Kaelen's eyes fluttered open as pale morning light filtered through the narrow dorm window.
His muscles ached—not sharply, but with the familiar heaviness of repetition.
Another day. Another grind.
For over a year, the Beginner Dungeons had been his crucible.
Each session more demanding than the last.
No crowds. No recognition.
Just the dull rhythm of progress, carved in sweat and silence.
He rolled out of bed, stretched the tension from his limbs, and reached for the wristband on the table—a sleek, dark-gray arc-tech device.
More than just a tracker, it was a silent witness to every cut, dodge, and breath he took.
As he clasped it around his wrist, a memory returned.
—
It was his first week at the academy.
The classroom had buzzed with quiet curiosity—new cadets still full of hope and nerves.
Professor Roderic Arlen stood at the front, composed and commanding as ever.
"The wristband tracks everything," he said, voice cutting through the chatter.
"Every swing, every impact. It's not just about data. It's about awareness."
He raised his own wrist, the band pulsing faintly.
"Strength grows from repetition. Endurance from surviving failure. Agility from moving when it hurts.
Mana—well, that's another story."
His gaze swept across the class, and for a brief moment, it paused on Kaelen.
"This is not a shortcut. It's a mirror."
—
• Name: Kaelen
• Level: 0
• Strength: 30
• Agility: 18
• Endurance: 80
• Mana: 5 / 5
• XP: 0 / 100
—
He hadn't thought of that lesson in months.
But it had never stopped applying.
He knew it wasn't impressive—not yet.
But the numbers were real.
Earned.
A reflection of pain, not praise.
He hadn't been allowed to level—not in these artificial dungeons—but stats could shift.
Could grow.
He'd proven that.
The wristband did more than track performance.
It synchronized with the dungeon core to simulate real pain—bone-deep, nerve-lit.
Every slash he took left a mark.
Bruises from impact.
Thin scars from blades.
Proof that even training left wounds when you didn't hold back.
And he never held back.
Mana stayed low.
A natural trade-off for his class.
He didn't mind.
I've still got a long way to go, he thought. But I'll get there.
He shut off the projection.
A deep breath.
A tight grip on the edge of the table.
Another step into the grind.
The dungeon wouldn't wait.
And neither would he.