The raid on the Sein Dungeon continued in full swing.
Countless adventurers from neighboring lands rushed over the moment the news spread. For those dreaming of having their names etched into history, this was the chance of a lifetime — once a dungeon underwent mutations, the "First Clear" record could be reset.
Of course, Leon and his team's achievements wouldn't be erased. The new monument for the next record-holders would simply be placed beside theirs.
Merchants were equally swift to act. Inns across Bedford City were packed to capacity, forcing late arrivals to set up temporary camps outside the city walls.
Surprisingly, this time the current Count, Charon, remained rather passive. Aside from assigning a few guards to maintain order, he showed no further involvement.
Odd. Weren't traveling merchants basically walking piles of gold for a lord like him? Why the apathy?
In short — the profits were already carved up and handed to Val City.
Philip had left behind a mess, and to calm the unrest, Charon had been bleeding himself dry. He'd been slicing off pieces of the family estate just to feed the wild dogs eyeing his holdings.
Val City, being the closest and most hostile, demanded the most appeasement. For his own safety, Charon had no choice but to keep yielding — a chunk here, a share there — until the only industries left firmly in his control were blood-crystal mining and blood-potion production.
Outwardly, Charon maintained a polite smile toward Val City, but in his heart, he wanted nothing more than to butcher every last one of them.
Long story short — Bedford City was booming.
After three or four days, the raid's progress began to split into different directions.
Adventurers had gained a basic grasp of the dungeon's new conditions, as well as rough intel about each of its areas.
People started reflecting on where they truly excelled — which regions suited their strengths — and voluntarily set out to explore the zones that resonated with them most.
The Adventurers' Guild bulletin board was crammed with party recruitment notices, each listing target areas and the specific skills required.
Bit by bit, specialization improved. Rookies became veterans, veterans grew into elites, and as for those who were already elites—
Take Darrick, for example. He came to challenge the dungeon every single day.
He had no fixed team. On his way over, he would recruit random companions, join whichever party invited him, or, if no one was available, go solo without complaint.
No matter how much the dungeon's layout evolved, he went to the same place every time — Farron Keep.
But he had once fled from the Farron Old Wolf himself. So why return to a place that only dredged up bitter memories?
Surely, he wasn't a masochist…
"Graaaagh!"
The Ghrus roared, charging at Darrick with crude weapons raised.
But he already knew their attack patterns by heart. With practiced ease, he weaved left and right, slipping through them and reaching the hilltop.
Boom!
He sprinted to the first bonfire tower and slapped his palm onto the flame, extinguishing it before the statue of Gwyn.
The familiar sight of the heavy gate unlocking appeared. He'd seen this animation far too many times — could it not be skipped already?
Waiting for the cutscene to finish, Darrick reflected on the current state of the raid.
Even though Farron Keep was an entire tier above the swamp zone in difficulty, adventurers still pushed forward day by day.
As they progressed, the story of Farron spread. Through fragments of item descriptions — from Black Bug Pellets to monster-dropped weapons — players gradually pieced together the lore. The Hunter's Manual helped immensely.
A thousand adventurers meant a thousand interpretations; naturally, everyone had their own version of Farron's history. But one plotline was universally accepted:
Extinguishing the three bonfires was the trial to join the Undead Legion. Once one accepted the wolf's blood, they would become a true member.
Adventurers believed the final boss of Farron Keep had to be the entire Undead Legion — a vast army.
An army from an ancient, forgotten era — the thought alone made their blood boil. Some were already researching how to battle a whole legion efficiently.
Not that it would matter. Because—
To this day, no one had actually stepped through the main gate of the keep.
In the Sein Dungeon's version, extinguishing all three bonfires should allow entry into the fortress to meet the Old Wolf, and then go deep enough to challenge the final boss.
Darrick was likely the only adventurer who had ever reached the Old Wolf — or, at the very least, no one else had claimed to.
Then players discovered a hidden rule: each extinguished bonfire increased the area's difficulty.
Enemies grew stronger, new traps appeared along previously cleared paths, and even the terrain shifted — usually fatally.
One route, for instance, would collapse after the flame was put out, revealing a den of wild wolves below.
No one had ever survived being torn apart by those mutts — not a single person.
Darrick's best record was reaching the third bonfire, only to be killed by monsters before he could extinguish it.
The main strategy team once managed to extinguish all three, but were slaughtered by buffed-up monsters before they even reached the gate.
Maru was enraged, swearing that once Leon returned, she'd make the monsters regret existing.
If even the top team struggled, the others were hopeless. Many adventurers simply gave up and moved to the gourmet zone to enjoy a peaceful life.
But Darrick was relentless with himself. He refused the easy path, deliberately choosing the most difficult commissions he could find.
"Gah!"
As soon as the animation ended, he rolled aside, narrowly dodging a Ghru's lunge. Its head slammed into the wall with a sickening thud.
Without hesitation, Darrick bolted.
He had his escape route perfectly calculated — with enough speed, he could reach the next patch of solid ground before the Ghrus caught up, avoiding the swamp's slowing effect entirely. That would allow him to fight them safely on land.
Having memorized every inch of the map, Darrick even had room to think about today's commissions while running.
Most involved gathering materials or monster parts within Farron Keep — requests he could complete along the way.
Splurt! Splurt! Splurt!
Globs of muddy sludge splashed toward him. Darrick only frowned, not even bothering to dodge — just mud.
Whenever he outran the Ghrus, those disgusting swamp creatures would start pelting him with muck. It did no real damage — just humiliation.
Wait… wasn't there a commission asking for swamp matter from Farron Keep?
Immediately, Darrick pulled out a jar, scooped some swamp fluid inside, shoved it into his pouch without caring about the filth, and thought,
"That'll make a nice treat for the wolves."
The wolf pack on his farm were the same ones that had raised him — at least part of them.
As a Silver-ranked adventurer, he lived comfortably, yet he always spent money on fine food for the wolves. Even though they could hunt for themselves, he insisted on feeding them better meals.
When they got injured or sick, he paid for medicine too.
Maybe it was his way of repaying their kindness.
Those wolves were his spiritual anchor — the reason he became an adventurer.
To protect them, Darrick would do anything.
"The second bonfire… just ahead."
After a fierce fight, Darrick stood before the flame. He hesitated briefly before extinguishing it.
No Hunter invaded this time — by design, Hunters never targeted anyone already in possession of a Hunter's Manual.
Patches didn't appear either — much to the disappointment of those itching to punch him.
No Hunters meant no gunfire, and thus no monster swarms drawn by the noise.
So why was Darrick still tense?
He drew a sharp breath.
Then — from the base of the hill — came footsteps.
Not the crisp rhythm of a Hunter, but something wet and sticky, as though its owner dripped pus with every step, each footprint stretching like glue.
Darrick's grip on his sword trembled.
When the figure finally crested the hill, its identity became clear.
The Darkwraith Knight!
Whenever the second bonfire went out, these abyssal creatures appeared.
Darrick had already died to them multiple times.
Each time, he'd respawn in Firelink Shrine, then immediately sprint hundreds of miles back to challenge the Darkwraith again — and each time, he lost.
Today was his last attempt for the week. His mental stamina was nearly spent — one more death and he'd take days off to recover.
Wait… why am I assuming I'll die again!?
He raised his sword, cold sweat rolling down his forehead.
He hadn't defeated one yet — and his Hunter's Manual only listed the name — but he could easily infer the Darkwraith belonged to the Abyss faction.
He'd once seen them fighting Ghrus. Since Ghrus served the Undead Legion, that made Darkwraiths the enemy.
"Come on, then!"
He charged — but the Darkwraith's hands flared with crimson spelllight.
"Not that move again!"
Once caught by it, something would drain out of him — strength, stamina, mana — until his body weakened and his mind dulled.
He had to dodge!
Seconds later, Darrick was slammed into the ground, the crimson light siphoning his spirit.
"Damn it…"
When he revived before the Firelink Shrine bonfire, sorrow clouded his expression.
"I dodged it… I did! How did it still grab me? That makes no sense…"
He slumped before the fire, muttering — looking exactly like a disheartened Ashen One.
"The Undead Legion fights things like this every day? …I respect them even more now."
"The Darkwraith must be one of the Abyss's strongest maybe even a leader. No wonder I can't win."
In truth, he just died too quickly each time to realize there was more than one of them.
Darrick sighed deeply.
"…I really should find a party."