After Fenrir posted the job request on the private board, he waited with moderate expectations.
He knew that anonymity, while useful for his own protection, wasn't exactly appealing to professional dungeon teams. And as the hours ticked by, his inbox proved it.
Most of the responses were from under-qualified freelancers—some not even C-ranked.
A few seemed more like thrill-seeking students than trained adventurers, and more than one message had suspicious phrasing that hinted at potential scams or traps.
Fenrir sighed and refreshed the page again.
'Should've known this would be a long shot.'
Just as he was about to cancel the listing altogether, one new entry popped up—subtle, with no flashy title or bold claims.
It was a plain profile labeled "Team Garm."
Curious, Fenrir clicked it open.
The team consisted of four individuals, all in their mid-30s.
No one flashy. All B-ranked. No notable guilds. No headlines.
Just simple stats and service records.
There wasn't even a promotional image—just default silhouettes and sparse bios.
But Fenrir's instincts, honed through years of life and death battles in his past world, sent a subtle pulse of affirmation through his gut.
"My instincts are telling me to choose this team. Seems like I've made up my mind.'
With little time left to spare, he contacted them and confirmed the job.
They accepted immediately, and the dungeon entry was scheduled for the next day.
Fenrir spent the night preparing.
He bought extra supplies—rations, healing potions, a cloaking artifact for added anonymity, and a high-grade enchanted mask that would distort his voice slightly.
Finally, he tugged on a deep hooded cloak over his reinforced gear and double-checked everything.
By the time he reached the dungeon gate the next morning, he looked nothing like a student or a potion-maker—just another faceless client hiring protection.
The team was already there, waiting near the entrance.
Their leader, a stocky man with kind eyes and a short beard, was the first to approach him. He wore worn leather armor, clearly patched over many years.
"Morning, boss. Are you the client?"
He greeted with a casual smile.
Fenrir nodded silently.
"Name's Karl. I'm leading Team Garm today. Before we head in, mind going over the reward again? Just to be sure we're on the same page. And, uh… We usually ask for half up front. Just a formality. You understand."
He hesitated slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Fenrir didn't blink.
"Payment upon completion. I've already set aside a system-secured escrow. You'll be paid in full the moment I get what I need."
Karl studied him for a moment, then shrugged and smiled again.
"Fair enough. You've got the look of someone who takes things seriously. We'll take your word."
The rest of the team offered nods and brief greetings.
A tall, quiet woman named Lys. A wiry scout called Tom. And an unassuming mage named Bren who looked like he'd rather be asleep than in a dungeon.
Despite their humble appearances, Fenrir could tell from the way they moved, stood, and handled their gear—they were experienced. Not elites, but definitely seasoned fighters.
The dungeon was an overgrown ruins-type, vines curling over old stone and moss hiding traps beneath cracked tiles.
From the moment they stepped in, monsters began closing in—sinewy beasts with glowing eyes and snarling maws.
"Form up! Client stays center! Lys, left flank. Tom, right. Bren, with me!"
Karl barked.
Fenrir moved to the center as instructed and watched them work. And very quickly, something odd became apparent.
'They had skills—but not the weapons to match them.'
Lys moved like a duelist—fast, elegant, with perfect footwork.
But her sword was dull and slightly chipped. Tom's arrows flew true, but his bowstring frayed with every shot.
Even Bren's spells, while accurately cast, were held back by the weak amplification staff he used.
'Under-equipped. But not undertrained.'
That realization put Fenrir on alert. They weren't frauds. But they were either broke… or hiding their true identities under weaker gear.
'No… maybe they're just too poor to get what they deserve.'
Karl caught Fenrir's glance during a brief pause in the fighting.
"Don't worry. We may not look like much, but we've never lost a client. We'll get you where you need to go."
Fenrir nodded silently, but kept his senses sharp.
He still didn't trust them—couldn't afford to. But so far, they hadn't made a wrong move.
He followed the group deeper into the dungeon, watching the way they took down enemies with coordinated ease.
Every time one of them stumbled, another was there to cover. They didn't talk much, but they didn't need to.
And while the monsters grew stronger with each level, Fenrir could tell—they weren't panicking. Just adapting.
If he didn't know better, he'd say they'd handled worse before.
As the ruins stretched further into shadow, Fenrir clutched the scroll case tightly inside his coat. The rare herb he needed was still a few rooms deeper.
They hadn't hit the real danger yet.
But for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like he was walking into it alone.
The group found themselves surrounded—monsters slinking out of broken pillars and emerging from shadowed corners.
Their path forward was blocked, and retreat wasn't an option with enemies closing in behind them.
The atmosphere thickened with tension, the distant growls of the dungeon beasts echoing off the stone walls.
Fenrir narrowed his eyes.
'If this keeps up, someone's going to get injured.'
He glanced at Bren, the quiet mage in the back who had been holding back for most of the trip.
"Hey Mage, do you have any wide-area spells?"
Fenrir called.
Bren flinched slightly at being addressed directly, then gave a small nod.
"I have one… a combustion-type spell. But I haven't used it in a while. If I lose focus, I might hit one of us."
Fenrir didn't hesitate. He reached into his inventory and pulled out a sleek, polished staff engraved with ancient runes.
Its core shimmered faintly with dense mana, radiating a quiet but unmistakable power.
"Use this. It'll amplify your control. But in return, you better make sure your spell one-shots everything."
Fenrir said, tossing the staff to Bren.
Bren's eyes widened as he caught the staff—and nearly dropped it from the unexpected weight and energy surging through it.
He stared at the artifact in disbelief, his hands trembling.
"T-This is high-grade… no, this is top-tier. Where did you even get something like this…?"
Fenrir didn't answer. He simply looked toward the tightening circle of monsters, his voice calm but firm.
"You said you needed better focus. That staff should help. Now cast."
Bren swallowed hard, then nodded, gripping the staff with both hands.
Already, he could feel the difference.
The mana inside him responded faster, smoother, guided by the staff's internal enchantments. The spell circle formed beneath his feet, glowing with power.
And with great power came great responsibility. But it did not seem as if the mage was ready to protect anyone at the moment.
The mage clumsily held the staff befre almost dropping it a second time in the span of a few minutes.
Suddenly, Fenrir did not feel so confident about their chances at survival.