK nodded. “For a few seconds.”
“Why hurt himself just to test it?”
DK looked at him. “To see what happened.”
Etzel went silent. That answer landed uncomfortably close to home. Information had value—sometimes enough value to bleed for. He understood that far too well.
The Authority erupted into activity. Technicians compared measurements, Hunters repositioned, and several voices spoke at once. Renn wiped the blood from his face.
The humanoid started moving. Weapons immediately rose, but Renn turned: "Don’t."
The figure continued toward him—slowly, with no aggressive posture and no raised blade. It stopped several steps away, looked at the dungeon, then at Renn: "You see it."
Renn breathed once through his nose: "Part of it."
The figure remained still, then: "Enough."
Etzel stared at the feed. “Okay.”
DK looked at him. “What?”
“Now I want to go.”
DK stared. Etzel raised a hand: “I said want. Not going.”
Silence. DK nodded: “Better.”
Etzel pointed at him. “Stop making that word emotionally significant.”
Someone from the Authority approached Renn: "Can you repeat it?"
"No." The answer was immediate.
The official frowned: "We need another measurement."
"You have one."
"We need confirmation."
Renn looked toward the dungeon: "I know it works."
"That isn’t enough."
"It is for now."
"Why?"
Renn wiped another trace of blood from his nose: "Because I understand the effect." He looked toward the gate: "Not the source."
The official waited.
Renn continued: "Doing it again without understanding the source would only make me bleed twice."
Etzel nodded. “Definitely like him.”
DK looked at him. “You have never met him.”
“I’m making an informed preliminary assessment.”
“You are deciding before you know.”
Etzel slowly looked at DK. “That sounded familiar.”
“It should.”
“Fine.” Etzel returned to the communicator:
Etzel: Full name?
The response arrived:
Maerin: Vaelor Renn.
Etzel typed again:
Etzel: Ability?
Longer pause, then Maerin sent the public portion of the registered Hunter profile:
┌────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ [HUNTER PROFILE] │
│ Vaelor Renn │
│ Registered Ability: Unfinished Law │
└────────────────────────────────────────┘
Etzel stopped. He read the name again: Unfinished Law.
The available description was short—almost annoyingly short:
Unfinished Law: Observe. Understand. Introduce an exception.
Etzel stared. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.”
Etzel looked at DK. “You don’t even know what it does.”
“Neither do you.”
Etzel considered that. “Fair.”
He read the description again: Observe. Understand. Introduce an exception.
At first, the similarity was obvious: Witness. Etzel observed, understood, found something real, then exploited it.
“It’s like Witness.” He stopped. “No.”
DK waited. Etzel looked back at Renn.
Witness did not change anything. It demanded that Etzel discover a real Flaw that already existed, and then Principle II allowed temporary exploitation of that discovered truth.
Unfinished Law was different. Renn had understood a real process—then temporarily introduced something that had not been there before. An exception.
Etzel exploited the rule. Renn—bent its edge. Only briefly. And judging by the blood—not cheaply.
“That’s terrifying.”
DK nodded. “Yes.”
Etzel glanced at him. “This time you actually have enough information to say that.”
“Yes.”
“Progress.”
The investigation continued. Etzel expected the next breakthrough to take hours; it took seventeen minutes.
A technician interrupted Renn while he was studying the energy data: "We found the direction."
Renn looked up: "Source?"
"Not exactly."
A regional map appeared on one of the observation displays, and the technician enlarged it. A line extended from Sector 14, then stopped. Another appeared, then another.
Etzel frowned. The incoming energy was not tracing back to a single source; it was correlating. The technician marked another dungeon, then another—three, five, seven.
Renn moved closer to the screen: "How many?"
"We’re still checking."
Etzel’s communicator vibrated: Maerin.
Maerin: They’re checking the regional archive.
Etzel watched the map populate: nine, twelve, fifteen, then—nineteen.
The feed went strangely quiet. Etzel looked at the markers: nineteen active dungeons, each showing the same faint return-flow pattern.
His communicator vibrated again:
Maerin: Same sustainment signature exists in nineteen active dungeons.
Etzel read it. “Nineteen doors.”
DK said nothing. Etzel stared at the map. Sector 14 was not isolated, not unique, not one broken dungeon.
“If this one should have closed…”
DK finished the thought: “Perhaps the others should have too.”
Etzel’s expression hardened. On the feed, Renn turned toward the humanoid. The figure had been watching the map, watching the markers appear.
Renn asked: “How many?”
The humanoid did not answer.
Renn tried again: “How many doors?”
Long silence. The figure looked at the dungeon, then toward the distant horizon. When it finally spoke, the words were quiet:
“Too many.”
A System notification appeared across the Authority feed:
Etzel stopped moving.
Another line:
[Common External Sustainment Pattern Detected.]
Etzel looked at the nineteen points scattered across the map. Yesterday, Sector 14 had been a mystery—one humanoid, one dungeon, one impossible signature.
Now—it looked like a system. And systems were much harder to kill than monsters.
Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!
Use arrow keys (or A / D) to PREV/NEXT chapter