The march of fifty players cut through the desert like a silent, precise blade.
Survivors of the First Floor who had decided not to die today.
The sound of fifty pairs of boots striking compact sand in unison created a hypnotic rhythm, a warlike percussion that echoed across the dunes.
"Hey, look at the sun," a mage in the rear commented, pulling the hood of his silver mantle over his head. "It's directly overhead. On any other day, we'd be losing HP every second right now."
Beside him, a warrior touched the fabric of his own mantle, impressed by the texture that felt cool to the touch even under the infernal heat.
"It's true. I'm not feeling anything. Not a single extra drop of sweat. If it weren't for this thermal mantle Taiga made, we'd have turned into barbecue before reaching halfway."
"God bless that woman's madness," a healer agreed, checking the vials on her belt. "Without these items, this raid would've ended at the city gate. We're still standing because of her."
Ethan walked at the front, eyes fixed on the horizon, keeping the inner flames under absolute control.
"Morale is high because of the gear," Ethan said to Marcus. "They feel protected. That's good."
Marcus nodded, posture rigid, one hand resting on the hilt of his old longsword. The blade had seen better days, the leather grip worn down, but it was an extension of his arm.
"Let them feel that way," he replied. "What's coming will test that protection to its limit. Keep the formation tight. No mistakes."
Just behind them, Sienna let out a low, nasal laugh, her grimoire closed against her chest.
"'No mistakes.'" She mimicked Marcus's deep tone. "Do you practice that general face in the mirror before leaving the inn, Marcus? Or is that urge to command everyone something you're born with?"
Marcus didn't look back, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.
"I'm trying to keep fifty people alive, Sienna. Focus helps."
"Oh, come on." Sienna quickened her pace to walk beside him. "Are you walking that stiff because of the chainmail, or are you just trying to impress the audience back there? Relax your shoulders, 'Captain.' If you stay that tense, you'll freeze on the first hit."
On Ethan's other side, Elenya adjusted her quiver and joined in, teasing.
"Leave him alone, Sienna. The weight of his ego is heavier than his sword. Someone has to pose for the photo if we die, right?"
Marcus snorted, his stoic mask cracking for a brief moment.
"You two are unbearable. I should've left you in the back carrying potions."
"And miss the frontline show? Never." Sienna winked at Jay. "Right, Shieldy? Someone has to take care of these serious boys."
Jay laughed awkwardly, adjusting the shield on his back. The metal bore marks from old battles but still gleamed under the sun.
"I'm just glad Taiga's mantle works. Honestly? I was afraid I'd melt."
Elenya stopped smiling and pointed ahead.
"Save the jokes. We're here."
As they approached, the dunes gave way to white stone ruins that, strangely, showed no signs of wear. The massive half-buried gate loomed ahead, casting a long, cold shadow.
The wind died suddenly.
The air, once alive with footsteps and chatter, became still.
It wasn't just heat. It was a sense of sterile perfection.
No dust. The stones were smooth, polished, as if cut yesterday.
"Do you feel that?" Ethan stopped.
"Yes," Elenya replied quietly. "The sound is gone. No wind. No insects. Nothing."
Sienna hugged her grimoire tighter.
"It feels like a mausoleum someone cleans every day… but never visits."
Jay brought the shield to his arm, feeling its familiar weight.
"The Guardian must be at the end. Let's move."
Then a deep sound vibrated through the stone walls.
THUM.
Slow. Metallic. Indifferent.
THUM.
"What was that?" a frontline tank asked, gripping his tower shield.
"The homeowner welcoming us," Marcus replied, turning to the army with a professional gaze. "Combat formation! Tanks up front! DPS in the middle! Healers, archers, and mages in the back! No one breaks position!"
The colossal gate slid open in absolute silence.
They advanced through a corridor lit by a golden light that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.
The passage opened into a gigantic circular hall. The floor was smooth, pale stone, crossed by luminous veins beneath the surface like rivers of light. Under the golden glow, the ground shone like polished gold, reflecting the players in a warped, heat-like mirror.
At the center, upon a throne, stood the armor.
Amun-Rael.
He looked like a divine statue. The golden armor bore not a single scratch. It was the image of absolute order.
On his left arm, he carried a massive solar shield, round and heavy, with a golden disk at its center and concentric rings of glowing runes along the edge. It was not just defense. It was a symbol. A sun wielded as a weapon.