The instant the three cores synchronized, data surged from his feet up his spine.
Allen's perception range was forcibly expanded.
The ruins of the north. Twilight Hunters sharpened their claws on the roofs of wrecked cars.
The docks of the south. Rusty steel pipes trembled in the sea breeze.
The air-raid shelter in the center. Frost was freezing water droplets on the walls.
Three nodes. Three perspectives. He didn't need to turn his head.
The entire underground structure of Red Hook District was modeled in his mind—sewage pipes, abandoned subway lines, geological fault lines. All lit up.
If any dungeon was attacked, the resources of the other two would be readily available.
Monsters. Traps. Environmental parameters.
Red Hook District had become his chessboard.
BP balance: 2,500.
The three dungeons had emptied his account. But the chessboard was set up. The next wave of BP was only a matter of time.
Allen leaned against the frozen wall of the air-raid shelter. The cold air seeped through his hoodie and clung to his back.
He brought up the global view of the management panel. Three columns of data jumped side by side. Brooklyn Ruins, Class C. Coffin Fortress, Class F. Rust Tide, Class F.
The two Class F structures were skeletons. Time was needed to fill them in. But the core had already been planted.
2:40 AM.
A red light flashed at the edge of the management panel.
Not a normal notification. Highest level. External intrusion alert.
Allen's back left the wall.
The external monitoring grid expanded. Eastern edge of the red-hook zone.
Six points of light. Moving at high speed.
The system automatically labeled their energy levels.
One Class A. Three Class B. Two Class C.
No vehicles. A straight sprint down the street. Over the wall. Through the container yard.
The target was clear—the warehouse district. The entrance to the Brooklyn Ruins.
Allen's fingernail scratched a shallow mark on the ice wall.
Less than five hours after GWA's rejection notice was sent, Victor Stone had no patience for a second round of processing.
He simply flipped the table.
Six people. A-rank led. This wasn't exploration.
It was demolition.
Allen was a forty-minute walk from the warehouse through the sewers.
There wasn't enough time.
And there was no need to go back.
His finger swiped across the control panel. The internal surveillance of the Brooklyn ruins was fully activated. Live feeds from eighty rooms were arranged in a grid across his vision.
A point of light reached the warehouse.
The basement's iron door was ripped open. Fragments of the metal hinges bounced against the wall. The six men filed into the diamond-shaped opening.
The intrusion began.
Allen switched to the surveillance view of room number one.
A-rank led. Codename "Anvil."
Slightly over two meters tall. His entire body was covered in matte black heavy armor. Dark red energy patterns seeped from the seams of the armor. A warhammer hung on his back. Not drawn.
He didn't draw his weapon.
This meant he didn't think it was worth pulling.
Allen's gaze shifted from Anvil to the five men following behind. Three B-rank, two C-rank. The formation was loose. There was no defensive formation. A B-rank Shadow Assassin—not SilentBlade_7, but someone else—walked on the far left, hands in pockets.
The postures of the six men conveyed the same message: This wasn't a combat mission. This was demolition.
The first fifty rooms of the ruined city.
Allen watched on the monitor as the ecosystem he had spent two weeks building was crushed to pieces.
The Twilight Hunter pounced from a blind spot. Stealth mode. Perfect angle.
The Anvil didn't slow down. Right shoulder dropped, ramming directly into him. The energy field on the armor surface pulsed and exploded upon contact. A line of numbers popped up in the combat log on the management panel—the Hunter's health dropped from full to zero. Single collision damage exceeded 400%.
The corpse slammed against the wall. The shape was wrong.
A Rift Spider's web descended from above.
The Anvil raised his hand. A cone of flame erupted from his palm. The web and the spider vaporized together.
The Echoing Phantom's psychological interference. A shriek.
The Anvil helmet glowed blue. A mental field. The sound waves were deflected.
Three types of C-rank elite monsters. Three attack dimensions—physical ambush, control traps, and mental interference. Every layer of defense Allen had considered in his design lasted no more than two seconds against A-rank monsters.
Not breached. Ignored.
The Anvil's combat log data was updating too fast. The analysis module on the management panel couldn't keep up with his pace. In every frame of the monitoring screen, at least two monsters were dying.
Five teammates didn't draw their weapons the entire time.
Allen stared at the monitor. His right hand hung at his side. His fingers didn't tremble.
He was counting.
Not counting casualties. He was counting the frequency of the Anvil's energy field pulses.
How much energy was consumed with each collision burst. How long was the recovery interval. Was it passively triggered or actively controlled?
The scanning module on the management panel couldn't obtain complete A-rank data. But the collision damage values in the combat log were public—the system recorded every hit.
Deduce.
Anvil's Strength attribute is between A- and A. Constitution is A-. Agility is B+.
The Mental Field is an equipment effect, not a skill. Helmet.
That's his thinnest layer.
Allen didn't make any changes to the configuration panel.
It wasn't giving up. It was waiting.
Thirty-seven minutes.
The six of them traversed all eighty rooms.
Underground Sewers—A deep-sea lizard bit into Anvil's calf armor, breaking three teeth. Anvil glanced down, as if looking at a piece of chewing gum stuck to the sole of his shoe.
Tower Area—The effect of gravity switching on Anvil was negligible. Under double gravity, his movement speed decreased by less than fifteen percent. He shattered three concrete platforms, and a fragment injured the shoulder of one of his C-rank teammates.
Anvil didn't turn around.
The C-rank teammate set his own bone. He continued following.
Allen noted this detail. An A-rank's attitude towards a C-rank teammate—a consumable.
A pure black door.
Room 80.
The Anvil stood at the door.
Allen's finger hovered over the "Rule Attachment" configuration bar on the management panel.
Time Flow Modification. Space Folding. Attribute Lock.
Three C-level new function icons lined up below his fingertip.
He could adjust the time flow to parameters other than 0.5x. He could stack attribute lock. He could push the space folding multiplier to its limit.
But the probability of a C-level rule attachment taking effect on an A-level target was only 28%.
The success rate of stacking all three rules simultaneously was even lower.
If the stacking failed, the Anvil would know that the operator of this dungeon had the ability to modify rules in real time.
If the stacking succeeded— Allen's finger moved away from the attribute lock icon.
Only one remained.
Time Flow 0.5x.
This was the only pre-set rule. It would trigger before the Anvil entered. No real-time action from Allen was required. It wouldn't reveal the administrator's presence.
Passive defense. No proactive action.
Anvil assumed everything in this dungeon—including the rules of the Boss room—was automatic.
No one was controlling it from behind the scenes.
Anvil kicked open the door.
The door slammed against the wall. The echo bounced three times in the endless void.
Inside the door. A black mirrored floor. The boundary disappeared into the darkness.
The Abyss Watcher stood in the center.
The greatsword was stuck upside down in the mirror. The dark red patterns on the sword overlapped with the reflection on the ground.
Dark red pupils lit up.
[Rule Addendum: Time Flow Modification (0.5x) in effect] Six people stepped across the threshold.
The air thickened.
Anvil took his first step, his foot landing 0.3 seconds later than expected.
He stopped.
His head turned slightly. He scanned his surroundings.
His A-level combat intuition completed an environmental assessment within 0.5 seconds—abnormal spatial parameters, movement execution speed suppressed by approximately 50%.
He glanced back at his B-rank teammates.
The Shadow Assassin was drawing his sword. The movement of his arm was slowed down. The action from sheath to unsheath took twice the normal time.
The Shadow Assassin noticed it himself. His pupils contracted.
The greatsword was drawn from the mirror.
The Warden stepped forward. At normal speed. Unrestricted by rules.
Anvil's gaze locked onto the Warden. The monitoring panel caught the slight contraction of his pupils—he was reading the Warden's rank panel.
Rank C.
Anvil chuckled.
The syllables were drawn out in the half-speed air, slightly distorted, but the laughter was undisguised.
"A Rank C Boss."
He twisted his wrist. His knuckles cracked.
"Six against one?"
He reached behind him. He drew his warhammer.
Allen watched the monitor screen in front of the ice wall of the bunker.
The moment the Anvil's warhammer left its frame, a line of analysis data popped up on the management panel— Weapon Grade: A. Enchantment: Shockwave Spread. Effective Kill Radius per Swing: Three meters.
Warden's Greatsword Grade: C.
The numerical difference is two major grades.
Allen's gaze shifted to the bottom of the Warden's panel.
Adaptability Counter: 1.
It had learned Lina's Shadowstep variant. It had learned Guts's Frontal Charge.
It hadn't learned any A-grade combat modes.
The Warden's crimson eyes swept over the Anvil's warhammer.
Sweeped over its stance.
Sweeped over its weight distribution.
The Adaptability Counter jumped from 1 to—
Allen stared at the number.
It jumped to 1.
It didn't change.
It was waiting for the Anvil to strike first.