[The Fifth Floor | Undead Caverns]

'...Well, this is not an optimal situation…' He thought to himself, worried.

With his back pressed against the grimy wall of stone, he tucked himself from the view of the lurking creatures around the corner. It was a dark, decrepit place, though not an environment he wasn't used to being in–a "dungeon." 

The young man was dressed in light, black-leather armor, wearing matching gloves and boots as if seeking to blend in with the dim lair he found himself in. Keeping his head tucked over his head of jet-black hair, he glanced around the corner:

"...Graaaa…"

A light growl-like noise left the mouth of the sword-wielding skeleton just down the hall, accompanied by another pair of equipped undead that looked around. They weren't lightly armored; the skeletons were dressed in onyx equipment, clad abundantly in the gear that oozed with strength. 

'I'll have to scold that info broker lately. No baddies on the right wing of the lower floor? That's not the kind of information to get wrong. I almost walked straight into that group of bones–close one,' he thought. 

The stealth man reached into one of the many pouches stationed on his belt, taking out a circular piece of sapphire glass, putting it up to his right eye as he peered at the skeletons: 

[Undead Swordsman] [Lv. 3]

[Undead Spearman] [Lv. 3]

[Undead Sentinel] [Lv. 4]

When peering through the sapphire monocle, descriptions of the monsters he looked at came to him with vital information. 

'Level four? That'll be a pain in the ass,' he thought. 

He stuffed the mystical glass back into his belt before rustling around for something else, removing a pair of snow-white, glistening gemstones. A few breaths to instill confidence in himself were inhaled as he listened to the hollow footsteps of the armored undead closeby, holding each of the gems between his fingers. 

'…Alright, time not to die,' he thought. 

Rolling out from the hidden spot behind the wall, he revealed himself to the band of skulking undead. Immediately, the skeletons that guarded the dimly-lit chamber raised their grimy weapons with hostile intent. 

Their bony feet scampered against the grimy, stone tiles, rushing towards the darkly-dressed intruder to the dungeon. In a quick flick of his wrist, the hooded man tossed the gemstones towards the skeletons before–FLASH. 

A blinding light swallowed the dim chamber, overwhelming the stagnant darkness that had so abundantly existed down in the depths. It brought the undead to a pause, as if turned into statues–though the hooded man knew it was only a temporary solution. 

He kept his head down so as not to endure the potent flashing on his eyes as he sprinted straight past the skeletons. As he cleared the group of undead guards, he immediately found himself having to jump up as he saw a tripwire in the corner of his eye, nearly setting it off near his ankle. 

'Close,' he thought. 

After putting enough space between himself and the undead, he finally slowed down, arriving in a narrow corridor. It was kept alight by only two torches that spread soft, orange light thin across the gray walls. 

Though it looked like any creepy hall of a dungeon, his eyes were experienced in inspecting the finest details of such places; the way each stone brick was fixated, how much each one protruded from either wall, any indents or peculiarities with the structure—he examined it all. 

"Hmm," he quietly thought to himself as he reached into his pocket, retrieving a smooth rock. 

It was lightly tossed before him, landing on a tile that had caught his eye with a small "thunk." For a moment, nothing occurred; complete silence except for the groans of wind trapped in the dark dungeon. 

"—" He waited. 

SWOOSH

From the walls, a set of swinging blades swept back and forth right before him—a classic trap. To an uninitiated dungeon crawler, the heavy, cruel axes would undoubtedly be a death sentence. 

However, the hooded man only took a moment of watching the swinging axes before dashing forward. Without breaking his pace or having to intentionally evade the blades, he perfectly avoided each of the three axes before reaching the other side of the corridor. 

It was all about getting a feel for the momentum and timing; something he had already accomplished countless times by his confidence. 

'Alright, I should be getting close to the good part,' he thought. 

As he entered the next room, he found himself surrounded by suspicious tiles on the floor, each seeming to be a boobytrap. 

Testing the tiles with one of his weighted stones, it immediately caved in, crumbling away to reveal a dark pit below. Under the false floor was a graveyard of bones and deadly spikes. 

'Ah, one of these. I must be closer than I thought then,' he figured out. 

It was an "all-or-nothing" chamber, at least that's what he had dubbed such rooms: the penultimate obstacle before the end of a dungeon where the stakes were at their highest and failure was at its most likely. Most of the time, it's where rookie adventurers turned around and accepted the goods they had already found, opting not to lose their lives. 

However, the confident dungeon explorer didn't bat an eye: pulling out early wasn't even a consideration for him. 

Once more, he reached into his trusty belt of pouches, this time retrieving something of a colorful shine: a rope made of a gelatinous, cyan material. 

'My own personal creation: the world's most reliable "slime rope," he thought as he wrapped one end of the gooey line to his hand. 

He focused on the center of the ceiling above the falling floor, cocking his arm back before flinging the slime rope straight towards his target–splat. 

A perfect toss; the end of the gooey cord glued itself to the stone above. A few tugs were given to make sure it was secure before the hooded man readed himself for the next step. 

"...Alright, good enough," he mumbled to himself before getting into a crouched position as if ready to take off at any moment. 

With a dash off of his left foot, he flung himself forward, beginning to rush across the false floor while he kept a tight grasp on the gooey anchor above. Each step felt as though his boots were befalling brittle, feeling the weight suddenly vanish from beneath him just as his feet lifted and moved onto the next portion of the flooring. 

It was a rush of adrenaline; an excitement that flowed straight through his veins, from head-to-toe, a wondrous feeling that he sought within the dungeons. 

As each tile crumbled away, leaving a vast gap to the pit of spikes behind him, it felt as though a wind was pressing against his back, carrying him faster towards the other side. If there was one physical gift he owned, it was his agility; he had done quite a bit of running in his life, so naturally he became good at it. 

'...Almost there!' He thought, seeing the other side clear of the deathly pit. 

The sound of tiles falling and shattering apart filled his ears, echoing against the dark, grimy-layered walls of stone. With one, big leap, he entrusted his weight to the anchor of the slime rope as the entire set of tiles collapsed from beneath him. 

Both of his feet landed safely on the other side, firmly planted onto the stone, which thankfully did not give from underneath him. 

'Alright, that's cleared now,' he thought to himself as he glanced back at the bare pit. 

All that was left was the path ahead as he began to descend a staircase that led to another doorway. Neighboring the stairs were statues embedded into the dark, stone walls, resembling barbaric orcs. 

He kept quiet, leaning past the entrance and peering into the vast chamber that laid ahead: a number of burly, green-skinned barbarians stood guard around a staircase draped with a torn, velvet carpet, leading to a rusty throne where one figure sat. 

It was an orc with a crown of bones atop his head, dressed in terrifying, ivory armor with a hammer larger than the adventurer's own body ready beside the throne. 

Of course, he expected to find the orcs occupying the area, and with it, the glint of a treasure chest sat near the leader of the dungeon-dwelling orcs. 

'There it is. Looks like the info she gave me was accurate–that orc up there has a pretty big bounty on his head–"Vildren, the Dread"--one of the few Lair Guardians that roams the entire floor. A lot of rookies and veterans alike have fallen to him–I can't be careless,' he thought. 

He kept a low profile as he entered the chamber, staying behind a pile of bones as he peered at the group of orcs. There were five in total, with a couple lounging, chewing on bones boredly and another pair staying close to the throne-sitting leader. 

Retrieving his enchanted glass, he placed it in front of his right eye as he inspected each of the orcs: 

[Orc Warrior] [Lv. 4]

[Orc Warrior] [Lv. 4]

[Orc Pugilist] [Lv. 5]

[Orc Warrior] [Lv. 4]

[Lair Guardian] [Vildren, Black Knuckle Chieftain] [Lv. 7]

Though there wasn't much point he found in seeing the combat levels assigned to the barbaric dwellers, seeing as though in a direct fight, he knew even the weakest among the orcs would get the better of him. 

He crouched back down, quietly pulling out a dark mask that was devoid of any design, smelling of old leather. SIlently, he placed it over his face, using the straps on it to keep it in place. While the orcs grumbled and tossed bones at each other over some sort of unintelligible disagreement they had, the hidden man reached behind his back into a sack attached to his belt. A pair of pitch-black balls and fiery-red dust were what he retrieved, looking down at them as he set one down. 

He rolled the sphere in his hand before finding where the fuse was at. In his other hand, he ground up a small portion of the bright-orange dust between his index finger and thumb, keeping the end of the fuse caught between as well before–spark. 

Fire was born, hissing as sparks danced outward, quickly engulfing the fuse. He had to discard the sphere as the fuse was being eaten away quickly, quietly tossing it over the wall of bones. 

It landed between the stationed orcs, bouncing a single time as it slowly rolled a meter before coming to a stop. 

"Gru?" 

The orcs noticed the peculiar ball, with the one that was sitting against the wall and chewing a bone curiously reaching over and picking it up. 

It was clearly a mystery to the monstrous barbarians who gathered around the odd sphere, goggling and poking at it.

The hooded adventurer took it as a perfect distraction as he rubbed the flammable dust against the fuse of the second ball before tossing it over. 

"Rah—?" One of the orcs looked up, noticing the second one drop close by. 

The fuses were eaten away second by second, growing smaller while one of the green-skinned orcs kept the ball in his hand before—BOOM. 

'Perfect,' he thought. 

The first one exploded, though not with much power as it barely caused the hulking orcs to stumble back. It wasn't the explosion that was the main purpose, however; a thick, dark-purple gas quickly flooded outward. As it expanded, it didn't take long for the haze to consume the entire chamber, enveloping it in its miasmic grasp. 

"Gruuuh…!"

"Gruah–!" 

BOOM

The second bomb went off, filling the room with an even higher density of the mysterious gas, leaving no room to breathe normal oxygen anymore. 

Each of the orcs struggled, spinning around at the sudden presence of the smoke, though they each began to weaken, their movements becoming sluggish as one-by-one, they slumped over, falling unconscious within the gas. 

Of the group of barbarians, the steel-armored leader was the last to fall, attempting to sit back into his makeshift throne, though his own strength gave out from beneath him as he fell face down onto the steps. 

From behind the pile of discarded bones, the hooded man remained conscious, thanking his mask that smoke didn't infiltrate his own lungs. He waited for a prolonged moment, listening closely until there were only the snores of the gassed barbarians left audible. 

'"Dragon's Corpse Breath"--stuff is worth every silver. One whiff of it and it'll give you the sweetest dreams for a good day. Huff as much of it as these poor brutes, well…they probably won't wake up for awhile,' he thought as he walked up to the sleeping orcs, staring down at the snoring dungeon dwellers. 

Even a small kick to the shoulders of one of the burly barbarians didn't so much as make the slumbering orc flinch. 

'Yup. Out cold,' he confirmed. 

The underlings weren't what he worried about as he stepped over them, approaching the steps as he found the unconscious leader–the armored orc with a hefty bounty on his head. As he knelt down, he reached behind his back, gripping the handle that was positioned sideways on his lower back. A slick, silver dagger was slid out from the brown-leather sheath, held above the steel-clad orc's head. 

"--" The hooded man waited a moment before quietly plunging the blade into the skull of the slumbering figure. 

Squelch. 

"Hrrrk–" The orc let out a muffled yelp before falling silent, overcome with a permanent stillness. 

It wasn't a glorious victory; that's not what was sought. A simple, clean kill, one without any fighting–that's the way he operated. After sinking the dagger far into the skull of the "Black Knuckle Chieftain", he pulled it out as crimson liquid oozed out from the wound. 

"You won't be killing anyone else now," he whispered indifferently. 

He took a moment to wipe his blade clean against the armor of the slain orc before looking at the lifeless figure before him. If he was to claim the bounty of Vildren, he would need evidence of his kill–hauling the hulking body of the armored orc certainly wasn't a possibility for him. 

After some consideration, he set his sights on the notable large tusks that protrude from the chieftain's underbite. It was another unsavory task, but one he did without wasting any time as he used the tip of his dagger to dig out the massive, curved tusks that were a unique, dark-red shade. 

'This should do,' he thought, carefully stuffing the bounty evidence into his pocket.