The next morning, Ash woke up feeling more determined than ever. He began his daily workout with greater intensity, pushing his body to its limits. His focus was on honing his swordsmanship.
Each swing of his katana was accompanied by attempts to channel mana, aiming to coat the blade with a thin, sharp layer of energy. Though crude and unstable, these small steps were progress toward his ultimate goal.
After completing his morning routine and devouring a hearty breakfast, Ash found himself with time to spare. He wandered the city, exploring the various facilities and marveling at the intricate blend of magic and technology this world offered.
On some days, he visited the library, immersing himself in tomes about the histories and peculiarities of different races. Other times, he roamed the streets, indulging in the local delicacies sold at bustling stalls.
This routine continued for a few days, a mix of discipline and leisure.
On the fourth day, Ash's focus shifted. Sitting at his desk in the dimly lit inn room, he carefully scrawled a note on a piece of parchment. With a sly grin, he folded the note, crumpled it into a tight ball, and wrapped it around a small rock.
"Time to get their attention," he muttered to himself.
Making his way to the City Hall, Ash eyed the guards stationed at the gate. Their postures were relaxed, their vigilance lackluster.
Perfect
He tossed the rock with precision, watching as it arced through the air and clattered against the gate with a loud clang. The guards jumped, startled.
Without waiting to see their reaction, Ash bolted. His small legs pumped furiously as he darted through alleyways, weaving through the morning crowds.
After a while, he slowed to a casual stroll, blending seamlessly with the bustling townsfolk. They won't suspect an ordinary, un-awakened six-year-old, right? he thought, smirking to himself.
A guards did run past him moments later, his expressions tense. Ash's smirk widened. No CCTV in this world—lucky me.
Satisfied, he made his way to the library. The pieces were in place. Now, it was a waiting game. "Just wait and watch," he whispered under his breath, "and then... reap the rewards."
He let out a quiet chuckle. "Hehehehe..."
***
( GARRON'S POV )
The late morning sun beat down on the bustling streets of Iron-hold, its rays dancing off the sleek, rune-etched carriages rattling along the cobblestones like a parade of magic and metal.
Garron, in contrast, leaned lazily against his post by the City Hall gates, one hand casually resting on his spear, the other clutching a half-eaten apple as though he were posing for a portrait of complete indifference.
Guard duty, on a good day, was about as exciting as watching paint dry on a stone wall—especially in a city like Iron-hold, where nothing ever happened unless you counted the occasional argument over the price of bread. Still, it paid the bills, and Garron wasn't exactly a man to break a sweat over something as trivial as "doing his job."
The streets bustled with merchants shouting their wares, children darting between legs like miniature wrecking balls, but none of it managed to pry his attention away from the important business of deciding what to have for lunch.
That is, until—without any warning—a rock came flying through the air like it had some sort of personal vendetta against him. It slammed into the gate beside him with a clang that rattled his bones and nearly sent his apple flying into orbit.
"Who the hell—?!" Garron growled, standing up straighter for the first time that morning, his hand instinctively tightening on the spear as though the rock were a wild animal that needed taming.
The rock bounced once, then rolled to a stop near his boot like it was waiting for him to make the next move.
Groaning in irritation, Garron bent down to pick it up, but something unusual caught his eye: a scrap of parchment, wrapped tightly around the rock like some sort of unholy burrito.
He frowned and unrolled the note, the bustling noise of the street fading into the background as he read. The handwriting was jagged, as though the author had been in a hurry—or possibly had a very shaky hand. It read:
"There's a hidden dungeon located in the forest at the roots of the oldest tree, between the Human Kingdom border and the Elven Kingdom border. It's a one-time dungeon that becomes part of the world after conquering it. BLACK MARKET is already searching for it."
For a moment, Garron just stood there, staring at the paper as his brain tried to process the information. Was this a prank? A really weird one? No, it wasn't. The message was too strange to be a joke, and the mention of the "Black Market" set off alarm bells in his head.
After a few seconds, confusion gave way to mild concern, which quickly morphed into the kind of unease that makes you question your life choices. He glanced over at the crowded streets, then turned in the direction the rock had come from.
With a reluctant groan, he hefted his spear, tossed the remains of his apple onto the ground like it had betrayed him, and muttered, "Of course something happens on my watch."
He straightened up, his usual apathy replaced by a nagging sense of dread. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get him moving.
As his boots pounded against the cobblestones, Garron weaved through the chaotic crowd, trying to make sense of what was going on. The street was a whirlwind of activity: shopkeepers yelling at each other over haggling prices, street performers juggling flames (enchanted ones, of course, because apparently fire-breathing was just so last year), and children weaving between carts like they were on a mission to trip over every stray leg.
But despite the noise, no one stood out—no suspicious figures lurking in the shadows, no ominous glances exchanged. It was all just...normal. Too normal.
"Figures," Garron muttered under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Probably some prank by those little hellions from the lower district." Still, the words on the parchment nagged at him like a song stuck in his head.
He pulled the crumpled note from his belt and read it again. The words seemed even stranger the second time around—"one-time dungeon"? Was that some kind of dungeon you could only visit once, like a bad concert ticket? Or was it one of those "once you conquer it, it becomes part of the world" deals? Either way, it didn't seem like something to take lightly.
With no answers and a growing sense of unease twisting in his gut, Garron turned back toward City Hall. He might not be the most diligent guard in Iron-hold, but even he knew when to raise the alarm.
If something—or someone—was planning to stir up trouble, it was better to get the information to the higher-ups than to sit around and wait for it to blow up in his face.
As he approached the grand iron gates of City Hall, the sight of the towering spires and the intricate rune-etched walls seemed almost welcoming in its cold, imposing beauty. The building was a marvel, a mix of magic and machinery that screamed "we mean business."
Guards stationed by the entrance glanced his way, their expressions momentarily puzzled as Garron, who usually avoided making a scene, marched up the steps with the kind of purpose he usually reserved for a buffet line.
"I need to speak to the city lord," he said, holding up the crumpled note like it was a golden ticket. "It's urgent."
The other guards exchanged a quick look, the kind that said, "Is this guy for real?" but one of them nodded and went inside to announce him. Garron stood there, shifting uncomfortably.
The weight of the mysterious note was starting to feel heavier by the second. What had he just gotten himself into? And, more importantly, who the hell throws rocks at guards in broad daylight?
***
(EDRIM'S POV)
City Lord, Edrim Tallow leaned back in his intricately carved, rune-etched chair, rubbing his temples as he scanned the latest trade reports. His office was a whirlwind of paperwork, enchanted tablets, and magical projections detailing everything from grain shortages in the outer districts to disputes over border tariffs with the Elven Kingdom.
Edrim had always thought being the city head of Iron-hold would come with prestige and power, but instead, it felt like juggling flaming swords while riding a griffon.
It was a far cry from his days as an S-rank adventurer, where problems could be solved with a swing of his enchanted blade or a carefully placed spell. Back then, the challenges were monstrous, but they were simple—clear the dungeon, slay the beast, save the village. Now, he dealt with invisible foes: bureaucracy, politics, and endless compromises.
At the moment, he was reviewing a heated complaint from the Guild of Artificers about rogue mages using unstable enchantments in public spaces. Before that, it was a long-winded proposal from the Steam wrights' Union about building a new mage link rail that would cut through his favorite hunting grounds.
He sighed, tapping his desk with irritation as he muttered, "If one more person mentions 'efficiency in transport,' I'm going to throw them into the canal."
At the moment, his focus was on a delicate matter ,The black market. It had been unusually active lately, and reports hinted at something big brewing. Edrim sighed, muttering, " As if I didn't have enough to deal with."
Just as he was about to dismiss the projection, a sharp knock echoed through his chamber. Edrim scowled, not even glancing up. "Unless you're here to bring me a solution to every problem in Iron-hold, I suggest you rethink interrupting me."
The door creaked open, and his steward, a wiry man named Fenwick, poked his head in, looking both apologetic and exasperated. "My lord, one of the guards insists this is urgent. It's... Garron."
Edrim groaned, rubbing his face. "Garron? The one who spends half his shift napping and the other half finding excuses to sneak away for snacks? What in the name of the Twin Moons could he consider urgent?"
Fenwick stepped inside, holding a crumpled piece of parchment. "He found this, my lord. It's… peculiar. He says you need to see it."
Edrim waved him in, snatching the paper with little ceremony. As he read the note, his bemused expression slowly shifted to one of mild interest, then cautious concern. "There's a hidden dungeon located in the forest at the roots of the oldest tree, between the Human Kingdom border and the Elven Kingdom border. It's a one-time dungeon that becomes part of the world after conquering it."
His brow furrowed as he reread the message. A one-time dungeon? That alone was rare enough to raise alarms. But the location—so close to the contested border—was even more troubling. Then came the thought that froze him in place: the treasure mentioned was likely a rune.
Runes were ancient artifacts of immense power, their true nature understood by No one. Most people thought of them as mythical treasures, their names and purposes shrouded in mystery.
But Edrim knew the truth. Once a dungeon containing a rune was conquered, it ceased to spawn monsters and became part of the real world—a fixed, tangible place. That kind of power was enough to ignite wars.
Just as Edrim began to weigh his options, his mind turned to a sinister possibility: the black market.
Edrim folded the parchment and stood abruptly, his robe swishing behind him. "Inform the council immediately," he barked at Fenwick. "And send word to the mages' guild nearby. We're mobilizing an expedition."
Fenwick blinked, caught off guard by his urgency. "An expedition, my lord? Is this about the dungeon?"
Edrim's eyes gleamed with determination. "If this dungeon holds a rune, we can't afford to waste time. The black market likely knows about it already. If we delay, it won't just be treasure hunters in that forest—it'll be a bloodbath. And if we let the rune fall into the wrong hands, we'll have more than just monsters to deal with."
Fenwick nodded quickly, retreating to carry out the orders. Edrim remained in his office, staring out the window toward the distant tree. A hidden dungeon, a border dispute, and a rune that could change the balance of power—it seemed his quiet day was over.
***