Sage sat on the damp forest floor with his palms pressed into the soil as he gasped for air like a drowning man breaking the surface. As he tremblingly put away the notebook into his satchel.

His lungs burned; his throat tasted of copper; and the tremor in his fingers was no longer fear, it was the aftershock of forcing his mind to stay alert while his body screamed for rest.

Above him, the canopy swayed gently, leaves whispering as mist curled around thick trunks. For several long moments, he did nothing but breathe, eyes half-closed and chest rising and falling in a heavy, uneven rhythm, as if he had forgotten how to make his own body function.

When he finally lifted his head, the boss chamber appeared almost serene now that the predator had vanished. Yet, upon closer inspection, the battlefield told a different story. Charred vines lay in blackened coils across the ground.

Scorched patches formed irregular circles where Falling Flame had struck down like fragments of a burning sky. Lightning scars, thin, jagged lines of glassy soil, cut through patches of moss.

The air was thick with the scent of burnt sap and crushed leaves mingling with the sweet yet rotten floral aroma that still clung to the clearing as if remnants of the flower's breath lingered behind.

It wasn't until he attempted to stand that he fully grasped how much he had pushed himself; his knees wobbled beneath him, his ribs protested painfully, and every inch of his torso felt battered as if it had been hammered mercilessly.

He crouched for a moment longer to gather patience before rising slowly, one hand pressed against his side while the other wiped sweat and blood from his face. His eyes scanned the chamber with cold practicality, a lesson learned: victory meant little if you left value behind.

In one corner of the boss floor, partially hidden beneath thick foliage, he spotted them immediately, rare plants too vibrant to be natural.

Herbs whose leaves glowed faintly with mana saturation, fungi pulsing softly with inner light, and vines bearing small pearl-like fruits likely worth more than a commoner's yearly wage.

The dungeon seemed to offer these treasures mockingly, as if tempting him to fill his pockets until greed became a burden that slowed him down. He stared at them for a brief moment when an urge stirred within him to move forward.

Then he stopped himself, not because greed didn't exist within him; it thrived shamelessly, but because he had learned something crucial in previous dungeons: lingering was often fatal.

The dungeon didn't punish those who were righteous; it punished those who were slow or distracted. Those herbs and glowing plants weren't going anywhere,they would remain here under protection from the dungeon system, replenishing over time like bait waiting in a trap.

These places were farms, not vaults, and tonight he wasn't there to harvest everything; he was there to claim ownership over this farm.

His gaze wandered to the center of the clearing where the boss had fallen, the air still tinged with its lingering presence. Embedded in the ground, partially concealed by fading vine tissue, lay the true prize of defeating a dungeon boss: the core.

This wasn't just any core; it was the monster core, the distilled essence of the defeated creature, glowing a vibrant green like an emerald sun captured in stone.

When he pried it free, it pulsed faintly in his palm, warm and heavy. A Tier 3 Elite core. This wasn't just mana, it was a repository of the flower's life-force and control over flora. An alchemist's dream or the key to crafting nature-aligned artifacts.

He could feel the mana within it thrumming like a living heartbeat, compressed power waiting to be refined, sold, or wielded.

Sage held it up and watched as its green glow illuminated his fingers.

A quiet satisfaction settled behind his fatigue. "Worth it," he muttered, though bitterness laced his voice, a reminder of how close he had come to death.

He carefully tucked it into his bag and tightened the strap. After one last glance at the forest floor where the battle had taken place, he turned away.

The path back wasn't a simple corridor like in his first dungeon; instead, it was a living maze of trees and trails. But now that he had claimed this dungeon, the atmosphere felt different.

The air remained heavy with mana, but gone was the oppressive pressure that had weighed down on him while ascending through floors, like the dungeon itself wanted him dead.

The ecosystem was still intact; monsters would respawn, but authority had shifted. He could feel it deep within him, like moving from trespassing on noble land to walking freely on property you owned.

He retraced his steps floor by floor with cautious speed, avoiding fights unless absolutely necessary. He relied on his memory of routes and patterns to sidestep unnecessary conflict. Spawn-Class packs skittered between trees; he evaded them effortlessly.

A Guard-Class monster patrolled near a portal threshold; Sage observed its movements before slipping past as it turned away.

By the time he reached the first floor again, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, his body trembled from strain while his mind felt stretched thin as if ready to snap.

The portal back to the outer world shimmered between trees like a vertical lake of darkness.

Sage stepped through.

Cold night air hit him immediately as he emerged into the small forest where he'd first arrived. For half a second, surprise widened his eyes, the scene was no longer familiar.

It was still roughly in the same location, the same tree line and slope, but everything around the portal had transformed completely since entering this dungeon.

The weeds and tall grass that once crowded beneath trees were gone, as if swept away by some giant hand.

In their place stood an elevated stone platform carved with precise patterns and polished smoothness. Its surface bore an enormous circular emblem resembling that of an Adventurer Guild crest, but this time its inlays glowed green rather than brown like the first Dungeon.

It wasn't merely a different color; it was a distinct tone of mana, carrying its own signature. Forest-aligned. Life-aspected. A verdant power sealed within stone like an ancient oath.

At the center of the platform, a portal hovered between two tall pillars adorned with intricate runes. Surrounding the portal was a shimmering formation, a translucent membrane of mana inscribed with layered symbols that pulsed softly, as if it were alive and breathing.

This wasn't a barrier designed to keep monsters contained; it was a gate meant to keep people out. Sage stepped onto the platform and exhaled deeply. The cool stone beneath his boots felt grounding, and for the first time since entering the second dungeon, he allowed himself to pause.

He sank down cross-legged near the edge of the platform, leaned back slightly, and rummaged through his bag with deliberate slowness.

He pulled out a small glass bottle, one of the mana liquid vials he had taken from the river in the first dungeon, and held it up to catch the moonlight.

The liquid inside glowed faintly, shifting like condensed starlight trapped in glass. He uncorked it and took a deep swallow.

The effect was immediate.

The mana flowed down his throat like warm fire disguised as water, bursting outward through his mana veins once it reached his core.

Sage instinctively closed his eyes, not because it hurt but because the sensation was too intense to process while looking at reality.

It felt like pouring fresh rain into a cracked riverbed; the dry emptiness within him soaked it up eagerly, refilling his nearly depleted mana pool, drained from repeated Level 2 spell casting, with steady pressure.

He circulated it deliberately through his body as he had learned during training, using his breath as rhythm and will as channel.

The mana coursed through him, spreading warmth into bruised muscles, sealing shallow cuts, easing inflammation along his ribs.

He could feel torn tissue knitting slowly back together; he sensed blood loss being compensated; exhaustion receded like a tide retreating from shore.

Within minutes, most of his pain dulled. Within half an hour, visible wounds on his arms and neck healed over, leaving only faint traces of dried blood on skin and clothing. His mana pool felt full again, rich, heavy, alive.

But that didn't mean he was fine. While his body had recovered physically, his mind and soul remained weary.

A mage could replenish their mana like fuel, but spellcasting involved more than just consuming that fuel.

It required mental labor and spiritual exertion, the constant struggle to impose structure onto raw mana with sheer willpower. Knights refined their bodies through physical strain and battle; their growth forged flesh into strength. Mages operated differently.

A mage's battlefield is invisible. Each incantation demanded precision; every magic circle required geometry; every spell necessitated mental stability to maintain its shape without collapsing or backfiring.

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