The world outside was worse than I remembered.
After years spent underground, I expected ruin—but not like this. Entire sectors looked like graveyards. Concrete jungles melted by time and fire. Roads swallowed by vines and broken terrain. Towering buildings collapsed into skeletal shadows.
But not every city had fallen.
Some had prospered—surprisingly so.
There were zones known as "clean districts," protected by powerful guilds and elite Adventurers. These cities shimmered behind reinforced walls, powered by mana reactors and barrier systems. Life still existed in them—functioning infrastructure, trade, even families. But they were rare.
Most of the world was a graveyard.
Dungeon breaks had taken care of that.
A dungeon break occurred when a rift wasn't cleared regularly. Monsters multiplied, mana pressure built up, and when the dungeon finally burst, the flood began. Cities were wiped out. Civilization fell.
Some places could be salvaged—if powerful enough hunters responded quickly. But not all. Some regions still burned, waiting for someone strong enough to reclaim them.
That wasn't my goal.
I wasn't here to save cities.
I was here to kill monsters. All of them.
If that prevented a dungeon break? Good. But that was just a side effect.
My purpose was simpler. Blood. Vengeance. Strength.
The underground metro was the only semi-safe travel option left. Air travel was restricted. Surface roads were suicide. Teleportation too unstable for most.
I rode the train in silence.
Ten others shared the carriage. Armed. Quiet. Focused. Like me.
As the train pulled into the Vanguard Platform, I adjusted the strap of my bag and stepped out. The station was dim and cold, echoing with distant power surges from below.
Three tunnels stretched before me.
No signs. No guidance.
I turned left. Then back. Frustration bubbled up.
Then I saw her.
She stepped into the light from the center tunnel—tall, athletic, graceful.
She looked deceptively normal. Not like a soldier or instructor. Maybe nineteen, like me. Long brown hair curled loosely around her shoulders, framing clear green eyes. She had a soft but confident face, healthy skin, and the natural poise of someone used to moving through dangerous spaces without panic.
She wore casual reinforced travel gear—gray and black layers with a high collar and faint utility enchantments along her boots.
She paused, offered a calm smile, and pointed. "Left tunnel. Look for the glow runes. It's the main gate."
Then she walked off without waiting for thanks.
A student. Like me.
I followed her instructions and took the incline upward. The lights glowed faintly with each step, growing warmer as I climbed.
Then I saw it.
Vanguard Academy.
It rose like a fortress carved into the stone. Arcane pylons crackled around the main plaza, shield runes shimmered over the walls, and great banners hung with symbols of legendary warriors and fallen nations.
I passed through the gates with dozens of others.
Hundreds of students filled the courtyard. Combat gear. Magical robes. Enchanted tools and glowing accessories. Every one of them had earned their way here.
They had backing. Sponsors. Bloodlines.
Most of them looked like they came out of a high-end recruitment poster. Custom-fitted armor, polished weaponry, flowing enchanted coats, sharp-edged confidence in every step. Even their conversations sounded smooth—coordinated, strategic, controlled.
Then there was me.
Worn black combat pants with one knee torn. Heavy boots stained with dried blood. A dark hooded jacket reinforced with old steel plates, mismatched from scavenged gear. No colors. No crest. Just a dull, heavy presence.
I looked like I'd crawled out of a ruin.
My greatsword was strapped across my back—not clean, not shiny. The leather was scarred and wrapped in cloth to hide the cracked grip. My eyes scanned everything and everyone without a hint of interest. My face unreadable. Scar under one eye. Faint lines in my knuckles from stress fractures that never quite healed right.
I wasn't alone in my roughness.
There were others—not many, but enough to notice. A few stood alone like me, wearing beaten gear, old armor, or hand-wrapped blades. Survivors. Fighters who hadn't arrived here with backing or style.
But even among them—I stood apart.
They looked like people who came here to prove themselves.
I came here to break something.
A few students gave me sideways glances.
Some raised eyebrows. Some whispered.
One guy chuckled under his breath and shook his head like I didn't belong here.
He was wrong.
I belonged more than any of them.
Let them wear their polished armor and enchanted trinkets.
I brought war.
The bell rang.
Spotlights flared as a tall stage illuminated at the far end. The faculty emerged—veterans, survivors, killers.
And then I saw her.
Not the girl from the metro.
Someone else.
She was older—late thirties maybe. Tall, sharp-eyed, and radiating command. Her black uniform bore the crest of the academy, trimmed in crimson. She wore a long coat over a fitted combat suit, and her boots clacked with authority as she stepped forward.
Professor Caldera.
The one who had offered me the invitation.
The one who had reviewed my profile and personally approved my unique condition:
Solo dungeon authorization.
Our eyes met for a split second.
She didn't smile.
She just nodded—subtly.
I nodded back.
Let them chase prestige. I'll chase blood.