The former dungeon trudged through the city streets, his tiny menace of a rabbit trotting faithfully by his side. The cleric led the way, offering only the occasional glance back, as if ensuring he hadn’t bolted in the opposite direction.

  He had considered it. More than once.

  But where would he go? He was stuck in this weak, fleshy body with no dungeon to retreat into, no minions to command (aside from the demon rabbit), and no idea how to survive in this world without his traps and corridors.

  That left him with one terrible option: playing along. For now.

  The Adventurer’s Guild loomed ahead, a sturdy, well-worn building with a large wooden sign swinging overhead. The emblem of crossed swords and a tankard adorned its face, which felt both appropriate and deeply concerning. Inside, the sounds of clashing mugs, raucous laughter, and the occasional shouting match spilled into the streets.

  He hesitated at the entrance.

  The cleric noticed. “Something wrong?”

  “Yes,” the former dungeon deadpanned. “Everything.”

  The cleric clapped a hand on his back and shoved him forward. “You’ll be fine.”

  He staggered over the threshold, scowling. His rabbit hopped in behind him, completely unfazed.

  The guild was just as chaotic as he expected. Adventurers of all shapes and sizes filled the space, boasting, drinking, and engaging in feats of questionable wisdom. A massive job board dominated one wall, with quests scrawled on parchment nailed in haphazard rows. Several tables hosted groups of rowdy warriors, and a counter at the far end housed a tired-looking guild receptionist drowning in paperwork.

  He took a cautious step forward.

  A particularly large man with more muscles than sense noticed him immediately. “Oi! Fresh meat!”

  Oh no.

  The surrounding adventurers turned to him with predatory grins. He had seen this before—this was the same look veteran parties gave rookie adventurers in his old dungeon. The hazing process.

  His survival instincts (which were still frustratingly unused in his Hero Menu) screamed at him.

  “Uh,” he started, “I—”

  The big guy clapped him on the back, nearly sending him sprawling. “Welcome to the guild! Name?”

  Right. Name.

  He couldn't exactly introduce himself as Gloomhollow, the Ever-Shifting Maw, now, could he?

  Thinking fast, he blurted, “Grim.”

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  The big guy raised an eyebrow. “Grim, huh? Sounds dramatic.”

  He internally cringed but nodded. “Yep. That’s me.”

  The cleric hummed, clearly amused.

  The adventurers surrounded him, grinning. “So, Grim, tradition states that every newbie proves themselves before we let ‘em sign up proper.”

  Oh no.

  “What kind of ‘proof’ are we talking about?” he asked warily.

  The big guy’s grin widened. “Simple. Just take a hit.”

  Grim paled. “Take a what?”

  Before he could react, a fist the size of a ham rocketed toward him. His brain screeched in protest. Years of watching adventurers fight through his dungeon told him exactly what was coming. Dodge Roll – Unused.

  He moved—

  Or at least, he tried to.

  Instead, his body reacted with all the grace of a collapsing tower. He tripped over his own feet, flailing backward, and crashed into a table. Plates and drinks went flying, curses rang out, and before he could even process what had happened, he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

  Silence.

  Then—

  Laughter. A lot of laughter.

  The big guy doubled over. “By the gods, that was worse than I expected!”

  Grim groaned. “I hate this.”

  His rabbit hopped onto his chest and, as if making a point, headbutted him for good measure.

  “…I really hate this.”

  The receptionist, barely glancing up from her paperwork, sighed. “If you’re done terrorizing the newcomer, I’ll need him at the counter to sign his registration.”

  The adventurers, still chuckling, helped Grim to his feet. The big guy clapped him on the shoulder again. “You’ll fit right in, Grim. Welcome to the guild.”

  He wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat.

  The cleric led him straight to the front desk, where a receptionist sat behind a polished wooden counter. She was a sharp-eyed elf, quill in hand, looking over a thick ledger.

  “New applicant?” she asked, barely looking up.

  Grim hesitated before nodding. “Uh. Yeah.”

  “Name?”

  A simple question. And yet, for the first time, he realized he didn’t have an answer.

  His designation had always been ‘Gloomhollow’—the name of his former dungeon. But he wasn’t a dungeon anymore. And yet, abandoning it entirely felt wrong.

  A compromise, then.

  “…Grim Gloomhollow,” he finally said, straightening his posture. If nothing else, he could at least honor who he had been.

  The receptionist arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “And your class?”

  Grim opened his mouth to answer—only for the cleric to cut in smoothly. “Summoner and Hero.”

  That got the receptionist’s attention.

  Her quill paused mid-stroke. She gave Grim a once-over, this time with genuine scrutiny. “A summoner and a hero? That’s not a combination I hear often.”

  Grim winced. Neither did he. He had no idea how either of those worked in practice.

  Still, the receptionist simply shrugged and continued writing. “Alright, Grim Gloomhollow. You’re officially registered as an E-Rank Adventurer.”

  “Wait, that’s it?” Grim blinked. He had expected… more. A trial? A contract written in blood? Some kind of test to prove he wasn’t completely incompetent?

  The receptionist smirked slightly. “Oh, no. That’s not it.”

  A sinking feeling settled in Grim’s gut.

  She gestured toward a nearby board, separate from the main quest listings. A bold header read: NEW RECRUIT TRAINING—MANDATORY BOOTCAMP

  “Before you can accept quests, you’ll need to complete guild bootcamp,” she said smoothly. “Basic combat training, survival skills, party coordination—and, of course, an assessment of what you can actually do.”

  Grim’s mouth went dry. “Assessment?”

  “Oh yes. We need to make sure you can actually survive out there.” The receptionist’s smirk widened ever so slightly. “Can’t have another recruit getting eaten by a slime on their first outing.”

  Grim’s brain unhelpfully supplied a memory of adventurers getting devoured in his former dungeon. He paled.

  The cleric clapped him on the shoulder, nearly making him jump out of his skin. “Don’t worry. Bootcamp is designed to make sure you won’t die immediately.”

  “Comforting,” Grim muttered.

  The receptionist handed him a small wooden badge with his name and rank etched into it. “Training starts tomorrow morning. Be on time.”

  Grim took the badge numbly, already regretting everything.

  As if sensing his misery, the horned menace headbutted him in the shin again.

  “…I hate this.”