The air in the Yatan Temple was no longer merely cold; it was thick, stagnant, and tasted of oxidized copper.
Arthur stood at the precipice of the final descent, his hand white-knuckled around the hilt of Dainsleif. The system notifications flickered in his peripheral vision like a dying candle, reminding him of the ticking clock.
[Rescue the Earl's Esteemed Daughter]
* Remaining Time: 42 Minutes 12 Seconds.
"Wow," Arthur breathed, a sharp, jagged smile cutting across his face. The hostile relationship with the Church of Yatan had turned this from a simple rescue into a desperate gauntlet. But he hadn't spent two days camping in this hellhole for a simple stroll.
"Who dares hurt Yatan's believers!" a voice shrieked from the gloom.
"God Yatan is almighty! You will pay a heavy price for your blasphemy!"
Dozens of robed figures materialized from the shadows of the pillars, their eyes burning with a fanatical, violet light. These were not the low-level fodder of the forest; these were Black Magicians, specialists in the art of the curse and the slow, agonizing death.
'Are you ready, Undefeated Master?' Arthur queried internally, his mind reaching into the depths of his own consciousness.
«Kukuku... These mongrels don't know who they are messing with. Show them your might, kid. Let the blood of the faithless water the stone.»
The voice of Madra, the Undefeated King, resonated with a bloodthirsty bass. With the legendary ghost supporting his back, Arthur's posture shifted. He didn't just stand; he loomed.
"Pagma's Sword Dance — Wave!"
Arthur's blade didn't just swing; it rippled. A series of silver-white sword auras erupted from the heavy steel, rolling outward like a tsunami of light. The first line of cultists didn't even have time to scream before the fluctuating pressure of the 'Wave' shattered their ribcages and sent them tumbling into the abyss of the staircase.
Arthur and Doran carved a path of gore down toward the basement. Doran moved like a flicker of candle smoke—here one second, buried in a cultist's throat the next. But as they reached the landing above the final ritual chamber, Doran suddenly skidded to a halt, his expression turning grim.
"These guys have started to use their heads," the assassin hissed.
Arthur looked ahead. A group of five Black Magicians had formed a pentagram, their voices rising in a dissonant, overlapping harmony.
"Blessed souls underground..."
"Use your grudges and fears to ensnare the enemy..."
"Those who feel fear will have their legs restrained..."
«They are using a Connect Spell, Arthur!» Haicyen's voice warned through the mental link. «Individually, they are weak, but by sharing the syllables, they bypass the casting time of a high-tier curse. Interrupt them, now!»
"Be prepared," Doran whispered, his body tensing.
"Be prepared for what? Let's attack before the magic hits us!" Arthur shouted, reaching for Doran's collar to drag him forward.
"It is too late," Doran replied, his voice heavy with resignation.
Kuoooooh!!
A line of blood spontaneously manifested on Doran's cheek. Black energy, thick as tar and cold as the grave, rose from the floorboards, wrapping around the assassin like a shroud. Doran collapsed to one knee, his breath rattling in his lungs.
"No! I am doomed if you die!" Arthur cursed. This wasn't supposed to be a solo mission. If the quest giver died, the probability of the mission failing skyrocketed.
"Cough!"
Doran spat a glob of black blood onto the stone. Arthur's heart hammered. He couldn't let the "Matchmaker" die here. Not because of sentiment, but because the path to the Earl's favor went through this man.
Suddenly, a brilliant green light erupted from the ornate ring on Doran's finger. The black mist hissed as if touching holy water, and Doran's pale complexion began to flush with life again.
'The Ring of Doran...' Arthur realized, his eyes narrowing. It was a relic capable of neutralizing the most potent poisons and curses. In the original timeline, this ring would become a cornerstone of Grid's survival. 'I need to find a way to mass-produce that... for Alfia, for Khan, for everyone.'
"This ring is special," Doran panted, standing up and shaking off the lingering shadows. "But the protection isn't perfect. The damage is cumulative. We must move!"
They burst into the final basement chamber. The room was massive, dominated by a stone altar where a young woman with Silver-White hair lay bound in white silk. Irene. But standing between them and the girl was a wall of black robes—and one woman who didn't fit the mold.
She was breathtaking. Her hair was like a curtain of midnight, and her eyes held a calm, terrifying intelligence. She didn't wear the tattered rags of a cultist, but an elegant, high-tier black Magician's robe that accentuated her lithe frame.
Arthur froze. He knew that face. Every player in South Korea knew that face.
[Blood Witch — Yura]
* Rank: 1st among Black Magicians.
* Overall Rank: 5th in the Unified Rankings.
She was Arthur's "childhood Friend" And also his "Dream Girl," the ice-cold beauty of the pro-gaming world. And right now, she was his primary obstacle.
"I'm sorry," Yura said, her voice like velvet over a blade, "but I can't allow you to take away the sacrifice."
Peeng!
A blade of pure crimson fire manifested in her hand. Without a second of hesitation, she thrust it toward Arthur. She had analyzed him in an instant—a low-level player with no visible armor and mediocre equipment. In her eyes, he was a mosquito to be swatted before dealing with the NPC, Doran.
"Pagma's Sword Dance — Link!"
Arthur didn't dodge. He met the fire head-on. Dainsleif descended in a vertical strike of absolute authority. The silver aura of the 'Link' collided with the fire sword, the sheer force of Arthur's 172 levels and legendary stats neutralizing the Ranker's spell in a shower of sparks.
Yura's composed mask flickered. Her eyes widened, focusing on Arthur's face. "What was that? Based on your equipment, you shouldn't be more than level 160... How did you parry that?"
"Doran! Now!" Arthur roared, ignoring her question. "I'll restrict them! You take the chance!"
The Black Magicians began to chant, a dozen dark spheres forming in the air, all aimed at Arthur. He was the focus. He was the bait.
"Pagma's Sword Dance — Restraint!"
Arthur didn't swing. He performed a slow, deliberate movement, planting his feet and letting his Aura bleed into the air.
An invisible, suffocating pressure exploded from his position. It wasn't physical damage—it was an overwhelming spiritual weight. The Black Magicians gasped, their chanting faltering as their bodies felt as if they had been submerged in mercury.
Even Yura, the 5th ranker, felt her movements grow sluggish, her eyes widening as she felt the "Dignity" of a Legend pressing against her soul.
[Restraint: For 3 seconds, all enemies within 5 meters will be overwhelmed and their movements restricted.]
In that window of absolute stillness, Arthur transitioned.
"Pagma's Sword Dance — Wave!"
High-frequency blades of silver energy tore through the formation of the Black Magicians, shredding their robes and draining their health. Doran didn't miss the opening. He used Arthur's shoulder as a stepping stone, leaping over the frontline and diving toward Yura.
The "Blood Witch" recovered just in time, her staff parrying Doran's daggers, but the momentum had shifted.
"Doran! Take the girl and go!" Arthur yelled, his voice echoing with a desperate urgency. "I'll hold her off! If we stay together, she'll pick us both apart with area-of-effect spells! Go!"
Doran paused, looking at Arthur. He knew that leaving meant leaving his savior to die. But his loyalty to Earl Steim was absolute.
"Thank you," Doran whispered, his voice thick with a strange, tragic respect. "You truly are a hero. I will remember you forever."
«Muahahaha! Did he just curse you to die? That sounded like a eulogy, kid!» Madra cackled in Arthur's ear.
'Shut up, old man!' Arthur cursed internally. 'Doran, you coward! If I survive this, I'm taking that ring even I have to cut your finger!'
Yura's eyes were cold. She saw Doran reaching for the bound Irene. She raised her hand, her mana pooling into a Shroud of Darkness.
"Not on my watch," she whispered.
[You have been hit by Shroud of Darkness!]
[You can't move for 0.3 seconds]
[You have resisted!]
"Sorry, beautiful," Arthur interjected, stepping into her line of sight. "But the show is over."
Arthur felt the weight of her level difference, but his Indomitable and Composure stats held the line. He raised Dainsleif, the blade beginning to glow with a terrifying, concentrated white heat.
"Pagma's Sword Dance — KILL!"
[Kill]
* Description: A single-target strike that embodies the absolute intent to end a life.
* Effect: Deals 1500% of your physical attack power as damage. If the hit is a critical, it ignore's 50% of the target's defense.
* Special: The strike is so fast and heavy that it creates a vacuum in its wake.
The basement exploded in a flash of silver and red. Arthur's blade descended like the hammer of a god, aiming directly for the center of the Blood Witch's defense. He knew he couldn't kill her—not yet—but he would buy every second Irene needed to escape.
As the steel met the magic, Arthur looked into Yura's shocked eyes.