The sun hung low in the sky as Wooin descended the mountain, his heart steady with determination. The forest stretched before him, an intricate maze of towering trees and shadowy undergrowth. Though the path back to the city was familiar, it felt different this time. The weight of the sword at his side and the confidence that came with mastering the First Sword Dance made every step purposeful.
Wooin adjusted the straps of his satchel, the rhythmic rustle of leaves accompanying his journey. But just as he approached a clearing, the ground beneath his feet shuddered violently. The trees swayed, and a deafening crack split the air.
He stumbled backward, instinctively gripping his sword hilt as the earth before him split open, revealing a swirling vortex of dark energy. A chilling wind burst forth, carrying with it the unmistakable aura of a dungeon break.
A portal stood before him, pulsating with an ominous glow. For a moment, Wooin froze, his body rigid with fear. Dungeons were unpredictable, and he was still officially ranked as the lowest-tier hunter. The stories of those who ventured unprepared into such places flooded his mind—stories of failure, of death.
But then, he remembered.
He was no longer the weak boy who had barely survived Jin-Seok's mockery. He was the successor of the greatest swordsman in history. The First Sword Dance now coursed through his veins, a testament to his unrelenting training.
"This is my chance," Wooin muttered, steadying his breath. "I'll prove to myself just how far I've come."
Gripping his blade tightly, he stepped into the portal.
---
The world spun, and a moment later, Wooin found himself standing on the edge of a cliff. The sharp scent of grass and earth filled his nostrils as he surveyed the landscape below. A vast field stretched out beneath him, dotted with jagged rocks and sparse vegetation. In the distance, a cluster of crude wooden structures formed a small village.
Wooin's eyes narrowed as he analyzed the scene. A dungeon's interior often mimicked real-world environments but was filled with creatures far more dangerous than any wild animal. Based on the layout and the terrain, he deduced that this was no ordinary village.
"It's not human," he murmured, scanning the area. "Too crude for that. It has to be an orc settlement."
He crouched low, using the tall grass to stay hidden as he continued to observe. The structures were built haphazardly, with large stakes and heavy timber forming a crude barrier around the village. Smoke rose lazily from a few fire pits, and even from his vantage point, he could make out hulking figures moving between the buildings.
The realization sent a chill through him. Orcs were notoriously brutal, known for their immense strength, aggression and amazing regeneration property. Facing them head-on would be suicide, even if he was stronger now.
"Stay calm," Wooin whispered to himself. "Use your knowledge. As the are simple minded creatures orcs have simple patterns, habits. I just need to figure them out."
With that, he retreated to a safe distance and set up camp, intent on gathering as much information as possible before making his move.
---
Two days passed in careful observation.
Wooin remained hidden, his position well-camouflaged on the cliff. From dawn to dusk, he watched the orc village, memorizing their routines and behaviors. The warriors, easily distinguishable by their massive frames and crude weapons, left the village every morning to hunt. Only the weaker members—females, children, and elders—remained behind, tending to basic tasks like cooking and crafting.
By nightfall, the warriors returned, dragging their spoils from the hunt: game, raw materials, and occasionally, unfortunate adventurers who had wandered too close.
Wooin's mind worked tirelessly, formulating a plan. Attacking the warriors directly would be suicidal, but striking while they were away could cripple the village's defenses. If he could eliminate the leaders and incapacitate the remaining members, he might stand a chance.
---
At dawn on the third day, Wooin was ready.
The warriors departed as usual, their guttural voices echoing through the forest as they marched out in a disorganized horde. Wooin waited until their footsteps faded into silence before making his move.
His heart pounded in his chest as he descended the cliff, keeping low to avoid detection. He approached the village cautiously, his blade drawn and his senses heightened. The closer he got, the more he could feel the faint pulse of energy emanating from the orcs—a testament to their innate strength.
As he reached the outskirts of the village, he paused, taking one last deep breath. He would start by eliminating the chieftain and the shaman—the two figures most likely to rally the village in the absence of the warriors. From there, he would deal with the remaining members before setting traps for the returning hunters.
"Time to see if all that training was worth it," he whispered, stepping silently into the village.
The first structure he approached was a crude hut near the center of the village, its entrance adorned with crude carvings and bones. This had to be the shaman's dwelling. Inside, he could hear the faint hum of chanting, the rhythmic cadence sending shivers down his spine.
Wooin adjusted his grip on his blade, his breathing steady. This was it—the moment of truth.
He stepped through the doorway, his blade gleaming in the dim light.