In a dimly lit underground chamber, with black stone walls and a long rectangular table for twenty, the stench of fresh blood still filled the air. The flickering torchlight barely pierced the thick darkness pooling in the corners, where shadows seemed to breathe.
Twenty bodies were strewn across the floor in grotesque positions. Some headless, others with open chests or torn limbs. Blood still trickled slowly, tracing scarlet lines through the cracks in the stone. Flies buzzed through the air, feasting. The massacre was silent, cruel, deliberate.
"How many infiltrators?"
The voice was sharp, commanding, impossible to ignore.
"Thirty-six identified. Twenty already executed," replied a figure cloaked in shadow, voice cold and disciplined.
"How did they get past the Shadow Unit's screening?"
"We don't know... But it's clear we underestimated the issue."
"Continue."
"There are signs of coordinated movement. The orc territories reported disturbances identical to ours."
"Who's behind this?"
"Unknown. But we found... this."
The figure stepped forward and extended a bloodstained hand. In the palm, rested a torn glove made of fine leather. The dried blood revealed a hidden symbol: a dagger piercing a rose.
"The same symbol... from the banquet?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The words came with weight. This was more than coincidence.
"They're deeper than we thought... Even an entire Shadow battalion was compromised."
Her tone was lethal.
"We don't know the extent," the shadow sighed. "But it's serious."
"And what about the dungeon causality?"
"Five orc battalions wiped out. All in anomalous dungeons. We also received an urgent request from the dwarves—they want to hire Adriel Lunaris Argentum. But he's currently occupied... with internal Bellator family matters."
"Trouble there as well?"
"We suspect something similar. But no confirmation yet."
"And the elves and humans?"
"The elves have isolated themselves. They're preparing a ritual, likely an ancestral one. Few dungeon incursions. As for the humans, they're still hosting the Legendary Blacksmith event. No reports of anomalies so far."
Selene remained silent for a moment until the sound of slow footsteps broke the stillness.
Lesley stepped out from the shadows. She wore a fitted suit of coal-black armor, with a partial helmet revealing bronzed skin and piercing brown eyes. Dark blue hair flowed down her back like wet silk, streaked with someone else's blood.
"And the beastkin?" asked the queen.
"We're not certain."
Lesley, still stained from the slaughter, answered hesitantly.
Selene turned her head, suspicious.
"Not certain?"
"If there was manipulation, it didn't work as expected. The only unusual dungeon was the one attacked by Kargath."
Selene nodded in understanding.
"That musclebound brute wouldn't know a normal dungeon from a trap. He probably just destroyed everything in his path without pausing a single second to think."
The disdain in Selene's voice was palpable.
Lesley nodded.
"Exactly."
"How did they manage to tamper with Glenn's dungeon?" Selene asked.
"It must be an artifact."
A voice spoke with conviction.
The new voice echoed behind them. Deep, refined.
Elian emerged into the room like an ancient shadow. He wore black scale armor, each plate pulsing with contained energy. His steps didn't falter, even as he walked through blood and entrails.
"An artifact that modifies dungeons?"
Selene raised an eyebrow.
"It's the only plausible explanation. I know of no precedent, but the effects are clear. The dungeon was locked from the outside, altered from within... and turned into a one-way path."
"A death trap."
"Yes. They can only leave by killing the guardian."
Selene sighed, deeply.
"Was the dungeon level raised?"
"No, just concealed. We assessed it at a difficulty that wasn't real," he explained.
"The true difficulty is classified for five upper-ranked champions. Glenn is just at the awakening stage... the others, except Dalia, have barely reached the proper level."
"Except Aeloria."
Lesley corrected. "He's already hit the cap for the next rank. He's holding back by choice."
"Even so, they'll need a miracle to clear that dungeon. If they do, it'll be fascinating."
Elian smiled—a smile born of measured chaos.
Selene looked at them both, thoughtful.
"How many members remain from the enemy organization?"
"Few," Lesley answered. "But... Elder Lyra herself has begun to move."
Selene folded her arms, silent for a moment.
Elian gave a slight nod of approval.
"Then there's no need to worry, Your Majesty," Lesley added.
"It's time."
Selene turned, pointing at the ceiling toward Elian.
Elian raised his hand. A black particle lifted from his palm, floating upward. In the blink of an eye, everything was silently pulverized—the entire ceiling vanished, revealing three silver moons hidden behind thick clouds. The wind howled, carrying with it the omen of a storm.
Without another word, the three soared into the sky, returning to the demon capital.
Behind them, the hidden facility built at the base of a seaside cliff imploded in a silent explosion. Tons of stone were hurled miles away. In mere seconds, not even dust remained.
Nothing but silence and salt.
**
A roar tore through the underground chamber, drowning even the shrill hissing of the giant serpents slithering through the tunnels.
Dorian.
The warrior charged forward like a living wall, drenched in sweat, blood, and fury. The veins in his neck and arms bulged beneath his skin like tightened ropes, vibrating with raw power. His face, flushed a deep red, looked ready to burst—not from pain, but from sheer internal combustion. Each breath came in short, heavy bursts, like a cornered bull about to charge.
His eyes no longer seemed human. Two glowing crimson orbs, burning like living embers, staring death in the face without blinking.
Before him, two colossal serpents, nearly ten meters long, coiled in frenzied spins. Their blackened scales, flecked with slime and blood, rose like living blades, reflecting the dungeon's unnatural glow.
Dorian pivoted on his heels, his body a war machine finely tuned to chaos.
His longsword steamed with molten red, as if each swing condensed the hatred of a volcano on the verge of eruption.
With a beastly cry, he swung down in an arc toward one serpent's neck—a strike precise, powerful, brutal.
"CHAAAAAAAK!"
The flaming blade cut four handspans deep into the scaly flesh. Blood sprayed like a dark fountain, hissing as it struck the steel. The creature shrieked and recoiled, its massive body thrashing, slamming against the stone walls and dislodging rocks from the sides.
But the second serpent was already lunging, fast as a whip made of bone and muscle.
Dorian raised his shield, though it was already broken.
The central crack looked ready to split, but he didn't hesitate.
"CRAAACK!"
The impact hurled Dórian against a nearby wall, crushing stones and echoing with a dry thud.
He fell to his knees, gasping, blood spilling from between clenched teeth.
In that moment, the warrior swore he heard someone call his name. But it felt like an illusion conjured by his mind.
Still, he rose.
There was no time to yield.
If he fell, Seraphine and Aeloria would be swallowed by the tide of scales and fangs.
With a low growl, Dórian hurled himself back into the fight.
The wounded serpent was still thrashing, but the other one was returning to kill.
Dórian charged straight at it.
With each step, the ground trembled beneath his weight.
The cracked shield still protected his side, and the sword, now crackling in an even more vivid crimson, seemed to thirst for blood.
Dórian fueled his legs with prana, the energy swelling his muscles. Crouching slightly, he launched himself upward just as the serpent's head opened, baring its fangs for the strike.
The serpent's head slammed into the ground, and midair, with a quick forward twist, Dórian swung his arms with all his might, striking the back of the creature's head.
The searing blade melted through the resilient scales and drove deep into the beast's massive body, which let out a piercing scream. Before dying, the serpent thrashed wildly, trying to shake Dórian off, now clinging to its back like a cowboy taming a beast.
But in vain. The more it flailed, the more damage Dórian's blade inflicted, until at last, it died.
"SKRIIIIIIEEE!"
The explosion of blood was instant.
The serpent's head dropped lifelessly.
But the other one—
The other still breathed.
Dórian panted like a caged beast. Blood pounded in his head like a war drum, and his vision, once sharp, began to blur at the edges. The shield in his left hand was cracked like an eggshell on the verge of breaking, but still firm enough to kill. His sword, steaming and soaked in the bright red of the slain serpent, buzzed in his hand as if begging for more.
The second creature waited, unmoving—a colossal, lean serpent, unlike the first. Its eyes didn't gleam with fury, but with a predatory calm, as though it were studying Dórian. It didn't strike. It merely watched, swaying its body with smooth, hypnotic grace.
He didn't wait.
With a savage roar, Dórian exploded forward. The ground collapsed beneath his feet, propelled by a raw burst of prana. The serpent reacted like liquid instinct: twisting back, dodging the blade's arc with an elegance that bordered on artistry. Its eyes seemed to mock him.
The dance began.
Dórian spun, bringing his blade upward in an ascending slash, but the serpent curved aside, dodging by mere millimeters. It responded by opening its jaw and firing—not its tongue, but a thin scale, sharp as a dagger, launched with force straight into his shoulder.
'A snake that spits its scales? What the hell' Dórian thought.
"Clang!"
The blade was deflected, but the impact shoved him back. Another strike—another razor-scale—ripped through his thigh. Dórian growled, staggering, and for a moment, he swore he heard:
"Dórian… move!"
The voice.
He froze for a fraction of a second. His eyes swept across the battlefield. Nothing seemed out of place.
Thinking was never his strength, and now was no time for it—the smaller serpents continued to close in, harassing his legs and ribs like starving rats.
The great serpent lunged.
It spat three gleaming scales, fast as the tip of a living spear. One tore through his side, shredding what was left of his armor and cutting deep into his skin. Another struck his calf.
He dropped to one knee, and at that moment, two of the smaller serpents leapt onto his back, clawing, trying to sink their fangs in once more.
Their teeth scraped his skin—he screamed, feeling the burning throb of venom spreading quickly.
"Damn it…"
Dórian gasped. His head throbbed. The world spun. But his gaze still burned with fury.
With a roar that made the mountain walls tremble, he burst forward. Twisting his body, he flung the smaller reptiles into the rocks. The great serpent recoiled, but he was already upon it. With his free hand, he slammed his cracked shield down on the creature's head with the force of an avalanche.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"
The impact echoed like muffled thunder. The serpent's head was flung to the side, dragging tons of scaled flesh across the ground until it crashed into a wall. The rock shattered. The serpent sank, creating a grotesque crater on the mountainside.
Dórian stood there, panting, drenched in sweat, blood, and dust.
A manic smile spread across his face.
But that smile…
There was something strange about it.
A flicker of madness.