The new proposal

The shimmering red runes of the teleportation gate flashed once more.

When the crimson light burst forth from the platform, the crowd outside the Hollow Spire held their breath. Veterans and rookies alike paused mid-sentence. Merchants halted their haggling. The red hue—the mark of Extreme Mode—never failed to stun. But this time… it wasn't just the light.

What emerged from the glow was something otherworldly.

Ren stepped forth, his silhouette cloaked in sleek, matte black armor lined with crimson-gold trim. The Obsidian Drake Set wrapped around him like living shadow and fire. The chestplate bore a scale-like texture, reinforced by enchanted crimson veins that pulsed faintly with mana. Spiked pauldrons curved over his shoulders, and the plated boots crushed the stone beneath with quiet weight. His helmet—draconic in design—hid all expression, the visor glowing faintly like a dragon’s eye.

Whispers surged through the gathered onlookers.

“Is that… the same guy who cleared Newvale’s dungeon solo?”

“No way. This guy’s on another level entirely.”

“I can’t sense anything from him—just pressure. Like a monster wearing armor.”

And before anyone could ask, speak, or breathe another question—

Whoosh!

A gust of wind exploded outward as Ren vanished. The dirt stirred, cloaks flapped, and loose coins scattered to the ground. All that remained was the phantom image of his afterglow and a hollow silence in the crowd.

“Where… where did he go?”

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Ren arrived at the gates of Veltharn before sunset.

His speed had nearly halved the journey time. And this time, no dust clung to his cloak, no exhaustion marked his steps. He was calm. Precise. Calculated.

Within the city walls, he moved like a phantom through the streets. Commoners and adventurers stepped aside, sensing the unseen pressure that rolled off him like a quiet storm. His boots echoed on the cobblestone as he approached the grand archway of the Veltharn Guildhall.

The moment he entered, the entire hall turned to him. Conversations died mid-word. One look at his armor, and the aura it carried, told them he was not ordinary.

The front desk attendant blinked rapidly, clearly flustered. “S-sir… do you require assistance?”

Ren removed his helmet. Familiar silver-blue eyes met hers, and a smirk touched his lips.

“I need to speak with Guildmaster Garron Thorne. Let him know… Ren Arclight has returned.”

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Within minutes, Ren was escorted up the polished stairs to the private guild master’s chamber.

The door opened to reveal the one-eyed, broad-shouldered veteran seated behind a war-scarred desk. Garron Thorne looked up—and nearly dropped his mug.

“…You’ve changed.”

Ren stepped inside with deliberate calm, setting the helmet down on the table. “The dungeon had more surprises than expected.”

“I heard rumors,” Garron muttered, standing slowly, his eye narrowing. “Whispers of a figure in obsidian armor cutting down a dragon. Alone. Tell me that wasn’t you.”

Ren simply smiled.

The guildmaster sat back down with a grunt. “Gods above. You’re either mad, or something more. What brings you here now?”

Ren’s eyes gleamed. “Information. And opportunities.”

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The firelight danced softly across the wooden walls of Garron Thorne’s office, casting elongated shadows as Ren laid out the rest of his proposal. His tone was calm, assured—not arrogant, but purposeful. He spoke like a man who no longer sought wealth, but impact.

“I don’t need the gold,” Ren said, arms crossed loosely across his chest, helmet resting beside him on the table. “What I want is growth. For the guild. For the adventurers coming up behind me.”

Garron blinked, clearly taken aback. “You’re sitting on more wealth than some noble houses. You want to… give it away?”

Ren gave a half-smile. “Not give. Invest. There’s a difference.”

He turned, gesturing toward the window, where the busy courtyard bustled with low-ranked adventurers training and sparring. “Those rookies out there—they're the next ones who’ll risk their lives in places like Hollow Spire. If they had better gear, better training, maybe some of them wouldn’t end up on the casualty list.”

Garron nodded slowly, the weight of the proposal settling in. “So what are you suggesting?”

“Take the materials I don’t need. Appraise and sell them. Every copper earned goes toward improving guild facilities and funding new adventurers. Open a training wing. Hire veterans to teach real tactics. Establish a gear subsidy. Give them a fighting chance.”

Garron crossed his arms, visibly moved. “You’re changing how we operate, Arclight. This is bigger than one dungeon run. You know that, right?”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Ren’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not here to hoard power. I want to build something that lasts.”

With a short nod, Garron moved to the side wall and rang a bronze bell. Moments later, several attendants entered. “Start cataloging the materials Mr. Arclight provides,” he instructed. “Separate what’s of high demand for adventuring gear and prepare the rest for auction or trade.”

Ren opened a portion of his dimensional storage, revealing piles of refined materials—rare ores, monster carapaces, infused bones, and spell catalysts. The room seemed to glow with magic and potential. The attendants hesitated in awe before getting to work.

“I’m trusting you to handle it,” Ren said, turning back to Garron. “Distribute the earnings where they’ll matter most. I’ll send more in the future.”

“You’ll have full transparency,” Garron promised. “I’ll personally oversee the investments.”

Ren nodded, already shifting gears in his mind. “Good. Because I won’t always be around.”

He reached into his cloak and retrieved the dossier Garron had handed him earlier. His fingers tapped the faded cover.

“This next dungeon… where is it located?”

Garron narrowed his eye. “You’re not even going to wait for the appraisal to finish?”

Ren gave him a wry smirk. “I’m not doing it for the coin, remember?”

Garron exhaled a laugh, half in admiration, half in disbelief. “Northwest. Past the Cliffveil Ranges. It’s unmarked on most maps—locals call it The Wyrmgate Hollow. No one’s returned from it yet.”

“Sounds perfect,” Ren replied, already heading for the door.

He paused only once at the threshold, glancing over his shoulder. “I’ll be back… but don’t wait on me. Start building. They’ll need it.”

And with that, Ren vanished into the hallway, his steps silent but heavy with purpose.

In the office behind him, Garron stood in solemn silence, watching the door.

“This boy,” he muttered, “is rewriting what it means to be an adventurer.”

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The forge roared like a captive beast as Ren stepped inside, the heat wrapping around him like a familiar cloak. The rhythmic pounding of hammer on steel echoed in steady beats, blending with the hiss of quenched metal and the occasional barked instruction from the master smith.

Brokk looked up from his anvil, sweat glistening on his thick brow. When he saw who had entered, his eyes widened beneath soot-darkened brows.

“Well, well… look what the wind dragged in.” He dropped his hammer and wiped his hands on his apron. “That armor… that aura. You been bathing in volcanoes again, boy?”

Ren smirked. “Something like that.”

He walked up to the central worktable and, without a word, pulled a long, curved object wrapped in heavy cloth from his storage. He laid it down with reverence. When the cloth was peeled back, it revealed a gleaming, crimson-white fang, still faintly radiating heat from the dragon it once belonged to.

Brokk’s eyes widened in stunned silence.

“Mythic,” he whispered. “By the Forgefather’s beard… this is no ordinary wyrm. What kind of beast did you slay?”

“One that almost killed me,” Ren answered flatly. “It guarded the lower vaults of Hollow Spire. I want you to use this.”

Brokk's rough hands trembled as he reached for the fang. His fingers traced its length like a man reading the words of a holy text. “This… this ain’t just a crafting material, lad. This is a legacy. A divine weapon could be born from this.”

Ren nodded. “That’s the plan.”

He leaned against the table, arms crossed. “I came here for more than just forging, though. I’m working with the guild now. I've arranged for them to receive rare dungeon materials from me directly. Gear will need to be made—fast, and in large quantities. I want you involved.”

Brokk blinked. “You mean... you want me to be the forge behind the next generation of adventurers?”

“Exactly. There’s going to be gold, yes, but more importantly—resources and demand. With these materials, the kind that only drop in nightmare-level dungeons, we can change the game for every rookie out there.”

A crooked grin spread across the dwarf’s face. “You keep bringin’ me things like this—” he tapped the fang reverently, “—and I’ll build blades that’ll sing hymns of death.”

“Good.” Ren turned to leave, already pulling up the map Seraphina had highlighted in his mind. “Expect the first shipments soon.”

Brokk chuckled as Ren walked away, his voice gruff but proud. “Don’t you die before I finish that divine weapon, lad. You owe me the joy of watchin’ someone worthy wield it.”

Ren gave a nod over his shoulder. “Then you’d better make it fast.”

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Outside, the wind carried the scent of rain and iron. Ren’s eyes locked onto the distant silhouette of the Cliffveil Ranges. Beyond them lay the Wyrmgate Hollow—a dungeon shrouded in mystery, spoken of in hushed tones even by seasoned explorers.

His armor gleamed darkly under the light, the mythic dragon scales pulsing with quiet strength. With every step, the earth beneath seemed to grow quieter, as if it, too, waited in anticipation.

He blinked once—then vanished in a rush of air.

Onward, to the Hollow.

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Back in the city of Veltharn, the forge roared hotter than ever.

Brokk’s apprentices scrambled to prepare extra smelting basins, cooling troughs, and material storage racks. Word had already spread—Ren Arclight, now cloaked in the mythic Obsidian Drake Set, had donated a mythical dragon fang and promised a steady stream of high-tier resources from upcoming dungeon dives.

Inside the forge’s war room—a side chamber usually reserved for elite commissions—Brokk stood across from Guildmaster Garron Thorne. The burly, one-eyed man wore his usual stern expression, but his arms were crossed not in disapproval, but thought.

“So,” Garron said, eyeing the glimmering core of the fang resting in a case on the table, “you really believe you can work it?”

Brokk sniffed, smirking behind his soot-black beard. “Believe? I know. That lad—Ren—he’s bringing in material most smiths’ll never see in a lifetime. With a few more like this, I won’t just forge blades—I’ll forge legends.”

Garron nodded slowly. “He’s given me a list of dungeons he plans to clear. Our agreement is in place. We take what materials he doesn’t use, and in return, we direct those toward new adventurers—gear, training, even enchantments. The guilds around Veltharn will change. This city will change.”

“’Bout time,” Brokk muttered. “The young bloods got guts, but no edge. I’ll make sure they’re sharper than dragon teeth when they leave my doors.”

“Good.” Garron clapped a firm hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Then we’d best be ready. The next shipment could arrive at any time.”

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Meanwhile...

Wind howled across the cliffs.

Ren stood on a narrow plateau overlooking a vast stone basin nestled between jagged mountains—Wyrmgate Hollow. The skies were dark here, not with storm but with pressure. The air was thick, humming with unseen magic. From above, the jagged maw of the dungeon entrance resembled a massive serpent’s mouth.

The stone steps descending into the hollow bore ancient carvings—runic warnings etched by explorers long dead.

Ren walked forward, his obsidian armor almost whispering against the wind, silent despite its bulk. Behind his helmet’s visor, his eyes were steady, focused.

“This is it,” he murmured. “The final dungeon listed in the eastern range.”

Seraphina’s voice echoed softly in his mind. ‘Wyrmgate Hollow: Difficulty—Extreme. Unranked. Uncatalogued. No successful parties recorded. Entrance sealed after extended failure rates.’

“I’ll add it to the archives myself,” Ren said with a smirk.

He held his hand forward, fingers glowing with mana. The seal on the dungeon’s gate pulsed faintly—until the dungeon recognized his authority and his achievements. The mark of the Crimson Tyrant shimmered across the seal.

ACCESS GRANTED.

The gate yawned open, stone grinding against stone. Heat spilled from the depths.

Ren stepped forward.

The Hollow waited.