"A message for the Wizard King!"
The call split through the castle like a blade drawn too quickly.
Boots struck polished stone in hurried succession, the sound scattering through the high-vaulted corridors where sunlight spilled in pale ribbons through stained glass. Gold and emerald hues bled across marble floors, catching against banners that bore the Clover Kingdom's crest. Steel shifted against steel as he passed, armor chiming in sharp intervals, while startled heads turned in his wake. Each stride the messenger took turned his breath uneven, his presence carving urgency into a place accustomed to ceremony.
It was the hour when the day stood at its peak—when the remnants of dawn had fully surrendered, and the castle thrummed with labor. Magic Knights crossing paths with officials, servants balancing stacks of documents, duties overlapping without pause. Work pressed forward relentlessly, one task folding into the next.
The messenger burst into the council chamber and dropped to one knee, cloak sweeping forward as he bowed his head. "My apologies for the intrusion," he managed, voice strained as he fought for breath.
The room itself carried a quiet authority. Tall windows framed the sky beyond, clouds drifting lazily above a space thick with intention. At the center stood Julius Novachrono, unhurried, eyes bright with curiosity rather than alarm.
"The Golden Dawn, the Crimson Lion Kings, and the Black Bull Magic Knights have begun their exploration of the dungeon," the messenger reported first, words tumbling forward before he could fully steady himself.
Julius inclined his head, granting him a moment. His expression remained open, attentive—waiting.
The messenger swallowed, shoulders tightening. "...And we've confirmed the presence of invading mage troops from the Diamond Kingdom."
The reaction was immediate.
Voices rose from every corner of the chamber, disbelief sharpening into concern. Some leaned forward; others stiffened where they stood. The name of the neighboring kingdom carried weight—history etched in blood and broken borders.
"The Diamond Kingdom is our kingdom's neighbor..."
"A country of invaders that has been striving to expand its territory in recent years!"
"If the dungeon's ancient magic falls into the hands of a country like that, things could get ugly."
"How strong is this enemy force?!"
Julius remained still as the room swelled with unease, hands folded loosely before him. His gaze drifted downward, thoughtful rather than troubled, as though arranging pieces of a familiar puzzle.
The messenger drew a slow breath. His next words carried a heavier burden.
"The enemy force is being commanded by Lotus of the Abyss."
Silence fell—not sudden, but dense.
The name settled into the chamber like an unwelcome guest, dragging memories and rumors behind it. A strategist known for turning battlefields into traps. A man whose reputation had outpaced his shadow. Several officials and knights exchanged looks, faces drawn tight with recognition.
"Lotus of the Abyss...?" someone breathed.
"The Lotus?"
The tension sharpened, threading through every pair of clasped hands and furrowed brow. Fear did not dominate the room—but caution did, and it was no lighter a presence.
Julius Novachrono rose from his seat.
The movement was simple, unceremonious, yet it commanded attention all the same. He smiled—not dismissively, but with an ease that seemed to press gently against the strain in the air.
"Ah, I crossed paths with him years ago," he reminisced, eyes lighting up with genuine interest. "A fascinating mage. His magic was especially clever!"
A voice cut in, strained. "This isn't the moment for nostalgia, Your Majesty!"
Julius laughed, the sound warm and disarming, then lifted a hand. "I know, I know."
He turned his gaze toward the gathered Magic Knights, letting it rest on each of them in turn. "William sent an intriguing boy this time," he continued, tone thoughtful. "And paired with the Black Bull boy—and the Crimson Lion girl I chose—things should balance out nicely."
His eyes gleamed, confidence steady rather than blind.
"There's no need to fret," he added. "Our children aren't going to break that easily."
The room held his words, testing their weight.
"They're strong," Julius finished, smile gentler now. "Strong enough to stand against foreign soil—and come back home alive."
.
.
.
The third member of the Black Bulls revealed himself not through presence, but through motion.
Luck Voltia tore through the dungeon corridors in streaks of electric blue, thundering boots sparking as they kissed the stone with spark and vanished again. One point, then another, and more—distance collapsed beneath him, corridors reduced to brief impressions of carved walls and glowing sigils. The dungeon traps struggled to keep up their assaults.
Wind tore through his unruly blond hair, sending it into wild disarray as he surged ahead, leaving his junior Magic Knights behind to wrestle with traps and lurking creatures. That had never been his interest. The heart of the dungeon called louder, promising something sharper. Something alive.
His eyes shone with delight, bright and feverish, as anticipation tightened his grin.
"Oho!"
The sound burst from him, unrestrained, bouncing off empty passageways while lightning snapped eagerly beneath his feet. Luck stuck his tongue out with playful menace, knees bending as he lowered into a fighting posture. "This is fun!"
He twisted mid-stride, shoulder slamming into a sidewall. Stone gave way in an explosion of debris, and Luck shot through the opening without slowing, landing in another corridor as though the dungeon itself bent aside for him. Twists, dead ends, false paths—none of it mattered. He moved by instinct, by thrill, by the promise of impact and action.
Magic danced around him, restless and alive, crawling over his skin in sharp flashes. He pressed on, unbothered, a tune spilling from his lips—half-remembered, half-invented, a battle song meant for no one else.
"Next... left," he muttered, grin stretching wider as curiosity replaced impatience. "I can't wait to see how strong they are! Oh—oh, this is gonna be good!!"
His laughter rang through the square-cut hall, filling the space with reckless cheer. Lightning flared brighter, forming a loose grid around his body, a physical answer to the excitement surging through him.
Luck vaulted sideways again, crashing through another wall.
This time, he landed before widened eyes staring out from beneath dark hoods.
He straightened, electric-blue gaze locking onto them, head tilting just slightly. Something was unsettling in the innocence of his expression—too bright, too eager—for a boy standing amid shattered stone and crackling power. None of the men moved. None of them breathed easily.
Luck didn't give them time to think.
He vanished.
Steel never met him. Spells never found their mark. To untrained eyes, he became absence—movement too fast to follow, violence arriving before intent could form. Lightning-clad claws tore through defenses with precise cruelty, each strike deliberate, final.
"Kkhh—!!"
"Argh—!!"
Bodies fell.
Luck reappeared with one man's head clenched in his electrified grip, fingers tightening just enough to promise devastation. He planted a boot against the fallen form beneath him, shoulders rising with exhilaration as his grin widened.
"Huh?" Luck tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. "Huh, huhhhh??"
This wasn't right.
They had folded too quickly. No resistance. No surprise. Just collapse.
How dull. How easy. Too easy.
Boredom crept in like rot.
Keeping his grip firm, lightning crawling eagerly over his hand, Luck stared down at the man trembling beneath him. "You're weak," he stated plainly. "Really weak."
Everyone who knew Luck Voltia understood this truth.
The battlefield was where he belonged.
He lived and breathed for it. Laughed with it—with death every time it came brushing close that he would run and run, attack and attack, again and again with a smile on his face.
A smile so wide, so fond, and so joyful that it scared off death.
The moment combat began, something inside him sharpened, clearing away doubt and restraint as though they had never existed. Pain slid past him unnoticed, reduced to background sensation. Fear found no foothold. Even sorrow, he had once admitted with unsettling cheer, failed to reach him. What remained was exhilaration—pure and blinding—drawn out only by opponents capable of striking back.
To Luck, fighting was delight given form.
It wasn't a duty. It wasn't a necessity either. It was a thrill that raced beneath his skin, a craving that demanded motion and impact. He embraced it openly, carrying the truth with an almost childish pride, repeating it until it became inseparable from his name.
Luck Voltia adored battle.
Yet that devotion curdled into restlessness when enemies fell too quickly.
A single blow. A single exchange. Bodies dropping before the excitement could crest. There was nothing to savor in it—no escalation, no uncertainty, no moment where the outcome hung precariously in balance. Each easy victory drained color from the world, leaving behind only impatience.
How tedious.
But not him.
And not this place.
The dungeon resisted in ways people rarely did—walls that gave way unexpectedly, paths that twisted and doubled back, danger lurking just out of sight. It teased him with a promise, with a chance that somewhere ahead waited something stronger, something that might finally push him back.
That promise alone had been enough for Luck to surge forward, abandoning his junior Magic Knights without a backward glance, chasing adrenaline and delight through stone and shadow in search of a fight that would answer his hunger.
Luck's attention shifted.
Across the broken stone, one figure remained standing. Unmoving. Untouched.
His smile widened as he turned toward the last hooded man.
"But you aren't," Luck said, eyes gleaming. "Are you?"
His stare narrowed until the rest of the dungeon fell away.
The man before him remained upright amid ruin, gray eyes steady beneath the shadow of his mussed bangs. The others had been nothing—slow hands, dull instincts, bodies that failed to keep pace with his charge. They had scattered like loose stones beneath a rushing current.
This one was different.
Luck felt it in the way the air held tight around him, in how the lightning crawling over his skin sharpened rather than surged. His grin stretched wider, delight threading through his chest as interest finally took hold.
The gray-eyed man met that gaze with infuriating calm. He scratched absently at his temple, as though the battle had inconvenienced him rather than threatened his life, then shifted atop broken masonry. His legs spread just enough to ground himself, boots pressing into the rubble with quiet certainty. Every motion carried ease—nothing wasted, nothing rushed.
Lotus of the Abyss—that was who he was.
A man born of foreign soil, shaped by the harsh lands of the Diamond Kingdom. An outsider standing within another nation's stone and shadow, carrying a purpose that did not belong here. A stranger set loose in unfamiliar ground, bound to an alien mission, now confronted by a boy just as peculiar—smiling too wide, crackling with lightning, and entirely unafraid.
Lotus tilted his head, a crooked smile forming. "Wow... you really caught me there." A brief laugh slipped from him as he leaned back on one hand, relaxed yet alert. "Making obstacles too tall never ends well, you know."
He dragged his fingers through the edges of his dark goatee, movements slow and careless on the surface. Beneath that ease sat awareness honed through years of survival. His attention never strayed from the Magic Knight standing before him.
Luck didn't shift an inch.
His posture stayed open, almost childlike—wide eyes gleaming, brows lifted, grin carved deep with excitement. The lightning claw still wrapped around a fallen man's head tightened by degrees, electricity pulsing harder as pressure mounted. The body beneath it twitched, helpless.
Lotus glanced toward the sight and exhaled through his nose, faint amusement flickering across his face. "That kind of raw energy in someone so young," he remarked, rubbing his chin again, "it's unsettling."
Water pooled across the stone floor, shallow and glassy, disturbed only by drifting ripples. Reflections wavered across the surface—crumpled cloaks, slack limbs, fractured walls bearing the scars of lightning and force. The dungeon bore witness in silence.
Luck released his grip.
The man collapsed with a dull splash as the lightning claws dispersed into sparks that vanished against the damp air. His boots continued to flare, electricity snapping outward and skittering across loose gravel. Luck's attention never left Lotus, anticipation tightening his shoulders.
Lotus straightened slightly, eyes sharpening with interest. "You took down my men in moments," he observed. "That's not something just anyone can do."
Luck let out a bright laugh, sound filling the square corridor as his grin refused to fade. He didn't blink. He never did. "They don't matter," he replied easily. "You're the leader. As long as you're strong, everything's fine!"
Lotus' gaze drifted to the glowing boots again, sparks leaping and scattering pebbles as heat kissed stone. Each flash hinted at speed meant to overwhelm, and strikes meant to end fights before they truly began.
"So you coat yourself in Lightning Magic," he muttered, thoughtful now. "Direct. Efficient. Fast enough to crush hesitation."
He leaned forward, grin deepening, eyes narrowing with open challenge. "Monsters are growing up everywhere these days," Lotus added. "Makes someone my age feel nervous."
His gaze locked fully onto Luck, intent sharpening the air between them.
"Go on, then," he urged. "Show me how frightening you really are."
Luck laughed, bright and sharp, brushing Lotus' words aside as if they were part of the game. His eyes glittered with expectation, lightning snapping eagerly at his heels. "So," he pressed, leaning forward a fraction, "what kind of magic do you fight with?"
Lotus gave a low sound, halfway between a sigh and a chuckle, as he pushed himself upright. He dusted off his knees, then his robe, movements unhurried, almost exaggerated in their calm. "You Clovers look fired up," he remarked, glancing toward the broken hall ahead. "But you're after the dungeon's treasure chamber too, right?" A knowing smile tugged at his mouth, curiosity threading through the laziness.
He stretched next, arms rolling back as his spine protested audibly. The gesture felt theatrical, like a man preparing for something far more troublesome than he wanted to admit.
Luck, meanwhile, bounced on the balls of his feet, laughter spilling freely as anticipation coiled tight in his chest.
Lotus of the Abyss. The name alone sounded promising—like someone who might finally last longer than a heartbeat.
Luck opened his mouth to ask more.
Lotus vanished.
"Well—how about we don't fight?" the older man blurted as he slid backward in a sudden skid, hands raised in mock surrender. "We could race for the prize instead—no violence, yeah? That sounds great!" He turned on his heel and bolted. "Later!"
Luck blinked.
Then his grin stretched impossibly wide.
He tilted his head, counting down in his thoughts, excitement buzzing so fiercely it hummed through his bones. The moment the count hit zero, he launched forward, lightning exploding beneath his boots as he closed the gap with predatory ease.
Stone shattered underfoot as he surged ahead, grimoire snapping open in one hand. His leg drew back, electricity gathering at the sole of his boot, aimed straight for the back of Lotus' head.
"Nope," Luck replied, laughter threading through the word. "Nope, nope, nope!!"
He's fast—!!
Lotus' eyes widened as Luck's presence slammed into his awareness. He'd expected speed, but not this. The boy had erased distance in an instant.
Reacting on instinct, Lotus slapped his palms together before him.
Smoke erupted outward.
Mana-thick haze swallowed the corridor, twisting sightlines and swallowing sound, the space bending just enough to mislead the senses. Luck's kick cut through nothing.
Lotus reappeared across the hall, boots skidding to a stop as the smoke thinned. Luck had already pushed off the wall to chase again—then halted.
He straightened, eyes sharp, studying the space where Lotus had stood moments ago.
"Hmm? Smoke...?" Understanding clicked into place. Surprise flickered across Luck's face, brief but genuine.
"Well," Lotus' voice drifted in from elsewhere, easy and amused, "that's very unsettling." He emerged through another veil of smoke, grimoire open in his hand, its diamond crest catching the light. He whistled, gaze tracing Luck with renewed interest.
"I get why you Clovers are upset," he continued, shrugging lightly. "We keep crossing your borders. Sorry about that." His tone lacked heat, but not honesty, smoke curling obediently around his gestures.
He laughed then, fuller this time, as if remembering something distant. "The Diamond Kingdom isn't exactly thriving. Our mines are running dry." His smile dimmed just a fraction. "People still need to eat."
Luck lunged.
Smoke swallowed Lotus again.
The dodge only made Luck's laughter grow brighter.
It wasn't frustration that sparked through him—it was delight. Each trick added another layer to the chase, another reason to keep moving.
He landed atop a cracked stone pillar, boots sparking as debris slid away beneath him. The structure held, sturdy despite its wounds. Luck crouched low, grin sharp, eyes locked onto the drifting smoke.
"As long as I get to fight strong guys like you," he sang, tongue brushing his lip, "I'm happy."
Lotus emerged once more, rubbing his forehead with a tired breath. A crooked smile pulled at his mouth as he met Luck's gaze head-on.
"Seems I've caught the attention of a real menace," the man remarked, fingers dragging through his hair. His grin tilted toward rueful amusement. "Might bring me to tears."
.
.
.
The clash stretched on, time blurring beneath smoke and lightning.
Lotus slipped through Luck's assaults with practiced ease, his form dissolving and reforming behind curtains of drifting haze. Smoke Magic flowed at his command—not merely as cover, but as misdirection, pressure, restraint. It bent space just enough to rob attacks of certainty, to turn reckless momentum against itself. A veteran's choice. Efficient. Cruel in its subtlety.
From within the shifting veil, half of Lotus' face emerged, one gray eye catching the glow of electricity head-on. "You're a reckless boy," he remarked, tone light, almost indulgent.
Luck skidded back just in time, boots grinding sparks against stone as he corrected his stance. His grin stretched wider instead of faltering. "Stop dodging!" he snapped, excitement sharp and bright. "Come on! Fight me properly!!"
Air churned violently as he moved again, the Black Bull's robe snapping and twisting around his frame, its dark fabric cutting through smoke and light alike. The bull insignia flashed into view between bursts of mana.
Lotus' eyes widened.
"That robe—" He stepped aside with smooth precision, Luck's kick slicing past him. "Right. The Black Bulls."
Recognition settled in, followed by a short laugh that carried memory rather than humor. "I've crossed paths with your captain before," he went on, grin pulling crooked. "Back when we were both younger. Hot-blooded doesn't even begin to cover it."
Luck's interest ignited instantly. His steps slowed for half a heartbeat, curiosity flaring brighter than the lightning at his feet. "You know Captain Yami?"
Lotus tugged his robe open, revealing a broad chest marked by an old, jagged scar. "He gave me this," he admitted, tapping it with a finger. "I panicked and ran for my life." A breathy laugh followed. "He fought like nothing I'd ever seen. The only man younger than me who beat me outright."
Luck's eyes shone.
Energy surged visibly through him, his shoulders rising as exhilaration spiked. "Then you're finally worth—!"
Smoke swallowed him whole.
The words cut short as the haze closed in, thick and invasive. Luck staggered, boots scraping wildly as his footing betrayed him. His grin wavered as he twisted around, blinking hard.
"...Huh?"
The interruption cracked his momentum. Just briefly.
He took several uneven steps, grounding himself by force of will alone. His right foot slammed down, lightning snapping outward as he straightened, breath sharp but steady.
Lotus watched with clear amusement. "Still standing?" he mused. "You're interesting."
Luck didn't bother answering.
He charged again. Electricity tore across the floor behind him, scorching a path through smoke and stone alike. Yet something felt off. The familiar burst of speed failed to crest. His body responded—but slower.
He noticed it then.
Not his strength.
His speed.
Lotus drifted aside with ease, avoiding the strike without urgency. "Too slow," he noted, tone casual as Luck's kick tore through layered smoke instead of flesh. He hummed thoughtfully, fingers brushing his goatee.
Their grimoires hovered close, pages flipping under strain, mana thick in the air as both spells demanded more than restraint allowed.
Luck inhaled.
The smoke burned.
His chest seized as he coughed, boots skidding backward across slick stone. Behind him, unseen—
The world shifted.
Weight vanished.
His body tilted wrong, sensation stretching thin as though the ground had fallen away. A pull tugged at him from nowhere and everywhere, dragging him inward, downward, toward something vast and unseen.
Lotus' voice reached him through the haze, calm and coaxing.
"Step by step," he spoke, words threading through the fog, "welcome to the abyss."
Truly, the title Lotus of the Abyss fit the man far too well.
He stood above the wreckage with ease, boots planted atop broken stone, victory curling his mouth upward as he looked down on Luck. One hand rose to his chin again, fingers brushing through his short beard as if savoring a private thought.
Then the air shifted.
Not violently. Not loudly. But wrong enough for Luck to flinch.
Lotus' grin sharpened as something unseen spread outward, saturating the space between fallen walls and shallow water. "You know," he remarked, tone light despite the tension pressing inward, "this entire area is already under my control."
Luck's body twitched as he tried to respond—and failed.
"It's smoke," Lotus went on, entirely at ease, "pared down until sight itself slips past it." His thumb brushed his chin, eyes bright with idle admiration, as though he were inspecting a well-tended garden rather than a battlefield.
"Weakening Smoke Magic—Garden of Plundering Smoke."
The air itself had been rewritten. What seemed empty was threaded with an unseen haze, seeping into muscle and breath alike, dulling strength in quiet increments, stealing speed without violence. It pressed in without pressure, patient and invasive, a spell that punished awareness too late.
Only then did Luck notice it.
The air around him carried a faint pallor, a washed-out hue that did not belong to stone or torchlight. It coiled close to his skin, threading around his arms and legs in thin, drifting wisps, not quite smoke and not quite absence. It moved with intent, slipping into the spaces between breath and bone, settling where strength was meant to live.
His chest drew in sharply.
How did I miss this...?
He shifted his weight, expecting the usual snap of motion, the familiar rush of electricity surging through muscle and nerve. Instead, there was a pause—small, but unmistakable. A delay that should not have existed.
Again, he tried. His limbs responded sluggishly, as if dragged through heavy water, each command arriving dulled and distorted.
My body—
It's not listening.
Understanding struck hard. This wasn't a sudden strike meant to overwhelm. It was erosion. Slow. Patient. Lotus hadn't just stolen his speed—he had begun gnawing at his strength as well.
Lotus watched the realization bloom with clear satisfaction. "If it were something obvious," he explained, teeth flashing in a grin that feigned harmlessness, "you'd have dodged it easily. So I kept it subtle. Barely there." His gaze drifted lazily toward the bodies scattered in the shallow water. "I started it while you were busy with my men."
The gray of his eyes dulled as they traced the motionless forms beneath the surface.
"They didn't fall for nothing," he added, voice steady as stone. "They made this possible."
His gaze slid toward the still forms submerged in the shallow water, cloaks darkened, bodies unmoving. Not once did his expression shift in regret. If anything, there was a measured approval in the way his eyes traced the aftermath, as though tallying the cost of a necessary exchange.
A laugh left him—low and intentional, shaped by foresight rather than humor. It carried the sound of someone who had already seen the outcome and found it acceptable. When his attention returned to Luck, the boy was shaking now, lightning stuttering unevenly along his skin as the invisible weight pressed deeper.
"Teamwork," Lotus remarked, turning the word over with care, tasting its edges. "It's an underestimated strength."
The smoke tightened its hold, answering its master's sentiment. Alone, Luck's power was frightening. But bound, delayed, divided—this was the moment Lotus had been waiting for.
Teamwork, he had said.
The word settled heavily in the air, deceptively simple, carrying a truth that cut deeper the longer one considered it. Unity, when wielded with intent, became something far more dangerous than individual brilliance. An enemy that moved with shared purpose could eclipse even the finest Magic Knights, not through power alone, but through intention sharpened into strategy.
That understanding had barely taken shape when movement announced itself elsewhere.
Footsteps crossed the crystalline corridors, firm and deliberate, grinding against mineral-strewn paths that caught and scattered light like shattered stars. Each step followed another without hesitation, measured and assured. The Diamond Kingdom was advancing—not as scattered figures, but as a single, coordinated force—pressing forward toward the dungeon's core with quiet confidence and ruthless precision.
.
.
.
Yuno's wind ark cut through the hollowed passages like a living current, its translucent hull flexing as air pressed and reshaped itself beneath his control. The joint squads stood steady atop it, cloaks tugged and hair swept back as the dungeon's breath slid past them.
Along the walls, vines grew thicker and more unruly, their leaves broad and veined, some brushing close enough to scatter droplets of condensed moisture into the air. The greenery no longer felt incidental—it felt intentional, as though the dungeon itself was guiding them forward to its core.
Mimosa maintained her tracking spell with practiced care, fingers lifted, mana flowing in controlled streams that bent around roots and stone alike. She tilted her head once, eyes narrowing, and adjusted her spell's reach by a fraction. No explanation followed—there never needed to be one. Yuno shifted the ark's course without pause, wind responding to his intent as if it had been waiting for permission.
Xierra noticed it, the way they moved in quiet understanding. No wasted motion. No confusion. She tightened her grip on the strap of her gear and leaned closer to the edge of the ark, peering ahead as her own senses stretched outward. The air here felt heavier, saturated with something old. Her magic prickled against her skin, restless, urging her attention toward the narrowing passage.
Inari, perched atop Klaus' shoulders, squinted at the pair with open skepticism. His tail flicked once, then again. After a moment, he released a small huff and settled more comfortably, deciding the mystery was not worth interrupting.
Klaus barely reacted to the added weight. His posture remained rigid, arms folded, gaze fixed forward. If anything, he looked faintly reassured by the fox's presence, as though it anchored him amid the dungeon's shifting paths. Xierra caught that detail, too—the quiet trust, unspoken but solid—and felt a strange warmth stir beneath her ribs.
The winds threading through the corridors shifted in pitch as the maze seemingly widened, brushing against jagged stone and creeping foliage. Then Mimosa lifted her voice, hand raised near her cheek to gather their attention. "We're almost there!"
Xierra stepped forward instinctively, her eyes catching the subtle change ahead—the way the walls pulled back, the ceiling lifting higher with each passing second.
The ark glided onward, and the passage gave way to an immense chamber.
Below them, broken stone lay scattered in uneven fields, slabs split apart as though struck by overwhelming force long ago. Some pieces rested beneath shallow pools of water that reflected the chamber's glow, while others had crumbled into gravel under time's quiet insistence. The air smelled of damp earth and dust, perhaps older than any of them.
And there—rising from the far end of the hall—stood the doors.
They were monumental, scraping the dungeon's bricked skies and towering high enough to dwarf even the tallest Magic Knight among them. Calling them large felt inadequate; they loomed like a structure unto themselves, their surfaces carved into four vast panels. The upper sections stretched higher than the lower, drawing the eye upward toward the center, where a sun-shaped emblem marked the meeting point of all four.
Thorns and thick branches had claimed the stone around them, climbing with reckless growth, wrapping pillars and walls in living green. Beneath that wild ascent, bushes flourished, leaves glossy and dense, dotted with flowers and clusters of berries that burned with color against the muted gray of the dungeon.
Xierra took it all in, awe pressing against her breath. Whatever waited beyond those doors was no mere treasure. It felt like a threshold—one that demanded more than strength to cross.
"Truly," Xierra breathed, wonder brightening her features as she took in the sight before them, "It's beautiful..."
Her voice carried easily through the chamber, not loud, not restrained—simply honest. She turned slowly, committing every detail to memory: the towering doors, the riot of green overtaking stone and cement, the way age had not diminished their presence but refined it like fine wine.
The others stood beside her, momentarily stripped of urgency, their gazes drawn toward the same monumental threshold. It was clear now—those doors were not decoration, nor a relic to be admired from afar. They were the boundary between effort and reward, the final barrier before the treasure hall.
And barriers, by nature, demanded answers.
"Absolutely incredible!" Mimosa clapped her hands together, eyes shining as she leaned forward to admire the carvings. Her excitement was contagious, lightening the tension that had settled into their shoulders.
Inari nodded along from his perch, tail swaying in clear approval, while Xierra offered a quiet hum of agreement.
Up close, the doors revealed their age in subtler ways. Weather-worn grooves traced stories into the stone, and the carvings bore marks of time rather than damage. This was not something meant to be forced open without consequence. Whatever lay beyond expected respect—or punishment.
A sharp scoff cut through their admiration.
"Hah! So this is all dungeons are?" Klaus adjusted his glasses with practiced precision, chin lifted. "That wasn't as difficult as I'd expected."
Xierra shot him a sideways glance, unimpressed but amused. Yuno, for his part, did not rise to the comment. His eyes moved carefully over the doors, scanning for patterns, mechanisms, anything that hinted at entry.
"How do you think we get in?" he asked, curiosity restrained beneath his calm tone.
The wind ark dissolved at his command, lowering both squads gently onto solid ground. The faint hum of mana faded, replaced by the natural stillness of the chamber.
"Break them, maybe?" Inari offered, already padding ahead of the group. "If there's no visible method or mechanism, brute force could be an option worth considering."
Xierra paused beside him, gaze lifting from the carved stone to the fox at her side. She tilted her head, considering the suggestion instead of brushing it off. "It's tempting," she admitted, eyes following the clean seams where the doors met, the symmetry too deliberate to be accidental. "But these don't look like doors that were meant to be smashed open."
She stepped closer, stopping just short of where the overgrowth thickened, and lifted a hand without touching the surface. The air around the doors felt dense, pressing faintly against her skin, enough to make her wary.
"But dungeons are usually built with safeguards," she continued, glancing back at the others. "Some entrances only respond after specific conditions are fulfilled—mana patterns, order of activation, or even presence. If we don't know what state the field is in right now..." Her hand lowered, fingers stretching from their stiffness at her sides.
Yuno, in agreement, sharpened his expression with a solemn nod. "Forcing it could set off defensive systems."
"Traps, backlash spells, something designed to punish the wrong approach. I'd rather not test that theory firsthand," Klaus intercepted, eyes scanning the area for anything they could operate.
Inari flicked his tail, accepting the logic as Xierra straightened, her focus settling back on the doors—not rushing, not retreating, simply assessing.
The group drifted apart soon after, spreading out in measured steps. No one strayed far; each of them remained within sight, within reach, as if an unspoken agreement held them together.
Xierra moved toward the edge of the doors where the vegetation had claimed the stone, thick vines winding upward in tangled layers. Across the chamber, Klaus and Mimosa circled to the opposite side, examining the carvings and the surrounding masonry with equal care.
Yuno released a quiet breath behind her, concern clear even without words. Xierra did not turn. She lowered herself into a crouch near the wall, attention fixed on the plant life threading through the cracks. Her fingers hovered just short of contact, careful, deliberate, as her eyes traced the vines' slick surface and unusual coloration, committing every detail to memory.
Footsteps followed.
She glanced back, catching Yuno a few paces behind her, and let out a brief laugh. "Why are you following me?"
"I'm worried. That's all."
That earned a small smile. She turned back to the plants, more serious now. "These aren't harmless," she noted, tracing their growth path without touching. "See the discoloration? They're poisonous. We should keep our distance from them."
Inari leaned forward, ears alert, clearly taking her warning to heart.
"The Black Bulls aren't here yet," Mimosa observed, glancing toward the passage they had come through.
"Of course not," Klaus replied with a dismissive tilt of his head. "There's no way they're faster than us."
Xierra hid her grin. Everyone here knew whose magic had truly carried them with such speed.
As they regrouped near the center of the chamber, her thoughts drifted despite herself. Asta's recklessness. Noelle's determination stretched thin by responsibility. Without guidance, without a clear path—
She shook her head, forcing away the worry before it could take root.
Poor Noelle.
A nervous laugh escaped her as she turned toward Mimosa, words poised at her lips, something unspoken pressing forward—concern, maybe, or a plan still half-formed.
But she froze.
Her body locked where it stood, breath snagging hard in her throat. A sour heat crept upward, sharp and sudden, stealing the scream before it could form. Her eyes widened, vision stretching too far, too fast, while her chest fought for air that refused to come easily.
The world thinned. Motion dragged as though submerged, each detail stretched long enough to be cruel. Stone dust drifted in slow arcs. Light slipped across carved surfaces in painful clarity. Only a few steps ahead, the dungeon remained intact and unmoved, yet the ground beneath her boots felt uncertain, firm, and untrustworthy all at once.
Only a few steps.
Her legs would not answer.
Something unseen pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating, pinning her where she stood. It wrapped around her limbs without touch, a weight that did not bruise but crushed all the same.
Fear.
Not the sharp kind that urged flight. This one was old. It rose from a place she had sealed shut, pried open without warning. It clamped around her heart, cold and merciless, tightening until every beat felt like resistance.
She knew this sensation.
The memory surged forward, uninvited. A presence at her back. A grip she could not break. Breath stolen, voice trapped, body betraying her all over again. It had never belonged to her—this terror, this suffocating despair—yet it had been carved into her all the same, etched deep enough to survive time.
Her thoughts scattered, scrambling for control. Move. Just move. Her instincts howled, clawing against the paralysis, warning her that something was wrong—terribly wrong.
The quiet around her became unbearable. She wanted noise, impact, anything to shatter the stillness pressing against her skull. Her mouth opened, but no sound followed. The air refused her even that.
In that narrow slice of time, everything crowded in at once—images, sensations, dread that felt borrowed yet intimate. The chamber blurred at the edges, leaving only the certainty of what she felt and the horror of recognizing it.
They weren't hers.
She clung to the thought like a lifeline, repeating it as her pulse thundered in her ears.
They weren't hers.
...They weren't hers.
Xierra knew she had shouted a name.
She felt it tear out of her chest, felt her throat burn with the force of it—but nothing answered her. Not even the dungeon itself. The quiet that swallowed her cry was absolute, crushing in its refusal to give anything back.
Fate had always been cruel like that. She had learned that lesson early, learned it deeply.
Still, she refused to believe that something so fragile—a single severed thread—could send everything spiraling into ruin.
Her eyes searched for reason, for logic. A trap, perhaps. Some dungeon-born illusion meant to distort perception, to scatter them in confusion. She wanted it to be that. Needed it to be that.
But what she saw refused to bend.
It was too sharp. Too raw. Pain sat heavy in her chest as the truth took shape, undeniable and merciless.
Her voice never reached them. Neither did the way her knees buckled, nor the way her hands clawed uselessly at the air as her body sank. No one turned in on time. No spell intercepted the blow. No instinct screamed quickly enough.
Someone was there.
And they were not one of them.
Her vision locked onto the figure on the ground before her—still, crumpled, wrong. The pressure in her head built until it roared, drowning out everything else. Somewhere in that silence, the presence of the intruder burned like an afterimage she could not erase.
Time moved again.
Xierra did not.
Crystalline spikes burst forward without warning, driving through the space behind Mimosa in a violent surge. There was no scream. No gasp. No chance to react. The force tore through her Golden Dawn robe, fabric shredding beneath the impact as her body jerked once—then went slack.
"Mimosa—!!"
The sound finally existed, torn from Xierra's chest as the world tipped.
Inari reacted first. A sharp hiss ripped from him as he leapt down, flames snapping alive along his tail. Every strand of his dark fur stood rigid, his stance protective and furious all at once.
Mimosa fell.
Her body struck the dungeon floor with a sound far too final, vermillion hair fanning out against the stone like spilled petals. The crystal that had impaled her shattered into nothingness, leaving only debris and the suffocating weight of what had just occurred.
No one moved.
The air pressed down on them, thick with hostility, as if the dungeon itself had drawn a slow, satisfied breath. The two squads stood frozen, minds refusing to catch up with what their eyes were telling them.
Moments ago, Mimosa had been speaking, smiling, alive.
Now she lay unmoving.
Inari snarled low, positioning himself closer to her side, fire crackling with restrained violence. Gone was his usual levity—what remained was sharp instinct and bare fury, aimed at something just beyond their sight.
Xierra's hands trembled as she forced herself to breathe. Her heart pounded hard enough to hurt, but she did not look away. She couldn't. Not when turning away felt like surrender.
The presence made itself known then.
Before them stood an enemy.