Leon knelt beside the largest corpse, his fingers stained with monster blood and old rust. He pried loose a heavy coin pouch that jingled with silver, flicking it open, maintaining a deadpan expression.
"Well, at least you brought something useful."
No response came, just the low echo of the empty chamber. The chaos of the fight had left the air cold and still, wrapping the dead in a haunting silence. Leon moved through the bodies without hesitation. This wasn't about respect or horror—he had seen worse in the Shadow Quarters. It was about survival.
He rolled a guild hunter onto his back. The man's eyes were wide, his mouth frozen mid-scream. Leon checked the hunter's wrists and found two silver rings, enchanted with a faint blue sigil on the inner edge. Mana storage, half full. He took both. The hunter's badge gleamed in gold and black: Ares Guild, mid-tier. It was useless to him, but it proved who had died here. He pocketed it anyway, knowing it could be useful later.
Another corpse lay nearby, mantis blood soaking through cracked leather. Leon tugged free a belt of throwing knives, the blades clean and well-balanced. He tested the grip. Not bad. The man's chest plate was ruined, but an inner pocket held a fold of waxed paper marked with guild contracts and payment logs. He scanned them quickly, recognizing names from the underworld. He burned the papers, watching them shrivel and turn black. Nothing traceable.
His new zombie stood motionless at his side, alert and ready. Warrior class. It still gripped the mantis blade, its edge slick with drying green. Leon ran a system check with a flick of thought:
[Summon: Warrior Zombie]
[Level: 1]
[Class: Warrior]
[Weapon: Mantis Blade]
[Abilities: Cleave, Guard, Adapt]
[Obedience: High]
[Intelligence: Moderate–can process and combine multiple simple commands]
He studied the zombie closely, testing its responsiveness. "Guard the entrance." The creature moved at once, blocking the only exit with its blade raised. It was more than just a puppet; there was a calculation in how it scanned the shadows, the blade shifting to extend its reach. Leon nodded, impressed.
His previous zombies had been awkward and jerky, their minds barely functioning. This one felt… closer to human. Not in appearance—its face was frozen, half-rotted, and its eyes glowed a faint blue—but in how it interpreted his intent. He stepped left, and the zombie mirrored him, consistently positioning between Leon and any potential threat.
He tried another command: "Pick up that pouch." The zombie complied, scooping the coin pouch from the ground and waiting for his next instruction. Quick. No hesitation.
Leon sifted through the rest of the loot, sorting as he went. Enchanted bracers—too bulky. He tossed them aside. A spare mana crystal—into his pocket. A broken sword is useless. He stripped away anything worth more than a handful of coppers and stashed the rest, ensuring nothing tied him to the scene. There was no point in giving the guilds a trail to follow.
Kneeling behind a fallen pillar, he pulled up his system window. The blue script shimmered:
[Level: 4]
[XP: 76/100]
[Stat Points Available: 3]
[Current Summons: 3/3]
[Inventory: Coin pouch, Mana rings, Throwing knives, Mana crystal, Ares Guild badge]
He weighed the mantis core in his palm, its faint glow pulsing softly. He could evolve the zombie now—give it the mantis's blade arm and perhaps unlock new skills. But he felt drained and too exposed. If the upgrade failed, or worse, backfired, he'd be left alone with nothing but empty mana and a rising body count.
Leon set his jaw and slid the core deep into his pack. Not here. Not now. He would wait for safer ground—somewhere he could manage the fallout.
His thoughts turned to longer-term plans. If this worked—if he kept stacking upgrades and adapting every summon—maybe F-Rank wouldn't mean bottom-feeder forever. Perhaps he could build something the guilds couldn't ignore. Or control.
He closed the window and rolled his shoulders, wincing as soreness flared in his arm, a bruise blooming purple from elbow to wrist. The room felt colder than before. No more monsters. No noise—just a heavy, unnatural hush after so much violence.
Leon paused at the door, his senses on high alert. His zombie followed, silent but watchful. The corridor beyond stretched empty, not even a rat scurrying through the cracks. Every footstep echoed too loudly.
He moved slowly, checking every corner, his eyes flicking back to the chamber. The absence of danger felt wrong—like the dungeon held its breath, waiting for someone else to bleed. He replayed the fight in his mind, analyzing his steps and mistakes, recalling the feel of the blade biting into bone and the faces of the dead. He locked it all away, piece by piece.
At the exit, he pushed open the heavy door, which swung shut behind him with a resounding, final thud.
The last stretch was even colder. Shadows stretched long in the corridor, with no sound but his boots on stone. He kept the zombie close, scanning for signs of life—another monster, or worse, a second ambush. Nothing. The dungeon was spent, emptied of everything but echoes.
Light glimmered ahead—dull at first, then brighter as he neared the surface. The cold faded, replaced by weak, dying sunlight. Leon stepped out into the open, battered and blood-spattered, the taste of metal still sharp on his tongue.
A guard stood at the checkpoint, spear in hand, eyes wide as saucers. He gaped at Leon as if he'd seen a ghost.
"You—you actually made it out alive?"
Leon let the silence answer, dust and blood gleaming in the last light of day. He kept moving, never looking back.