They limped into the final chamber.
After the claustrophobic nightmare of the Mimic Gate, this room felt like a different world. It was a vast, circular sanctum with a high vaulted ceiling that opened to the sky.
A single beam of natural sunlight pierced through the gloom, illuminating the center of the room like a spotlight on a stage.
Beneath that light lay a corpse. It wasn't a skeleton like the ones outside; it was a dried husk, still wearing armor that gleamed with untarnished silver. It sat slumped against a small pedestal, looking peaceful.
Beyond the corpse, on a raised dais at the far end of the room, sat a throne carved from black obsidian. Beside it rested a massive treasure chest, bound in iron chains that hummed with Aether.
"We made it," Kael breathed, leaning heavily on his shield. "The final room."
"Don't relax," Journ warned, his eyes scanning the shadows. "It's too quiet."
Cresty walked forward, her eyes fixed on the throne. It was empty. But the air around it shimmered, distorting the light.
"Wait," she whispered. "Look at the throne."
Slowly, the distortion coalesced. Aether gathered, knitting together into a translucent form.
A figure materialized on the black stone seat. It was a spirit, but it lacked the feral madness of the skeletons outside. This was a man. He wore spectral plate armor that looked lighter than air, and a majestic beard framed a face that was regal, weary, and infinitely old.
He sat with one leg crossed over the other, leisurely observing the intruders.
"A Ghost Lord," Cresty muttered, the color draining from her face.
"Indeed," Journ grunted, tightening his grip on his axe.
"Damn," Kael spat blood on the floor. "After all that... this is the final boss?"
The spirit leaned forward, resting his chin on a translucent hand. His eyes, burning with pale blue fire, swept over the battered party.
"I see," the Ghost Lord spoke. His voice didn't echo; it bypassed their ears and resonated directly in their skulls. It sounded like the closing of a heavy book. "Another band of adventurers thirsting for my treasure."
"It spoke?!" one of the rangers gasped, stepping back.
The Ghost Lord stood up.
THROOM.
There was no wind, but a shockwave of immense pressure washed over the room. It was the weight of a soul far denser than theirs. The dust on the floor was blown away in a perfect circle.
Journ, the heaviest among them, instinctively took a step back. His boots scraped loudly against the stone.
The Ghost Lord noticed the movement. His expression shifted from curiosity to disappointment.
"I see," the spirit sighed. "So none of you can be the equal of this corpse." He gestured dismissively to the body in the sunlight. "Then this will be a boring slaughter."
Cresty's eyes darted to the corpse. A fallen adventurer? Or a previous challenger?
She activated her skill.
"[Scan]."
The information flooded her mind instantly.
[Name: Ghost Lord Valerius] [Level: ?]
Cresty gulped. The sound was loud in the silence.
"A question mark?!" she thought, panic seizing her chest. Shit. Shit. The System can't read him. That means the level gap is absolute.
"What's wrong?" asked Kael, raising his shield.
Cresty looked at him, her eyes wide.
"You want the good news or the bad news?"
"...Bad," Kael said grimly.
"I don't know if we can kill him."
"Fuck," Kael hissed. "Even with Journ?"
"No offense," said Cresty, sparing a glance toward the giant warrior. "But the Level is unknown. Journ might as well be a toddler fighting a knight."
"Then what is the good news?" Kael asked, desperation creeping into his voice.
"We might die swiftly," said Cresty.
"Fuck me," Kael cursed. He slammed his visor down. "Phalanx! Form up on me!"
The remaining squire rushed to his side, locking shields. His hands trembled violently against the leather straps. Fear was there, palpable and cold, but so was the bravery of a soldier following orders.
Kael looked at him. "Don't worry, kid. After this, I'll treat you all to d—"
ZING.
There was no movement. No telegraph.
A spectral sword materialized in the air. It pierced through the squire's heavy steel shield as if it were parchment. It continued through the helm, through the brain, and out the back of the skull.
The squire dropped dead without a sound.
"The fuck," muttered a ranger, watching his ally collapse.
The Ghost Lord was already moving. He floated across the floor, closing the distance to Kael with terrifying speed.
"Farewell," the spirit whispered, raising the blade for a horizontal slash that would decapitate the Knight.
"HAH!"
Journ intercepted.
The giant roared, swinging his greataxe with every ounce of strength in his body to parry the blow.
CLANG!
Iron met soul-steel. Sparks of blue Aether flew.
Journ's boots dug into the stone floor, carving furrows as he was pushed back three feet by a single one-handed strike from the Ghost.
"You have the power," the Ghost Lord noted, his tone bored. "You have the greed."
He twisted his wrist, disengaging the blade and launching a flurry of thrusts.
"But you do not have the speed."
Journ gritted his teeth, batting the strikes away. Clang. Clang. Clang.
What immense grip! Journ thought, sweat pouring down his face. I can't get the sword out of his hand! Every strike feels like hitting a mountain!
"Support fire!" Cresty screamed.
Her rangers loosed a volley of arrows. The projectiles passed harmlessly through the Ghost Lord's ethereal cloak, but when they struck his armor, they shattered.
The Ghost Lord frowned, annoyed by the interruption. He took a single step back, deflecting three arrows with a casual wave of his sword.
"Annoying insects," the spirit muttered.
He raised his hand toward the backline. Aether gathered at his fingertips.
"Run!" Kael shouted, charging forward to assist Journ.
But they were too slow. The pressure in the room doubled. The Ghost Lord wasn't just a swordsman; he was a mage.
And they were in his throne room.
Ten beads of pale blue fire, no larger than marbles, manifested in the air around him. They didn't roar like normal fireballs; they hissed like vipers waiting to strike.
"Burn," the spirit whispered.
The beads accelerated.
They streaked across the throne room, leaving trails of freezing frost in their wake despite burning with white-hot intensity.
"Scatter!" Cresty screamed, diving into a roll.
Her rangers were too slow. They tried to nock arrows, tried to run, but the blue lights were faster than thought.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
The beads struck the three remaining rangers in the chest. There was no explosion. The fire simply consumed. In seconds, flesh turned to ash, and bones turned to dust. Three piles of grey soot settled on the stone floor, the only evidence that Cresty's subordinates had ever existed.
"No..." Cresty gasped, scrambling to her feet.
Two of the beads curved in mid-air, locking onto her heat signature. She activated [Wind Step], sprinting in a wide arc along the perimeter.
Whoosh.
The fireballs missed her by inches, slamming into the far wall. The ancient masonry exploded outward, punching massive holes through the thick rock and revealing the dark void of the dungeon's infrastructure.
"Focus on me, you dead bastard!" Journ roared.
The giant warrior lunged through the smoke, his axe glowing red.
"[Execute]!"
The Ghost Lord didn't turn. He simply raised his spectral sword behind his back, blocking the strike blindly.
CLANG.
"Predictable."
The spirit spun. His blade flashed.
It wasn't a slash; it was a dissection.
Journ's massive axe was cut in half at the haft. The spectral blade continued, carving a deep, ruinous gash across the giant's chest. Plate armor, chainmail, and muscle parted like wet paper.
"Gah!" Journ collapsed to one knee, blood spraying onto the floor. He dropped the useless handle of his weapon, clutching his chest to keep his organs inside.
"Journ!" Kael shouted.
The Blonde Knight saw his opening. With the Ghost Lord distracted, he charged the flank, his sword thrusting toward the spirit's exposed neck.
"Die!" Kael screamed, putting his entire weight behind the thrust.
The Ghost Lord caught the blade. With his bare hand.
Kael froze. "What?"
"Disappointing," the Ghost Lord sighed.
He twisted his wrist. Kael's sword shattered.
Then, the spirit moved. He drifted forward, passing through Kael's desperate shield bash like smoke. He materialized directly in front of the Knight.
He placed a translucent hand on Kael's forehead.
"Sleep."
A pulse of blue Aether fired point-blank.
CRACK.
Kael's head snapped back. His helmet didn't break, but the man inside ceased to exist. His body went limp, dropping to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
[Party Leader Deceased: Kael]
Silence fell over the throne room.
Journ wheezed on the floor, his lifeblood pooling around his knees. Kael lay dead, his neck broken. The rangers were ash.
Only Cresty remained standing.
She was backed against the wall she had baited the fireballs into destroying. She held a dagger, her hands shaking so violently the blade rattled against her bracer. Her [Alert] skill was silent. It had burned out from overload.
The Ghost Lord floated toward her. He didn't rush. He drifted with the inevitability of winter.
"And you," the spirit said, raising his sword. "The runner. You have nowhere left to go."
Cresty looked at the dead knight. She looked at the crippled giant.
We were the best, she thought, tears stinging her eyes. We were the elites.
"Please," she whispered, her voice cracking.
The Ghost Lord raised the blade high. The blue fire intensified, preparing for the final stroke that would end the raid.
"Let your silence be your tombstone."
The blade began to descend.
Tap. Tap.
Footsteps.
Loud, heavy, and completely unbothered by the gravity of the situation.
"Man," a voice complained from the darkness of the hole behind Cresty. "This place is dusty. You'd think a King would hire a maid."
The Ghost Lord paused. The blade hovered inches from Cresty's neck.
From the dust and gloom of the broken wall, a figure stepped out. He brushed past the terrified Cresty as if she were a piece of furniture.
He was shirtless, covered in monster blood, and wearing a pair of gauntlets that looked like they had been welded together by a madman in the dark. Beside him walked a woman carrying a hammer, looking exhausted but annoyed.
Lexel blinked.
He looked at the pile of ash. He looked at the bleeding giant. He looked at Kael's corpse.
Finally, he looked at the floating Ghost Lord.
"Oh," Lexel grinned, cracking his crude iron knuckles. The sound was like a gunshot in the silent room.
"Looks like you guys started the party without me."