Chapter 4: [S-CLASS DUNGEON]

They were all lined up now—gear in hand, vests on, boots laced. The entrance to the dungeon towered before them like a gaping maw in the earth, swirling with unstable magic.

A few had their heads down, quiet in reverence or nerves. Others muttered jokes or adjusted their equipment, trying to shake the tension that always hung thick before entry.

Lucien, meanwhile, was practically bouncing in place.

His eyes gleamed with childlike excitement, scanning every inch of the pulsing, swirling portal. His fingers fidgeted with the straps of his cleaning harness, and a small grin tugged at his lips.

George, standing beside him, raised a brow.

“Your first time in an S-Class dungeon, right?” he asked, chuckling. “Heh. You look like a puppy about to see snow for the first time.”

Lucien nodded eagerly. “Yeah… It’s so… huge. The energy feels so different than the others I’ve been in.”

George gave a gruff laugh but crossed his arms. “Don’t get too excited, kid. This one might scare the piss outta you.”

Lucien tilted his head. “Are they really that bad?”

George scoffed. “Are ya kidding? I’ve known seasoned collectors and finishers who got mauled even after the boss was long dead. Happens more than you think.”

That sobered Lucien up—slightly.

Collectors were the brave idiots—like himself—who entered the dungeon after the combat squad, to harvest monster parts, rare herbs, minerals, crystals, and anything valuable left behind.

Finishers, on the other hand, were tasked with double-checking the kill count. Because sometimes? Even if the boss was dead… the stragglers weren’t.

Some monsters lurked in shadows. Some regenerated. Some played dead.

Hell, there were even stories of dungeons resetting if someone tripped the wrong trigger.

There was a whole meticulous process. Which is why dungeon cleaners like Lucien’s group were always last to enter. By the time they went in, the fighters were long gone. The clock ticked for every team—each running on their own tight, dangerous timeline.

“Man,” Lucien murmured, staring up at the swirling vortex of the dungeon gate with a grin, “I don’t even mind dying in a place where even the strongest hunters die. Pretty poetic, if you think about it.”

CRACK!

George smacked him on the head with a loud thud.

“OW!” Lucien winced, nearly dropping his mop handle. “What was that for?!”

George gave him a scowl. “Don’t say shit like that, ya brat.”

Lucien rubbed his head, annoyed. “It was just a joke.”

“Yeah? Well, jokes like that get turned into headlines. You know what they say—be careful what you wish for.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “I didn’t wish for it. I was being dramatic.”

George didn’t smile. He placed a firm, calloused hand on Lucien’s shoulder.

“You’ve still got your parents. Your little brother. People who’d be shattered if you didn’t come home. Don’t tempt fate, Lucien. Not in this

line of work.”

Lucien blinked. For a moment, the wind from the gate rushed past them like a whisper of warning. The gravity of it all hit him a little harder than he expected.

’Right… Lucas is waiting for me to come back and play that stupid card game again.’’Mom would probably cry herself to sleep for weeks if anything happened.’’I can’t die in here. Not yet.’

“…Sir, yes, sir,” Lucien muttered, a little sheepishly.

George grunted in approval.

Then—

The portal pulsed with deep crimson light. Zestiel waved them forward.

“Let’s move out!”

Lucien straightened his gear, swallowed the lump in his throat, and followed the line of cleaners through the gate.

And as soon as he stepped inside, annoyance and nerves melted into awe.

The inside of the dungeon was like walking into another world.

Crimson fog swirled around broken pillars. The sky above was a stormy swirl of red and violet, endless and chaotic. Scorched earth crunched beneath their boots. Twisted trees arched overhead, like skeletal fingers pointing them deeper into the abyss.

Lucien’s mouth fell slightly open as he stepped past the threshold.

’No matter how many stories I’ve heard… nothing prepares you for this.’

The air was heavy with heat and smoke, thick enough to make him squint through the rising haze. Around him, the world was scorched and suffocating—dark rock, twisted metal, smoldering patches of molten earth. It was like walking into the heart of a dying star.

And the bodies.

God, the bodies.

They were everywhere.

Unlike the usual mutated beasts or warped monsters left behind in low-tier dungeons, these were humanoid—knights, by the look of it.

Their figures were slumped against jagged rocks and collapsed structures, clad head to toe in blackened armor that shimmered faintly in the dim glow of the lava-veined ground.

Some were still gripping their weapons, others sprawled with limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Blood stained everything—thick streaks on the ground, splatters across walls, pooling under motionless helmets.

“Damn,” Lucien whispered, breath catching in his throat. The word escaped without thought, barely louder than the sound of distant lava bubbling beneath the surface.

’Lion’s Fang really did a number on them.’

The heat clawed at his skin—wet, smothering heat, not just from exertion, but from the very air itself. There was ash in the wind, and the sky overhead was choked by thick black smoke that swallowed all light. It was like the dungeon had been carved into the base of a volcano, and they’d stepped straight into its lungs.

Still, something else gnawed at him—something deeper than the oppressive heat.

A strange feeling twisted in his chest. Not just fear. Not just nerves.

’What is this…?’

It was like the ground itself was humming beneath his boots. Like the shadows were watching.

Lucien shook his head, rubbing his arm as a chill ran through him despite the overwhelming heat. He tried to shrug it off.

’Maybe it’s just… the pressure. The difference between an E-Class and an S-Class environment. Yeah. That’s all.’

But he didn’t believe that. Not really.

Something here was wrong. It pulsed in the atmosphere like a warning, like the dungeon itself was alive and aware of them—and it didn’t want them there.

He was about to mention it, to say something—anything—but Zestiel’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding over the comms.

“Move it. We’ve got two hours. Start the cleanup. Stay in pairs. No straying off.”

Lucien jumped slightly at the barked reminder, the system-charged earpiece crackling in his ear.

George clapped him on the back. “You heard the man. Gear up, kiddo.”

Lucien nodded quickly, snapping out of it.

“Right, yeah. I’m ready.” He reached into his pack, slipping on his gloves and fastening the tool belt, trying to focus on the task ahead.

But that gnawing feeling didn’t fade.

His earlier excitement—the thrill of stepping into an S-Class dungeon, the dream of seeing real Hunters at work—had evaporated entirely.

And in its place, something cold had settled in his gut.

’Get it together, Lucien. You can freak out later. Just do your job.’

Still… he couldn’t shake the thought that the dungeon was staring back.

▒▓ ▀▄█ ⚠ ▄█▀ ▓▒

“Finally done,” Lucien muttered under his breath, sweat clinging to his brow as he stood up, his knees stiff from crouching too long.

His gloves were caked with dried blood, soot, and dirt. The once-pristine fabric of his uniform was smudged and dull, the faint acidic stench of monster remains clinging to every inch of him.

Still, the sack at his side was full—overflowing, actually—with scraps of armor, broken weapons, and leftover relics left behind by the raid team and even the finishers.

He slung the sack over his shoulder with a grunt. It was heavier than it looked, but he didn’t mind the weight.

’This is the good kind of heavy. The kind that means I did my job right.’

George had already finished and left, patting him on the back and telling him not to take too long. Lucien had waved him off with a nod. Even as he worked alone, he couldn’t shake the unease prickling at the back of his neck.

The dungeon was… too quiet.

There was no sound except for the occasional creak of stone or the distant echo of shifting debris. No monsters. No footsteps. Just silence—and a pressure in the air that made the hairs on Lucien’s arms stand.

’Weird… It’s cleared, right? Then why does it still feel like something’s watching me?’

But even more irritating than the dungeon’s unnatural stillness?

Zestiel and his crew.

He could feel their eyes on him the entire time, like vultures circling overhead. He hadn’t seen them directly, but he knew they were watching. Probably hoping he’d trip. Drop something. Fail.

’Well, screw them. I didn’t mess up. Not once.’

Lucien exhaled and glanced around the battlefield one last time. The aftermath was brutal—scorched craters, melted earth, deep claw marks across stone walls. It was almost apocalyptic.

Not surprising, considering Caelen had led the charge.

One of the two strongest S-Class hunters in the country. Lucien recognized the style immediately—brute force, aggressive tactics, leaving no part of the dungeon untouched. There was also a faint signature left behind from another elite: the distinctive electric burn of Pulse Arc, meaning Arman Dae had been there too.

Lucien couldn’t help but grin.

’Man… The stuff they leave behind? Even their scraps are worth more than what I make in three months.’

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, eyes lingering on a broken pauldron etched with glowing runes.

’God. What I’d give to have even a fraction of their power.’

Zacharias Kim’s Titan Hide. Arman Dae’s Pulse Arc. Even that rare Void Step used by Elara Shin.

Any of it. Anything.

’Something other than this pathetic minor healing ability.’

But no.

He was Lucien Kim. E-Class. Background nobody. Dungeon janitor.

The only thing he was good at was learning everything about people stronger than him. Memorizing stats, raid patterns, magic affinities, equipment builds.

’Oh, to be powerful and attractive,’ he thought bitterly, recalling how most top-ranked hunters seemed to have movie-star looks to go with their ridiculous strength.

Well. That wasn’t his fate.

Lucien sighed and gave his sack a little tug to settle the weight. “Time to go,” he murmured to himself and turned toward the dungeon exit, feet aching, but head held high.

That is—until a voice stopped him cold.

“Where do you think you’re going, E-Class?”

Lucien froze mid-step.

’Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

He recognized that voice immediately. That smug, grating voice with its barely-concealed contempt.

He turned around slowly, forcing his expression into something neutral.

“I was about to go out of the dungeon, Sir Zestiel,” Lucien said, voice as polite as he could manage without gritting his teeth.

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