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Chapter 1 – Silver Death at the Edge
The air of the dungeon was thick with the stench of blood and damp stone, a scent Isabella Crosswill had long since grown accustomed to. Yet, for all her experience, there was something invigorating about stepping into the unknown depths alone, blade in hand, heart steady. A flash of silver cut across the dim torchlight, and a green orc's body split neatly in two, toppling with a heavy thud.
Isabella didn't even flinch. Her lips curved slightly upward—a smile more of calm amusement than triumph—as she advanced further into the corridor, her twin-edged blade glinting as it caught the flickering light. Orcs swarmed like an unrelenting tide, but she moved like water around stone, fluid, unstoppable. Each swing, parry, and step carried a grace that belied the violence of the scene.
"Still think I need a partner?" she muttered under her breath, wiping a trickle of blood from her forearm where a scratch had grazed her. Of course, it wasn't the first time she had ventured into an A-rank dungeon solo. The title of Sword Saint wasn't handed out for nothing, and she knew it. Pride had always been part of her—and that pride often fueled her. But today… today felt different.
Ahead, a red orc chief emerged from the shadows, massive and menacing, eyes burning like molten embers. Normally, he would be the final guardian of this level, the culmination of the dungeon's challenge. Isabella's lips curved into a faint smirk. This won't take long.
The clash was brutal. Steel rang against clawed armor, sparks flying as they danced a deadly rhythm. The chief was strong, but predictable, and Isabella's precision made every strike count. Her mind was calm, almost detached, cataloging openings, weaknesses, timing his swings. One decisive moment later, and the red orc chief fell, collapsing with a roar that shook the walls.
She stepped back, catching her breath, expecting the familiar horn of dungeon clearance, but silence answered her instead. Frowning, she advanced cautiously—and then froze.
A battalion of red orcs surged ahead, and behind them, impossibly massive and darker than any creature she had seen in this dungeon, a Black Great Orc loomed, its eyes like twin coals smoldering with intent.
Double dungeon… her mind processed quickly. Her carefully calculated pride had led her into a trap. Her cards, her reserves, her aura—they were gone. She had overestimated herself.
But Isabella Crosswill did not falter. Not now. Not ever. With a guttural exhale, she charged forward, resolute to bring down at least four of these beasts before the end came for her. Steel clashed against claws, sparks flew, the ground itself seeming to shake with the force of her swings. Her vision began to blur. Sound became muddled, distant—the grunts, the battle cries, the roar of the Black Great Orc all melting into a chaotic symphony.
Each swing cost her more energy. Each strike drew blood from more wounds. She felt a cut along her shoulder, another along her thigh, and yet she pressed on. She had faced death many times, but this… this was different. Her body began to betray her. She was sent flying by a massive swipe from the Black Great Orc, colliding with the dungeon wall. Pain lanced through her chest, her vision swimming with red and gray. Blood poured from her mouth like a river she could not dam.
For a moment, despair threatened to settle in. She could end here. She could let the darkness take her.
And then, a memory broke through.
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Rain soaked her hair, silver strands plastered to her face. She was eight years old, running blindly through the forest at the edge of her home. The noble household she had been born into had suffocated her. Arranged marriages, rules for women she had never agreed to… she had had enough. And so, she ran.
The forest was cold, unfamiliar, yet strangely welcoming. She had planned to wander for days, perhaps weeks, to find freedom. Until she heard it. A growl, deep and resonant, unlike anything she had ever known.
She had rushed toward the sound, and there it was: a three-headed beast, monstrous and snarling, cornering a woman in the flowing white robes of Saint Georgia, and two little boys—one pale-haired, one dark-eyed.
Isabella had no sword then. No training. Nothing but childish bravery and a stick she had picked up along the path. Without thinking, she hurled it at the beast. It struck one of its heads, startling it, but hardly harming it. The creature turned its gaze upon her, and she ran. Inevitably, she tripped, sprawling across the wet earth. She had thought this would be the end, but her fall had bought just enough time.
From the trees came the royal guards, knights clad in shining armor, cutting down the monster. She had saved them—not intentionally, not consciously, but her reckless bravery had made the difference. Prince Damian, Marcus Dehevial, and Saint Georgia had survived because of a little girl running from home. And from that day forward, Saint Georgia had taken her under her wing, training her, shaping her, molding her into the weapon she had become.
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Blood still dripped from her lips, her vision regaining clarity, as she returned to the present. She was no longer a frightened child. She was Isabella Crosswill, Sword Saint of the Church, Silver Death, solo ranker of dungeons. Yet now, lying on a bed, bandages wrapped around her arms and torso, she felt the weight of mortality pressing down on her.
Marcus stood at the edge of the bed, book in hand, eyes sharp, though his face betrayed more concern than words could express.
"Do you plan to talk?" he asked, his voice cutting but measured. "Because if you open that mouth before I say so…" His eyes narrowed, warning unspoken.
Isabella sat up slowly, raking a hand through her hair, smirking faintly. "Hmm… hard to choose words when the situation is so… lively," she quipped, brushing a smear of blood from her cheek.
Marcus groaned, his exasperation palpable. "You're lucky I got the message about your solo run before it reached the higher-ups. I came to surprise you—and found you at death's door instead."
She shrugged, as casual as if discussing the weather. "It's just the natural way of life, isn't it?"
Marcus sighed, running a hand over his face. He had learned long ago that arguing with Isabella was like trying to stop a river with one hand—it was pointless.
A faint smile curved her lips, belying the gravity of her wounds. "I suppose… I need a support mage," she said, her voice bold and determined.
Marcus blinked. A small, genuine smile broke across his face—the kind that betrayed both relief and pride. "Finally," he muttered under his breath. "At least now you won't try to fight a dungeon solo and risk your life again."
He began listing names of high-ranking mages—some from the guilds, others internationally renowned. Yet Isabella yawned lightly, waving a hand dismissively.
"No. Too conventional," she said. "I'll pick one from the Holy Grail Academy."
Marcus froze mid-sentence, disbelief written plainly across his face. "The… school for nobles? You—"
"Yes," she interrupted, smirking, "the same. They're talented, young, and, most importantly, untainted by typical professional mages who would merely follow orders. I want someone fresh, adaptable. Someone I can shape… if they can survive me."
Marcus shook his head slowly, lips twitching in a reluctant smile. He had known Isabella long enough to understand that once she made a decision, not even the Church could sway her.
Her eyes glinted with the audacity that had earned her the title Silver Death. "Prepare the arrangements, Marcus. I leave at dawn."
He exhaled, his smile widening, amusement mixed with worry. "I swear, you're impossible," he muttered, shaking his head as he left to make preparations.
Alone, Isabella allowed herself a quiet moment, fingers brushing the edge of the bed as if grounding herself. She had faced death today, and she had survived—not because she was the strongest, but because she refused to surrender.
Tomorrow, she would walk into the halls of the Holy Grail Academy and find the mage who would be her support, her partner, and perhaps something more.
Her lips curved into that same calm smile she had worn while slicing through orcs earlier. Silver Death. Sword Saint. Survivor.
And she was ready.
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The end....