Room Nine did not echo.
Sound died there.
The moment Eryndor and Darius stepped fully inside, the space revealed its true nature—not merely a chamber, but a constructed kill-zone, a pocket reality layered inside the tower itself. The walls were smooth black stone veined with dim arcane circuits, the ceiling impossibly high, the floor reflecting shadows that did not belong to any single light source.
And then—
They came.
Ninety-five arcane and ether masters surged forward in a tide of killing intent. Spells flared. Ether ignited. Blades, sigils, constructs—everything at once.
Darius smiled.
It was small.
Cold.
Certain.
"Shadow Hands."
The room answered.
From every shadow—
From the cracks between stones, from beneath feet, from the silhouettes cast by arcane light—hands emerged.
Not illusions.
Not constructs.
Shadows given authority.
Dozens of men were seized mid-charge, legs yanked out, arms twisted backward, bodies slammed into the ground by their own darkness. Screams erupted as bones snapped and joints dislocated.
Some broke free.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty.
They pushed through with sheer power and desperation, launching themselves at Eryndor.
Eryndor lifted his right hand.
A spark formed.
Blue-dark lightning crackled around his fingers, the hue deepened by the Black Sun's touch. Wind curled inward, compressing space around him.
His voice was calm.
"You will all be sentenced—"
The spark detonated.
"—by the God of the Black Sun."
He vanished.
Not stepped.
Not dashed.
Erased.
In less than a heartbeat, Eryndor tore through the battlefield.
Devastating punches coated in storm and divinity crushed ribcages, caved skulls, ruptured cores. Blue lightning exploded outward with every strike, bypassing defenses, eating through regeneration, burning souls as much as flesh.
Eighty-five died before they understood what had happened.
Bodies hit the floor in waves.
The remaining ten were still trapped—Darius' shadow hands tightening, twisting, executing. One by one, necks snapped with dull, final sounds.
Silence fell again.
Then—
Five figures stood.
They had not moved.
They had been watching.
The leader stepped forward.
Tall.
Lean.
Eyes etched with curse sigils that crawled beneath his skin.
"Nax," he said calmly.
"Number Nine of Atlas."
His gaze locked onto Eryndor.
"So you are Eryndor Nasarik. I've heard of you."
Eryndor smiled faintly.
"Did you also hear," he replied, "that you'd die by my hands?"
One of the others scoffed.
"Insolence. You are courting death—"
He stopped.
Because Darius looked at him.
Not directly.
Just enough.
For a fraction of a second, the low deity saw it.
An endless night sky.
A colossal Black Sun.
Souls screaming beneath gravity that was not physical.
The deity swallowed and said nothing.
Nax gestured.
"Enough talk."
The five low deities spread out.
Grey — gravity warped around his steps, the floor buckling under invisible pressure.
Kaliff — veins glowing crimson, blood authority pulsing through his martial stance.
Nax himself — curse sigils igniting, Ether folding reality inward.
They faced Eryndor.
Behind them—
Glasius, hands lifted, telekinetic force distorting the air.
Senus, already fading, illusions layering upon illusions.
They rushed.
Five against two.
Grey slammed gravity downward, trying to pin Eryndor to the floor. Kaliff closed in, fists glowing with blood-forged reinforcement, strikes honed to kill gods. Nax unleashed layered curses—rot, severance, suppression—aimed at Eryndor's core.
Eryndor stepped forward.
Gravity shattered.
Storm wrapped his body like royal robes. He met Kaliff head-on—martial arts colliding at godlike speed. Kaliff's blood-enhanced punch landed—
—and did nothing.
Eryndor's counter sent lightning through Kaliff's nervous system, convulsing him mid-strike. Grey attempted to compress space—
Eryndor pivoted, drove an elbow into Grey's sternum, and released a point-blank Judgment Spark.
Grey collapsed, body smoking, heart stopped.
Nax snarled, curses intensifying—
Eryndor appeared in front of him.
A single punch.
Not flashy.
Just absolute.
Lightning detonated inside Nax's chest, tearing through curse matrices and ether reinforcement alike. Nax crashed backward, coughing blood, barely alive.
Meanwhile—
Glasius and Senus lunged for Darius.
Telekinetic spears.
Illusory clones.
Mental interference.
Darius did not move.
"Black Sun's Domain."
Darkness expanded.
At exactly one hundred meters—
Reality inverted.
Glasius and Senus found themselves swallowed by night. No floor. No sky. Only darkness, heavy and absolute.
A single drop echoed.
Then—
Shadows rose.
They wrapped around limbs, throats, souls. Dragging. Pulling. Judging.
Darius stood behind them.
"I sentence you to death," he said quietly,
"in the name of the Black Sun."
Their screams were brief.
Then gone.
The darkness receded.
Back in Room Nine, Eryndor stood amidst broken bodies, lightning fading from his hands. Nax lay at his feet, barely conscious, eyes wide with terror.
Eryndor looked down at him.
"Number Nine," he said softly.
"Thank you for waiting."
Storms stirred.
Above.
Below.
And far beyond the tower—
Atlas had just realized—
They were under siege.