CHAPTER 113: CH 113: RISK ON THE SECOND FLOOR- PART 3

Just as Fenrir was about to bind the last of his attackers and move out, a sharp hiss cut through the air.

Shhhlick.

He turned in time to see something blur toward him, and instinctively pulled out his spear. The weapons met midair with a solid clang, sparks flying.

Fenrir’s eyes narrowed at his new opponent.

It was tall, scaly, and reeked of swamp rot.

At first glance, it looked like a giant lizard, but it stood upright, muscles coiled tight across its humanoid frame. Jagged claws, a long tail, and glowing yellow eyes all gave it away.

"A beast-man."

Fenrir muttered.

Before he could strike again, the lizard-man opened its mouth wide and spat a thick stream of green liquid straight at him.

Fenrir leaped backward. The acid missed, but when it splashed against the cave floor, a harsh hiss filled the air—and the stone melted.

Fenrir raised a brow.

"Now that’s just rude. Didn’t your tribe teach you anything about hospitality?"

He said, flicking droplets of slime off his arm.

The lizard-man hissed again in response and launched itself forward with feral speed.

Fenrir let out a dramatic sigh.

"All I wanted was five minutes to breathe. But nope."

Their weapons clashed, Fenrir’s spear whirling in smooth arcs while the lizard-man lashed with claws and jagged daggers.

It was clear the beast-man was physically strong and fast—each strike was a blur, and the power behind them would’ve shattered bones if they’d connected.

But Fenrir quickly noticed a flaw.

Strength alone wasn’t enough.

The lizard-man lacked the refined control and instinct that came with real training. It fought like a savage beast, relying on brute force, not skill.

Fenrir ducked low, twisted past a wild swipe, and activated Master of Illusions.

A clone of himself appeared behind the lizard, swinging wide. The beast turned immediately, slashing at the fake—but the blade went straight through.

The real Fenrir appeared beside it and buried his spear in its side.

The beast howled.

Blood sprayed across the wall, and the lizard-man dropped to one knee.

But before Fenrir could finish the fight, it opened its jaws and let out a bone-chilling screech that echoed through the forest outside the cave.

"Don’t you dare."

Fenrir muttered.

Too late.

The lizard-man crumpled, dead, but its dying cry had done enough damage.

A distant rustle. Then another. Soon, dozens of footfalls approached—wet, rapid slaps against the mossy forest floor.

The swamp was coming alive.

Fenrir backed toward the cave entrance, eyes scanning the shadows. From the trees and underbrush, dozens of figures emerged.

Tall, scaled, glowing-eyed beast-men, drawn by the cry of their kin.

"Fifty?"

Fenrir muttered.

He cracked his neck and spun his spear in one hand.

"Fine. I guess I’m not getting sleep tonight either."

They attacked.

One leaped from a tree branch and was met with a spear through the gut. Two more charged from the ground, only to be caught in an earthen spike trap Fenrir summoned beneath their feet.

He ducked and weaved, cutting through the swarm with brutal efficiency, using Master of Earth

to shift terrain and Master of Illusions to misdirect and flank.

His illusions multiplied. While the enemies wasted time chasing mirages, Fenrir cut through the real threat one by one.

The battle raged for nearly twenty minutes, but Fenrir never faltered.

When the last beast-man fell, gasping and clawing at nothing, Fenrir stood over the blood-soaked earth, breathing steady.

[System Update: You have defeated 50 enemies. Level Up! Current Level: 56.]

"About time."

He muttered, flicking blood off his spear.

He took a moment to survey the damage. The cave’s entrance was littered with broken bodies.

Acid burns scarred the rocks, and the scent of death was everywhere. If anything else was nearby, it would definitely come sniffing soon.

"No point sticking around here anymore."

Fenrir said aloud.

He stepped back into the cave and packed up his belongings quickly. The clothes he’d washed earlier were still a bit damp, but he didn’t care.

He changed into them anyway, then took down his defensive glyphs and checked the system map for the nearest alternative hideout.

This cave was compromised. It wasn’t a safe zone anymore.

As he stepped out into the night, the swamp seemed even thicker, darker.

But Fenrir didn’t look concerned. If anything, he looked more focused than before.

He glanced over his shoulder once at the ruined cave, then faced forward and muttered,

"Let’s see if the rest of the second floor has something better to offer."

Fenrir found another safe spot tucked between two massive stone formations, partially hidden by thick overgrowth and hanging vines.

The location was a natural alcove, half-collapsed, but sturdy enough to use as a temporary shelter. Still, he wasn’t about to take any chances this time.

He scanned the perimeter carefully before setting to work.

Using Master of Earth, he carved out traps—pits covered with stone camouflage, pressure plates that would send up spikes, and seismic sensors that would alert him if anything moved nearby.

He buried them all seamlessly into the terrain, then molded a narrow tunnel as a choke point leading into the shelter.

Anything that wanted to reach him would have to come through that gauntlet.

Even with all that done, Fenrir didn’t feel comfortable.

Every creak of the trees, every rustle of leaves, put him on edge.

The second a stick cracked underfoot—whether animal or wind—his eyes snapped open, senses primed.

After the third time waking up like that, Fenrir sat up with an annoyed groan and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"This is pointless. At this rate, I’ll never be rested enough to deal with what’s coming."

He muttered to himself.

He stood and glanced around, reassured by the silence. Still, no amount of traps or defenses could guarantee peace of mind.

At least not here, not while exposed in the open. He needed real rest. Actual sleep. And there was only one place where he could have that.

With a wave of his hand, he summoned the entrance to his dungeon.

A faint shimmer appeared in the air, and a black doorway formed out of nothing.

He stepped inside and was immediately greeted by the still air and quiet walls of his domain. The temperature was perfect, the silence absolute.

For the first time since entering the second floor, Fenrir exhaled and let himself relax.

"This’ll do."

He found his private quarters and lay on the bed without another word.

As soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep sleep—no illusions, no tricks, no monsters waiting in the shadows. Just rest.

When he woke up, the dungeon told him that only a few hours had passed in the real world. It was enough.

Fenrir stretched, yawned, and made his way back toward the dungeon entrance. But he didn’t walk out immediately.

He picked up one of the standard swords stored inside and, without fanfare, hurled it through the portal.

A second later—clang!—something struck the blade outside.

Then another.

A snarl, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws scraping against metal.

Fenrir grinned.

"Figured."

With his enemies now exposed and focused on the decoy, he stepped through the portal—spear already in hand—and whispered.

"My turn."