The pressure on Nameless's throat reached a breaking point, but it was Milo's stillness that chilled his blood. This wasn't a simple faint from terror; the young blacksmith's skin was turning a sickly, ashen grey.
"Answer me, runt!" the red-haired girl spat, her lightning-streaked eyes inches from his. "Where are you from? Who sired you? Which pure-blood lineage do you serve? Did the Dragon Circle send you to spy on us?"
Nameless struggled to form words, but the scaled tail acted like a noose. Suddenly, the air in the room grew heavy, stagnant. Without so much as a floorboard creaking, a silhouette manifested by the window, as if woven from the very shadows of the night.
The Manifestation of Mir
Nameless froze. Even with his dragon senses and his 10% active output, he hadn't felt her arrival. The newcomer pulled back her hood, revealing hair the color of deep, toxic violet. Her limbs, like the red girl's, bore advanced draconic traits, but her scales shimmered with a malevolent, oily luster.
She sat in a dark corner, crossing her scaled legs with predatory elegance.
"Let him go, Mira," she commanded. Her voice was calm, yet it cut like a scalpel. "You'll break the toy before he can be of use to us."
Mira growled but obeyed instantly, retracting her tail. Nameless collapsed to the floor, gasping and massaging his bruised throat.
"Don't fret over the little human," the violet-haired girl said, gesturing dismissively toward Milo. "I administered a dose of my venom when he entered. It's not lethal... for now. Just enough to plunge a mammal of his species into a sleep from which he'll only wake if I permit it."
She locked eyes with Nameless—an unbearable intensity. "I am Mir, of the Poison Dragon Clan. And this is my younger sister, Mira, a half-blood of Fire and Lightning. We are among the last survivors of our kind. And you... you carry the Champion's Gauntlets."
A Dialogue Under Tension
Nameless rose painfully, casting a worried glance at Milo. He knew he had to play his cards perfectly; Mir was a predator of an entirely different caliber than the Solis knights.
"I don't belong to any Circle," Nameless began, his voice raspy. "I woke up on a battlefield with no memories. My parents... I don't know them. A blacksmith passed these relics to me before he died."
Mir let out a dry, joyless laugh. "A blacksmith? You mean one of the Relic Guardians. So, they finally entrusted the gauntlets to a brat who can't tell the difference between intuition and survival instinct."
Nameless carefully withheld the truth about the Dark Spirit within him, or the fact that his gloves were a prison for a world-ending entity. He also kept silent about the Storm Spear pulsing in the nearby mountains.
"I'm just trying to survive," Nameless continued. "Solis is hunting me. I'm a fugitive, just like you, I imagine."
"Fugitive?" Mira stepped closer, sparks dancing between her claws. "We don't flee; we wait. The Dragon Circle is gathering those with true blood in their veins to take back what is ours. If you have the gloves, you're either our greatest asset... or a target."
Mir stood up, closing the distance. She sensed the energy radiating from him—a dark, unidentifiable aura that set her instincts on edge.
"You're hiding things, 'Little Brother.' No one survives Solis with such artifacts without... particular help. But for now, we have a common interest. This kingdom, Val-Brumal, hides more than just demi-humans. If you want your friend to wake up, you'll have to prove you're worthy of that heritage."
She tossed him a small vial containing a pale violet antidote. "Give him this. But know one thing: from this moment on, your gloves belong to us as much as they do to you. Blood calls to blood."
The Pariahs' Pact
Milo sat up coughing as his senses returned. Mir didn't give them a second to recover; she forced them into heavy cloaks and led them through the twisting, fog-choked alleys of Val-Brumal.
The Wolf's Den
They arrived at a fortified ancient warehouse. Inside, the atmosphere was electric. Around thirty individuals were preparing for war: sharpening blades, brewing potions, shouting commands. It was a miniature army.
"Who are these people?" Nameless whispered, hand on his sword hilt.
"My family," Mir replied without looking back. "Mercenaries, outcasts, mistakes of nature that Solis and the other kingdoms threw in the trash. I am their leader. And now, you are one of them. If you try to flee or sabotage us, your little blacksmith will become a meal for my hounds."
The mission was suicide: Conquer an A-Rank Dungeon in the Frozen Peaks within forty-eight hours.
The Capitanes of the Outcasts
In her private office, Mir stared Nameless down across a desk cluttered with maps and spy reports. "Show me what you can do, kid. And don't lie. I smell deceit like I smell blood."
Nameless offered a partial truth. He explained that his gloves restricted his mana flow, making his power unstable. He described his Fire and Lightning capabilities and a temporary Physical Boost. He kept the gravity control, the Shadow, and the Dungeon Spirit to himself.
"Basic spells, but with expert mana density..." Mir grumbled. "A raw diamond, poorly cut. Fine. You'll serve as a shock unit on the front lines."
She signaled Mira to call the captains. Four figures detached themselves from the crowd—the elite force of this mercenary band:
Grog the Ripper (Half-Orc / Tank): A two-meter colossus covered in scars, carrying a dragon-bone shield. He doesn't speak; he grunts. His raw strength is legendary.
Hara of the Shadows (Human / Assassin): A lithe woman, her face half-hidden by an iron mask. Banished from the Solis Assassin's Guild. Her daggers glow with Mir's own poison.
Miro the Cursed (Half-Elf / Support Mage): His eyes are pitch black. A specialist in debuffs and curses. He watched Nameless with a sickening curiosity, as if sensing the wrongness in his soul.
Baron (Human / Weapon Master): A middle-aged, one-eyed man in worn leather armor. The group's tactician. He carries a massive bastard sword and seems to be the only one keeping a cool head.
"Here's the brat," Mira said with a provocative smirk. "He says he can fight. Grog, Baron... see if he can last two minutes without wetting himself."
Baptism of the Pariahs
The warehouse went silent. The mercenaries formed a wide circle, the air thick with palpable hostility. Baron, the Weapon Master, stepped forward to set the rules.
"Listen well, kid," Baron said, stabbing his sword into the ground. "We don't trust our lives to just any drifter. This test has three phases. First, you endure Miro's curses. If your mind breaks, you're useless. Second, you land a hit on Hara; if you can't touch her, you're dead weight in a melee. Finally, you take a charge from Grog. A front-liner who can't stay on his feet is just a corpse. No killing... officially."
Nameless glanced at Milo, who was still being held by Mira. The Shadow snickered in his mind: "Come on, little one... let me out for a second. I'll turn them into piles of meat..."
Nameless ignored it. He had to use his 10%, but not a drop more.
Phase 1: The Trial of Spirit
Miro the Cursed stepped forward. A foul violet aura surged from him, coiling around Nameless like serpents. [B-Rank Mental Pressure]. Nameless felt his heart slow. An infinite sadness and primal panic tried to drown his brain. He used a spark of lightning to "sear" the nerves in his own arms—using physical pain to anchor himself. He stayed standing. Miro lowered his hands, impressed.
Phase 2: The Trial of Agility
Hara vanished. She was fast—faster than any soldier he'd fought. Relying on the [Dragon's Compass] vibration in his gloves, Nameless closed his eyes. At the moment her steel brushed his neck, he triggered a two-second [Physical Boost]. Pivoting, he didn't use his sword but the flat of his hand, grazing the assassin's shoulder. Hara reappeared meters away, her iron mask failing to hide her shock.
Phase 3: The Trial of Strength
Grog charged like a juggernaut. Nameless knew he couldn't stop this mass with raw strength. At the moment of impact, he triggered a minor [Lightning Bolt] under his own feet—a micro-explosion that shoved him sideways while he used the dragon-bone shield as a fulcrum to deflect Grog's momentum. The impact still sent Nameless flying into wooden crates, shattering his shoulder with a sickening crack.
The Verdict
Dust settled. Nameless stood up painfully, spitting blood, sword still in hand.
"He's slow and his mana is low," Baron grunted to Mir, "but he has grit and his techniques are... unconventional. He won't be a burden."
Mir stepped forward. "Congratulations, kid. You survived the welcome. But don't celebrate yet. An A-Rank Dungeon doesn't test your grit—it devours your soul."
She turned to her troops. "Pack the sleds and ice rations! We move for the Peaks in forty-eight hours!"
Mira leaned into Nameless's ear, whispering: "You did well, but I know you're holding back. I can't wait to see what happens when you're truly pushed to the edge in that dungeon..."
Nameless didn't answer. He joined Milo, who helped him sit. They had a team, but they were now slaves to a mission that felt like it was hiding secrets far darker than mere treasure.