The forty-eight hours preceding their departure were a frantic race against time. In a secluded corner of the warehouse, Milo had established a makeshift forge, the black leather grimoire propped open before him, its pages pulsing with a faint, rhythmic violet light.
Milo's Astral Smithing
Milo wasn't merely repairing gear; he was attempting to decode the fundamental laws of Astral Smithing. The book whispered troubling secrets: Nameless's gauntlets were not just weapons—they were "Soul Sponges."
While Nameless rested, Milo worked like a man possessed. He took metal shards infused with Nameless's lightning and quenched them in an esoteric oil prescribed by the grimoire. He hammered out a back-plate and forearm braces designed specifically to stabilize the relics.
"If I can't fix the Gauntlets yet, I'll build an exoskeleton to help him carry their magical mass," Milo thought, his hands mapped with fresh sparks and burns.
Whispers of the Circle
While Milo forged, Nameless sought answers about the Dragon Circle. Baron, the veteran captain, offered a perspective that bit deeper than Mir's idealistic talk.
"They say they protect our kind?" Baron let out a bitter laugh, whetting his blade. "The Circle seeks to 'preserve' the blood, sure. But their protection is a leash. They turn Dragon-Kin like Mir and Mira into living siege engines. Look at them... they're powerful, yes, but there's nothing human left. The Circle believes that to save the Dragon, you must kill the Man inside."
The words haunted Nameless. The Circle wasn't looking for brothers; they were looking for Weapons of Mass Destruction.
The Silence of the Abyss
The monumental gates of the A-Rank Dungeon drank the blood offered by the mercenaries and groaned open like a tomb. The troop surged into the depths, bracing for a deluge of claws and fangs.
Instead, they were met with something far worse: The Void.
Descent into the Unknown
They cleared the first hall, then the second, then a dozen more. Milo's torches and Mir's crystals illuminated obsidian ice architectures of terrifying beauty, but not a single creature haunted the halls. No ice goblins, no specters, not even a frost rat.
"Stay sharp!" Mir barked, her voice thin with growing anxiety. "This silence is unnatural. An A-Rank Dungeon should be crawling with predators."
As they descended, an oppressive aura settled over them. Even veterans like Grog and Baron were sweating despite the sub-zero temperatures. Mira was reacting physically—her claws lengthening, her fangs baring as she caught an invisible scent. Something was there, hidden in the folds of reality.
Milo huddled close to Nameless, his hands white-knuckled on his tool kit. Seeing warriors as imposing as the captains lose their nerve terrified him more than any monster could.
The Warning of the Void
Suddenly, the Shadow's shrill laughter erupted in Nameless's skull, louder and more frantic than usual.
— "Hehehe... Hahahaha! You're all going to die if you keep going, kid... YOU'RE ALL GOING TO CROAK LIKE DOGS! IT'S OVER!"
Nameless felt a cold sweat prickle his spine. Usually, he tuned out the entity's taunts, but this time, the malice felt physical. He felt as if invisible blades were already pressed against his companions' throats.
"Mir!" Nameless shouted, breaking rank. "We have to get out. This is a trap. If we reach the Boss Room, no one is coming back alive!"
"Shut it, brat!" a mercenary snarled from the rear. "You're just shaking because there's nothing to hit? We don't turn back from A-Rank loot because you've got the jitters."
Mir looked at Nameless. She saw the pure terror in his sapphire eyes, but the lure of the hoard and the pressure of the Dragon Circle were absolute. She signaled them to push forward.
The Threshold of the End
They reached the final gate—a cyclopean structure of frozen metal. Still, no monsters. Nothing from the entrance to the very bottom. It was statistically impossible.
As a mercenary stepped forward to push the heavy door, the Shadow spoke again. Its tone had shifted. The snickering was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp authority.
— "Do not enter under any circumstances, boy. If you walk in there while I'm still sealed by that damn dragoness, we are both dead."
Nameless froze. The Shadow sounded genuinely concerned.
— "Actually..." the entity resumed with a flicker of its usual slyness, "I don't care if you die, I'll just find a new host. But it would be a shame if you perished before I found out if you really are 'HIM'... or just a reincarnation. Even I am not certain."
"HIM." The title Balthazar and Elara had used. But there was no time to think.
The mercenary pressed his hands against the door. The metal groaned, heavy and sinister. Suddenly, an imperceptible whistle sliced the air.
Without a scream, without a single drop of blood spraying at first, the man's head cleanly detached from his shoulders. It spun through the air, eyes still wide with effort, before thudding onto the frozen floor. The body remained standing for a second too long, hands still gripped to the door, before collapsing into a heap.
No one had seen the attack. No shadow, no spell. The Void had struck.
The Butcher of the Abyss
The air began to vibrate at an unbearable frequency.
"DEFENSIVE FORMATION! NOW!" Mir screamed.
As the doors swung wide, a sinister projection of aura materialized. In Nameless's mind, the Shadow whispered a single word, devoid of sarcasm: — "We're screwed."
The Sanctuary of Death
Ignoring the apparition, the troop entered the hall in a state of battle-trance. At the center lay the titanic corpse of a Black Lightning Dragon, chained to the floor by Cold Iron rings. Its body was scored by thousands of precise cuts that had drained every drop of its life.
"Who... who could fell such a legend?" Mir whispered.
She didn't get an answer. She turned to check the rearguard, and the nightmare resumed. Without a sound, the heads of two mages exploded. Then, before Mir could even scream, the colossus Grog collapsed—cleanly decapitated despite his A-Rank plate armor.
The Invisible Carnage
Panic was instantaneous. Mercenaries trying to flee were mowed down by invisible blades.
"SHOW YOURSELF, COWARD!" Mira howled, losing control. She unleashed a titanic [Flamethrower], bathing the room in red fire and lightning to force the assailant into view.
Through the curtain of fire, a silhouette began to carve its way forward.
The Shadow of the Scythe
The figure advanced with provocative slowness. It wasn't a monster, but a man. He wore matte black light armor that seemed to swallow light. His hands were empty, yet with every step, a trail of blood dripped from the empty air around him, as if his weapons were made of pure vacuum.
"Why?" Mir cried out, her voice breaking. "Why massacre my men? What are you doing here?!"
The stranger didn't answer. Every step he took triggered a violent pulsation of pain in Nameless's gauntlets.
The Shadow in Nameless began to laugh again—a laugh of pure madness. — "Do you see his eyes, kid? That's an Executioner of the Traitor. He didn't come for the loot... he came for YOU."
Milo, cowering behind Nameless, gripped his friend's arm. "Nameless... we can't win... I can't even see his arms move..."
The stranger stopped ten meters away. The tension was so thick the air felt solid. Nameless knew that if he didn't act, the next head to fall would be Milo's.