“You gotta be kidding me,” Myra Farron said, her voice edged with disbelief. She leaned back against the doorframe of the cramped office, arms crossed tightly. The dim light from the single-hanging lamp flickered slightly, casting shadows over the walls cluttered with maps, ledgers, and posters of recruitment slogans. The air was thick with the scent of worn leather and ink, mingling with the stale air of a room that hadn't been aired out in days.

“I’m not,” her boss, Staff Sergeant Danus, replied, not looking up from the paperwork on his desk. His gruff tone left no room for debate.

“That’s fucking bullshit!” Myra shouted, pushing off the doorframe, her boots thudding against the wooden floor as she took a step forward. The frustration had been boiling in her since the moment she’d gotten the news, and now it was spilling out.

Danus raised his head slowly, his dark eyes narrowing, his voice low and firm. “Staff Sergeant,” he corrected, his expression set like stone.

Myra blinked, taken aback for a moment. The silence between them felt heavy, broken only by the faint creak of Danus’s chair as he leaned back slightly. Myra gritted her teeth. This is how it worked in the military. No matter how pissed you got, the rank came first.

“That’s bullshit, Staff Sergeant,” she muttered through clenched teeth, following protocol but unable to hide the resentment behind her words.

Danus, a man who looked like he’d spent more years in the field than behind any desk, sighed and stood up. His frame was stocky, muscular, with the kind of build that showed years of hard work. His neatly trimmed gray-streaked hair was always cropped short, and his tan skin bore the weathered look of someone who’d lived through harsh climates and harsher fights. His office was a far cry from the battlefield, but it didn’t seem to make him any softer.

He crossed the small space of the office, where stacks of documents were carelessly piled up in the corners, and stood in front of her. “Look, Farron. I know we’re a bit lax around here, but when you get to Thorne, they don’t tolerate any insubordination. You got that, Corpor—” he paused, correcting himself, “I mean Sergeant.”

Myra nodded stiffly. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

The word “Sergeant” still didn’t feel right on her tongue. She hadn’t even been promoted a full week before everything had gone to hell. Her last dungeon dive had been a disaster—two teammates dead, and she and the Bracer had barely crawled out alive. And now, instead of a reassignment to another dive, they’d shipped her off to Camp Thorne as an instructor since she made the rank.

The thought churned inside her. Her stomach knotted as she recalled the look on her commander’s face when she’d returned from the failed mission. They didn’t dare demote her—no, she’d been promoted to Sergeant right before the dive—but this, being shoved into teaching, felt worse. God, she hated teaching.

Danus’s voice cut through her thoughts. “And do something about that hair.” His tone was sharp again, but there was a hint of something softer there too. “They still abide by regulations over at Thorne, and that wild mane of yours doesn’t cut it.”

Myra’s hand instinctively went to her wild red hair, untamed and tangled from the stress of the last few days. She twisted it into a quick knot, pulling it back out of her face. “Yes, Staff Sergeant,” she replied, her voice cold.

Danus watched her for a moment before exhaling, his hands settling on his hips. “Look, Farron,” he said, his tone softening again, “this isn’t a punishment, okay?”

Myra’s eyes flicked to him, her jaw tightening. Of course it was a punishment. She didn’t bother responding. What was there to say? No words could change the fact that her failure was being rubbed in her face.

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Danus continued, running a hand over his cropped hair as if trying to reason with her. “There’s a platoon sergeant over at Thorne who’s got clearance to leave for Solwyn Peaks. He needs to finish that D-O-O before it disappears. He’s been given the go-ahead, and with his skill set, it makes sense. You’re just taking over his platoon for now.”

Myra’s eyes widened in disbelief. “For now? As in I might have to babysit some other platoon?”

Danus raised an eyebrow. “I said we’ll see how it goes. You might take over one, maybe two groups. Hell, you might even like it.”

Myra’s nostrils flared, but she kept her mouth shut this time. She didn’t trust herself to respond without losing it again. Babysitting a bunch of newbie dungeon divers? Trying to teach privates who didn’t know the first thing about fighting monsters? It was the last thing she wanted.

Myra crossed her arms tighter, glaring at the floor. "I doubt that very much," she muttered.

Danus just shrugged in response, the kind of shrug that said he’d heard it all before. Then he sighed and leaned against his desk. "Look, don’t blame yourself for what happened. It was our fault for having you try a Gold-grade dungeon so soon."

Myra’s teeth clenched. That wasn’t it at all. She didn’t blame herself and had been more than ready for that dungeon—everyone knew she had the skill to back it up. As a Striker, she’d proven herself in countless Silver dungeons, and she felt confident going into the Gold one. But that moronic Lieutenant they’d saddled her with? He should never have been there. His incompetence put everyone’s lives at risk.

She could still see the moment when everything fell apart. The idiot Lieutenant had gotten himself pinned during the second wave of monsters in the boss room, and as their caster—trying to play hero—ended up dead alongside their Defender who tried to cover for him. It was chaos. Their ranks broke, and there was nothing she or her Bracer could do but retreat. The choice had been made for them, and they barely escaped with their lives.

Reports were filed, and thanks to lie detectors, they were cleared of any fault. But it didn’t matter. Deaths happen in dungeons all the time; people move on. But when the Lieutenant in your party is some noble’s son, there are always consequences. The worst kind.

Myra had expected the worst when they were summoned to HQ. The Bracer—her only surviving teammate—was demoted and reassigned. They blamed him for failing to keep the idiot noble alive, even though it was impossible. As for her, being newly promoted and the lowest-ranking member of the team had earned her some leniency. She was "let off easily"—if you could call being stripped from dungeon diving and thrown into teaching at Camp Thorne easy.

The bitter taste of injustice lingered. She had done everything right. And now, instead of leading her own squad into the next dungeon, she was here, cooling her heels. But she’d bide her time, play the role, and get back to where she belonged with or without the military.

"When do I leave?" she asked finally, her voice flat.

"In two days," Danus replied, handing her a rolled-up scroll. "Here are your orders."

Myra accepted the scroll without a word, tucking it into her belt. Danus watched her for a moment, then said, "You're dismissed."

Without another glance, she turned and walked out of the office. As she made her way to her quarters, she glanced down at the scroll in her hand, feeling the weight of it more than ever. Orders. She was getting sick of them—the military’s endless hold over her, always reminding her of the chains she wore. Sure, the Dungeoneer Corps had a reputation for being lax about military discipline, and most of the time, it felt more like a team of professionals than soldiers. But when shit like this happened? It was a glaring reminder that she was still shackled to an institution that pulled the strings.

She sighed, her thoughts spiraling as she walked. Would life be better as a civilian dungeon diver? It was a tempting idea, one she'd wrestled with during her re-enlistment. The freedom to pick her dungeons, her team, her loot—hell, the freedom to walk away if she wanted. No orders. No quotas. No bullshit punishments for things that weren’t even her fault.

But freedom came with its own risks. Too much uncertainty. As a military Dungeoneer, everything was provided for her: housing, food, equipment, steady pay, and most importantly, a team. Out there, on her own? She’d have to scrape for every bit of that. No guarantees.

Myra came to a stop in the hallway, the frustration boiling inside her. Screw it. She had enough time to make it to Crimson Fang Cavern, a nearby Silver-grade dungeon she knew like the back of her hand. It was one she could solo with ease. She'd run it dozens of times before, and one more wouldn’t hurt.

Sure, there was a chance she'd be reprimanded if anyone caught wind of it. But honestly? She didn’t give a damn. As long as she was back on time for her orders and nobody snitched, she'd be fine. Right now, with her frustration mounting and that damned scroll in hand, she needed an outlet.

I need to kill something.