The following day, Mark descended to the first floor to hunt isolated G-rank scouts. It was the field test for "Stone Bullet 2.0," and the results were a polarizing mix of lethal success and glaring vulnerability.
The firepower was undeniable. His first target, caught at close range, didn't just die—it disintegrated. The rotational kinetic energy combined with the compressed air propellant turned the stone projectile into a miniature railgun shot, erasing the goblin's torso instantly. Even for a fragile G-rank creature, the trauma was absolute overkill.
However, the "casting time" was a tactical nightmare. The sequence—manifesting the conical stone, inducing high-speed rifling rotation, and triggering the Air Repulsion with surgical precision—initially took a full five seconds. In the heat of a dungeon crawl, five seconds of immobility was a death sentence. A Goblin Archer would have buried two arrows in his skull before the spell even hummed to life.
Over the next few days, Mark repeated the grueling cycle. While the activation time remained stubbornly anchored at three seconds, he achieved a breakthrough in Dynamic Casting.
He was no longer a stationary target. Previously, the mental load of Stone Bullet 2.0 rendered him immobile, but now he could manifest and spin the projectile while in full stride. He discovered a direct correlation: the faster and longer the projectile spun (RPM), the more devastating the impact, though this added precious fractions of a second to the timer.
Even so, this mobility was strictly defensive—a means to reposition while preparing his strike. The spell demanded an exhausting amount of mental bandwidth, especially while maintaining his Multi-Sense array. If he could afford to focus on a single sense, the task would be trivial. But in the unpredictable depths of the dungeon, such a lapse in awareness was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Mark concluded that he had reached a temporary plateau with Stone Bullet 2.0. It was time to return to his primary objective: a deep reconnaissance of the first floor and gathering intelligence on the Floor Boss. When he questioned the System about the gate to the second floor, the response was characteristically frigid:
[Information regarding the next floor will be disclosed upon the defeat of the Floor Boss.]
"Fine, keep your secrets," Mark muttered. The System often felt like a highly advanced AI—efficient within its parameters but utterly dismissive of anything outside its source code. Yet, there were moments when its responses felt eerily sentient, possessing a "spark" that defied cold logic. Shaking off the thought, Mark replenished his mana, confirmed his peak physical condition, and gripped his Blind Staff before stepping out of the Safe Zone.
The first floor felt unchanged at first glance. The same stale wind, the lingering stench of goblins, and the rustle of small wildlife. However, as he navigated the hunting grounds of isolated scouts, he noticed a disturbing anomaly: not a single F-rank goblin was in sight. Only G-rank weaklings remained, which Mark bypassed to head deeper into the territory of coordinated warbands.
As he pushed forward, an intuitive dread began to fester in his chest. It started as a faint whisper of unease, easily dismissed as paranoia. But as he relied on his Earth Sense, the feedback was hollow. No heavy rhythmic footsteps, no guttural chattering—only the swaying of trees and the skittering of rodents.
The silence was suffocating. At that moment, Mark felt that facing a hidden sniper's arrow would have been a mercy compared to this unnatural void. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, but he suppressed the urge. He chalked the anxiety up to lingering trauma from the previous four-archer ambush. To Mark, the only way to heal that psychological scar was to face the unknown head-on. He tightened his grip on his staff and stepped deeper into the stifling quiet.
Mark pushed deeper into the unknown, reaching a threshold where the stench of rot was nearly physical. Just as his doubt began to peak, his Earth Sense pulsed. Three signatures.
Based on the cadence of their footsteps, they were close—hovering at the 35-meter mark where his perception was sharpest. Seeing their composition, Mark felt a momentary flicker of relief: one F-rank Goblin Swordsman leading two G-rank stragglers.
He weighed his options. Part of him wanted to use them as a warm-up to bleed off his rising tension, but the primal dread clawing at his mind urged him to flee. He chose a middle path: a swift execution. Using standard Stone Bullets to thin the numbers and his Blind Staff to shatter the rest, the skirmish ended in seconds. It was seamless, efficient, and utterly terrifying.
As the last goblin fell, the silence he had feared didn't just return—it screamed. Mark finally surrendered to the instinct to retreat, but as he turned, his blood ran cold. His Earth Sense didn't just ping; it ignited with over a hundred signatures, closing in from every single direction. A perfect 360-degree encirclement.
Panic threatened to seize him. Should he attempt a breakthrough? But a mass of a hundred wouldn't just charge; they would crush him under sheer weight. His hesitation cost him the only thing he had left: time. The horde had already breached his immediate sensory perimeter, sealing every escape route and tightening the noose with calculated, rhythmic precision. Mark was no longer a hunter; he was a cornered beast in a cage of green flesh.
Through his Multi-Sense, Mark monitored the perimeter. The encirclement was static, a frozen ocean of green flesh. Even the archers held their draw, arrows notched and aimed, yet none dared to release. Mark performed a final sweep of the battlefield: 153 signatures.
The discipline was haunting. 89 G-rank scouts formed the outer ring, interspersed with 47 F-rank Swordsmen in a calculated defensive spread. Another 17 archers held the high ground or clear lines of sight. In any other scenario, Mark would have dismissed a few squads as child's play, but against a unified army, his mind stalled. He found himself waiting, mirroring the eerie patience of the horde.
Then, his Earth Sense picked up a new rhythmic vibration far beyond his immediate radius. A small, elite unit was approaching. As they entered his sensory zone, Mark encountered a sub-species he had never seen before.
Five of them were hulking brutes, standing 1.5 meters tall—giant by goblin standards. They carried no offensive weapons. Instead, they bore massive, tower-like shields that covered their entire frames. The System's Appraisal flickered to life with rare clarity:
Race: Goblin Guardian
Mana: F
Ki: None
Finally, Mark sensed the figure at the rear. It was small, barely a meter in height, but it radiated an aura that felt like a physical weight. The System confirmed his dread:
Race: Goblin Shaman " floor boss"
Mana: D
Ki: None
A Shaman? Not a Lord? Mark felt a cold jolt of realization. To command an army of over 150 units with the tactical precision of a veteran general was supposed to be the hallmark of a Lord or a King. For a Shaman to hold such absolute authority meant the rules of the dungeon had just been rewritten.