Lena couldn't help it.
She felt a pang of regret.
But not for saving the boy. Never for that.
No—her regret was far simpler, and far crueler.
She regretted being weak.
Her breaths came in short, ragged gasps, each one scraping her throat like sandpaper. Her limbs shook. Her fists, once unstoppable hammers, were trembling from exhaustion. The dull ache in her chest had sharpened, blooming into a cold, creeping pain. The poison was settling in now—slow and deliberate, eating away at her from the inside.
She knew what that meant.
A faint thing. Barely a twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"At least... I did my job," she whispered to no one, voice dry and brittle.
She saved him. That should've been enough.
But deep down, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the pain—there was anger.
Not at the monsters. Not at the situation.
Because this was how it ended?
After everything she'd done—after the missions, the training, the years of clawing her way up the ranks—
She was going to die in some forgotten cave, cut down by glorified Skreeches.
Her fists clenched weakly.
They weren't even supposed to be a threat. Low-level pests. Trash mobs.
And yet, here she was, surrounded, poisoned, bleeding from a dozen cuts she could no longer feel.
She'd given everything.
And it still wasn't enough.
The title felt like a joke now. A pretty badge pinned to a soldier destined to die alone.
If she were an S-rank…
Hell, if she were just a little stronger…
She shook the thought away. Pointless. It didn't matter anymore.
Her sword felt so heavy now. Her grip was loosening. She knew it was only a matter of time.
She tried to breathe deeply, but the tightness in her chest made it difficult. Her vision was beginning to blur, black spots forming at the edges.
If she was going to die here, she'd at least take ten more Skreeches down with her.
But just as she was preparing for her final strike—something unexpected happened.
A sudden burst of light.
Her hazy eyes widened slightly.
The portal that had vanished when the boy had fled suddenly reappeared.
She blinked, wondering if her failing vision was playing tricks on her.
And from it… he stepped out.
The boy she had saved.
Her eyes widened in disbelief.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He was supposed to be gone. Safe. Far away from this cursed dungeon.
Yet here he was, standing before her.
Her vision was too blurry to see his expression clearly, but she could feel his gaze on her.
"Why…" she croaked weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why did you come back…?"
Her throat tightened. She forced out the words she knew were a lie.
"I told you… I was fine…"
But he could see right through it.
The blood pooling at her feet, The boy said nothing at first.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her.
His clothes were torn, caked in dust and grime. There was a cut along his cheek, fresh and bleeding, and his hands were shaking—not from fear, but from something deeper.
Lena swayed, barely able to stay on her feet. Her knees threatened to buckle with every breath, but she clenched her jaw and stood her ground.
She didn't want him to see her fall.
"You idiot…" she rasped, her voice hoarse. "You were safe. You could have stayed safe."
Still, he didn't answer. The portal behind him pulsed quietly, like a heartbeat. Open. Waiting.
He could've turned back. Could've left again.
"I'm sorry… It's all my fault."
The boy's voice came out faint—rough, brittle—like it might shatter if he pushed any harder. Guilt soaked every word, heavy and unshakeable.
Lena's eyes flared wide, a sharp breath snagging in her throat.
"N-No—" she faltered, her knees finally giving out beneath her.
The sword slipped from her grip with a dull clang, bouncing against the blood-slick stone. She would've hit the ground if he hadn't rushed forward and caught her—arms trembling, barely strong enough to hold her up, but refusing to let her fall.
Her head sagged against his chest, too weak to lift it anymore. She could hear his heart pounding beneath his ribs—wild, frantic, like he was trying to will her back to life by sheer force of will alone.
"Don't… say that," she murmured, her breath brushing against his collar. "It wasn't… your fault."
She hated how frail her voice sounded.
He just held her tighter.
"I was the one who dragged you here," he whispered, voice raw.
She groaned, weakly batting at his chest with what little strength she had left.
A tired smile flickered across his face—small, fragile, but so damn soft it hurt to look at.
"I'm saying, it's okay now," he murmured, his gaze locking onto hers, steady despite the shadows under his eyes.
Her sight wavered, smeared by pain and fatigue, but she could still see it—that same quiet smile she'd given him minutes ago, back when she thought she could still protect him.
"We're both getting out of here… alive."
His words weren't a question or a hope—they were a vow, calm and sure.
She opened her mouth to protest, to yell at him to stop being so stupid—
A brilliant, golden glow poured from his hands, warm as a summer dawn. It washed over her, wrapping her bruised arms and cracked ribs in a gentle hold, sinking deep into her core like a balm she didn't deserve.
The pain melted away.
The fire in her limbs snuffed out. Her ragged gasps smoothed into full, easy breaths. Her hands, jittery and useless a second ago, steadied. Her legs—barely able to prop her up—rooted firm, alive with power.
She blinked, dazed, the rush of strength buzzing through her like a live wire.
Her head whipped toward the sound, heart lurching.
He'd collapsed, hitting the stone floor like a discarded puppet, limp and heavy.
"No—wait!" she choked, voice cracking as panic clawed up her throat.
She stumbled to his side, dropping to her knees. Her hands hovered over him, afraid to touch, afraid he'd break. He didn't stir—just lay there, too still, too quiet.
She pressed a palm to his chest. A faint heartbeat thumped under her fingers, weak but there. His breaths were shallow, barely lifting his ribs.
She stared, mind racing, pieces clicking into place.
She knew his talent. That file she'd skimmed a few days ago—his gift to amplify others, to pour his own life force into someone else. She knew the cost, too.
And he'd known it all along.
He'd dumped every ounce of himself into her—pushed her to S-rank, past her limits, for her sake.
Her throat closed up. Her fingers dug into his worn tunic, gripping tight as if she could pull him back.
"You… idiot…" she rasped, voice breaking on the word, rough and raw.
She brushed his cheek—still warm, still alive, but fading.
Her hands shook again—not from weakness now, but from a storm of rage and grief boiling inside. Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding as a shaky breath hissed out.
His power thrummed in her veins—his life, his strength, handed over like it was nothing.
And now it was hers, for temporary of course.
But that's all the amount of time she needs.
By the time she's done they would be out of this damn dungeon.
Her fists tightened, nails biting into her palms until they stung. The energy surged, wild and fierce, flooding her like a river breaking its banks.
Her legs didn't wobble anymore.
She wasn't weak—not now, not ever again.
She stood, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowing with a cold, unshakable resolve.
He wasn't dying here.
She wasn't leaving him.
They were both getting out—just like he'd said.