Korimer led from the rear this time.
Not because he lacked confidence—but because experience had taught him something most trainees hadn't learned yet: danger rarely announced itself from the front.
Kutote took point, his posture relaxed but his senses stretched thin. Instant Teleportation made him the most effective scout in enclosed spaces like this, but it also made him the most tempting target. Korimer compensated by anchoring the formation, his awareness constantly sweeping outward—measuring air pressure, SE fluctuations, spatial distortions.
They traveled in relative peace.
Too much peace.
Only a handful of Grade B demonic beasts crossed their path, dispatched quickly and efficiently. No injuries. No delays. No ambushes. The kind of smooth progression that made veterans uneasy.
According to Korimer's analysis, they were nearing the center of the dungeon. The density of ambient SE had shifted subtly—older, heavier. Less chaotic.
That meant the ruins were close.
From there, discovering the Dukcilliea Chambers would only be a matter of patience. The real challenge would begin after they found them.
Getting this far at all was a testament to coordination and trust. Kutote never overextended. Korimer never hesitated. Commands were brief, movements efficient. No wasted effort.
Two hours passed.
Then—
They arrived.
The ruins rose from the dungeon floor like exposed bones, ancient stone fractured by time and conflict. Pillars lay half-buried. Carvings eroded beyond recognition. The air itself felt different here—thick with residue left behind by something long gone, yet not entirely absent.
And then they saw them.
Masked figures.
Dressed in black.
They stood among the ruins as though they belonged there—still, patient, unmoving. As if they had been waiting.
Korimer's group wasn't the only one who felt it.
The men in black turned as one.
Their movements were synchronized—not rehearsed, not rigid, but instinctive. Their gazes locked onto Korimer's team, and in that instant, the temperature seemed to drop.
Their eyes held no light.
No curiosity.
No emotion.
They were here for one reason—and one reason only.
At the same moment…
Far above the dungeon, in Lestrel City—
The massive display screen that had just shown Korimer's group arriving at the ruins flickered.
Once.
Briefly.
Then stabilized.
The disturbance was so small that most dismissed it as a transmission hiccup. A blink. A ghost artifact.
Almost no one noticed.
Almost.
X did.
He'd spent too many years watching feeds, managing delays, tracking inconsistencies. His eyes caught the flicker before his mind did.
And then he noticed something else.
This wasn't live anymore.
The men in black—who had appeared for exactly one hundred and twenty-fifth of a second—were gone. Not hidden. Not obscured.
Gone.
X's brows furrowed as his gaze drifted upward, instinctively seeking confirmation or denial.
The Royal Box.
Kime met his eyes.
There was no expression on his face. No explanation offered.
Just a nod.
A single, deliberate motion.
Reassured—whether rightly or wrongly—X swallowed his unease and continued the broadcast. In doing so, he deceived not only the audience who remained blissfully ignorant…
…but also those who thought they had noticed something strange and talked themselves out of it.
He nearly deceived himself as well.
---
VIP Section…
Corinth Ransthrol smiled.
Not broadly. Not cruelly.
It was the kind of smile reserved for plans that had gone exactly as intended.
The interference had lasted only one hundred and twenty-fifth of a second—but that was enough. Long enough for the ruins to assert their effect. Long enough to sever perception from truth.
From this point onward, what the audience saw and what truly occurred in the dungeon would diverge completely.
Two realities.
One lie.
They wanted a spectacle.
Children killing each other for their entertainment.
Corinth would give them exactly that.
They would only ever see what he wanted them to see.
---
Back in the Dungeon…
The men in black possessed no distinguishing features.
Average height. Similar builds. Their clothing was uniform down to the seams, their masks devoid of markings. They could have been brothers—or reflections.
Separate bodies.
A single will.
They looked wrong.
Not because they didn't belong—but because the dungeon itself seemed to recoil from them. Ambient SE bent subtly around their presence, as though unwilling to touch them directly.
Cheim Nell felt it first.
Her skin prickled, a crawling sensation racing up her spine. Kutote stiffened beside her, his instincts screaming even as his mind struggled to assign meaning. Konacho's breath caught, shallow and tight. Illiopo clenched his fists, jaw set.
Then Korimer stepped forward.
It was instinctive. Protective.
The men in black bowed.
Not deeply—but unmistakably.
Reverently.
Korimer didn't need confirmation. His SS resonated faintly, recognition sinking into his bones.
"Shwarer," he said quietly. "Is that you?"
One of the figures inclined his head a fraction. "Yes, Young Lord Korimer."
Kutote's stomach dropped.
This was worse than he'd imagined. Worse than he'd feared. He had thought this was over—buried beneath politics and time. If not over… then dormant.
"What are you doing here?" Korimer demanded, forcing steadiness into his voice.
The response came without hesitation. "Respectfully, our mission is on a need-to-know basis."
The air shifted.
Korimer's aura flared—not explosively, but with terrifying restraint. Like heat trapped beneath steel.
"Is it my brother who sent you?" he asked, voice cold enough to bite.
The ruins answered first.
Stone creaked. Air thickened. Even breathing became laborious, as though the dungeon itself was reacting to his intent.
Silence.
Korimer's eyes sharpened. "Answer me. Or lose your head."
"…The Flame Emperor."
Kutote felt the blood drain from his face.
Korimer turned slowly, meeting Kutote's eyes. No words passed between them.
None were needed.
Behind them, panic finally cracked through discipline.
"Senior Korimer…?" Konacho asked, voice trembling despite her effort. "What's going on?"
No one answered.
And then—
Illiopo moved.
He didn't think. He didn't hesitate.
Training overrode reason. Instinct screamed louder than fear.
Enemy confirmed.
Hostile intent detected.
Strike first.
He lunged.
The distance collapsed in an instant.
Then—
A sound like wet cloth tearing echoed through the ruins.
Illiopo's body folded mid-motion, launched backward as though swatted aside. He slammed into a broken pillar, stone exploding on impact. Ancient carvings shattered. Dust and blood sprayed outward.
He didn't scream.
His lungs no longer had the strength.
His chest had been caved in by a single, casual backhand.
Breath escaped him in shallow, wet gasps—each one weaker than the last.
Cheim froze.
Konacho staggered back, bile burning her throat.
That wasn't a technique.
That wasn't even an attack.
It was dismissal.
The man in black who had struck Illiopo didn't even look at him.
Korimer's fists clenched.
He hadn't seen Shwarer move.
But he felt it.
Shwarer was stronger.
Far stronger.
Korimer exhaled slowly, calculating. Escape vectors collapsed one by one. Shwarer's sensory range blanketed the area like a net.
Kutote wouldn't be able to teleport everyone out fast enough.
There was only one choice.
He stepped forward.
"I will not allow anyone under my responsibility to die," Korimer said quietly.
"Kutote. Get Illiopo."
Kutote's SE spiked violently as he vanished, reappearing beside Illiopo's broken body. The boy's breathing was barely there.
"How bad is it?" Korimer asked.
"Really bad!" Kutote said, panic breaking through. "He's lost too much blood. I don't think he's going to—"
"Kutote," Korimer cut in. "Get them out of here. I'll catch up."
"No!" Cheim shouted, dropping beside them. "You can't beat him—he's too strong—"
"I'm not going with you," Korimer said calmly. "I have to hold him back. Don't worry."
His gaze didn't waver.
"He cannot kill me."
"Cheim. On my count," Korimer said. "Create what we discussed earlier."
Cheim swallowed, then nodded.
"Cheim. Now."
"Gazsti! Gounte no Hajapario!!!"
Her rune—創力—ignited.
Reality buckled.
A massive shadow tore itself into existence, ripping SE from the environment as it formed. Colossal arms. Stocky legs. Three embedded SE stones pulsed within its head.
An experiment.
And proof.
An AAA-grade demonic beast roared, its first breath shaking the ruins as it charged the men in black.
For a moment—
Hope flared.
Then the men in black moved.
Coordinated. Precise. Efficient.
The construct began to lose.
And Shwarer still hadn't moved.
"We have to leave," Konacho said, forcing strength into her voice. "Kutote. Take us out."
Korimer met her eyes.
He smiled faintly.
Arcane symbols flared.
They vanished.
Dust settled.
Only Korimer remained.
Shwarer raised a hand, his men tensing.
"Should we take this as a challenge to the Flame Emperor's directive?" he asked.
Korimer stood tall.
"I have my responsibilities," he said evenly. "My father has his."
His eyes burned with authority.
"I will not falter in observing them."
"That—is my authority."
.
.
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Spiritual Energy (SE)
Spiritual Sea (SS)
Spiritual Signature (SST)