Beyond the dark-blue portal lay a vast, submerged ruin—not underwater, yet shaped by it.
The air was cold and damp, carrying the metallic scent of old stone and stagnant mana. Every breath felt heavier, as though the dungeon itself expected intruders to justify their presence.
The walls were carved from deep cobalt stone, veined with faint silver lines that pulsed slowly—like a heartbeat. Ancient murals lined the corridors, depicting robed figures kneeling, praying, waiting… and being left unanswered.
Many faces had been scratched away—not by time, but by deliberate hands.
"Be on guard," Eryx warned, his voice low and sharp as he sensed the heavy mana.
'Condensed mana layer… chances of backlash are high if it thickens', Theo observed, glancing at Eryx's hardened expression.
The floor sloped gently downward into a cathedral-like hall supported by broken pillars. Shallow pools of still water reflected the ceiling above—but the reflections lagged, moving a second too late, as if reality itself hesitated here.
Holy magic behaved strangely.
Blessings lingered longer than they should—or failed entirely. Prayers echoed back warped, their endings swallowed before completion. Relics grew warm without activation, reacting to something unseen.
Further in, the dungeon narrowed into passageways etched with sigils that no longer matched modern scripture. These were old prayers—rewritten, abandoned by the Church. Some glowed faintly as the party passed, then dimmed again, as if unsure whether to acknowledge them.
The enemies did not rush.
They watched.
Creatures formed from condensed mana emerged slowly from the shadows—humanoid shapes with hollow chests where hearts should have been. Their movements were deliberate. Reverent. They attacked clerics first—not violently, but insistently, as if attempting to interrupt worship itself.
Theo's relic flared to life, shielding him from the first assault.
It was a ring—dark metallic, engraved with intricate gothic patterns that formed an elegant band around his slender finger. A large blue gemstone glowed at its center, clutched by skeletal, claw-like prongs, as though a bony hand grasped the jewel. Faint blue silhouettes and watercolor-like shadows shimmered around it, lending the relic an ethereal, ominous presence.
"Take this relic with you. I infused it with my mana."
Edmund's voice echoed in Theo's memory as he recalled the moment the ring had been slipped onto his finger.
Theo shivered.
He was grateful for the relic.
But remembering Edmund holding his hand still gave him goosebumps.
A thick haze of condensed mana clung to the walls, pressing against Eryx's senses like a living thing.
His mana-infused sword slid silently from its sheath.
With a single, precise swing, the blade cut through the condensed mana like steel through mist. The creature shuddered—then reformed, trying to strike again.
Another swing.
Another retreat.
No wasted movement. No display of brute force.
Eryx's cold eyes tracked every pulse of mana. He anticipated where the creatures would solidify, where they would lunge, where the dense mana would push back against them.
The creatures learned too late.
When they surged forward, he stepped aside, letting their momentum carry them into each other. The compressed mana within their forms cracked under pressure, exploding into shards of glowing blue energy that ricocheted across the stone floor. Sparks grazed the edges of his cloak but he didn't flinch.
One monster split—becoming two smaller forms.
A lesser mage would have panicked.
Eryx didn't.
He rotated his sword in one smooth motion, striking both forms in a single, silent arc. Each strike was minimal. Surgical. Just enough to destabilize the mana within them.
They collapsed like glass, fragments dissolving into mist.
To an observer, it would have looked effortless.
To Eryx, it was routine.
They were strong—but predictable. Condensed mana given form, not true intelligence.
The final creature lunged with a roar that sounded more like grinding stone than a living cry.
Eryx sidestepped and drove his sword through its hollow chest, embedding the tip into its glowing core. He didn't pull it out.
He tilted the blade.
The creature crumbled into shards of solidified mana, hissing as they evaporated.
Silence fell.
The pressure eased. The air no longer throbbed—only the faint hum of the dungeon remained, a quiet acknowledgment that one predator had triumphed over the restless energy it had birthed.
Eryx sheathed his sword, eyes scanning the darkness ahead.
The dungeon waited.
And he would wait back.
'…So freaking cool.'
Theo shamelessly fanboyed—and he knew he wasn't the only one stunned. Watching his own creation in action filled him with a strange, almost giddy excitement.
They descended further.
At the dungeon's core lay a circular sanctum, half-collapsed, its altar split cleanly down the middle. Suspended above it was a fractured relic—deep blue and silver—rotating slowly, bound by chains of light that creaked and strained with every pulse of mana.
This place was not built to honor God.
It was built by those who waited for Him.
Suddenly, the density of mana spiked—thick enough to choke spells and slow movement to a crawl.
'Ugh… knew this would happen.'
"Everyone—don't use mana right now!" Theo shouted.
Too late.
A swarm of monsters surged toward them. Priests whispered frantic prayers. Mages flailed. Even seasoned warriors struggled to stand. Every attempt to channel mana met resistance—backlash, misfires, or outright failure.
Knights who infused mana into their swords screamed as the energy burned their hands. Clerics attempting to heal collapsed as their spells rebounded violently.
Without mana, defeating these creatures was impossible.
But—
Theo looked at Eryx.
'That man is different.'
"Zephyr…"
Eryx whispered, raising a hand—almost casually.
The air shivered.
A faint gust, barely perceptible, pressed against the dense mana like a blade slicing silk. Where others failed, the wind obeyed.
A hulking monster of sapphire energy lunged forward.
Eryx flicked his fingers.
The air surged—not violently, but relentlessly. The creature stumbled, its limbs caught between the dungeon's oppressive mana and the unyielding flow of wind. It toppled backward, crashing into the remains of another enemy.
Others tried to imitate him.
They shouted incantations. Forced spells.
The dungeon pushed back.
Magic fizzled. Exploded. Turned on its casters. A young apprentice was thrown off his feet when a fire spell refused to move forward.
Eryx never struggled.
He didn't force the mana.
He didn't fight it.
He spoke to it.
The wind was not something to dominate—it was a partner. It obeyed not out of fear, but recognition. It bent to his intent, slicing, pushing, restraining exactly as he wished.
Blue-white currents shimmered around him, visible only where the condensed mana reacted.
The party watched in stunned silence.
Every failure made his control feel inhuman.
And yet, Eryx remained calm.
In the suffocating pressure of the dungeon, only one figure moved freely.
Eryx Beaumont—
Master of Wind Manipulation.
—
TO BE CONTINUED