Elijah
Royal Dungeon
Pandemonium City, the Capital city
Hudsonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
Chaos reigned.
Fire raged across the battlefield, turning the obsidian ground into blackened glass. Acrid smoke curled into the sweltering air, blurring the horizon beneath the merciless waste sun. The terrain—once flat and desolate—was now a twisted graveyard of scorched bones, shattered weapons, and broken bodies. Cries of the dying mingled with the distant roar of Shedims as the air pulsed with residual mana and bloodlust.
My boots crunched over charred earth as I moved through the wreckage. Blood dripped from my lashes, smearing red across my vision, though I hardly noticed. The heat, the noise, the weight of exhaustion pressing into my bones—it all felt distant, drowned under the roar of memory.
I wasn't sure how much time had passed on the surface. The flow of time in the Dungeon was erratic, distorted. But deep in my soul, I knew we'd been here longer than four months. Too long. Long enough for the sun to feel like an enemy, not a light of hope.
I stopped walking. Let the silence in my head swallow the battlefield noise for a moment. My eyes swept across the scene—comrades fallen, the terrain reshaped by battle, and in the distance, a mana storm still crackling from behind them.
My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the chain of decisions, the moments of hesitation, the fateful orders that had led to this—this catastrophe. The ambush. The traitor in our ranks. The terrain shift that trapped our rear guard. The beast that should never have existed on this floor.
I clenched my fists until my knuckles cracked.
Whatever this was, it wasn't just a Dungeon anymore. It was a war. And someone was orchestrating it from the shadows. The memory rose like a tidal wave, pulling me under.
****
We stood before the gate—the yawning black mouth of the lower floor Dungeon entrance. The air around it shimmered with mana distortions, a thick haze that hummed against my skin like static. My heartbeat was steady, but the silence behind me told me I wasn't the only one feeling the weight of what we were about to enter.
Steph adjusted the clasp on her enchanted shoulder plate, her gaze flicking to me without a word. Behind us, the four Royal Guards stood in formation—Captain M'rael at the front, his crimson eyes gleaming like twin rubies beneath his helm. His dark cape fluttered slightly from the mana drafts seeping out of the gate.
Then we stepped through.
The world changed immediately.
The ceiling above us vanished, replaced by a sky burning with a yellow star. Harsh and unblinking, it hovered like a false sun in a sky smeared with purple clouds and crimson streaks. The light wasn't warm—it was oppressive, casting everything in a golden hue that made the shadows seem darker, thicker.
The air hit us like a wall. It was heavier here, dense and tinged with a metallic sharpness that clung to the throat and burned faintly in the lungs. My first breath tasted of copper and ozone. We emerged onto a massive stone platform carved into the side of a jagged canyon that descended endlessly into darkness. Wind whistled through it in broken moans.
Down below, strange shapes slithered or flew through the haze, far too distant to make out—but their mana signatures pulsed with hunger. And at the edge of the platform loomed the stronghold: Vhal Karez.
Captain M'rael led the way, his voice low as he explained.
"This is the only known stronghold on the lower floor," he said. "Vhal Karez was founded over five hundred years ago by a generation of Royal Ascendants who attempted to map this floor. Since then, it's been the anchor for every operation we've launched into the region."
The gates of the town opened before us—thick steel doors reinforced with dragonbone and etched with binding runes. Inside, the fortress was alive with movement. Warriors in enchanted armor patrolled the ramparts. Alchemists carried crates of stabilizers and healing elixirs into the inner walls. You could hear the clang of blacksmith hammers even above the murmur of mana flowing through the street lanterns.
"It looks like a military base," Steph muttered beside me.
"That's because it is," M'rael said. "There are no civilians here. Everyone in Vhal Karez is either a Mana artist, a mage, or support staff for the Expedition effort. The Shedim nests are set all around us. Without this fortress, the lower floor would have been overrun centuries ago."
I looked around, noting the massive central tower rising above the town. Arcs of mana danced up its spire. It crackled faintly with arc lightning, each bolt disappearing into the sky above.
"That's the Heart Spire," M'rael added, following my gaze. "It stabilizes the Foldgate here and channels mana into the town's protective barriers. It also functions as our command center. That's where you'll be staying, Your Highness."
A distant howl echoed through the canyon below. It wasn't human. It wasn't even an animal. It was ancient—hungry. I couldn't help but flinch. Steph did not.
"Come," M'rael said, his voice harder now. "We'll rest tonight. Tomorrow, I'll take you to the first terrain. You need to understand what we're up against before you command from the front."
The Shedim awaited.
And so did the truths buried in this cursed floor.
The fortress grew quiet after dusk—if you could call it that. The false sun dimmed but never truly set, its golden rays reduced to a smoldering ember that hung over the horizon like a dying god's eye.
I stood alone on the balcony of my assigned quarters in the Heart Spire, arms resting against the black steel railing. From here, I could see most of Vhal Karez. Torchlight flickered below, dancing on armor and runes. Warriors trained in silence. Healers moved like ghosts, their hands aglow. No laughter. No music. Only purpose.
A presence joined me.
Steph didn't speak at first. She simply leaned on the railing beside me, her silver eyes reflecting the dim light, expression unreadable.
"Can't sleep either?" She asked.
I shook my head. "I can't stop thinking about the Shedim. About how quiet this place is for a dungeon. It feels…wrong."
"It's the kind of quiet that only comes when death is waiting outside the gates," Steph said, her voice low. "Vhal Karez doesn't sleep. It just holds its breath."
I turned my gaze to the sky. "We've been here for almost an hour, and already I can feel it. The pressure. The difference in mana. It's like the Dungeon is alive."
Steph nodded. "It is. DUngeons are almost like living beings." I looked at her, realizing that Steph might have more experience with a Dungeon than me. We stood in silence for a while. The wind howled faintly over the canyon rim. Somewhere far below, the cry of a Shedim echoed like a promise.
"Steph," I said, my voice lower, more raw than I intended. "I know you didn't ask for this. I dragged you out here—forced you into something you never signed up for. But... I'm glad you're here. I don't trust anyone else to have my back."
She was quiet for a breath too long. The firelight from the nearby brazier flickered in her eyes as she turned to face me fully. Then, without a word, she reached out and took my hand—fingers brushing slowly against mine before entwining.
"You think I stayed because I had no choice?" she whispered. "I could've left. But I didn't. I chose to stay with you."
Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath—something fragile. The kind of tension that made silence feel deafening. I held her gaze, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between us. The danger, the duty... and the pull I tried too hard to ignore.
****
The briefing chamber was built like a gladiator's coliseum—tiered stone benches surrounding a central platform covered in glowing terrain maps and spell arrays. A translucent model of the Lower Floor hovered above the platform, slowly rotating, etched with luminous runes.
We weren't alone. At least three other royal-sponsored Ascendant groups were present—each seated in their own faction rows. Their auras lit the room like a storm barely restrained.
To my left stood a group from the Bathory Dominion—dark-robed and halo-eyed, their white armor gleaming like bleached bone beneath the dim glow. Most were Humans, their expressions unreadable beneath their hoods.
To my right, warriors of the Helsing Vanguard gathered, clad in gold-trimmed crimson plate. One of them nodded at Steph, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. She didn't return it. Their group was more diverse—Humans, Vampires, Lycans, even a Fey with war paint etched across his jaw.
Farther back, the Ysera Compact sat in silence—cloaked figures draped in shimmering Fey silk. Their captain, veiled and still, had glowing green eyes and the scent of dry grass lingering around her like a memory of autumn.
At the center stood Captain M'rael in full darkplate, the red insignia of House Ashtarmel gleaming like blood on steel. His presence anchored the room—tense, commanding, unyielding. When he raised a hand, the chamber fell into instant silence.
"The Seven Terrains," he began, his voice calm but edged like a honed blade. With a subtle flick of his gauntlet, a hovering model shimmered to life—seven sectors flaring one by one in succession, each more hostile than the last.
The Ashen Wastes—a volcanic region scorched black by rivers of magma. Fire-element Shedim roam in relentless hordes, often twenty or more in number. Heat distortion rippled over the projection. The Hollow Forest—a withered woodland shrouded in poison mist. Insectoid Shedim stalked the fog, their movements silent, their strikes fatal. No wind moved there. Only death. The Bone March—open plains strewn with ancient remains, a graveyard from forgotten wars. Necrotic Shedim prowled, capable of raising corpses to fight again. The land itself groaned with memory.
The Crystalline Rift—a chasm of jagged crystal spires that hummed with unstable mana. The terrain was said to be alive, reactive, and deadly. To walk there is to risk being pierced by the terrain itself. The Sunken Hollows—swamps and flooded caves. Visibility was always dropping. Ambush predators also lurked beneath the murk. Aquatic Shedim could rise from the depths like shadows made flesh. The Black Sky Reach—a vertical hell of cliffs and drifting stone platforms suspended in void. Aerial Shedim ruled there. There was no safety. Constant motion was survival. The Labyrinth of Grief—no maps existed. No scouts returned. Whatever laid within devoured body, mind, and soul. All who enter were declared lost—by death or something worse. Only the strong made it through.
"These are the terrains you must pass through to get to the middle floor," M'rael said. "And the things even in the Middle floors are said to be way worse than this."
The Helsing captain scoffed. "We've trained with Apex Beasts. What's a few Shedim?"
M'rael's eyes narrowed. "A few Shedim took out a Master only squad three months ago. Beasts operate on instinct. Shedim evolve. They mimic. They remember."
That silenced the room. I felt my resolve waver for a bit, but then the thought of Leonel Lionheart came to mind, my inferiority coming up again, and my resolve tightened.
Captain M'rael paused, then looked directly at me.
"Prince Elijah, we'll be heading out now."
I nodded slowly, my gaze locking with the rotating map. Fire. Shadows. Screams.
It had begun.
****
The heat struck like a wall.
The moment we passed through the threshold gate, the world turned red. Black volcanic stone stretched endlessly beneath the crawlers we rode, fractured and steaming. Pillars of fire burst intermittently from the earth, and the air shimmered with warped, blistering heat. The yellow sun loomed unnaturally close—merciless and swollen.
Ash drifted in thin, unceasing veils, clinging to our gear, our skin, our breath.
Steph sat at my right in the vehicle. Behind us, the three Royal Guards kept tight formation, Tanya, the female Vampire with her dual blades, Ray with his longsword and Nettle with her staff, all their own Crawlers. Captain M'rael drove our crawler, his silence as heavy as the atmosphere. Around us, scattered across the ridgelines and low outcroppings, moved tagged sentries from the Bathory Dominion and the Helsing Vanguard—each keeping their distance. Each watching us more than the terrain.
We advanced slowly.
The crawler's engine purred low beneath us, the only sound besides the occasional groan of shifting rock and the distant howl of volcanic wind. Even the Ashen Wastes had a kind of rhythm to it—a pulsing heat that came in waves, like the land itself was breathing.
No one spoke.
Every eye was sharp, scanning the ridges, watching the cracks, the steam vents, the sudden geysers of flame that erupted without warning. The Shedim didn't announce themselves. They didn't roar or stampede. They just… appeared.
Steph had her rifle slung tight, fingers tapping lightly against the frame, eyes never still. M'rael sat with one gauntleted hand gripping the side rail, gaze fixed on the far horizon, unmoving as he drove the vehicle. The Ash clung to his armor like frost.
Far ahead, a faint silhouette moved along the ridge—Bathory scouts in their pale armor. A moment later, another figure blinked into view across a higher ledge—one of the Helsing Fey, crouched like a bird of prey, eyes glowing faintly red.
The heat and silence conspired to gnaw at our nerves.
We passed a blackened rock formation twisted into the shape of something almost human—melted, half-kneeling, arms reaching toward nothing. The air shimmered around it, warping its outline like a phantom.
Ray Levine, the Human Royal Guard, muttered a prayer under his breath. The words were too soft to catch, but the tremble in his tone said enough.
I didn't blame him.
Something was watching us.
Not just the other Ascendant teams. Not just the scouts or the Wardens. Something beneath the surface. Waiting.
Steph leaned closer. "You feel it too?"
I nodded. "We're being measured."
M'rael spoke finally, his voice quiet. "They always test new blood. The Shedim. First, they watch. Then they strike."
A sudden gust of ash swept over the crawler, obscuring our view for a breathless second. When it passed, the landscape looked the same—but we knew better.
They were here.
The silence cracked.
A tremor rippled through the volcanic stone beneath us—subtle at first, then violent enough to rattle the wheels of our transport.
"Movement!" barked M'rael, raising a clenched fist.
Weapons unslung. Ash thickened, swirling like smoke around us as the ground ahead burst open—no warning, no shriek, just eruption.
From the fissures came the Shedim.
They weren't massive, but they were fast—quadrupedal beasts of soot-black exoskeleton and glowing lava seams. Eyes like molten glass, jaws like split furnaces. A half-dozen leapt into the air in perfect coordination, descending on the lead Bathory formation.
Screams followed. Energy flared, spiritual pressure rising up.
"Form up!" Captain M'rael shouted, his aura flaring as the Royal Guards launched from the transport, blades drawn, crashing into the onrushing Shedim.
Steph was already beside me, her weapon gleaming, her aura unfolding around her like crimson wings. She moved with purpose—grace and violence balanced in every motion. I drew my blade from the hilt at my waist—a double-edged Sacred-grade enchanted sword, humming with latent mana. The grip felt familiar. Grounding.
My body shifted instinctively, slipping into the flow of my family's sword art—Heavenly Crimson Flash Style.
Aura surged through me. I accelerated. The world bent around the focus of my intent. I moved faster than my thoughts, a streak of steel and red light cutting through ash and flame.
The first Shedim hit the ground in front of me and lunged. I brought my blade up, parrying the strike just before its claws raked across my chest. The impact shoved me back—but I twisted, planting a boot in its side and detonating mana through the strike. The creature exploded in a burst of lava and bone.
Captain M'rael was already engaged with the Shedim, his blade carved dark colored crescents as he met the first wave of Shedim head-on. The Royal Guards flanked him, their auras flaring in unison.
Beside me, Steph dashed forward, emerald ribbons of energy streaming from her saber. She didn't look back. She didn't have to.
I drew a long breath and closed my eyes for a heartbeat.
[Heavenly crimson flash-Second Form-Flash Gale Severance.]
My aura surged, combat aura accelerating through my legs and spine like fire through dry tinder. The ground cracked beneath my feet as I vanished in a flicker—reappearing just behind a hulking Shedim brute, its molten black skin steaming in the heat.
One slice.
The world twisted in the wake of the blade. Wind erupted as my diagonal slash tore through the creature's spine, releasing a burst of kinetic force that shredded the two behind it. A red spiral bloomed through the smoke, glowing with residual ether. More howls. More coming.
"Behind you!" Steph's voice.
I pivoted, ducking just as a clawed arm whipped over my head. Her saber cleaved through it before the limb could retract. Blood hissed into steam.
She landed beside me again—shoulder brushing mine, gaze unflinching.
"We can't stay in one place," she said, panting. "We'll get overwhelmed."
I nodded, locking eyes with her just for a breath.
"Then let's move," I said. "Together."
We stepped off—lightning and blood in our wake.
We moved through the Waste, my sword art igniting the air with flashes of crimson as I carved through the charging Shedim. Steph stayed just behind me, her saber a blur of silver and heat—cutting down more of the beasts than even I could.
I was no novice with a blade. I'd trained under Sanders, the former Captain of the Royal Guard, and my father had drilled me relentlessly. But training could only carry you so far. This—this was my first real battle.
Steph, though… the way she moved, the way she handled her saber—it was instinct, honed and tempered. Every strike was precise. Controlled. Efficient. She was battle-tested in a way I wasn't. Her military background showed in every motion, and for the first time, I found myself following her lead.
I'd often wondered if Steph was Awakened. There was no way to sense her cultivated aura, which was rare. Maybe she used a concealment artifact, or maybe she'd developed a technique to suppress it. There weren't any rules against hiding your level, so I'd never brought it up. But watching her now… I was starting to think she was far more than she let on.
A fresh wave of Shedim surged forward in a tight, snarling pack. The heat radiating off their bodies pulsed like a furnace—dangerous for any of us, but especially so for Vampires. Fire was our bane, and these beasts carried it like a second skin.
Nettle, the Chimera Royal Guard, stepped up beside us. Her long staff spun through the air with graceful precision, glowing glyphs trailing behind it like ghostly fireflies. A silent spell formed in the space around her—no words, no Grimoire, just pure command of mana. With a sharp cry, she slammed her staff into the ground.
Frost exploded outward.
A wave of bluish-white particles swept across the field, instantly encasing the advancing Shedim in thick layers of ice. Their howls froze on their tongues, limbs suspended mid-motion as death took them in silence.
The three Royal Guards moved like a blade through the frozen mass—shattering limbs and torsos with brutal efficiency. Steph and I joined in, cleaving down what remained of the frozen horde. Shards of ice and ash filled the air.
I couldn't help but be impressed by Nettle's magical prowess. No incantations. No delay. Just raw, disciplined artistry. Her staff acted as both brush and conduit, painting spells into existence with strokes of elegance and lethal grace.
I tightened my grip on the hilt, drawing in a steady breath as mana surged through my veins. My blade responded, pulsing with familiar warmth—a Sacred-grade enchanted sword, perfectly attuned to my dual path.
Thanks to Fantasia, I walked both the paths of Magic and Body cultivation. That meant I could channel spells directly through my weapon, seamlessly weaving enchantment into every swing.
Crimson light shimmered briefly along the blade's edge before fading into a cool, rippling glow. I whispered the invocation, my voice calm amid the chaos:
[Aqua: Sweeping Cyclone.]
Water surged.
A spiraling torrent burst from my blade the moment the words left my lips, lashing outward in a sweeping arc. The cyclone tore through the Shedim ranks—twisting, howling, and dragging them off their feet. Steam hissed where the water met their burning flesh, disrupting the sweltering heat they radiated.
Steph didn't hesitate. She darted forward, slipping into the gaps I carved, her saber flashing like a sliver of moonlight. Each movement was precise, efficient—executions wrapped in elegance. The Shedim barely had time to scream.
Nettle's frost magic countered the heat flare from the fallen enemies. Ice laced the scorched ground where her staff struck, locking the battlefield into a temporary balance of elements—my cyclone, her frost, Steph's steel.
The Shedim were beginning to falter.
But we knew better—this was only the first wave.
It didn't take long before the group of Ascendants cut down the last of them. When the dust settled, we regrouped at a clearing, the ashen wind still thick with the scent of burnt flesh and scorched soil. Some of the Ascendants took the moment to clean their weapons, their faces streaked with sweat, ash, and blood.
The Helsing Guards were grinning, laughter spilling from their ranks—clearly, the thrill of battle was something they relished. I caught the leader of the eighth unit, a human with sharp eyes, stealing a glance at Steph as she silently fell into step behind me.
My Royal Guards closed ranks at my flanks. Captain M'rael stood ahead, his eyes scanning the blighted horizon. His expression was grim.
"Now's not the time to relax," he said, voice clipped. "We've yet to reach the heart of the Waste. That was only the first wave. It gets worse from here."
He turned slightly, gaze sweeping over the entire formation.
"Remember—Shedim share memories. The ones that come next will be stronger. Smarter."
We returned to our crawlers, the vehicles somehow spared during the chaos of the attack. Captain M'rael took the wheel of the lead crawler, shifting it into gear with a low growl of the engine before driving forward into the Waste.
Ash crunched beneath the tires, soft and bone-dry. The horizon stretched out before us—a wasteland of pale dunes and half-buried ruins. The sky remained a veil of unbroken gray—no sun, no stars, only that dense, colorless haze pressing down like a curse.
No one spoke.
Inside the vehicle, tension clung to us like dust. Every passenger sat alert, senses expanded, probing the landscape with internal scans and cultivated awareness. We weren't just watching for movement—we were listening for the silence to break. Waiting for the next wave to announce itself with fang and fire.
We had barely driven another kilometer when the ground began to rumble.
Captain M'rael slammed the brakes. The crawler screeched to a halt, ash spraying in waves beneath the tires.
"Brace!" he barked.
A tremor split the air, and then they came.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of Shedim burst from the dunes in a coordinated surge. No longer mindless, their formation was tight, their movements precise. The memory-sharing had already begun to take effect. This was no random ambush. This was a hunt.
"Form up!" M'rael shouted, leaping from the vehicle mid-roll, blade drawn and aura surging. The rest of the Royal Guard launched off the crawler like bolts of lightning, crashing into the enemy lines with military discipline.
I was already in motion, sword drawn, aura flaring. Steph landed beside me in a blur, her saber gleaming as she carved through the first two Shedim that lunged toward us. Her expression was steel—no hesitation, no mercy. She was faster now. Sharper.
I didn't have time to marvel. The sky above howled, and another cluster of winged Shedim dove from the air.
"Sky Flankers!" shouted Nettle as she raised her staff. Arcane glyphs bloomed around her, a frost burst exploding upward. Crystalline spikes pierced the sky-dwellers mid-flight, bringing them down in frozen shatters.
My blade glowed crimson. Aura surged through my limbs as I stepped into my first form.
[Heavenly Crimson Flash — Form One: Dawn Cleave.]
I vanished—reappeared mid-air—my sword trailing red light like a meteor slash. The Shedim beneath me were torn apart in a single blow.
Steph followed up with a second flash step, her saber flowing with brutal elegance. For every foe I cut down, she dropped two.
We were surrounded—but for the first time, I wasn't afraid.
I had trained for this.
A sudden flurry of movement caught my eye—the leader of the Helsing Guard danced through the battlefield like a shadow. Dual-wielding daggers, he moved with lethal grace, each step precise, each strike fatal. There was a gleam in his eyes—half thrill, half madness—as he carved through the Shedim with ruthless efficiency.
The Ysera Compact worked in unison, a silent storm of magic. Their cultivators wove water, earth, and wind spells with elegant precision, elemental forces crashing down to crush or drown their enemies. No wasted motion. No wasted mana.
The Bathory Dominions stood firm in formation, enchanted firearms raised. Their mana-infused rounds detonated on impact, reducing Shedim to pulp and ichor with brutal efficiency. Gunfire echoed like drumbeats across the wasteland.
I kept moving, blade flashing crimson. Each swing of my sword tore through hide and bone, the enchantment humming with power. I wove in spells when I could—mostly tier one and two techniques—but the sword amplified their force beyond their grade. Even low-tier magic, when paired with a Sacred-grade blade, could strike like a veteran's killing blow.
And so I pressed on—cutting, casting, and surviving.
But it didn't last.
I felt it first—a subtle shift in their movements. The Shedim that surged toward us now weren't reckless. They dodged. They feinted. They waited for openings. One lunged for me, and instead of taking the bait of my sword swing, it twisted its body, slipping beneath the arc and raking its claws across my armor.
I stumbled back, slicing it down with a reverse slash—but the damage was done.
"They're adapting," Steph said, her voice tight behind me. "They remember how we fight."
She was right. These weren't mindless beasts anymore.
One of the Ysera Compact launched a crescent-shaped water blade. The Shedim nearest didn't charge blindly as their brethren had. It flattened itself to the ground, then rolled to the side, its claws digging into the earth to launch it forward—and then it struck the caster in the ribs, sending her flying.
A gunshot rang out. A Bathory soldier fired, but the Shedim nearest him dropped low, using a fallen body as cover. It was learning. Using tactics. When it leapt again, it struck his wrist, forcing him to drop the firearm before plunging a claw into his chest.
"Form up!" Captain M'rael barked through the comms. "Tighten your defenses! These bastards are evolving!"
The battlefield was no longer ours.
Even the Helsing leader, with all his deadly precision, was starting to falter. One Shedim caught his rhythm—parrying his dagger with its forearm, then kicking him in the chest to create distance. Another flanked him instantly, and it took three others from his squad to drag the creatures off him.
I gritted my teeth. My enchanted blade shimmered with mana. This wasn't just a battle of strength anymore. It was a war of attrition—and our every move was being recorded in the minds of a growing hive.
They weren't just monsters. They were a memory network made flesh.
And we were quickly becoming predictable.
The Helsing leader, who had torn through the first wave like a whirlwind, now gritted his teeth as his twin daggers struggled to keep up. Each Shedim came at him with a rhythm that mirrored his own—timing, spacing, aggression. He had to shift his stance, change tempo, sweat pouring down his brow as he ducked under a claw and jammed a dagger into the creature's throat—twice, just to be sure.
The Ysera Compact's mages cast faster now—spells that once felled entire groups of Shedim were now met with dispersal tactics. The creatures used fallen bodies and even terrain to break line of sight or disrupt targeting sigils. Earth spikes that once skewered dozens now only caught three—because the rest had spread out intelligently.
Bathory gunners, usually calm and composed, were now firing in bursts, reloading mid-motion. Their enchanted rounds still worked—but now, it often took two or three per creature. One soldier cursed as his gun jammed, and two Shedim rushed him—he only survived because one of his comrades blasted them both with a mana grenade.
And me?
I was no longer holding back. My sword danced with Crimson Radiance, the edge screaming through the air. I shifted into my Sword art, my Mana surging, as I channeled the Sin of Radiance through my sword.
[Crimson Crescent fang].
The Shedim I targeted split in two—but not before it tried to drag me down with it, its claw grazing my shoulder, even in death. We weren't just fighting monsters anymore. We were fighting an evolving intelligence. One that could learn our movements, mimic our tactics, and pass on the knowledge in real-time.
The Ascendants began using more energy. More precision. Each move sharpened. Each breath was calculated. Gone were the smirks, the swagg
er, the cocky ease. We were working now. For every Shedim that fell, the cost to kill it was rising. And with every second, the waste grew darker, filled with the howls of smarter, meaner things.
By the time the waves finally ended, exhaustion hit us like a collapsing mountain. The strain of pushing ourselves beyond our limits left our cores nearly dry—our mana reserves scraping bottom. I leaned on my sword just to stay upright, every muscle trembling, my body and mind drained. Hunger gnawed at me, and a burning itch flared in my throat.
Captain M'rael, by contrast, looked completely untouched. Calm. Composed. As if he hadn't just survived an evolving horde of Shedim. Steph, too, still stood tall, her breathing steady. It didn't take long to understand why—their cultivation. Master realm. Those who remained energized belonged to that tier. All the squad leaders did.
As dusk swallowed the sky and darkness crept in, it was agreed we would make camp here. The Ysera Compact's Feys worked quickly, weaving a protective barrier with the help of Nettle. Each group erected their tents—ours being the largest by far, both in appearance and internal space.
The enchanted tent expanded inward through spatial manipulation, providing designated areas for living, dining, and sleeping. It was a marvel of enchanted craftsmanship. But instead of resting inside like Captain M'rael had advised, I remained outside, watching.
The others had gathered around a central fire, flames crackling softly as warmth and light danced across their weary faces. The Ascendants sat close to one another, quietly eating the rations they had brought. My guards stood around our tent perimeter, vigilant, their eyes never leaving the fire or the Ascendants nearby.
I walked over and joined them. I didn't want to isolate myself—not tonight.
"Your Highness," Ray Levine greeted me, bowing slightly. He and Steph were the only humans among my retinue. Ray had fought with unwavering courage. He never once tapped into the infamous Levine family's blood ability, yet his spear work had been remarkable—fluid, precise, effective.
My House—House Ashtarmel—was known for its archers and spear-users. But I had always preferred the sword. It felt more personal. More honest.
"Looks like everyone's getting along well," I said, arms crossed. I had expected a gathering like this—full of proud bloodlines and high-level cultivators—to be hostile, competitive, full of one-upmanship. But it seemed danger had a way of forcing unity.
"They don't have a choice," Steph said, stepping up beside me. "If they want to survive this hellhole, cooperation isn't a luxury—it's survival."
At that moment, the leader of the Helsing Guard approached. His gaze didn't linger on me—it was locked on Steph. I had already noticed the way he hovered near her during the fight, as if his attention couldn't be peeled away. I didn't quite like it.
"Fancy meeting you here, Stephine," he said with a smile that felt too familiar. If I remembered correctly, his name was—
"Victor," Steph replied, curt but calm. She didn't look uncomfortable exactly—but there was a distance in her posture. A subtle withdrawal.
"You two know each other?" I asked, narrowing my eyes slightly.
Victor Van Helsing turned to me then and gave a slight bow—respectful, as was proper when addressing a Prince of House Ashtarmel.
"You could say that. Our families are… closely intertwined," he said with deliberate vagueness.
"The Macros," I said, the realization clicking. "They're tied to the Helsing bloodline."
The Helsing family were once known by another name—Vampire Hunters. They hailed from the same ancestral stock as the Lionheart clan: the Benandanti tribe. But while the Lionhearts had allied themselves with the other Manaborn races, the Helsing had taken a more ruthless path, eliminating any Manaborn they deemed a threat to humanity in the ancient days. Now, they mostly spend their time diving into Dungeons across the globe—still hunting, still dangerous.
"Macros… No," Victor said, a bit too quickly. Then, more softly, "I see you took your mother's name. I can't blame you. Still, your presence here might be… advantageous. For all of us."
Steph's expression didn't shift. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Victor," she said flatly. Then she turned and walked back into the tent, her back straight, her pace steady.
Victor chuckled under his breath and returned to the campfire.
I stood there, still processing. There was more to Steph than she ever let on. And now, I was beginning to wonder just how deep those secrets went.