Dungeon Wars: The Rise of an F-Rank Soldier

Darkness.

That was the first thing I knew in this world.

It wasn't the comforting kind of darkness—the kind you get when you're wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold night. No, my darkness was empty, silent, and endless. A void that swallowed me whole the day I was born.

I don’t know who my parents were. Never even heard a rumor.

All I know is that on the coldest night of winter, a nun found me wrapped in rags, half-dead, inside a wooden crate outside the church. A damn crate—like an unwanted stray.

The orphanage was my home after that. A place where the forgotten were dumped like garbage.

I grew up watching other kids come and go. Families—rich, powerful, from up north where the war never touched—would visit, smile, pick their favorite, and take them away. Never me.

Maybe I wasn’t cute enough. Maybe I was too tall. Too quiet. Too… wrong.

Or maybe I just wasn’t worth it.

Food was always scarce.

The church got some funding from the government, but most of it never made it to us. Corrupt officials, greedy clergymen—it all vanished before it could fill our stomachs.

We learned to ration everything.

One piece of bread. One cup of thin soup.

That was a meal.

And me? I was the oldest.

I saw the new kids arrive—small, scared, hungry. They had nothing, just like me once.

So I gave them my food. Every time.

I figured… I was already used to hunger. They weren’t.

But it made me thin, weak, tired all the time.

The priests would say, “God rewards those who sacrifice for others.”

But God never gave me anything.

I just kept getting skinnier, paler, taller, and more… invisible.

It was the same scene every time.

A couple—dressed in expensive coats, clean, warm, well-fed—walking through the orphanage, scanning the children like they were shopping for a pet.

The kid in front of me—a small, timid boy named Eli—was up next.

“Look at this one,” the woman said, her voice filled with excitement.

“He’s perfect,” her husband replied, nodding. “Strong build, bright eyes. He’ll fit right in.”

I stood behind them, silent, waiting. Hoping.

The woman’s gaze flickered to me for a brief second.

I straightened my posture, pretended I wasn’t hungry, forced my lips into the best smile I could manage.

Then she looked away.

They took Eli. Just like all the others.

I wasn’t surprised.

I stopped getting my hopes up years ago.

Then came my 18th birthday.

A day that should’ve been a new beginning. Instead, it was the end of everything.

I woke up to packed bags, empty beds, and silence.

Father Matthias, the head priest, stood at the door. His face was unreadable, but I could see the tension in his hands.

“The orphanage is closing,” he said. Just like that.

The younger kids had already been sent off to adoption centers further north.

The nuns and priests—the only family I had—were leaving.

I looked at them, pleading, but I already knew the answer.

I wasn’t part of the clergy. I wasn’t one of them.

I was just an orphan.

And now, I was alone.

I had nowhere to go.

The war was still raging, but up until then, it had been distant, something happening far away on news broadcasts.

Now, it came for me.

The moment I stepped outside the orphanage’s gates, I was grabbed by two men in uniform.

“Got another one,” one of them muttered.

I struggled, confused, terrified. “W-Wait, what the hell—?!”

“By decree of the Dragonlands, all able-bodied men are conscripted into the military upon reaching adulthood. Congratulations, kid. You’re a soldier now.”

“No—No, I never—”

“Shut up,” the soldier barked, tightening his grip.

They dragged me down the street, past people who didn’t even spare me a second glance. Nobody cared.

I was shoved into a recruitment truck, packed with other young men, all of them with the same look in their eyes.

Fear.

And then the doors slammed shut.

That’s how my life ended before it even started.

No family. No home. No choices.

Just a uniform, a gun, and a war I never wanted.

They call me a soldier, but that’s a joke.

I’m just another nameless body in an army that sees me as expendable trash.

I’m nothing.

But maybe that’s why I’m not afraid to die.

Because when you’re already nothing, what’s there to lose?

The first day of training was hell.

Not the kind of hell people imagine from war movies, with explosions and gunfire. No—this was the kind of hell that broke you down before you even reached the battlefield.

We were dumped into Dragonlands Boot Camp—a sprawling military base carved into the jagged cliffs of Blackstone Ridge, where the wind howled like a starving beast and the sun cooked the ground into glass.

The moment the truck doors slammed open, we were greeted by the screaming voice of a drill sergeant.

"Welcome to hell, you sorry sacks of shit!"

A towering man in combat fatigues paced in front of us, his bald head gleaming with sweat, his voice a thunderous roar that made the weakest among us flinch. His name was Sergeant Juno Kragg, a war veteran who had no sympathy for the weak.

"From this moment forward, you belong to me. You are no longer civilians. You are no longer human. You are expendable, disposable, bottom-feeding maggots, and I have been given the honor of turning you into something barely acceptable as a soldier!"

His cold eyes scanned the crowd of new recruits, filled with a mix of poor bastards like me and awakened individuals—the ones who had latent abilities, the ones who actually had a future in the military.

Me? I was just a scrawny conscript who never had enough food to grow muscle.

That made me an easy target.

"Shit, would you look at this guy," a voice whispered behind me.

"Fucking skeleton," another chuckled. "How the hell is he supposed to hold a rifle?"

"Maybe they'll use him as a scarecrow to keep the enemy away."

I didn’t turn around. Didn’t react. I had heard worse growing up.

But the drill sergeant definitely heard them.

"You think this is funny, maggots?" Juno snapped, stopping right in front of me. His massive frame cast a shadow over my entire body.

The other recruits shut up immediately.

Juno squinted at me, like I was some kind of disease he needed to exterminate.

"You," he barked. "What the fuck is your name?"

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay steady.

"Spencer Dracowski, sir."

"Dracowski?" His lip curled in disgust. "No rank. No family. No future. You're just a useless conscript."

He stepped closer, until his breath was hot against my face.

"You’re gonna die out there, Dracowski," he said, low and menacing. "Might as well save me the trouble and off yourself now."

The other recruits chuckled, some shaking their heads like they had already written me off.

But I didn’t say a word.

I just stood there, staring straight ahead, fists clenched so hard my nails dug into my palms.

Because no matter what they said—I refused to break.

Boot camp lasted six months.

Six months of nonstop hell.

Six months of running drills, of sleeping four hours a night, of training in the freezing cold, of being beaten into the dirt every time I failed.

But I never quit.

I was the first to wake up.

The first to arrive at the training yard.

The last to leave.

While others with better physiques struggled, I kept pushing forward, refusing to let my own body’s limitations slow me down.

I was slower than the Awakened soldiers—so I ran harder.
I was weaker than the well-fed recruits—so I trained longer.
I had zero natural abilities—so I forced my body to keep up, no matter how much pain it caused.

And little by little, they started noticing.

"Hey… Runt’s still doing push-ups?"

"Damn, even the awakened guys already collapsed."

"How the fuck is he still moving?"

Even Juno Kragg, the bastard drill sergeant, stopped insulting me.

Instead, he watched.

Every time I got knocked down, I got back up.
Every time I collapsed from exhaustion, I pushed forward.

I was still thin, still weaker than the others, still slow—but I never gave up.

And that earned me something I never had before.

A little respect.

But the real turning point?

It came when I was sent to the church to check my stats.

The Church of the Scale was where every soldier, adventurer, and mercenary went to evaluate their potential.

It was a ritual, done before every major deployment.

The process was simple:

Step onto the Divine Scale.
Let the magical inscriptions scan your body.
See how strong—or weak—you really are.

I already knew what to expect.

Nothing.

The priest, an elderly man with tired eyes, placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Take a deep breath," he murmured. "Try to relax."

I nodded and stepped forward, standing on the engraved stone circle in the middle of the room.

A low hum filled the air as the magic scanned my body, flickering arcane symbols hovering above me.

And then the results appeared.

Name: Spencer Dracowski
Level: 1
Potential Rank: 10
Attributes:

• Strength: 23
• Speed: 30
• Endurance: 42
• Intelligence: 10
• Fighting Skill: 15
• Magic: 0
• Cyber Acumen: 2
• Perception: 18
• Stealth: 22
• Leadership: 5
• Luck: ???

The room fell silent.

The priest blinked.

The guards stared.

Even some of the other soldiers waiting in line chuckled.

It was exactly what I expected.

Weak. Below average. Worthless.

One of the officers standing nearby scoffed.

"This guy’s not even worth the boots he’s standing in."

I gritted my teeth, clenching my fists at my sides.

But just as I turned to leave, a new screen appeared.

[Hidden Skill: Bloodlust – Active but Dormant]

• Condition: Must kill a significant number of enemies to awaken.
• Effect: Gains half of the highest stat of each kill.

The priest paled.

"That… that’s…" he started, but then shut his mouth.

Nobody noticed the new screen except him and me.

And in that moment, I realized—

Maybe I wasn’t as worthless as they thought.

Spencer stood outside the Church of the Scale, his boots scraping against the cracked stone steps as he clenched his fists.

The results were exactly what he expected.

Weak. Below average. Worthless.

Even now, he could hear the laughter from the other soldiers who had seen his pathetic stats.

It didn't matter.

None of it fucking mattered.

Stats didn't tell the whole story. Effort did. And Spencer? He never stopped pushing forward.

And if the world thought he was worthless, he would prove them wrong.

With that thought burning in his chest, he turned and walked toward the training field.

The training yard was a wasteland of blood, sweat, and shattered pride.

Rows of recruits were running through grueling obstacle courses, dragging their broken bodies over walls and barbed wire while instructors screamed in their faces.

At the center of the field, a crowd had gathered, murmuring with a mix of awe and fear.

And standing in the middle of them was her.

Ember Valkyria.

The Dragonlord’s daughter.

A Rank S+ warrior.

Only six months older than Spencer.

She wasn't just a soldier—she was a damn legend.

Her piercing cobalt eyes scanned the recruits like a predator sizing up prey.

Her body was pure muscle, toned and lean, built for speed and power. Unlike most officers, who wore heavy armor, Ember dressed in a tight combat vest and cargo pants, allowing her to move without restriction.

Her reputation was known across the Dragonlands military.

A prodigy. A natural leader. A warrior feared even by veterans.

And she wasn't here to make friends.

"Alright, listen up, you worthless bastards!" Ember's voice cut through the noise like a blade.

"You're all here because you have two options: become soldiers, or die trying."

Her cold gaze swept over the recruits, stopping for half a second on Spencer before moving on.

"Most of you are weak. Most of you won’t last past the first battle. And frankly?" She smirked. "I don’t give a shit."

A few recruits shuffled uncomfortably, but no one dared to talk back.

Because they all knew she was right.

"Only the strong will survive this war," she continued. "And right now? None of you are strong."

She took a step forward, tossing her combat gloves onto the dirt.

"So I’m gonna break you until you are."

She turned to Juno Kragg.

"Drill Sergeant, bring me your best recruit."

Juno smirked and gestured to a broad-shouldered man with a cocky grin.

Carter ‘Ox’ Balderas.

A genetically enhanced soldier, already A-Rank before he even stepped foot in training.

He towered over Ember, easily a foot taller, built like a damn war tank.

"Let’s see if you live up to your reputation, Princess," Ox sneered.

The other recruits laughed, but it died the moment the fight began.

Ox charged first, swinging a devastating right hook meant to crush skulls.

Ember?

She sidestepped it like she had all the time in the world.

CRACK.

Her elbow smashed into Ox’s ribs, sending a shockwave of pain through his body.

He staggered back, eyes wide.

Ember didn’t stop.

She lunged forward, her leg snapping up in a perfect arc.

Her heel smashed against his jaw, sending a spray of blood into the air.

Ox collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath, his body trembling.

The crowd?

Silent.

"Pathetic," Ember muttered.

She turned to Juno, her expression unimpressed.

"This is your best recruit?"

Juno scowled, his pride wounded. He scanned the recruits, eyes narrowing.

And then, his gaze landed on Spencer.

"You," Juno snapped.

Spencer stiffened.

"You’re up."

The crowd immediately started whispering.

"The runt?"
"You gotta be kidding me."
"He’ll get killed in ten seconds."

Spencer felt his gut tighten, but he forced himself forward.

Ember raised an eyebrow, studying him.

"You’re the conscript, right?" she asked.

Spencer nodded.

She smirked.

"This’ll be quick."

The fight began.

And Spencer?

He knew he couldn’t win.

But he didn’t need to.

He just needed to last.

Ember moved first, her speed blurring like a damn specter.

Her fist shot toward his ribs, too fast to dodge.

THUD.

Pain exploded through Spencer’s body as he staggered back, barely keeping his footing.

"That all?" Ember mocked.

Spencer gritted his teeth.

Keep moving. Stay in the fight.

She attacked again.

A kick toward his gut.

Spencer dropped low, barely dodging.

She threw a jab to his face—he ducked, countering with a clumsy punch to her side.

It barely touched her.

But the fact that he even tried to fight back made Ember pause for a fraction of a second.

She smirked.

"Not bad," she admitted.

And then she hit him like a truck.

A knee to the stomach.

An elbow to the back.

A punch straight to the face.

Spencer hit the dirt hard, his vision swimming.

His body screamed to stay down.

But his pride wouldn’t let him.

He forced himself up, spitting blood into the dirt.

The recruits were silent.

Even Juno looked surprised.

And Ember?

She grinned.

"You’re an idiot," she said. "But I like idiots who don’t quit."

She offered a hand.

Spencer hesitated—then took it.

The moment his fingers wrapped around hers, he felt something shift.

The first step toward respect.

The first step toward something greater.

And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t invisible anymore.

Spencer sat on the cold metal bench of the deployment barracks, his fingers wrapped tightly around the small, battered notebook he had salvaged from a supply crate weeks ago.

The ink had already begun to fade in some places, smudged from sweat, dirt, and the occasional drop of blood from his bruises.

Boot camp was over. The training, the humiliation, the struggle—it had all led to this.

He flipped through the roughly scrawled pages, re-reading the words he had written late into the night when he was too exhausted to sleep but too stubborn to rest.

A record.

A story.

His story.

Because even if no one else remembered him, even if his body was burned to nothing on some nameless battlefield, at least these words would exist.

Proof that he had been here.

That he had fought.

That he was more than just another nameless conscript.

His pencil scratched against the page.

"Most of my life, I was nothing. I was the empty seat at the dinner table, the extra bed at the orphanage, the forgotten child in the adoption files. When I was finally noticed, it was only because the war needed more bodies to throw at the meat grinder. I was never strong, never special, never chosen. I was just... here."

"But I survived boot camp."

"I lasted. I endured."

"And now, they’re sending me to fight."

"I wonder if they expect me to die."

A shadow loomed over him.

"Hey, Greenie Slenderman, you writing a eulogy?"

Spencer didn’t even look up. He knew the voice.

Private Darren Cole.

Another conscript, but one with a sharp tongue and the survival instincts of a cockroach.

"Figured I’d write something down before I get my head blown off," Spencer muttered.

Cole laughed, dropping onto the bench beside him, his combat rifle clunking against his armored vest.

"Shit, man, don’t say it like that. You’re making me nervous," Cole snickered.

He glanced at the notebook, tilting his head.

"Wait, are you actually serious?"

Spencer finally looked at him.

"I am."

Cole’s grin faltered for a split second, but he covered it with another forced chuckle.

"Man, you really are a weird one, you know that?"

He leaned back, letting out a deep breath.

"Well, if you do kick it out there, make sure you haunt the bastards who shoot you. Maybe I’ll finally get some actual luck in this fucked-up army."

Spencer smirked.

"Noted."

A loud siren blared, cutting through the chatter of the barracks.

A deep, robotic voice boomed over the intercom.

"All soldiers, report to transport stations immediately. Deployment for Operation Abyss is now commencing. I repeat, all soldiers report for immediate deployment."

Spencer closed his notebook.

Cole sighed.

"Here we fucking go."

The inside of the VTOL dropship was claustrophobic, packed with dozens of soldiers, their rifles clutched tightly in white-knuckled grips.

The air reeked of sweat, oil, and nerves.

Everyone knew where they were going.

Pacific Cave.

An S-Rank Dungeon in contested territory.

The Dragonlands’ 107th Battalion vs. Canterlot’s 203rd Forward Strike Battalion.

A battle for control of one of the rarest Manacite deposits in the world.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom.

"Approaching the drop zone. Two minutes until deployment."

Spencer adjusted his helmet, feeling the weight of his standard-issue rifle in his hands.

Cole let out a low whistle, nudging Spencer with his elbow.

"Heard this place is a fucking nightmare," he muttered. "Last time we sent a recon team, they got shredded."

Spencer glanced at him.

"By Canterlot’s troops?"

"Nah," Cole shook his head. "By the dungeon."

Spencer stiffened.

He had been so focused on the war, on the battle, on surviving against other soldiers, that he had almost forgotten the real threat.

Dungeons weren’t just battlegrounds.

They were alive.

And they didn’t care who won the war.

The red light flashed inside the cabin.

One minute.

The sergeant at the front of the dropship stood up, gripping the side rail as the aircraft shook from turbulence.

His voice boomed over the roaring engines.

"Alright, listen up, you sorry bastards!"

His cybernetic eye gleamed under the dim lighting as he scanned the soldiers.

"This is a forward assault mission. We’re hitting the eastern ridge, where Canterlot’s forces have set up defensive turrets and anti-aircraft artillery."

He paused, letting the gravity of that sink in.

"That means the second you touch the ground, you are already in the kill zone. You will move fast, you will push forward, and you will not stop until the objective is secured."

His gaze narrowed.

"And if any of you so much as hesitate? You’ll be dead before you hit the fucking dirt."

The dropship doors slid open.

Wind screamed inside, carrying the scent of burning earth and gunpowder.

Explosions lit up the horizon.

Tracer rounds streaked across the sky, slamming into the metal hull of nearby aircraft, sending them spiraling into the mountains below.

The entire battlefield was on fire.

Spencer’s stomach twisted, his heart pounding like a war drum inside his chest.

"DROP! DROP! DROP!"

The soldiers in front of him leaped out of the aircraft, their parachutes deploying as they descended into hell.

Cole smacked Spencer on the back.

"See you on the ground, Greenie."

Then he jumped.

Spencer took a deep breath.

And then he stepped into the abyss.

The sky was on fire.

Flashes of orange and red lit up the horizon, the booming thunder of artillery shaking the air like an endless earthquake. Tracer rounds sliced through the darkness, red and green streaks dancing through the clouds like a deadly light show.

The ground came up fast as Spencer plummeted toward the battlefield. His parachute ripped open with a violent jolt, slowing his descent just enough for him to take in the war zone below.

The 203rd Forward Strike Battalion had already turned the eastern ridge into a slaughterhouse.

Tanks lined the rocky hills, their barrels glowing white-hot as they fired into the advancing Dragonlands infantry, tearing through soldiers and metal alike. A dozen attack helicopters hovered above, their rotors chopping through the smoke-choked air, releasing hellfire missiles that carved deep craters into the mountainside.

Pamela Patterson's infamous tank battalion was holding the line.

And above them, moving like predatory falcons, were the 4th Wonderbolt Brigade—Canterlot’s elite aerial unit.

Spencer squinted through the smoke, spotting the distinctive blue and gold armor of the Wonderbolts, their high-speed fighter jets and combat exosuits weaving between anti-air fire like ghosts.

They were fast, almost too fast for the human eye to track.

But the real monsters of the battlefield?

They were the three men standing at the front lines.

Gareth “Garble” Dracona.
Flint “Fume” Marquez.
Cassius “Clump” Lugen.

S-Rank soldiers. Dragonlands’ finest.

And Spencer’s personal tormentors from boot camp.

They stood atop the smoking ruins of a Canterlot outpost, their bodies barely covered in scratches, their armor painted in the blood of their enemies.

Garble, the tallest, rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck as he grinned at the chaos unfolding around him.

"This is taking too long," he muttered, tapping the massive serrated combat knife strapped to his thigh. "I thought the 203rd was supposed to be elite."

Fume, smaller and leaner, snorted, wiping the blood off his knuckles.

"They're putting up a fight, at least," he admitted, his voice lazy, almost bored. "Gotta respect that."

Clump, the broadest of the three, adjusted his gauntlets, the metal plates glowing faintly from the heat of battle.

“Let ‘em come,” he rumbled. “More bodies for the pile.”

They weren’t worried. They never were.

Because they didn’t lose.

And now, the 107th Battalion was dropping right into this death trap.

Spencer hit the ground hard, his boots slamming into the dirt, knees bending to absorb the impact. The moment his feet touched the battlefield, his ears were assaulted by the sounds of war—the screams of dying men, the roar of engines, the relentless barrage of gunfire.

"FUCK, WE'RE IN THE OPEN!"

Cole’s voice rang out beside him, raw with panic.

Spencer didn’t have time to think. He sprinted, throwing himself behind a chunk of concrete, barely avoiding the spray of bullets that tore through the air where he had been a second ago.

The battlefield was worse than he imagined.

The Dragonlands had technically taken control of Pacific Cave in an earlier raid, thanks to Garble, Fume, and Clump. But they hadn’t been able to hold it.

Canterlot had returned with everything they had.

Now, the 107th Battalion was trying to retake ground that had already been lost.

And they were getting fucking massacred.

Spencer pushed his back against the rubble, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His rifle felt heavier than ever, his fingers clenching around the grip until his knuckles turned white.

"Where the fuck is command?!" Cole shouted over the gunfire, his voice hoarse.

"Dead!" someone else screamed. "The command post got hit by a missile ten minutes ago! We’re on our own!"

Spencer forced himself to think.

They were in a kill zone.

The high ground was covered in enemy armor, and the Wonderbolts controlled the airspace.

If they stayed here, they were all dead.

"We need to move!" Spencer barked, his voice stronger than he expected.

Cole whipped his head around, eyes wide.

"Move where? You see a fucking exit sign, genius?"

Spencer’s mind raced. He looked around, taking in every detail, every opening, every possible escape route.

And then he saw it.

A narrow trench, half-buried under twisted metal and debris, running along the edge of the battlefield. It led toward the cave entrance.

The same entrance Garble and the others had taken when they captured the dungeon.

He turned to Cole.

"The trench," he said, pointing. "If we can make it there, we might have a chance."

Cole followed his gaze, his face twisting in disbelief.

"You’re fucking insane."

"Probably." Spencer checked his ammo, then looked back at him.

"You coming or not?"

Cole stared at him for a long second. Then he let out a bitter laugh.

"Fuck it. If I’m gonna die, might as well die running."

Spencer took a deep breath.

Then he moved.

Gunfire erupted the second he left cover, bullets kicking up dirt and rock as he sprinted toward the trench.

He didn’t look back.

He just ran.

The world was a blur of fire and metal, his heartbeat a hammer against his ribs. He felt the air shift as a missile screamed overhead, slamming into a bunker somewhere behind him.

The shockwave threw him forward, his body hitting the ground hard, rolling.

His vision spun, the sky and earth switching places.

Then hands grabbed him, yanking him into the trench just before another explosion ripped through the air.

"Jesus fuck, you’re lucky," Cole wheezed, panting beside him. "I thought you were dead for sure."

Spencer blinked, disoriented.

And then he realized—

They made it.

But they weren’t alone.

A group of Dragonlands soldiers were already in the trench, wounded but alive.

One of them looked up, his face half-covered in blood, and froze when he saw Spencer.

"You," he rasped. "You’re that conscript, aren’t you?"

Spencer stared at him.

Then the soldier grinned, his teeth red.

"Guess you’re not as worthless as they said."

Hell had no mercy tonight.

The trenches were choked with smoke and fire, the screams of dying soldiers blending with the relentless thunder of artillery. The ground trembled beneath Spencer’s feet, dirt and shrapnel raining down from above as explosions ripped through the battlefield.

The 203rd’s counterattack had begun in full force, and it was nothing short of annihilation.

“FALL BACK!”

Garble’s voice boomed through the radio channels, thick with frustration.

“We got the order—HQ wants us out!”

“What?! Now?!” Clump bellowed. “We’re still holding them!”

“Not anymore,” Fume muttered, eyes fixed on the horizon where dozens of Canterlot tanks were barreling toward the trenches. “This just became a graveyard.”

Their orders were clear.

Pull back to the extraction zone. Leave the grunts behind.

The three S-Ranks exchanged glances, then turned and left.

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Because soldiers were expendable.

And conscripts?

Even more so.

The moment the S-Ranks retreated, Pamela Patterson’s tank division opened fire.

The first artillery barrage hit the northernmost trench with devastating force, reducing it to nothing but craters and smoke.

No survivors.

Spencer ducked instinctively, the shockwave nearly throwing him off his feet. He heard Cole cursing beside him, his voice barely audible over the deafening roar of explosions.

And then—

BOOM!

Something slammed into the dirt right between them.

Spencer turned, his heart stopping.

A soldier, barely recognizable under the blood and mud, had leaped up from cover, a rocket launcher balanced on his shoulder.

He was aiming right at the incoming tanks.

For a brief moment, Spencer thought—

Maybe we actually have a chance.

And then—

CRACK!

A sniper’s bullet tore through the soldier’s skull, his body collapsing lifelessly into the trench.

The rocket launcher clattered to the ground, landing right between Spencer and Cole.

They stared at it.

Then at each other.

Cole’s hands twitched, but Spencer moved first.

His fingers wrapped around the grip, his legs burning with adrenaline as he hauled it up, resting it against the edge of the trench.

The second-closest tank was lining up its next shot.

He fired first.

The rocket streaked through the night, a trail of fire cutting across the darkness before slamming directly into the tank’s turret.

BOOM!

The armored behemoth erupted in flames, its ammunition detonating in a chain reaction.

But the real chaos?

Came from what happened next.

The tank had already loaded a shell.

When the explosion ripped through it, the shell shot upward, spiraling wildly into the sky.

A Wonderbolt fighter jet was passing overhead.

The shell clipped its wing.

The aircraft lurched violently, smoke pouring from its engine.

“MAYDAY! MAYDAY!” the pilot’s voice screamed over the comms before ejecting, his parachute deploying somewhere in the distance.

The moment of shock gave the other two trenches just enough time to retreat.

But Spencer’s trench?

They weren’t fast enough.

Before they could move—

The tanks recovered.

And this time, they weren’t holding back.

The barrage came all at once.

Five shells, each the size of a man, tore through Spencer’s trench with the force of an earthquake.

Dirt. Blood. Metal. Bone.

Everything was obliterated.

The ground was leveled, the trenches flattened into nothing.

Spencer hit the dirt hard, his helmet cracking against the stone. His ears rang. His vision blurred.

He could barely move.

But he could see.

And Cole was already running.

"FUCK THIS, I’M OUT!"

The bastard didn’t even look back.

Spencer tried to push himself up, but his body wouldn’t listen.

Not yet.

Then he saw them.

The bags.

The fallen soldiers' backpacks.

They were supposed to be carrying C4 charges.

But when Spencer crawled toward them, his fingers shaking as he searched through the pouches, his heart sank.

Empty.

They had planned to blow the cave entrance.

But they never got the chance.

Except…

One of them had a live detonator.

And suddenly, Spencer understood.

His body moved before his mind caught up.

His fingers wrapped around his rifle.

He leaped out of cover.

And he started firing.

The enemy saw flashes of movement, heard screams echoing from the trenches.

Gunfire erupted, bursts of suppressing fire forcing them to halt their advance.

It was chaos.

It was madness.

Because to them, it sounded like an entire platoon was still holding the line.

Not just one man.

Spencer sprinted through the smoke, his rifle kicking against his shoulder as he emptied every last bullet he had.

Bodies dropped.

Chaos spread.

And then he saw it—

The Mini-Gun, half-buried in the rubble.

He dived for it, his hands wrapping around the massive weapon as he hauled it up.

His arms burned, his muscles screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Because if he stopped, it was over.

So he pressed the trigger.

And hell was unleashed.

The Mini-Gun roared, a solid stream of death and fire cutting through the battlefield.

Enemies collapsed in waves.

Armor was ripped apart.

The ground was soaked in blood.

And for the first time—

The 203rd hesitated.

Because this wasn’t a normal soldier.

This wasn’t tactics or strategy.

This was a fucking demon.

Then—

Click.

The gun ran dry.

And in the deafening silence that followed, they all realized the truth.

It had only been one man.

One man had done all of this.

And now?

Now, they were going to rip him apart.

A hundred rifles turned on him at once.

A thousand boots charged forward.

And Spencer?

He ran.

Straight into Pacific Cave.

Right where he wanted them.

Because this wasn’t over yet.

Not by a long shot.

The air inside Pacific Cave was thick with dust and gunpowder, the echoes of war still ringing against the jagged stone walls.

Spencer ran deeper into the cave, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His rifle was empty. His body was failing.

And behind him?

The entire Canterlot force was charging after him.

“THERE HE IS!”

A soldier, his boots slamming against the stone, pointed straight at Spencer.

“IT’S JUST ONE GUY! GET HIM!”

A hundred or more soldiers followed the order, storming into the cave, their weapons drawn, ready to tear one single man apart.

But Spencer?

He wasn’t done yet.

His foot hit something hard and metal, and his fingers wrapped around the live detonator he had taken from the fallen soldier.

His eyes flicked upward, taking in the jagged ceiling, the unstable rock formations, the ancient dungeon infrastructure barely holding itself together.

It was all he needed.

Spencer grinned, his face streaked with dirt and blood.

Then, in a loud, clear voice, he called out—

“Say goodnight, assholes.”

And he pressed the button.

The explosion tore through the cave system with the force of a thousand cannons, shaking the very earth beneath their feet.

Massive boulders cracked and fell.
Pillars of stone crumbled like dust.
The dungeon ceiling gave way.

And in an instant—

Everything collapsed.

Pamela Patterson watched from her tank as the entrance to the dungeon collapses killing everyone inside, her arms crossed, a deep scowl on her face.

One second, her forces were moving in to secure the cave, tanks lined up, artillery primed, and then—

BOOM.

The entire goddamn mountain came crashing down.

The impact was so violent that her tank rocked backwards, dust and debris blasting into the sky like a volcanic eruption.

Her radio crackled with confused voices from her subordinates.

“Command! Command! What the hell just happened?!”

Pamela’s eyes narrowed, gripping the radio.

“Somebody better give me a fucking answer, right now.”

Above her, high in the sky, Riley Dougal was circling in her Wonderbolt fighter, trying to get a better view.

But all she could see was smoke. Fire. Dust.

The entire battlefield had gone silent.

“What the hell was that?” she muttered to herself, gripping the controls tightly.

No one answered.

Because no one knew.

3 DAYS LATER - The Dragonlands Military HQ

Inside the Dragonlands High Command War Room, tension hung thick in the air.

A massive holographic map of Pacific Cave flickered on the central display, its once-clear terrain now completely unreadable—nothing but a jumbled mess of collapsed rock and dead soldiers.

The top brass of the Dragonlands military sat around the table, their expressions ranging from furious to dumbfounded.

“What the hell is this?” General Balthazar growled, pointing at the casualty report displayed in front of them. “We lost an S-Rank Dungeon?! And over two hundred soldiers?!”

Another general, his face pale, shook his head.

“Worse. We lost the 107th Battalion almost entirely. The entire Northern Trench was wiped out, and the last two trenches fell shortly after.”

Murmurs rippled through the room.

The battle was a complete disaster.

The Dragonlands didn’t just lose the dungeon.

They had been humiliated.

A chair scraped loudly against the floor as Garble leaned back, arms crossed, his expression bored.

“Pfft. What’s the big deal?” he muttered. “It’s just some shitty cave. We’ll take another one.”

Fume snorted, shaking his head.

“Yeah. And honestly? The real disgrace is that this whole mess started because of some dumbass conscript.”

Clump grinned, tilting his head toward the holoscreen.

“Yeah, who even was that guy?” He leaned in, pointing at the blurry figure from the recovered drone footage. “Look—you can still see the uniform.”

A pause.

Then Garble laughed.

“Oh my fucking god.” He slapped the table. “That’s a conscript uniform. You’re telling me some nameless foot soldier caused all this chaos? That’s fucking pathetic.”

Fume chuckled.

Clump grinned.

But then—

“Shut the fuck up.”

The room fell silent.

Garble’s smirk vanished.

Because Ember Valkyria was staring at them.

And she was furious.

Her piercing cobalt eyes burned with a fire so intense it felt like the temperature in the room had dropped.

She leaned forward, her voice dangerously quiet.

“Let me get this straight.” She tapped the table, her fingers drumming in slow, deliberate motions.

“We just lost an S-Rank Dungeon. Over two hundred soldiers are dead. The entire battle was a fucking disaster.”

She tilted her head.

“And your first thought… is to mock the one soldier who actually did something?”

Garble opened his mouth to argue, but Ember’s fist slammed against the table, rattling the monitors.

“Shut. Up.” Her voice was low and deadly, each syllable sharp enough to cut glass.

Her gaze locked onto the three of them, her expression filled with pure disgust.

“I watched you three retreat while soldiers fought for their lives,” she continued, her voice growing colder.

“You got your orders, sure. But what did you do after that? Did you try to hold the line a little longer? No. Did you even warn them what was coming? No.”

She leaned in, her words dripping with venom.

“You ran.”

A slow smirk curled on her lips.

“And then you have the fucking nerve to call someone else pathetic?”

Garble gritted his teeth, his face red with embarrassment.

Fume looked away.

Clump’s fists tightened, but he said nothing.

Because Ember was right.

And they knew it.

Far beneath the collapsed ruins of Pacific Cave, where no light could reach, something stirred.

A faint blue glow flickered in the darkness.

The remnants of the dungeon’s ancient machinery hummed back to life, screens flickering as coded symbols danced across them.

A robotic voice echoed through the empty chamber.

“Objective Completed.”

And then, silence.

Until—

“GASP!”

Spencer breathed in.