Raven's POV
I moved first.
Not with strategy.
Not with caution.
With rage.
The air shattered as I closed the distance between us, my body wrapped in black mana so dense it bent the light around me. Malzaryth reacted instantly—his axe came down in a brutal arc meant to split me in half—
I slipped inside the strike.
Steel screamed as my blade slid along the haft of his axe, sparks and black flame exploding between us. I twisted, drove my knee into his ribs, felt bone crack beneath the impact, and followed with a point-blank explosion spell.
The blast hurled him backward through stone.
He smashed into a pillar, pulverizing it, but before the dust settled I was already there—appearing above him, descending like a falling star.
He raised his axe just in time.
The collision detonated.
The dungeon shook violently. Cracks raced across the floor like lightning, mana stones shattering one by one as raw power flooded the chamber.
Malzaryth skidded back, boots carving trenches through the stone.
I landed lightly.
Unharmed.
Stronger.
Morivain's voice echoed inside me, sharp with alarm.
"Riven—stop. You're losing control. You can't keep absorbing this much—"
I didn't hear her.
I didn't hear anything.
There was only the enemy in front of me.
Malzaryth roared and charged, his axe spinning in a lethal dance. Each swing carried enough force to erase a city block. I met him head-on.
Steel against steel.
Explosion after explosion.
Wind screamed as I reinforced my speed again and again, every step faster than the last. I weaved between his strikes, carving lines across his body—shoulder, thigh, abdomen—each cut shallow but deliberate.
Every time my blade touched him—
Mana flowed.
Hot.
Violent.
Endless.
It poured into me like a flood, filling every vein, every muscle, every breath. My movements sharpened. My reactions tightened. My power climbed higher with every heartbeat.
Malzaryth noticed.
He struck harder, faster, abandoning form for raw destruction. The axe grazed my side—flesh tore, blood sprayed—but I didn't slow.
I didn't even flinch.
I answered with a punch wrapped in compressed wind and explosion magic.
His body folded around the impact.
He crashed through the ground, vanishing into a crater.
I was already above it.
I dropped straight down, driving my dagger into his chest and twisting—
Mana surged violently back into me.
His scream shook the dungeon.
I ripped the dagger free and leapt back as his axe lashed upward, barely missing my head.
We separated for a breath.
Just one.
Morivain shouted, desperation bleeding into her voice.
"Riven, listen to me! This isn't you—this rage will consume you—!"
Her words dissolved into static.
I advanced again.
Malzaryth swung, blocked, countered—but something was wrong now. I could see it in his movements. The hesitation. The way his foot slipped slightly on the blood-slick stone.
I cut him again.
And again.
His wounds did not close.
His flesh remained torn, bleeding black and red mana into the air.
His eyes widened.
He staggered back a step, clutching his side.
"…No," he snarled. "That's impossible."
I didn't answer.
I only stepped closer.
"What did you do to me?!" he roared, fury cracking his voice. "Why aren't my wounds healing?!"
Still nothing.
I struck him across the chest with an explosion-reinforced slash that sent him reeling. Mana ripped free from him in a violent stream, flooding into me so fast it made the air scream.
He fell to one knee.
I stood over him for a moment—silent, eyes burning with cold hatred—then stepped back.
We separated again.
The dungeon groaned around us, half-collapsed, soaked in blood and mana residue.
Malzaryth stood on one side of the ruined hall, breathing hard, chest rising and falling unevenly. His axe trembled in his grip, fingers tightening around the handle as if afraid it might slip from his hand.
Fear flickered behind his rage.
Across from him, I stood still.
My wound continued to bleed.
But my breathing was calm.
Steady.
Controlled.
Mana coiled around me like a living storm, heavier and darker than before.
I stared at him with a dead expression—no triumph, no mercy.
Only wrath.
And in that moment, Malzaryth understood.
The longer this battle lasted—
The closer he came to death.
Malzaryth screamed.
Not a roar of dominance—
but rage.
"You're stealing my mana," he snarled, voice cracking as black blood dripped from his wounds. "How dare you take my power?!"
The air convulsed as he charged me.
His axe came first—wild, brutal, driven by fury rather than precision. Every swing tore chunks from the dungeon walls, shockwaves ripping through the ruined hall. He was faster than before, stronger in raw force—
But sloppy.
Predictable.
I moved.
A step to the side.
A blur of motion.
A dagger of condensed black mana formed in my hand, sharper than any blade I had forged before.
I carved into his side.
Deep.
He howled and spun, axe whistling toward my neck. I ducked beneath it, slid across the molten stone, and rose behind him. My second dagger pierced his back, sinking to the hilt.
Mana surged into me violently.
My vision sharpened.
My body felt light.
Hungry.
I ripped the blade free and kicked him away. He stumbled, barely keeping his footing, eyes burning with disbelief.
Morivain's voice echoed faintly somewhere deep inside me.
"Riven… this rage—please—"
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered.
Only him.
Malzaryth roared again and lunged, abandoning all restraint. His movements became erratic—overextended swings, reckless charges, brute force replacing control. He was trying to overwhelm me before I could drain him dry.
Too late.
Every clash fed me.
Every wound weakened him, Just my presence in the same place as him is killing him.
I met his axe with my forearm wrapped in reinforced black mana—impact thundered through the chamber—and answered with an explosion-enhanced punch to his chest.
His ribs shattered.
I felt it.
I was faster now.
Stronger.
My daggers reshaped themselves mid-motion, lengthening, edges glowing with seething black heat. Each strike tore deeper than the last—thigh, shoulder, abdomen—wounds that refused to close, flesh scorched by my mana.
Malzaryth staggered, coughing, blood and mana spilling freely.
"Stop—!" he growled, rage giving way to something else.
Fear.
I raised my hand.
The dungeon screamed.
Mana from the walls, the shattered stones, the very air itself answered my call. Black flames ignited around my palm—dense, compressed, screaming with destructive intent.
Morivain shouted my name.
I didn't hear her.
I closed my fist.
The explosion erased sound.
Black fire detonated outward in a colossal sphere, swallowing the chamber whole. The heat was unbearable—stone melted, flowing like liquid beneath the inferno. The dungeon's walls glowed white-hot, mana stones vaporizing instantly.
Malzaryth threw up a shield, pouring everything he had into it.
It didn't matter.
The black flames ate through it like paper.
His scream tore through the inferno as the heat burned into him, flesh blistering, armor warping, mana boiling out of his body. His axe slipped from his grasp and clattered uselessly across the molten floor.
The explosion faded.
But the flames remained.
Black fire continued to burn, licking across the chamber, melting stone, refusing to die.
Smoke and heat distorted the air.
And then—
Silence.
Malzaryth lay on the ground, broken, scorched, barely moving.
The ruler of a black gate.
Reduced to prey.
I stood at a distance, surrounded by a storm of black mana, my silhouette framed by unextinguished hellfire. Blood still ran from my wound—but my posture was relaxed.
Calm.
I tilted my head slightly and smiled, A slow, cruel smile, He had called me an insect, Now— I was the predator.
I walked toward him.
Slowly.
Each step landed like a verdict, my boots sinking into fractured stone as the ground beneath me cracked and collapsed under the weight of my presence. Black mana clung to my skin like a living shadow, heavy, oppressive, breathing with me.
I was smiling.
Malzaryth tried to stand.
His legs trembled violently. He barely managed to rise before staggering back, one step—then another—dragging his ruined body away from me. His eyes were wide now, no trace of arrogance left in them.
Only fear.
"Stay back," he snarled, voice shaking despite the anger he tried to force into it.
"Don't come any closer, you monster—!"
I didn't answer.
I just kept walking.
The smile on my face never faltered.
When I reached him, I no longer needed weapons.
My daggers dissolved into black mist, the mana flowing back into my veins as if it had never left. Malzaryth's axe lay abandoned behind him—far too heavy for his broken arms to lift now.
So it came down to this.
Fists.
He swung first.
Slow. Desperate.
I caught his punch with one hand and answered with a blow to his ribs that folded his body inward. The impact sent a shockwave through the dungeon, stone screaming as it cracked outward.
He gasped.
I laughed softly.
This wasn't a fight anymore.
It was a game.
I let him strike again—clumsy, weak—and slipped past it easily, driving my elbow into his jaw. Bone shattered. His head snapped sideways, blood spraying across the ruined floor.
I followed with another punch.
Then another.
Each strike landed clean, precise, devastating.
He tried to grab me. I twisted, slammed my knee into his stomach, then his face. He collapsed to one knee, coughing violently, but I didn't let him rest. I grabbed his shoulder and hurled him into a pillar hard enough to reduce it to rubble.
He screamed.
At some point, I felt warm blood run down my face.
A shallow cut had opened on my forehead, just above my right eye. It dripped into my vision, red mixing with black mana.
I didn't blink.
I didn't even wipe it away.
I just smiled wider and kept hitting him.
Time blurred. Minutes—or seconds—I didn't know. The dungeon shook with every blow, the walls groaning under the punishment I delivered. Malzaryth's resistance faded with each strike until finally—
He collapsed.
Both knees hit the ground.
His head hung low. His arms trembled uselessly at his sides.
Finished.
I stepped closer and placed my hand on his shoulder.
He flinched.
I closed my eyes.
And drank.
Mana poured into me in a violent flood—hot, intoxicating, overwhelming. It rushed through my veins, filled my chest, lit every nerve in my body on fire. I breathed in sharply, savoring it, my smile twisting into something crueler.
More.
I took more.
Malzaryth screamed hoarsely as his power was ripped from him, his body withering under my grip. His resistance crumbled completely until there was nothing left to take.
I opened my eyes.
Satisfied.
Then I kicked him.
Hard.
His body flew across the chamber and crashed into the far wall like a broken doll.
Somewhere, far away, I heard Morivain's voice—panicked, desperate.
"Riven—stop! Please—this is enough! You'll—!"
I didn't hear her.
I walked to Malzaryth, straddled his broken body, and raised my fist.
Then I punched him.
Once.
The dungeon shook.
Again.
Cracks raced across the ceiling.
Again.
Stone rained down around us.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each blow landed with merciless force, my fist crashing into his face, his chest, his skull—until his body barely resembled anything living at all.
Malzaryth didn't scream anymore.
He couldn't.
The Black King lay beneath me, nearly dead.
And I kept punching.
Because all I could hear—
all I could feel—
was the rage still burning inside me, demanding more.
Malzaryth couldn't defend himself anymore.
His body lay broken beneath me, barely recognizable as anything that had once called itself a king. Still, my fists kept falling—heavy, relentless, each impact echoing through the dungeon like thunder.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Bone gave way. Flesh collapsed.
Yet somehow… he laughed.
It was weak. Wet. Almost drowned in blood.
"You're worse than monsters," he rasped, each word dragged out with effort. "You enjoy this… killing excites you."
My fist paused for a fraction of a second above his face.
He smiled—if that twisted expression could still be called one.
"Do you really think I was the only one the Goddess sent to kill you?" he whispered. "If so… you're mistaken."
I stared at him, expression empty.
"There's a bounty on your head," he continued, voice fading. "Whoever kills you first… will be granted immense power. Power enough to become king over all monsters."
He coughed, black blood spilling from his mouth.
"This… is only the beginning," he murmured. "They will all come for you."
I heard him.
I simply didn't care.
My fist came down harder.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His body stopped reacting.
It went limp beneath me—lifeless, shattered, nothing more than a corpse crushed into the stone.
And still—
I didn't stop.
I smiled.
Black mana surged greedily as I pulled everything that remained inside him—every last fragment of power, every lingering spark of life. Then it wasn't enough.
I began draining the dungeon itself.
Mana poured into me from the walls, the floor, the shattered mana stones—an endless flood. My body drank it all without restraint, without thought.
More.
Just a little more.
Then—
Smack.
A sharp, burning sting exploded across my cheek.
The world snapped back into focus.
I froze.
I slowly turned my head and saw Morivain standing in front of me—no longer a voice in my mind, but fully manifested, her expression twisted with fury and fear.
I lifted a hand to my face, touching my cheek.
"…Did you just slap me?" I asked flatly.
Her eyes burned.
"Control your absorption," she snapped. "You're changing."
I frowned slightly.
"Changing… what?"
Her jaw clenched.
"You absorbed too much mana," she said sharply. "And you're still absorbing it. So much that your body is starting to transform."
I blinked.
"My—what?"
"Your fangs," she said, pointing. "They've grown longer. Your hands—look at them. Your nails are longer and sharp. Even your eyes… they turned red."
I slowly raised my hand.
It wasn't just blood covering it—black and red mixed together. My fingers looked different. Stronger. Clawed.
I touched my teeth with my tongue.
She was right.
They were longer.
Sharper.
I looked around.
The dungeon was in ruins—collapsed pillars, molten stone still burning with black flames that refused to die. The air was thick with heat and death.
Then I looked down.
Malzaryth's corpse lay beneath me.
Or what was left of it.
Burned. Crushed. Mangled beyond recognition.
I stared at it for a long moment.
Then I looked back at Morivain.
My voice came out quiet. Empty.
"…What happened here?"
Morivain exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with tension.
"First," she said firmly, "control your absorption. You're still drawing mana. If you lose control again, it won't end well."
Her words cut through the haze.
I pushed myself to my feet and stepped away from what remained of Malzaryth's corpse. I didn't look at it again. Instead, I closed my eyes and focused inward—on the endless current of mana flowing into me without permission.
It resisted.
Like a raging river refusing to be dammed.
I clenched my fists, grounding myself, forcing my breathing to slow. I imagined sealing a door, tightening chains around something feral inside my chest. The pull weakened… resisted again… then finally—
Silence.
The flow stopped.
After a few seconds, I opened my eyes.
I raised my hands in front of me, turning them slowly, studying every detail. The claws had receded slightly, but not completely. My skin still felt wrong—too warm, too alive.
"What happened?" I asked quietly. "Why did I start to change? This never happened before."
Morivain drifted around the ruined chamber, inspecting the cracked walls, the molten stone still burning with black fire, the scars carved into reality itself.
"You've been absorbing mana nonstop since you entered this dungeon," she said. "And the mana here is corrupted—dark, malignant, saturated with hostility."
She stopped near Malzaryth's remains and looked down at him with visible distaste.
"Especially his," she added. "A dungeon boss's mana is deeply tainted. When you absorbed it, you didn't just take power—you took traits."
She turned to face me.
"You borrowed fragments of the monsters you drained."
My jaw tightened.
"That's why," she continued calmly, "your body began to change."
I lowered my hands slightly.
"…You asked me what happened here," Morivain said. "Do you truly not remember?"
I frowned, searching my mind.
"I remember fighting Malzaryth," I said slowly. "But midway through… everything became blurry. Like fog. Like I wasn't fully conscious."
She watched me in silence for a few seconds, then nodded.
"He got inside your head," she said. "He said things—about you being a killer, about the past. He provoked you until you lost control."
Her voice hardened.
"I called out to you. You didn't answer. That's why I slapped you—to bring you back."
She crossed her arms.
"And stop torturing yourself over the words of a monster. He would say anything to break you. Lies, half-truths, poison—whatever worked."
I stared at the floor.
My voice came out so quiet I wasn't sure she heard it.
"…But he was right., I am a killer."
Morivain froze.
Her brows drew together sharply as she floated towards me and closed the distance between us . She grabbed my face with both hands, her palms firm and burning against my cheeks, forcing me to look at her.
Our faces were barely a handspan apart.
"Stop blaming yourself," she said fiercely.
Then she sighed, the anger melting into something heavier.
"We will talk about that," she said more softly. "But not now."
Her gaze flicked to my eyes, then to my hands.
"Right now, you have a more immediate problem," she added.
"Your eyes are red. And your body hasn't fully reverted."
Morivain studied me in silence for a long moment, then lifted one hand and gestured toward my face—toward my eyes, still glowing faintly red.
"How do you plan to deal with that?" she asked.
I wiped the dried blood from my eye with the back of my hand, the motion slow, deliberate. Then I turned away from her and walked toward my sword, where it lay half-buried among cracked stone and blackened ash.
I bent down, my joints protesting, and wrapped my fingers around the hilt.
The moment I touched it, the blade hummed—recognizing me, welcoming me.
"I'll transfer the excess mana into the sword," I said calmly. "Store it there. Use it later if I need it."
I straightened, the sword resting against my shoulder.
"But it will take time," I added. "I absorbed far too much."
As if the dungeon itself had been waiting for those words, something changed.
The oppressive pressure that had weighed on the air since the moment I entered vanished. The mana around us thinned, lightened, losing its oily, malignant density. Breathing suddenly felt easier—cleaner.
"The dungeon has been purified," she said. "The gate has shifted—from black to blue."
I exhaled slowly, tension draining from my shoulders.
"Good," I replied. "Then let's leave. I don't know how long I've been in here."
I turned toward the distant exit and began to walk. My steps echoed through the ruined chamber, slower now, heavier than before. Morivain floated beside me, her gaze sharp and analytical as always.
"Are you really going out like this?" she asked. "And your wounds—why aren't they healing?"
I glanced down at myself.
My white shirt was soaked through with blood—mine and the monsters'. The sleeve on my right arm was burned away up to the elbow, the skin beneath still raw and blackened. A deep cut at my side continued to bleed steadily, warm against my ribs. My pants were torn in several places, and I could feel the slow trickle of blood from the gash on my forehead, just above my right eye.
I looked… ruined.
"The axe wasn't ordinary," I said evenly. "Its wounds resist regeneration. It'll take at least two days before this heals completely."
Morivain frowned.
"And what will you tell the rest of the team," she asked, "when they ask how you cleared a black gate alone?"
I slowed my steps slightly, thinking.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I'll come up with something by the time we reach the exit."
I kept walking.
Morivain's voice drifted beside me, quieter now, steadier.
"Your eyes… they've returned to normal."
I lifted my sword and angled the blade until it caught the faint blue light of the purified gate infront us. In the reflection, my gaze stared back—no longer red, no longer feral. The glow had settled into its familiar shade: a luminous golden yellow, my pupils round once more.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
Before I could speak, Morivain's presence receded, her form dissolving into motes of dim light and sink inside my heart.
"I don't have enough energy left to remain outside," she said, her voice tired but calm. "I'll rest inside you."
Then she was gone, her consciousness folding back into mine like a blade sliding into its sheath.
I walked on in silence for a while, my boots echoing softly against stone that was no longer hostile. The dungeon felt empty now—dead in the truest sense.
After several minutes, I broke the quiet.
Morivain asked seriously, "do you think what Malzaryth said was true?"
My answer came from within me, faint but clear.
"About what?"
"About the bounty," she replied. "When he said there's a reward on you head."
My jaw tightened. I clenched my fist until my knuckles burned.
"I'm certain of it," I continued, anger sharpening every word. "That damn goddess would do anything to reach her goal. She wouldn't hesitate—not for lives, not for worlds."
Morivain sighed.
"Well Then it seems you'll be very busy killing monsters for a while," she said dryly. "But tell me—why are you so angry? You're going to hurt yourself if you keep grinding your teeth like that."
My teeth were already clenched again before she finished speaking.
"Just hearing her name," I growled, "or even thinking about her, makes my blood boil. How can something call itself a goddess while being that cruel?"
The anger swelled, drowning out everything else. I walked forward without thinking, my steps automatic, my mind consumed by fury.
I didn't even notice when I crossed the gate .
A sudden grip closed around my hand.
"Riven."
The voice was soft—but urgent.
I snapped back to awareness and looked down at the hand holding mine. Slender fingers. Warm. Human.
Slowly, I lifted my gaze.
A girl stood before me, her face partially hidden beneath a deep hooded cloak. But I didn't need to see her face to know who she was.
My frown deepened slightly as recognition struck.
"Princess Lyria," I said.
And just like that, the dungeon was behind me—and reality had caught up.