CHAPTER THIRTEENEmbers and Echoes
The gate slammed shut behind her—loud, cold, and final. Signaling that the trial has begun.
The obsidian doors of the Trial of Flame sealed Samara and Iyashi inside a corridor of dark stone veined with molten gold. Heat curled in lazy waves across the air, yet it wasn't suffocating. Not yet. The silence, however, pressed in like a judgment.
It wasn't just the silence that gnawed at her. Her body waged a private war.
Her first period in this body was still in full swing, a miserable background noise she could neither silence nor ignore. It dulled her movements and spiked her mood in equal measure—an annoyance more than a hindrance. And despite having a Divinity-tier mana pool, her strength and stamina stats were pathetic—a cruel twist. She had godlike power bottled in a body that whimpered with every motion. Every time she cast, she paid for it in blood and fatigue.
"Let's begin, Princess," Iyashi said softly beside her, her voice steadier than Samara felt.
Samara let out a slow, exasperated breath. "If you're going to sound that calm, at least carry me while you do it. My uterus is staging a coup, and I'm five seconds away from burning everything to the ground."
They walked in silence for what felt like a minute, the heat thickening with every step until the shadows peeled away into a corridor carved from obsidian and lit by veins of molten gold.
Samara stopped cold. The hallway ahead stretched like a gauntlet—long, ominous, humming with menace.
One hundred fifty floors. That's what they said. Three dungeon bosses, one every 50 floors. It felt impossible to conquer; it felt more like a punishment than a trial.
Samara squinted down the corridor, jaw tight. The heat ahead shimmered like a mirage, and her gut twisted—not from fear, but the annoying kind of dread that tickles the back of your neck before a fight.
"Great," she muttered, voice dry. "Probably more flaming skulls or emotional trauma in boss form. Just once, I'd like a trial that involves sitting quietly and filling out a form."
She shook her head, half to clear the sarcasm, half to steel herself. Whatever trials waited—monsters, illusions, nightmares—she'd meet them swinging.
She flexed her fingers slowly, drawing in a breath that caught somewhere between grit and nausea. Her abdomen throbbed in sync with her heartbeat, and her mana pool simmered under her skin like a pot ready to boil.
FLOORS 1–10: THE SKELETAL ONSLAUGHT
Samara and Iyashi were met with endless waves of skeleton warriors—clattering, screeching, clawing things that rose again if not utterly destroyed. The enemies were laughably weak compared to what she used to face—yet they had one advantage she didn't: consistency.
They didn't bleed, didn't tire, and didn't wake up in a woman's body after thirty years of operating like a blunt weapon in a man's.
"Why do my hips feel like they're dislocating every time I sidestep?" Samara muttered as she cleaved through another skeleton, using one of the many jagged blades she'd conjured from salvaged bone and broken steel.
Iyashi flinched as another skeleton lunged too close. She held her staff backward, nearly tripping over her own feet. "Y-you're kind of wobbling! Maybe... maybe try standing less weird? You move more like a warrior than a princess, I don't know! You're scaring me more than the bones are!"
"No shit," she hissed, narrowly dodging a swipe. "Why does every fucking step feel like my spine's playing Jenga with my organs? My gut's cramping like I swallowed barbed wire, and these damn tits—why does it have to be so big and bouncy? It's like trying to spar with two jelly-filled flails strapped to your chest while your uterus stages a blood riot."
Then it happened—her abdomen seized with a brutal cramp mid-step. She gasped, stumbling forward without meaning to, she slipped because of a cramp so bad her abdomen seized, and dodged an arrow by sheer accident as her knees buckled. The shaft zipped over her head and thunked into the wall behind her.
"Unreal," she muttered. "I just dodged death because my uterus said nope."
Another time, she tried to parry with her off-hand, only for a goblin to ram into her chest. The pain made her stumble, but in doing so, she twisted just enough for the goblin's dagger to miss.
Iyashi, from behind, yelped, "Y-you're like a flailing windmill of death! But somehow... it's working??"
On Floor 7, a mage skeleton fired a burning lance. A rogue cramp in her gut doubled her over mid-step. The lance missed.
"...Okay. My uterus is doing evasive maneuvers now. That's new."
"Are you casting dodge magic?" Iyashi cried.
"If I am, it's called Menstrual Mirage and it's passive as hell."
She fell on Floor 9—flat on her back, kimono tangled, hair stuck to her mouth, and the weight of half a dozen potions sloshing in her stomach.
"Deadly undead above me, boob sweat under me, and my bladder's filing a complaint."
A skeleton lunged. She flared her mana.
Create!
A dagger burst into her palm. She rammed it into the thing's jaw.
"Get up," she growled at herself. "You are not dying to skeletal interns."
Floor 10 wasn't supposed to be a boss fight. But the moment they stepped into the arena chamber, the air shifted.
A skeletal figure emerged from the flames—towering, armored, and wrong. Nearly seven feet tall, clad in golden iron-plated armor that gleamed with arcane runes. Unlike the brittle bones of the fodder they had faced, this one moved with terrifying speed and precision.
Zaraki Orochi met her charge with a roar of his own, halberd sweeping in a blazing arc. She ducked low, sparks flying as the blade scraped her shoulder guard and cleaved into the wall behind her.
She didn't stop. Create! A jagged shortsword materialized in her hand. She slashed upward, catching the Skeleton General's thigh—but the blade barely bit through the golden armor. The retaliation came fast: he grabbed her by the front of her tattered kimono and hurled her across the chamber.
She crashed into the ground with a grunt, skidding, bones rattling. Her ears rang.
"Iyashi—buff me!"
"I-I'm trying!" Iyashi's voice trembled, hands glowing with magic. A soft blue light shimmered around Samara's body—Swallow's Tail. Increases agility of the unit.
The Skeleton General lunged again.
Samara spun out of the way just in time, slicing across his side. Sparks danced. The armor held.
"Damn tank!" she hissed. "Why can't you be made of paper like the rest of your cousins?"
The next swing shattered her blade. Samara rolled, breath ragged. Blood trickled down her arm. Her vision blurred, but her instincts burned.
Create! A spear. She thrust it straight for his skull—blocked. The halberd slammed down like thunder.
Iyashi screamed again and dropped to her knees. Her magic was flickering, fading.
"I'm running low!" she cried. "I can't heal you again!"
"Then I just have to perfectly dodge all its attacks!" Samara snapped. "Come on, Sam! Just like in Olden Plates! Dodge and Parry!" She says to herself
The Skeleton General snarled, magic glyphs glowing across his ribs. "Enough games."
He unleashed a shockwave of death mana. Samara was blasted backward again, body screaming, head pounding. Her ears bled.
But she stood.
Teeth clenched, chest heaving, she tore a potion from her pouch and chugged it.
"Let's finish this," she growled. "You're just bones and borrowed pride."
Create! A whip of silver chain.
She dashed forward, sliding under his next swing, looping the chain around his neck, and pulled with everything she had.
The halberd dropped. He staggered.
She leapt.
With a furious scream, she drove a conjured dagger between his ribs, into the glowing glyph at the center of his chest.
Light erupted.
For a moment, she thought it was over.
Then the ground trembled.
The Skeleton General roared—his bones flaring with dark energy—and slammed his gauntlet into the ground. A summoning circle exploded beneath him with a blinding pulse.
Dozens—no, scores—of skeleton warriors erupted from the floor, clawing their way out with rusted blades and shields, their eye sockets glowing like tiny suns of hate. Each one was faster than the previous waves, smarter. Coordinated.
"Iyashi!" Samara barked, eyes wide. "Focus on crowd control!"
"I-I'm almost dry!" Iyashi cried, her hands trembling as she pushed out one final buff—barely a flicker of light—before she collapsed to her knees. Her lips were pale, her staff shaking.
Samara's sword collided with a skeletal axe—the vibration jarring all the way up to her shoulder. She ducked another strike but staggered backward as her blade shattered in her grip. Create! she growled. Another sword bloomed into being, but its edge was already chipped—dull and thin.
She kicked a skeleton in the ribs, barely shifting its frame, then rolled away as two more converged on her position.
They were drowning.
Samara's body screamed with every motion—lungs on fire, legs sluggish, mana pool flickering. Iyashi was coughing, her staff held like a club more than a focus. Samara saw her miss a healing spell, the magic sputtering into smoke. Another skeleton rushed Iyashi, and Samara hurled a bone spike with perfect aim—but it wasn't enough.
For every one they brought down, two more took its place.
Samara bled from a dozen cuts. Her stamina bar felt like it was mocking her with every step. Her strikes grew slower. Desperation clawed its way up her throat like bile.
"Iyashi—get behind me! Stay down, just stay down!"
"I—I can't—I can't cast anymore—"
Samara's sword cracked again. Create! Another. Then another. They flickered in and out of being like dying stars.
The Skeleton General watched silently, towering over the chaos, his flaming eyes narrowing.
Samara was slashed across the thigh—deep. She gasped and fell to one knee. A skeleton raised its blade to finish her—
ding!
[Level Up: LVL 20]
[New Skill Unlocked: Create Better Items]
Samara gasped as energy surged through her limbs.
"What the hell—System?!"
[Create Better Items: Allows replication of the caster's envisioned object at 75% original power. Caution: Replication may carry unpredictable residual effects.]
Samara grinned through bloodied lips.
"Alright... let's get stupid."
Create!
She pictured a staff—Merlin's staff, as she'd seen in ancient records of legendary mages. It appeared in her hands, humming with forbidden knowledge.
Mana poured into her mind—words, spells, ancient syllables she didn't even understand.
"Thunderbolt!"
A streak of lightning burst from the staff and slammed into the Skeleton General's shoulder. He howled, bone cracking, armor seared.
Samara blinked in disbelief. "Holy shit, that actually worked!"
Iyashi gasped, tears streaking down her soot-covered cheeks. "You hurt him! That really hurt him!"
Samara let out a breathless laugh, still clutching the humming staff. "We actually have a shot. Iyashi—we can win this."
Iyashi nodded furiously, her voice cracking. "We can... we just might survive this!"
Their brief exchange, raw and desperate, carried like a war drum across the chamber—hope blooming in a battlefield of bones.
But it was far from over, the Skeleton General now battered by Samara's spells has entered a frenzy. Dark and ominous aura swelled from the General.
Samara felt the malicious intent "MOVE!" she screamed, tackling Iyashi and dragging her back as the general rampaged through his own forces.
Backed into a corner, Samara gripped the staff tight. Her body shook. Her mana pool teetered.
"Last chance," she whispered. "Let's go big."
She let the staff guide her hands.
"Undead Eraser!"
The staff glowed—then exploded with blinding white light.
A dome of energy pulsed out in all directions, vaporizing every undead creature in its path. The Skeleton General roared—his voice swallowed in divine silence.
When the light faded... he was gone.
Only a treasure chest remained.
Samara dropped the staff.
She collapsed beside it, unconscious before her head hit the stone. Iyashi caught her with a stumble, barely managing to cushion the fall.
"Drink this, Mistress. This is our last Recovery Potion," she whispered, voice trembling. She gently poured the shimmering liquid onto Samara's cracked lips.
Samara stirred slightly, her brow twitching, her breathing still shallow. Iyashi pressed her forehead to Samara's
"You did it... you really did it, Princess!" Iyashi whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. "You're lunatic…"
She let out a shaky laugh. "We're not dead. We're not dead!"
Samara groaned faintly. "Don't celebrate yet... there's still a hundred and twenty floors left..."
Iyashi wiped her face with the back of her hand, smiling through the exhaustion. "Then we'll crawl through the next one if we have to. Together."
Hope flickered like a fragile flame in the gloom of the dungeon.
Samara coughed, blinking slowly as warmth spread through her limbs. She forced herself to sit up against the treasure chest, her hands trembling—but she smiled.
"I can cast one more skill, with this staff." she rasped. "And since the staff requires INT or my mana, using it won't be a problem."
Iyashi blinked, worried. "Princess, your body's—"
"I'm fine," she said, gently touching the glowing staff that pulsed with residual energy. "Just one more." She whispered the incantation, letting the magic rise up and through her.
Greater Heal.
A cascade of golden light flowed outward, wrapping around both of them like a warm, divine embrace. The burns faded. The cuts closed. The ache dulled.
Then the staff—old, conjured from legends—began to crack. Mana veins split and shimmered before it disintegrated into glittering dust, scattered into the dungeon air.
Samara watched it fade with a quiet smile. "Worth it."
Iyashi clutched her hands, trembling with emotion. "You're insane… but we're alive."
Samara looked at her, eyes exhausted but lit with a small grin. "We actually have hope, Iyashi. We might survive this."
They laughed—weak, bruised, but alive. That fragile flame of hope, no longer flickering, caught the wind and burned a little brighter.
Between each grueling stretch of combat, Samara scavenged obsessively—hoarding metal, bone, ash—anything she could get her hands on. It wasn't random desperation; it was calculated survival. Her Create skill required raw materials to forge new weapons, and the dungeon wasn't going to hand her gear on a silver platter
FLOORS 11–20: THE GOBLIN HORDE
In the proceeding floors, the floors, threats became less about brute force and more about the bizarre and unpredictable.
The moment the goblins caught a whiff of them—two female-bodied humanoids drenched in battle sweat, magic residue, and just a hint of monthly hell—they lost what little sanity they had left. Eyes bulged, nostrils flared, and snarls turned into something primal.
"Why are they looking at us like that?" Samara asked, swiping blood from her cheek.
Iyashi, unusually serious, squeaked, "B-because goblins are scent-reactive! Especially to female-bodied humanoids during heat cycles! I read about it in the Bestiary of Ertha, Volume Two!"
"...You're telling me I'm getting swarmed because I smell like a walking heat signal?"
"Y-yes! Hormonal bloodhounds!"
The goblins lunged with rabid excitement, their yellowed eyes wide with frenzy. One tore Samara's sleeve with jagged claws, its face pressed close like it was trying to inhale her scent. Another grabbed Iyashi by the robe and yanked, trying to rip the fabric from her shoulders. Their filthy fingers clawed desperately at their clothes—snatching, tearing, groping—as if exposing more skin would amplify the aroma driving them wild.
"They're trying to tear our kimonos off to smell us better?!" Samara shrieked, slashing one away.
"Pheromone rage!" Iyashi squealed. "They want skin exposure! It makes the scent stronger!"
"Perverts!" Samara roared. "Dungeon-born, monster-ass, goblin perverts!"
"Stay behind me and chant something useful!"
"I-I'm trying not to cry and chant at the same time!"
Create! A bone cleaver appeared. She tried to swing it—but the weight was all wrong and her posture compromised by the shredded mess of her outfit. She stumbled.
"Wrong weapon!" she barked. Create! Again. A curved saber this time.
She became the vanguard. The main DPS. Every swing brutal and desperate. Goblin limbs flew. Blood sprayed. And yet the creatures didn't retreat—they cackled and came closer, some even crawling, gnashing teeth aimed at her ankles and thighs. Her kimono clung to her like a trap, the fabric torn and tugged in every direction. Her bindings strained. Her top kept slipping, baring more with every struggle.
"I'm going to rip this dungeon apart and use its bones for boots!" she shouted, carving a crescent arc through three at once. "AND THEN I'M GOING TO INVENT GOBLIN-SPECIFIC PEPPER SPRAY!"
FLOORS 21–30: SHIFTING TIDES
Enemies formed tighter ranks. Mid-tier Magic users emerged. And worse—orc berserkers and goblin assassins began to appear. These new threats didn't charge mindlessly. They hunted. They coordinated. And they wanted blood.
Samara's tactics evolved quickly to survive. She used bone traps, spike pits, and tripwire made from sinew, anything to slow them down. But her body—still weak, still unfamiliar—buckled under the constant strain. Her arms trembled with each swing. Her legs barely carried her through.
Iyashi's mana began to flicker, like a candle running low. Her aim grew wild. Her spells fizzled. Her hands trembled even as she tried to conjure barriers. "I can't… I'm out—I'm almost out!" she gasped between ragged breaths.
A goblin assassin lunged for her throat, and Samara threw herself between them, the last of her strength bleeding into a furious strike.
And still they came. Orcs with brute strength. Goblins with venom blades. Mages casting fire through the cracks.
Samara's foot caught on a pit edge. She fell hard, her hip flaring with pain. Her vision spun.
Then she saw it—half-buried in the soot and ash.
The femur of Zaraki Orochi.
She reached for it like a drowning woman grabbing a rope.
Create Doll!
Her blood stained the bone as she poured her mana into it, invoking her Create Doll skill. This wasn't like forging a weapon—this was an act of replication, anchored in soul and self. Her mana wrapped around the femur like silk and wire, weaving shape from essence.
She didn't just picture herself—she channeled her very being into it. The desperation. The pain. The refusal to fall.
From bone and blood, the magic took hold and formed a figure. Her second doll.
It resembled her in every way—but ethereal and ghastly, with smooth ivory-like skin, almost skeletal in its elegance. Its crimson eyes glowed faintly, and ghostly veins of mana pulsed beneath its translucent surface, like heat flowing through marble.
It was not just a mimic. It was a reflection—of everything Samara was trying to become.
A second doll emerged.
This one was different. Taller. Armored. It held a gleaming broadsword in one hand, and a polished buckler shield in the other. The air shimmered faintly around it—its presence crackling like a living ward.
It was a knight.
The creature bowed silently to Samara, the movement fluid and reverent.
Then, without hesitation, it charged into the horde—its blade carving wide arcs, shield smashing aside assassins. Where Samara's body faltered, this doll moved like a storm given form.
Blades of pure mana flared from its arms.
And the tide—finally—began to turn.
ROYAL CHAMBER REACTION
The mirror shimmered, showing Samara bleeding, limping, and conjuring a glowing doll from the remains of a dungeon boss. The doll surged forward, armored and furious—a perfect knight twin of Samara, cutting a clean path through the onslaught.
Silence hung in the chamber.
Ayato leaned forward, brows furrowed. "That's… her Create Doll skill. But it's evolved. That thing fights like a royal guard."
Ryuuka crossed her arms, expression unreadable. "She's improvising mid-collapse. And it's working."
Kuruma sneered. "She's half-dressed and reckless. Is this really someone worthy of the royal line?"
"She's bruised, not broken," Ayato snapped, his voice colder than steel. "And she's still standing."
Kamezou scoffed. "Barely. Let's see how long that lasts."
Ryuuka shot him a glare. "You couldn't last five floors like that."
Homura grunted. "That doll… it's protecting her without commands. Almost like it knows what she needs."
Ayato's fist clenched. "She's adapting to the dungeon's pace. That's not just survival. That's instinct."
Tenchi, silent until now, stood from his throne, eyes fixed on the projection. His voice cut through the room like a drawn blade.
"Watch her. All of you. That is not the same girl who entered the dungeon."
TO BE CONTINUED...