The journey upward was not a straight march. Even with the wyvern slain and its massive corpse safely tucked into Ethan's subspace inventory, the dungeon refused to let them go quietly.

On the tenth floor, the flames of the battle still smoldered, the stone cracked and scorched black. Ethan led the way without a word, Nyxfang and Seloria prowling ahead, their low growls echoing in the stillness. Lirael and Silvie followed close, their eyes darting to every shadow, senses sharpened after such a brutal clash.

The climb back began. The staircases they had descended so confidently before now felt heavier, every step a reminder of their fatigue. Yet the deeper floors were never meant to be generous; even the path back was treacherous.

On the ninth floor, they barely had time to breathe before the dungeon threw its next test at them. A cluster of plated ogres, their skin thick as bark, came stomping down the corridor. Each blow of their clubs shook the ground.

"Keep formation," Ethan ordered. His summons—the silver-armored soldiers—raised their shields in unison. The ogres smashed against the wall of steel, but this time Ethan did not waste time holding back. He flicked his blade up, eyes narrowing.

"Pierce them."

The soldiers answered with a roarless charge, spears thrusting forward in perfect rhythm. Ethan slipped through the chaos, his long blade slicing open a throat, then another. Lirael's arrows whistled past him, each one embedding deep into vulnerable joints. By the time the ogres realized they were already bleeding out, the fight was over.

Silvie lifted her hand, soft green light flowing across the group, knitting together the scratches and bruises earned in the clash.

"Efficient," Lirael murmured, wiping her brow. "Too efficient. I almost feel bad for them."

Ethan only smirked. "They were standing in our way. That's all that matters."

---

Floor after floor they pressed upward. Though nothing compared to the wyvern, the dungeon still tried to sap their strength—packs of dire wolves, lurking shadow serpents, and even a frost-marked ghoul that shrieked curses in a forgotten tongue before Nyxfang tore it apart.

Each battle had its reward. From the ogres, they gathered tusks and heavy hide. From the wolves, fangs that gleamed with mana. The ghoul left behind a shard of crystallized ice-mana, glittering faintly as Silvie tucked it away. Slowly, their pouches grew heavier, though none of it compared to the prize resting silently in Ethan's subspace.

On the seventh floor, tucked behind a crumbling wall, Lirael discovered a hidden chamber. Inside, they found a chest bound with black iron. When Ethan broke the seal, the glow of enchanted silver coins spilled out, alongside a single dagger made of pure moonsteel.

"Not bad," Ethan said, weighing the blade before sliding it into his belt. "Another secret the dungeon tried to hide."

Their spirits lifted with each find, though caution never left their movements. They knew all too well how quickly fortune could turn in a place like this.

---

Finally, after hours of climbing and cutting their way through ambushes, they reached the familiar stone arch of the spatial rift. Its surface shimmered like liquid glass, pulling at them with a silent promise of freedom.

They weren't the first to return. Groups of adventurers sat on the stone floor outside the rift, battered and bandaged, their laughter mixing with groans of exhaustion. Some counted stacks of coins and gem fragments; others sat with only empty hands and bitter stares.

When Ethan's party emerged, more than a few eyes turned their way.

"That group… didn't they go down with that draconian?" someone whispered.

"Yeah. Surprised they even made it out. Looks like they didn't get much, though."

"Serves them right. Greedy idiots always get burned."

The words drifted across the chamber, not quiet enough to be hidden, not loud enough to be outright confrontation. Ethan caught them easily but didn't bother replying. Let them assume what they wanted. The real prize rested out of sight, far beyond their imagination.

He glanced at Lirael and Silvie, both of whom were already smiling faintly at the murmurs. They knew better than to correct them.

"Come," Ethan said simply. "We've wasted enough time."

Together, they stepped through the rift, and the world folded around them.

---

The city was alive when they returned.

The beast tide had been beaten back; the proof lay before the towering gates. Piles of slain monsters carpeted the plains outside the walls, their bodies sprawled in grotesque heaps. Adventurers moved among them, prying scales, horns, and fangs from the carcasses. The stench of blood carried on the wind, heavy but victorious.

The walls themselves stood untouched, black stone unmarred despite the tide's fury. Guards atop the battlements rested against their spears, eyes sunken with exhaustion but faces bright with relief.

As Ethan's group made their way through the gates, no one tried to stop them. Adventurers flooded the streets, carrying sacks of spoils, shouting out offers of trades and quick sales. The air hummed with the chaos of success.

And yet, beneath it, Ethan could feel the subtle shift. The city had survived, yes, but the dungeon was not done. He could sense it in the way the ground seemed to hum beneath his boots, in the faint unease clinging to the air.

For now, though, there was only one destination—the guild.

---

Inside, the atmosphere was even more charged. Adventurers crowded the hall, laughing, bickering, or collapsing at tables with mugs of ale. The counters were flooded with merchants and guild clerks scribbling down lists of materials being sold.

When Ethan's party stepped forward, the crowd barely spared them a glance—at first. But when he drew forth the corpse from his subspace, the hall fell into silence.

A crash of chairs, the shuffle of boots, and then a wave of gasps spread through the room.

The wyvern's massive body sprawled across the guild floor, crimson scales gleaming under the lantern light, wings folded stiffly at its sides. Even in death, the sheer weight of its presence filled the hall, forcing every eye toward it.

The guildmaster himself came down from the second floor, his gaze sharp as steel. He circled the corpse once, his hand brushing across a scale. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of final judgment.

"One platinum coin."

The declaration rippled like thunder through the hall. One platinum—worth a thousand gold. Enough to change lives, to buy estates, to fund expeditions for years.

A heavy pouch hit the counter with a dull thud, and the guildmaster slid it across to Ethan without hesitation.

Ethan accepted it calmly, tying it to his belt. He could feel the weight of every stare in the room, the envy, the disbelief, the grudging respect. But he didn't linger on it. Instead, he turned to Lirael and Silvie, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

"Looks like our work is done," he said. "Let's enjoy being rich."

And for the first time since they had entered the dungeon, the weight of survival finally gave way to something simpler—victory.

the silence broke when the receptionist at the front desk—an auburn-haired woman with crisp robes and sharp professionalism—raised her voice.

"Wait. Before you leave," she said, clearing her throat, "I need to record the achievement properly."

Ethan turned, eyebrow raised. Lirael and Silvie shifted beside him, still riding the thrill of victory but curious at the sudden formality.

The receptionist pulled out a thick ledger bound in dark leather, its pages already filled with neat lines of handwriting. She dipped her quill into ink and looked up at Ethan with steady eyes.

"Your party name?" she asked.

Ethan hesitated for only a moment before answering. "Arkhaval's Eternal Eclipse."

The name rolled across the hall like a spark in dry grass. Conversations faltered. Adventurers who had been muttering in envy now leaned closer, memorizing the title. Some sneered, some nodded with respect, but none ignored it.

The receptionist wrote the name carefully, as though sealing it into history. "Arkhaval's Eternal Eclipse," she repeated aloud for the record, her quill scratching against parchment. "For the slaying of a crimson wyvern, its head to be displayed in the guild's trophy hall."

At those words, gasps rippled again. Everyone knew what it meant when a kill was displayed—immortality, of a kind. Generations of adventurers would pass beneath that skull, read the record plate, and see the name of the party who had brought it down.

But Ethan was not finished.

"Add another name," he said firmly.

The receptionist looked up, surprised. "Another…?"

"Xarion," Ethan said. "A-rank draconian adventurer. He fought the wyvern before us, and he helped bring it down. Record that as well."

Lirael's lips quirked in approval. Silvie gave a small nod of agreement. Around them, the crowd shifted. Some scoffed at the idea of giving credit away, others frowned, but a few murmured quietly that it was fair.

The receptionist regarded Ethan for a moment longer, then nodded and put quill to page again. "Understood. Both records will stand—Arkhaval's Eternal Eclipse and Xarion of the A-rank. The wyvern's death will be remembered by both names."

She stamped the entry with a wax seal and closed the ledger with a snap.

"Congratulations," she said, bowing her head slightly. "The guild honors your achievement."

Behind her, teams of workers were already moving to carve the wyvern's head from its corpse. Chains rattled, saws screeched, and the air filled with the sharp scent of iron and blood. Soon, the head would hang high in the trophy hall, its fangs bared forever, the plaque beneath it bearing the names Ethan had given.

Ethan only inclined his head. "That's enough."

With that, he turned. The guild hall parted before them as he strode toward the doors, Lirael at his right, Silvie at his left. The weight of stares followed them—some heavy with jealousy, others with reluctant admiration, a few with outright respect.

The doors swung open, and the noise of the guild fell away behind them. Cool evening air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of ash from the recent beast tide, but also the vibrant hum of a city alive and safe.

Lirael adjusted her quiver, smiling faintly. "Eternal Eclipse, hm? Has a nice ring to it."

Silvie giggled, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I think so too. Feels… big. Like we've carved our place already."

Ethan didn't answer right away. His hand brushed the pouch at his belt, heavy with platinum. His mind flickered back to Xarion's burning figure, wings unfurled, a tail newly sprouted as he drank the wyvern's blood. That battle had been a victory, yes—but also a reminder. There were still greater heights ahead.

Finally, he spoke, his voice steady, eyes sharp on the road beyond the guild.

"This is only the beginning."

And with that, Arkhaval's Eternal Eclipse stepped into the streets of a city that would soon learn their name.

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