The smell reached him thirty meters before the doors.
Ares had been in the facility long enough to classify its air—filtered, temperature-controlled, with that faint antiseptic tang of a place that scrubbed anything organic from existence before it could linger. What drifted up from the sub-level corridor to Loading Bay Seven was nothing like that. It was dense and layered, a damp earth, something that had festered in darkness for ages, and beneath it all, the distinct sweetness of blood long dried on stone.
His body sensed the mix before his mind could label it. What it told him was alive. Very much so. But there was also something in there that had been dying not long ago.
Jones eased his pace slightly, offering no comment—and none was necessary.
Marcus slid into position on Ares's left without a word — the instinctive move of someone who'd spent twenty years sizing up new situations and picking the right spot in the first three seconds. He didn't make a show of it; he was just there, and his presence alone spoke volumes about how he read what was coming.
Around them, the other participants shifted in different states of readiness. Some kept their expressions neutral with visible effort, while others didn't bother. A woman near the back let out a faint sound with each exhale, likely without realizing it. No one mentioned it, though. The facility had taught enough hard lessons about the cost of commenting that most had given it up.
Loading Bay Seven was the size of a small district.
The ceiling soared forty meters above, lined with industrial lights tracing its edges. The floor was real, packed, damp earth — no tiles or concrete. And from it rose tree-like forms that made no sense by nature's and logic standards. Pale, thick trunks split into branches at impossible angles. The air smelled alive, because it was, shaped by life that had grown in the dark long enough to invent its own rules.
Against the far wall, built into the stone as though it had always been there,
The gate.
Ares studied it closely, iron-dark with a hint of crimson fading through. Twelve meters tall. The bars were spaced just enough to see between, and beyond them lay a darkness — not just an absence of light, but the presence of something that filled the places light could not touch. From the other side came a steady warmth, slow and rhythmic, the subtle shift in temperature betraying the breath of something massive hidden in the shadows.
Sixty-two participants stood in front of the gate and fell silent one by one. This silence wasn't due to an agreement among them, but rather the result of each individual arriving independently at the same conclusion: whatever lay beyond the gate was not something that would benefit from discussion.
Kendrick stood before it, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the gathered group with the practiced eye of someone taking stock.
"Good morning, everyone," he said, his voice easily carrying across the bay. But why did he refer to them as 'Subjects'? "I'll keep this brief, since I can see some of you are already processing your feelings about being here, and I'd rather not interrupt that.", he grinned without hiding it.
Nobody laughed. Kendrick's brand of humor had long since lost the sharpness it needed to land in a room full of people who knew he meant some part of everything he said with complete seriousness.
"Beyond this gate lies a naturally formed dungeon, discovered and maintained by the government for the past eleven years. It spans five floors." He let the weight of that sink in before continuing. "Each floor holds a single mission — retrieve, survive, or eliminate, depending on the stage. You'll learn the objective just before stepping onto each floor." He paused. "You enter as a team. You emerge as whoever makes it through."
The specific wording—"whoever manages it" instead of "whoever survives"—was doing work that Ares noted without remark.
"Creatures from floors one to three range from standard B to A-rank difficulty, depending on the encounter. Floor four is classified—you'll see why when you get there. The objective for floor five will be revealed after floor four is cleared."
He glanced at the gathered group with the look of someone weighing how much context would be helpful and how much would be cruelty… or maybe just fun.
"The dungeon is adaptive, more like a living being" he said. "Which means if you use the same technique twice in the same encounter, the second attempt will find a counter waiting for it. Use it a third time—" He made a small, dismissive gesture. "You won't."
He stepped aside.
"Three minutes. I'd suggest using them."
The group splintered into tense little clusters, voices tumbling over each other. At the back, someone was loudly matching their knowledge of dungeon creatures to floor-level categories, making sure everyone within earshot could hear. Nearby another person argued formation priorities with the unshakable confidence of someone whose ideas had never faced a real test.
There were too many variables for Ares to process in that moment. After a few seconds, he abandoned the effort and turned to his group, who stood ready and waiting. The evident trust among them gave him pause, but this was not the time to question it.
What struck him as unusual was the complete lack of response—no one stepped forward or even hesitated to meet them. He assumed this was the price of having crossed someone influential within the facility.
"Marcus."
The older man was already at his side—moving before Ares had even turned—showing the sharpness of his field instincts. "Adaptive mechanic. What do we know?" Ares asked, since he hadn't gone through any National Classification Dungeons. Any information would be useful to him.
"More than most," Marcus said. "I've been through eleven levels of the national classification system over six years of permitted hunting, before my rank dispute. The adaptive mechanic shows up differently across species.
Some adapt physically—changing approach angles, switching which limbs they lead with.
Others adapt tactically—coordinating packs, shifting timing.
The worst adapt psychologically. They figure out exactly what scares you and use it against you.", Sylvie frowned at the last statement, clearly shaken.
"How do we beat it?"
Marcus paused. "You stop being readable," he said, matter-of-factly. "Most hunters have three or four techniques they rely on when under pressure. Pressure pushes you back to what's familiar. The dungeon's adaptation waits for that and counters it. The hunters who make it through adaptive environments are the ones who can come up with something truly new each time — not better, not stronger. Just new, different enough that the system hasn't learned it yet."
Ares nodded, having collected considerable information on the dungeons. "And first-floor saturation?" He asked.
"It takes six to eight encounters for the first floor to absorb everything you've shown. On the second floor, that drops to three.
The deeper you go, the quicker they catch on."
"Three. And how many creatures are there per floor?" Jones asked from behind them.
"Unknown. First floor, probably eight to fifteen encounters if it's standard B-rank density. Second floor, fewer but faster."
"So by the third encounter on floor two, anything we displayed on floor one—"
"Is already countered," Ares cut in. "And everything we revealed in the first two encounters on floor two is countered as well."
"So, on every floor, we need completely new techniques," Sylvie said, clearly nervous. Creating them in such a short time is considered impossible, especially since each one has to deal damage to the enemy.
"We need enough variety so the learning can't catch everything at once." Ares glanced over the wider cohort, noting the factions taking shape.
Henry's eleven in perfect formation, a B-rank cluster from the eastern consolidation, and a scattered handful of unaffiliated individuals. Each group followed its own logic, which would become an issue the moment the dungeon made the spaces between them dangerous. "And we need the wider cohort not to burn our techniques before we get the chance to use them."
"Subject 19," Marcus said, without inflection.
"Subject 19," Ares confirmed, understanding what he meant.
The man stood about twenty meters off, holding a mana-forged blade taken from an armory just a few meters away, his stance making it clear he'd dealt with the dungeon's danger by deciding he was the greater threat. Otherwise, like most people here, he probably wouldn't have had the slightest clue about Subject 19's potential.
"Jones." Ares turned to him. "You're on front-line containment since your class is Tank, right? You'll be the primary engagement, anchor position. Don't move forward unless I give the signal."
"We're dealing with a dungeon of National Classification, but I'll give it my best shot." Ares nodded at the reply, then turned to Sylvie.
"Sylvie, you'll be mid-range. Recon and combat with your archery skills — I need you keeping an eye on the full scope and terrain of each floor."
She sighed, giving a single nod. "That's a hell of a task you're handing me, but I'll do it."
"Nia," Ares said, looking at her. "What can you do in there?"
A small, knowing smile spread across her face. "Whatever you need."
"I need specifics."
"You need someone who can hold the monster's attention when you can't, and move in ways they can't predict. I can do both. And maybe throw in some strength if needed." She tilted her head. "Specific enough?"
"It'll do." Already knowing her abilities, Ares planned to rely on her the most.
"Marcus, you're with me. Your field knowledge is the most valuable asset we have going in, and I'm not wasting it on a combat role when I can use it for strategy."
Marcus accepted this with a smile and a nod. Truth be told, Ares wanted to keep an eye on him. Marcus was still someone he couldn't fully trust, but his observation and experience would come in handy here. Besides, having him close just felt safer.
........
.......
From the far wall, the gate's locks disengaged.
The sound wasn't mechanical, but deeper—a resonance that rippled through the floor and climbed up into the soles of their feet. Several participants instinctively stepped back. The gate swung inward under its own weight, slow and deliberate, and the darkness beyond refused to take shape. It remained dark, warm, and breathing.
Sixty-two people stared at the open gate. Ares did too, though perhaps more than the others, fear gripped.
He had never entered a dungeon stronger than himself, except when scavenging for spoils to earn extra money. His eyes wandered to his group: Jones with a shield, Sylvie with a bow, Nia with nothing—though she claimed she was confident without a weapon—Marcus with a dagger, and himself with a sword. The other participants had also chosen their weapons, each one forged to adapt to mana.
For two whole seconds, no one moved.
Those seconds mattered. Ares could sense their weight — how a crowd at the brink could either surge forward or retreat, with everything hinging on the first step and the wave of momentum that followed.
He stepped.
It wasn't because he wasn't afraid. He wasn't anywhere near strong or confident enough to take on this dungeon. He moved forward because standing still in front of an open gate was still a choice—the wrong one—and he'd spent enough time in this place to know that the right choice was usually the one that demanded something of equal value.
Jones shifted to his left before the first step was even done. Marcus slipped in behind them, still smiling and silent. Sylvie took the right flank, while Nia stood exactly where she needed to be, as effortlessly as always.
Behind them, the rest of the group drew a deep breath and followed. Once everyone was inside, the gate shut with a sound like a verdict being sealed.
The darkness stretched for twenty meters before the first floor of the dungeon unfolded around them, revealing itself. Ares felt that distinct shift when a moment stops being hypothetical and becomes real—when you're in it, not just imagining it from the outside.
He took in the pale, branching shapes, the soft glow of bioluminescence tracing every surface. Above, the canopy shifted in a slow, deliberate rhythm — the measured sway of things that had been waiting, weighing if what had just appeared deserved their notice.
Then-
"Don't stop walking," Marcus said quietly, already beside him. "Spread out wide and make yourself look too large for a single drop."
"What?" Ares was momentarily stunned before regaining his composure. He turned to Marcus, who pointed upward, prompting Ares to tilt his head up as well. At first, all he saw was the ceiling. Squinting hard, he finally made out what Marcus meant—skin that seemed to blend into the ceiling itself. The inhuman figures had six limbs, four in the front and two in the back. A shiver ran through Ares as he locked eyes with their glowing red gaze. He quickly looked back down, and Jones and Sylvie, having also seen them, did the same.
"What are they?" Jones asked, "Pale Stalkers. Ambush predators." Marcus glanced upward without making it obvious, his sharp eyes masking the movement—a skill honed in the field. "They see stillness as prey behavior. The moment someone stops moving—"
"We keep moving," Ares called out, his voice carrying through the cohort. "Wide formation. Don't stop. Don't bunch up."
Most followed the order, including Henry and his group for some reason.
But Subject 19's gaze had already shifted left.
"Subject 19—" Ares began.
The man stepped out of formation.