Waking up in the pitch-black bath of the Safe Zone after a session in the vibrant Inner World was a recurring nightmare. The sensory whiplash was jarring—a cruel taunt from the universe about the absolute nature of his blindness. Stepping out of the water, Mark checked his status. As expected, the numbers hadn't budged.
Mana: D
Ki: E
It was the logical result of neglecting meditation in favor of grueling field training. Yet, staring at that "D" rank, a bitter taste formed in his mouth.
"A D-rank mage struggling against F-rank goblins... how pathetic," Mark muttered, flicking his forehead in self-rebuke. "Stop thinking like that arrogant bastard Thaddeus."
But facts were facts. Had the original Thaddeus been in that forest, magic would have been unnecessary. Even if he were too elitist to touch the filthy creatures with his bare hands, any weapon in his grasp would have turned the ambush into a casual stroll. Thaddeus didn't just see; he dissected reality.
In this world, whether a D-rank mage could steamroll an E-rank monster or falter before a C-rank was a matter of nuance. Mana rank was merely a gauge of Volume and Potency. True victory relied on a mage's repertoire, combat IQ, and elemental compatibility. You wouldn't trust a fire specialist with a naval battle; while overwhelming power could bridge the gap, in a fight between equals, environmental and elemental factors dictated the victor.
Mark looked inward. If he chose the path of a "Pure Mage," relying solely on Air Repulsion and Stone Bullet, he could have cleared the floor without a scratch. He could have sniped his enemies long before they breathed his air.
But Mark's path was different. He was currently operating in a Multi-Sense state—maintaining Mana, Air, Blind, and Earth Sense simultaneously. The mana "tax" for this level of perception was astronomical. His obsession with martial arts and his staff wasn't a hobby; it was a survival strategy. The martial forms smoothed his erratic movements, and the staff had become an extension of his soul. Mark wasn't training to be a mage who happened to fight. He was forging himself into a warrior who used magic as his only bridge to a world he could no longer see.
With his resolve hardened, Mark outlined a rigorous plan for the following day. His primary objective was the live-fire testing of his newly dubbed "Stone Bullet 2.0." This wasn't merely a minor upgrade; it was a sophisticated fusion of Stone Bullet and Air Repulsion, engineered to grant the projectile a rifled, spiral rotation. The goal was to transform a simple mana construct into a devastating, high-velocity armor-piercer.
Once he achieved consistent lethality with this new technique, his next move was a deep incursion into the high-density goblin territories—areas where the creatures moved in coordinated warbands rather than isolated scouts. But his ambitions didn't stop at mere culling. Mark aimed to gather intelligence on the Floor Boss of the first level.
In the world of the dungeon, the Boss wasn't just another monster; it was a gatekeeper, a pinnacle of its kind. Knowing the enemy was half the battle, and Mark had no intention of walking into that final chamber blind—at least, no more blind than he already was.
While Mark lacked concrete data on the Floor Boss, he could systematically narrow down the possibilities. Of course, if these goblins were merely subordinates to a more powerful race, speculation was futile. But if the guardian hailed from the goblin lineage, the candidates fell into three distinct archetypes:
The Goblin Champion: A juggernaut of raw muscle standing up to 2.5 meters tall. Ranked between E and D, it represented the most "manageable" threat. While it would be a mistake to call them slow, their attack patterns were linear and predictable. Mark's combat style—built on agility and technical precision—was perfectly suited to exploit the Champion's telegraphed strikes.
The Goblin Shaman: The ultimate "Wild Card." Typically holding an E or D-rank mana core, a Shaman's danger didn't stem from its reserves, but from its unpredictable versatility. They specialized in blood rituals, curses, and debilitating debuffs, occasionally even mimicking human-like elemental magic. This was the opponent Mark dreaded most; a Shaman's repertoire could turn the fight into either an easy execution or an inescapable death trap.
The Aristocracy (Lord, King, or Emperor): These were the commanders of the horde. While potentially inferior to a Champion in physical strength or a Shaman in raw magic, they possessed a far more lethal weapon: Intelligence. They were capable of weaving complex strategies and directing their kin with hive-mind precision. Based on the floor's population density, a Goblin Lord was the most likely candidate. If the rank was higher—a King or an Emperor—Mark realized he couldn't even set foot in their chamber without wide-scale Area of Effect (AoE) spells and the mana capacity to spam them.
"Reconnaissance isn't just an option," Mark concluded. "It's the only way to ensure I don't walk blindly into my own funeral."