On his knees, battered and bloodied, Aethyr recalled a lesson from long ago, a memory of Chornuts the Chopper, his old mentor.
"Kid, you know how water wears away stone?" Chornuts had once asked, gesturing to a droplet slowly carving its way through solid rock. "Persistence. Little by little, it breaks even the hardest surfaces."
He had learned from Aela’s dance-like movements, how dodging attacks could be as artful as the strikes themselves. And from Uncle Valiant, the discipline to hold strong, even when the odds seemed impossible. Their voices echoed in his mind, guiding him, focusing his will.
His eyes narrowed, locking onto the tiny crack in the giant’s visor.
Aethyr needed time. Patience. He alternated between fire and ice, casting low-level spells to warp the metal through extreme temperature changes. The giant, now frustrated and enraged, lost all strategic thought, thrashing wildly, swinging its sword and fists in blind rage. Its movements became predictable, easier to avoid.
Yet, Aethyr was running out of options. His mana was almost gone, and his body could barely move. He had no choice but to rely on the deadliest spell in his arsenal.
"Equilibrium."
It was magic feared and frowned upon by mages across the land. Equilibrium was a gamble—converting health and mana into raw power, a dangerous exchange that could kill the caster if overused. Aethyr could feel his life slipping away with every second, his strength being funneled into one last desperate move. His vision blurred, his muscles screamed in agony, but it was his only chance.
The giant charged again. But this time, Aethyr stood firm, waiting for the right moment. He sidestepped at the last second, spinning with a burst of speed, and in a single, fluid motion, thrust his spear upward. The crack in the giant’s visor shattered as the spear drove deep into its skull.
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The giant swayed, its movements faltering, before collapsing to the ground with a deafening crash. Aethyr, drained and battered, fell beside the lifeless creature, his body still.
Back at the College, the transmission returned just in time for the mages to witness the aftermath. The giant lay dead, a gaping hole in its head, while Aethyr lay motionless beside it. Gasps filled the room as Grandir shot to his feet. "Evacuate him, now!"
Penelo, already with the rescue team, didn’t wait for further orders. She raced through the portal, her heart pounding, fearing the worst.
Aethyr barely managed to crawl toward the two portals ahead of him—one leading deeper into the dungeon, and one back to the surface. Weighing his options, he chose the latter, collapsing as soon as he crossed the threshold.
Penelo was the first to reach him. Kneeling beside him, she pressed her fingers to his neck, searching desperately for a pulse. After a breathless moment, she found it—weak, but there. Tears of relief filled her eyes as she signaled the others to carry him back.
It took nearly two hours for the evacuation team to return to the College. Aethyr was unconscious but alive. The gates opened to reveal crowds of cheering students and mages, all whispering in awe of the mage who had survived the 25th floor. News of Aethyr’s victory spread quickly, reaching even the Jarls and distant leaders. No one had ever ventured that far into the dungeon, not even S-rank adventurers. Aethyr’s name was now whispered in reverence—Aethyrvald "Spellsword" Whitemane.
His meticulously kept records were gathered by scholars and studied feverishly. The academic value of his journey was immeasurable. His findings would bring together mages, warriors, and leaders from all races, forever altering the understanding of the ancient dungeon.
Even his mother, the former queen, wept with pride and relief upon hearing the news of his survival. But her tears were mixed with fear—Aethyr had achieved the impossible, but at what cost? And what dangers awaited him next?
Aethyr had survived—barely. But his journey was far from over. The path ahead held even greater dangers and mysteries waiting to be uncovered.