The fourth floor was a chaotic battleground filled with flying seed-stingers, massive insects that erupted from the treetops in swarms, diving at Sage like living arrows. He had to aim lightning into the air while the wind pushed him away from their clustered strikes.

Sometimes they came in tens, other times in twenties, and each encounter reinforced a crucial lesson: dungeons weren't just random chaos; they were structured hostility, with density, timing, and response thresholds.

By the sixth floor, Sage began to notice patterns, not just where monsters emerged but how they moved. Certain routes through the trees were always taken first; specific clearings triggered faster swarms.

Some areas had denser mana in the air as if the dungeon itself funneled energy toward its core. At the end of each floor, portals were strategically placed to force confrontation, never hidden or safe, always requiring intruders to cross paths guarded by monsters.

It felt as though the dungeon didn't merely spawn enemies but meticulously arranged a battlefield designed to teach a brutal lesson: progress demanded blood, and blood required awareness.

From the first to the tenth floor, most of his foes were Tier 1 Spawn-Class, dangerous in numbers yet predictable in behavior. Individually weaker than a disciplined warrior, they aimed to exhaust him mentally and physically, creating panic and forcing mistakes.

The forest environment changed not only visually but also altered how combat felt. Trees obstructed sightlines; roots snagged feet; vines tripped ankles; mist distorted distances.

Every time he cast fire spells, smoke thickened under the canopy. When he unleashed wind magic, leaves and spores swirled around him, sometimes concealing enemies and sometimes revealing them.

Even lightning behaved differently here. It arced dangerously close to wet bark and damp soil, compelling him to control his output carefully lest he accidentally stun himself with misdirected discharge.

By the tenth floor, his robe was torn in places, forearms scraped raw, and sweat had soaked through his collar.

Yet he stood firm, still moving forward and still learning. As he stepped onto the eleventh floor, he instantly sensed a shift: the air became sharper and less humid as if tightening around him.

Here, trees stood farther apart with clearer ground beneath, a deceptive sense of safety that instead felt like stepping into an arena devoid of hiding spots.

The monsters that appeared were larger and taller than before, guarded by thicker bark plating embedded with stone-like nodules along their shoulders, and their eyes glowed brighter than dim green lanterns behind masks.

These were Tier 2: Guard-Class creatures.

Their movements shifted too: less chaotic swarming and more deliberate tactics. Two approached head-on while one flanked him from the side; another hung back as if waiting for Sage to cast a spell so it could exploit any openings left vulnerable during his incantation process.

Their bodies were roughly his height, but their arms were longer, and their leaf-like blades were sharper, resembling hooked swords. When they attacked, they didn't rush in blindly; instead, they tested the distance, feinted, pressed forward, and then retreated.

Sage swallowed hard.

"These are closer to me," he murmured, and he was right. Their presence felt heavier. Their strikes were stronger. Their defenses more robust.

This was no longer just about burning a swarm and moving ahead; this was combat against foes that could punish mistakes with lethal precision.

The first time one charged at him, Sage raised fire too late. The circle formed sluggishly because his mind hesitated, and the creature's blade-hand slammed into his shoulder.

BANG!

Pain detonated through him as he stumbled, teeth clenched. The creature followed up immediately with another swing, and Sage barely managed to conjure a wind push in time.

Level 2 Wind Spell — Gale Step.

The circle snapped beneath his boot as he shot backward, sliding across the ground with dirt kicking up around him.

He refused to let panic take hold, not now. Instead, he focused on regulating his breathing and aligning his thoughts geometrically.

Muttering under his breath, he drew a circle faster than before, his fingers steady and runes tight.

Level 2 Fire Spell — Falling Flame.

Flames cascaded down again; however, the Guard-Class monster did not fall instantly. Its bark plating blackened and cracked but it pushed through the fire with a roar that sounded like splitting wood.

Sage's eyes widened as he realized the difference, Spawn-Class monsters died from a single clean spell; Guard-Class ones endured, forcing him to chain spells together and layer tactics.

He used wind to reposition himself, fire to control space, and lightning to target weak points where bark met flesh. Slowly but surely, floor by floor, he defeated them all: eleventh floor… twelfth… thirteenth… fourteenth… taking wounds along the way while learning timing.

He learned to cast not as a scholar drawing circles in peace but as a fighter crafting death within heartbeats.

By the time he reached the fifteenth floor, his mana pool was strained once more; yet his movements were sharper than when he'd first entered. The dungeon had beaten fear into him until it transformed into discipline, and discipline became something akin to instinct.

The boss chamber resembled a forest too, but it felt different from the other floors. This forest seemed ancient; its trees towered majestically with trunks wide enough to swallow a carriage whole while branches intertwined overhead like nature's own crafted roof.

In the center of the clearing stood a flower.

At first glance, it appeared beautiful, towering petals layered like crimson silk atop a thick green stalk rising from the ground like an imposing pillar, with vines curling elegantly around it like decorative spirals.

Then it moved. The petals flexed, opening slightly, and Sage caught a glimpse inside. Teeth. Rows of them, layered deep like a mouth within a mouth, lined with nectar-slick flesh that pulsed as if it were breathing.

A man-eating flower.It turned toward him slowly, not like an animal snapping at prey, but like a predator that understood its territory and had all the time in the world.

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