The fire crackled softly, its light pushing back the deep darkness of the forest. Shadows danced across the trees as the warm glow flickered against the slumbering figures of the youth wrapped in their sleeping bags. Their breaths were steady, almost noiseless, blending with the distant cries of nocturnal creatures lurking at the forest's edge. Underneath a gnarled tree, just beyond the light's reach, a young man sat in the darkness, an old, worn-out book resting in his hands. His sharp eyes occasionally drifted toward his sleeping companions. He was the night's watchman, keeping guard while the others rested. Damon sighed. He would have preferred to put out the fire after cooking, but the night was cold, and his companions—being nobility—were unused to braving the elements. Letting them suffer would only lead to complaints and lowered morale. Earlier, they had discussed the possibility of the academy sending a rescue party. But they had long since discarded those hopes. No one would cross the gravity anomaly, nor would they risk venturing near the lair of the dragon Ashergon. Even the Whispering Forest itself was dangerous enough to deter any would-be saviors. For all intents and purposes, they were on their own. Still, they were alive, and they had direction. Damon glanced down at his bracelet, which tracked their kills and party contributions. If, by some miracle, this feedback ever reached the academy, it would serve as proof that they had survived. But for now, they were just lost children… with parents somewhere in the world worrying about them. "Well… except me. I don't have any parents to worry." His fingers absently reached for the locket around his neck. It was his mother's. Though she was long gone, his sister still wanted him back. He squeezed the locket gently before opening it. Inside was a small, faded picture—one that had been worn with time but still clear enough to make out. A woman with black hair stood beside two children, both with golden locks. The boy was clearly his mother's brother, while the young girl had a familiar look in her eyes… His mother, she looked beautiful even as a child. Damon stared at the image for a long time, lost in thought. He snapped the locket shut, forcing himself to push aside thoughts that wouldn't help their survival. His eyes dropped back to the journal, but the more he read, the deeper the sense of dread coiled in his gut. Their next objective—the Duhu Mountains—was a death trap if they didn't follow the rules. One rule stood out above all. Do not venture into the Duhu Mountains at all. And if you do. Do not stray from the path. He bit his lip. Not like we have a choice… They were being hunted. Enemies lurked everywhere, and if they wanted to survive, they had to keep moving. Damon had already sent his shadow to scout ahead, extending his Shadow Perception to monitor their surroundings within a two-kilometer radius. So far, no immediate threats were near, but that wouldn't last, the goblins and troll were nocturnal, they could hunt at night far better than humans. Closing the journal, he shifted his gaze to his system screen. The level-up requirement made his stomach twist. [Level Up Requirement:] [War Troll Consumed [0/1] Damon exhaled sharply. War trolls were monsters—three meters tall, regenerative, and resistant to magic. They could wipe out an entire party alone. And he needed to consume one to level up? "Ridiculous," he muttered, shaking his head. He had a feeling the system wanted him dead this time, there was no doubt about it. He flipped to the map at the back of the journal. They had to stay on the trail no matter what. Wandering off in the Duhu Mountains was a death wish. And beyond that lay the Whispering Forest, where there were no rules—only death. 'We won't survive unless we reach First-Class Advancement.' Technically, everyone in the group had already reached the threshold for advancement. All they needed was an opportunity—or a real battle—to push them over the edge. By obtaining a class their paths would be fixed and their power would grow, only then would they have a fighting chance. "If I were suicidal, I'd charge at a war troll and try to advance mid-fight," he mused darkly. The problem? That was more likely to get him killed than anything else. Damon stared into the fire, deep in thought, when he felt it—a low tremor beneath his hands. His head snapped up. The sky to the east pulsed with a faint violet light. The gravity anomaly moved again. His brows furrowed as realization struck. He quickly unfurled a map, scanning the shifting territories. A sharp inhale left his lips. The anomaly was shrinking in a semi-circle. If they didn't reach the Duhu Mountains in two days, they'd be trapped—forced to cross near the dragon's nest. He bit back a curse, glancing at the others. They had slept enough. Just as he raised his hand to wake them, the air shifted—a violent, hot gust rushing down from the mountains. Then came the sound. A deep, ear-splitting roar. The dragon's roar. The trees shuddered, and the sleeping figures shot awake, pale-faced and trembling. Matlock held his delicate ear covering them and holding back a scream.. Sylvia clutched her arms, staring in horror toward the ruined mountains to the southwest. "Wh… what was that?" Damon's eyes narrowed. "Ashergon." The dragon was waking up. "Pack up. Now." His Shadow Perception flared outward. Four goblin scouts were creeping toward them from the northeast, unaware of how close they were. "We need to move. We have company." Damon shouldered his pack, shoving the others forward as they packed up their stuff. They ran. As the sun began to rise, casting dim orange light over the horizon, Damon's voice cut through the cold morning air. "Run. Run until midday. Then we stop for water and rest. We reach that mountain by noon tomorrow—or we die."