Ambush Party
While Jura stumbled through the Dungeon on his merry, manipulated way—blissfully unaware of the puppet strings jerking his limbs—his party on Floor 14 was operating on a very different wavelength.
The original plan had been simple: hold position, let the tamers' monsters scratch at the walls to suppress spawns, and wait for Jura to return with intel on the blue-haired anomaly's location.
Dorian Kess, Level 3 swordsman and field commander of this particular Rudra Familia unit, had expected a quick turnaround. The target had come in alone, which likely meant he was backup for one of Freya Familia's senior members—probably scouting ahead or running supplies. Jura should have located him within an hour, confirmed his position, and reported back.
Simple. Quick. Efficient.
But two hours had passed, and the little catman still hadn't returned.
Dorian stood, rolling his shoulders and resting his hand on the pommel of his greatsword. The blade was new, a cursed weapon gifted by Lord Rudra after his recent level-up. Heavier than his old sword, but perfectly balanced. He had to test it for its weight and reach.
He hadn't activated its curse yet.
But now? His men were getting restless. Bored. And bored soldiers in Evilus were dangerous—not to the enemy, but to the mission.
These weren't the polished, regimented fighters you'd find in Light Familias. They were rejects. Criminals. Failures from other organizations. Lord Rudra had taken them in, given them purpose and power, and in return they gave him loyalty—raw, ugly, earned loyalty forged in shared bloodshed and mutual survival.
They fought like devils. They partied like pirates. And they thrived on chaos and mayhem.
Sitting around doing nothing? That was a recipe for infighting.
Not interested in being a baby-sitter for criminals, Dorian made his decision.
"Alright, listen up!" His voice cut through the idle chatter scattered across the staging cavern. Conversations died. Eyes turned toward him.
"We're not sitting here like statues waiting for Jura's slow ass to waddle back," Dorian announced. "We're going hunting."
A few grins spread through the group. That was more like it.
"Pairs only," Dorian continued, pacing as he spoke. "Tamers, replenish our stock—Hellhounds, Almiraj, whatever you can collar. Brutes, kill anything that moves. Most valuable magic stones get a personal recommendation for upgrades to Lord Rudra."
That got them moving. A cheer went up—half-feral, hungry for violence. Within minutes, the twenty-three members split into pairs and vanished into the labyrinth's twisting corridors.
Dorian went alone. He preferred it that way.
-◈ -
For the next three hours, Floor 14 became a slaughterhouse.
Crystal Mantises shattered under hammers and axes. Hellhounds were either beaten into submission or butchered where they stood. Almiraj were skewered and tossed aside like trash. A few lucky bastards even encountered Wyverns, their distant roars followed by triumphant shouts.
Dorian tested his new blade on a nest of Dungeon Worms, carving through segmented flesh and bone with smooth precision. The greatsword sang in his hands. One clean swing decapitated a Worm. Another cleaved through its spine.
Good weight. I like it.
By the time he called the group back, his arms ached in that satisfying way that came after a proper workout.
-◈ -
The party reconvened in the central cavern, flushed with success. Magic stones were piled in the center—like trophies. Potions were passed around. Someone cracked a joke about a Hellhound biting off more than it could chew, and the group devolved into raucous laughter.
Insults flew. Boasts were shouted. One tamer accused another of stealing his kill. A fistfight nearly broke out before someone shoved a bottle of liquor between them.
Dorian leaned against the cavern wall, arms crossed, watching the chaos with a faint smirk.
This is what I like about them.
They never turned on their own. No matter how much they cursed each other's mothers or threatened violence, when it mattered—when blood needed to be spilled—they had each other's backs.
Dorian's smirk widened as someone launched into a filthy drinking song, off-key and obscene.
Yeah. These are my people.
Then, movement at the edge of the firelight caught his attention.
His gaze sharpened.
A figure emerged from the tunnel—disheveled, alone, limping slightly.
Jura.
The laughter continued. No one else had noticed yet. Dorian didn't call attention to him. He wanted to see how this played out.
His eyes swept over the catman, cataloging details with practiced efficiency.
No Hellhounds. Clothes torn. Face bruised—fading, but recent. Posture off. Eyes... haunted.
Jura shuffled forward, hesitant, throwing nervous glances at the rowdy crowd. His ears were flat against his skull—a tell Dorian had learned to read.
The catman's rattled.
Though the lack of Hellhounds wasn't surprising. Jura went through monsters like a rich merchant went through coin. But the look in his eyes? That was new.
Finally, someone noticed. The singing cut off. Conversations died.
"Well, well," Garron rumbled, grinning with too many teeth. "Look who decided to crawl back."
Snickers rippled through the group. Jura flinched.
Dorian stepped forward, raising a hand for silence.
"What's the matter, Jura?" Dorian asked, his tone calm, conversational. "How did your mission go?"
Jura stopped a few paces away, opening his mouth, closing it, then trying again.
"Dorian," Jura finally managed, voice hoarse. "The mission was successful. The target—he's between Floors 12 and 13. Injured. Exhausted. Looks like he tangled with a monster horde and barely made it out."
Dorian raised an eyebrow. "And?"
Jura hesitated. "It... might take him a while to come down here. I think we should move up. Intercept him on Floor 12 instead of waiting."
The group erupted in jeers.
"Who asked you, weasel?"
"Stupid plan!"
"Shut the fuck up, coward."
Dorian held up a hand, and the noise cut off. He tilted his head, considering.
He's not wrong.
Morning had come. Other adventurers would be diving. Rivira residents might be heading up to report to the Guild. If someone spotted a heavily armed party in ambush formation...
And if the target holed up on Floor 12 to recover—or worse, retreated to Freya Familia where they couldn't touch him without starting a war...
If we miss him because we sat here scratching our asses, Lord Rudra will have my head on a pike.
But something didn't sit right.
Dorian's gaze sharpened, focusing on Jura. "Before I make the call—what happened to your monsters?"
The cavern went silent.
Jura had left with six Hellhounds, led by an Alpha that hit like a Level 3. That pack was the only reason Jura could operate solo on the Middle Floors.
And now? Nothing.
Jura's ears flattened further. He shuffled his feet like a child caught stealing.
"Answer him!" someone shouted.
"We were attacked!" Jura blurted out. "On Floor 13. Wild Hellhounds. My pack fought them off, but the Alpha got injured badly."
The words came faster now. "After I confirmed the target, I was heading back. Two Infant Dragons fighting over territory. I tried to slip past, but stray breath attack—it hit the Alpha's wound. The pain drove him mad. He charged. The whole pack followed. They stopped listening to the bell. I couldn't call them back."
The group stared. Pathetic. A Tamer losing control because his lead dog got hurt.
"And you?" Dorian pressed flatly.
"Tail swipe from one of the Dragons," Jura said quickly, pointing to his fading bruises. "Knocked me into the wall. I barely crawled away before the monster horde showed up."
Silence. Skepticism hung thick.
Then Jura reached into his pouch. "But I managed to grab this before I ran."
He held up his hand.
A gem sat in his palm—radiant, multi-colored, pulsing faintly with trapped light like a fragment of frozen rainbow.
Dorian stepped forward and plucked it from Jura's trembling hand, holding it up to the torchlight. The facets scattered prismatic light across the cavern walls.
"High quality," Dorian murmured. "Very high quality."
Murmurs rippled through the group. The gem added weight to the story. Jura had been close enough to a high-level fight—or hoard—to scavenge something this rare.
"The rest of my pack got slaughtered," Jura finished quietly. "By the Dragons. By the horde. I barely made it out."
Dorian nodded slowly, pocketing the gem. "Standard procedure. I'll hold onto this."
He looked around the circle of faces. The men were restless, eager. They had a target location—Floor 12-13. Injured. Exhausted.
But Dorian's instincts were nagging at him.
Five and a half hours. No pack. And he still made better time than expected.
Jura should have been slower without his Hellhounds. Much slower. They cleared paths, handled threats, let him move at speed through the Middle Floors. Without them, he should have been crawling back, not reporting in ahead of schedule.
Either Jura got incredibly lucky with spawn patterns, or something else was going on.
And the target—a solo adventurer clearing Floor 1 to Floor 12-13 in less than a day? That wasn't normal progression. That was someone either running for their life or cutting through the Dungeon like it was made of paper.
Dorian's gaze sharpened, fixing on Jura again. "Before I make any decisions, I need details."
Jura looked up warily.
"The target's strength," Dorian said flatly. "What are we dealing with?"
Jura swallowed, his ears twitching nervously. "Magic-wise... Level 3, maybe higher. His incantations are short, but the output's potent. I saw him take down a Silverback with two spells."
Murmurs rippled through the group. Silverbacks are strong. Not easy kills.
"Physical stats looked typical Level 2," Jura continued quickly. "Fast, but not superhuman. He was using a rapier, light armor. Favors mobility over defense."
"Any other tricks?" Dorian pressed. "Magic items? Support spells? Enchantments?"
Jura hesitated, then shook his head. "Nothing I could see. Just the magic and the blade. He fought smart, though. Stayed mobile, used terrain, didn't waste energy."
Dorian processed that, his mind running tactical calculations. But something still didn't add up.
A Level 2 from Freya Familia clearing twelve floors solo in one night? With Level 3 magic output?
That wasn't a level 2 behavior. That was someone with serious combat experience. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
"Wait," Dorian said, raising a hand to forestall the group's growing excitement. His eyes narrowed on Jura. "You said he came in alone. No party. But did you see anyone else? Any support watching from a distance? Senior members shadowing him?"
Jura blinked, caught off-guard by the question. "I... I don't think so?"
"You don't think so?" Dorian's tone sharpened. "Did you check, or were you too busy running?"
Jura's ears flattened defensively. "I was careful! I stayed hidden, kept my distance, didn't let him spot me—"
"That's not what I asked," Dorian interrupted coldly. "Did. You. See. Anyone. Else."
Jura's mouth worked silently for a moment. He strained, his brow furrowing as he tried to remember. His eyes went distant, searching through fragmented memories of the encounter.
Floor 12. The blue-haired mage. Fighting monsters. Moving with confidence. Casting spells with surgical precision.
But anyone else?
"I... no," Jura said finally, his voice uncertain. "I only remember the target. No one else."
Dorian's frown deepened. "Only remember? What does that mean?"
"I mean—" Jura fumbled for words. "I was focused on him. Tracking him. I wasn't looking for... I don't know if there was anyone else or not. I just... I only saw him."
The cavern had gone quiet. The other members were watching now, sensing Dorian's growing suspicion.
Dorian leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something colder. "Jura. You're absolutely certain you saw the right guy? Blue hair, Freya Familia emblem, Level 2 adventurer? You're not sending us after some first-class adventurer by mistake, right?"
It was said half-jokingly, but the threat underneath was clear.
Jura's eyes went wide. "No! No, I'm sure! I saw the emblem—it was definitely Freya Familia! And he looked young, maybe my age or younger! Blue hair, rapier, light armor, everything matched the description we got from the organization!"
He was spluttering now, desperate to prove he wasn't lying. "I swear, Dorian, I didn't screw this up! It was him! The intel was good! I saw him with my own eyes!"
Dorian watched him for a long moment, reading his body language. The panic in Jura's eyes was real. The desperation to be believed was real.
He's not lying, Dorian concluded. At least, he doesn't think he is.
Which meant either Jura had actually found the right target... or he'd been tricked into believing he had.
Dorian exhaled slowly, then reached out and placed a hand on Jura's shoulder. The catman flinched, but Dorian's grip was firm, not threatening.
"Relax," Dorian said, his tone softening. "I believe you. You got the right guy."
Jura sagged with relief, his ears slowly lifting from their flattened position.
"It's just..." Dorian trailed off, shaking his head. His gaze grew distant for a moment, thoughts churning. Only five and a half hours. No pack. Level 3 magic on a Level 2. Something doesn't fit.
But what could he do? They had a mission. They had a target. And dwelling on half-formed suspicions wasn't going to help.
Dorian refocused, giving Jura's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You did good, Jura. Really. Finding the target, confirming his position, making it back in one piece after losing your pack—that's solid work."
Jura's expression shifted from relief to cautious hope.
"So here's what's going to happen," Dorian continued, releasing his shoulder and stepping back. "You've done your job. You brought back proof." He patted the pocket with the gem. "Now take a few hounds from the reserve stock and head back to HQ. Report the situation. Your mission's done."
Jura's ears perked up slightly, though he still looked uncertain.
"I'll report your outstanding performance to the higher-ups when we are done," Dorian added, his tone warming just enough to sound sincere. "And I'll personally recommend you for that equipment upgrade you've been begging for. Better collars. Better bells. Maybe even a cursed item if you're lucky."
He straightened, meeting Jura's gaze. "You'll get your toys, Jura. Just go. Let us handle the dirty work."
Jura blinked, processing. The anger and fear drained away, replaced by calculation.
The glory of the kill... for the gear I need?
It was a fair trade. And honestly? After everything that had happened—after that blue-haired mage, after the Dragons, after barely surviving Floor 12—Jura wanted out. He wanted to be as far away from the Middle Floors as possible.
He nodded eagerly. "Thank you, Dorian."
"Move out," Dorian commanded.
Jura hurried over to the other tamer, who grudgingly handed over the leashes of seven spare Hellhounds. Jura took them with renewed confidence, pulling out his bell and ringing it once—a sharp, clear note that made the hounds' heads snap toward him in unison.
The collars pulsed with magic. The connection solidified.
Mine, Jura thought with satisfaction.
He cast one last glance at the group—already preparing to move out—then turned and headed toward the exit of Floor 14, deeper into the labyrinth, toward the hidden route that led to Knossos.
Dorian watched him go, his expression unreadable.
Something's not right. But we have the numbers. Twenty-four to one. Even if it's a trap, we can handle it.
He turned back to his squad, pushing the unease aside. Time to focus.
"Listen up!" he barked, and the remaining chatter died immediately. All eyes turned to him.
"Target's a mage," Dorian said, his voice carrying across the cavern. "Level 3 magic output, Level 2 physicals. Short cast times, high potency spells. He's fast, mobile, fights smart. Uses terrain and doesn't waste energy."
He paused, letting that sink in. A few members nodded, their expressions sharpening.
"Glass cannon," Dorian continued, his tone hardening. "Dangerous at range, vulnerable up close. Exhausted from clearing twelve floors solo. That's our advantage."
He drew his cursed sword gleaming dully in the torchlight. He hadn't activated its curse yet—saving it for the real fight.
"We hit him hard," Dorian said, raising the blade. "We hit him fast. And we don't give him time to cast. Rush him, close the distance, and end it before he can turn that magic on us."
He swept his gaze across the group, making eye contact with each member.
"But don't get cocky," he added, his voice dropping to something colder. "If he's survived this long solo in the Upper Floors, he's good. Underestimate him, and you'll die. Stay sharp. Watch each other's backs. And follow my orders."
Nods all around. Grins on some faces. The group was confident, but not stupid.
Good, Dorian thought. Confidence wins fights. Overconfidence gets you killed.
He raised his sword high, letting the firelight catch on its edge.
"Alright, everyone!" Dorian shouted, his voice booming. "We have a target! We have a location! Let's move to the upper floors and finish this!"
A roar of approval erupted. Weapons clattered against shields. Boots stomped the stone in rhythm, building momentum. The bloodlust that had been simmering all night finally ignited.
Dorian's grip tightened on Bloodprice, feeling the curse pulse faintly through the blade. Hungry. Waiting.
Floor 12-13. Injured. Exhausted. Alone.
Something's not right. But we'll know soon enough.
The ambush party mobilized with terrifying efficiency, weapons drawn, bloodlust rising, moving through the tunnels like wolves scenting blood.
Heading straight for the entrance of Floor 14.
-◈ -
Max
Coming out of his thoughts, Max decided to take some much-needed rest.
He opened his camping supplies and started setting up—tent, bedroll, rations. As his hands moved through the familiar motions, his mind turned to the imminent ambush and the intel he'd extracted from Jura's mind.
Roughly an hour and a half. Maybe two hours at most.
That's how long it would take Jura to cross Floor 13 and reach his party on Floor 14. Which meant Max had time. Time to recover properly. Time to think.
And gods knew he needed to think.
His original plan had been simple enough: rest briefly, then head down to Floor 13 for a warm-up. Get used to the atmosphere, test himself in the middle floors, maybe hunt a few monsters to shake off the rust from the Floor 12 gauntlet.
But now, sitting here with time to actually think instead of just react, that plan felt... off.
Inefficient, Max realized, frowning as he tied off the tent's support line. Maybe even stupid.
The problem was simple: he didn't know how many Evilus bastards would be left standing after his initial ambush. Twenty-four was the starting number, sure, but how many would survive his trap?
If he got lucky—if the trap worked better than expected—he might only face a handful of survivors. Easy pickings.
But if he got unlucky? If they were better trained than he expected, if they had countermeasures, if Dorian rallied them faster than anticipated...
Then Max would be facing a dozen or more hardened killers while running on fumes because he'd wasted mana and stamina playing around on Floor 13.
That's a good way to get killed, Max thought grimly. I need to be at peak condition when the real fight starts. Not 70%. Not 85%. One hundred percent.
He sat back, exhaling slowly as the realization settled.
So... no warm-up. Just rest. Recover completely. Then hit them when I'm ready.
It wasn't as exciting as diving into Floor 13 for combat practice. But it was smarter. And in a situation where he was outnumbered twenty-four to one, smart beat exciting every single time.
Decision made, Max turned his attention to his other options. Since he had time, he might as well make sure he was taking the best course of action overall.
The first option was obvious: call for reinforcements.
He could teleport to Folkvangr right now, talk to Freya, and get Ottar or one of the other executives down here to wipe the party clean. Quick. Efficient. Safe.
But that raised uncomfortable questions.
How would I explain extracting intel from Jura?
Mind magic wasn't illegal in Orario, but it wasn't exactly common either. Freya would understand—she'd probably applaud his ruthlessness—but the others? Hedin would demand details. Methodology. Proof.
And if Max revealed he'd used Devil-origin mind control? That he'd planted false memories and sent Jura back as an unwitting puppet?
That was the kind of capability that made people nervous.
Max had seen what happened when mind magic became public knowledge. Freya herself had used Charm to rewrite Orario's memories during the events that led to her Familia's destruction—an act of desperation that had worked temporarily, but at a catastrophic cost. The moment Bell rejected her and the truth came out, the backlash had been immediate and brutal. Gods questioned her. Familias turned on her. Everything she'd built was torn apart.
And Freya was a goddess. A being of immense power and divine authority.
Max was just an adventurer. A rookie Level 1 adventurer who'd been in Orario for less than two weeks.
If word got out that he could read minds, plant suggestions, puppet people from the shadows without leaving a trace?
That was the kind of power that got you flagged as a threat. Not just by other Familias—by your own people. Every interaction, every negotiation, every casual conversation would be poisoned by suspicion. People would wonder if their thoughts were private. If their decisions were truly their own. If the friendly mage smiling at them was reading their deepest secrets while they spoke.
Max wasn't ready to expose that. Not yet. Not when he'd only just scratched the surface of what Devil magic could do.
Better to handle this quietly. Prove the intel was good by acting on it, then report results rather than methods. Keep the 'how' buried, and let the 'what' speak for itself.
Besides, if the trap worked as planned, he could cut their numbers drastically before they even realized they were under attack. Twenty-four enemies sounded intimidating on paper, but most were Level 2s. Only their leader—Dorian—was Level 3, and even he would be vulnerable to a well-placed ambush.
And Max had Kairu.
The slime could move silently, strike from angles enemies would never expect, disable key targets while Max handled the heavy hitters. In close quarters, with proper preparation, Kairu was a near-perfect assassin—silent, flexible, capable of suffocating enemies before they could scream for help.
If I play this smart, I can control the battlefield. Whittle them down. Turn their numerical advantage into a liability by forcing them into kill zones.
It was risky. But it was manageable risk. Calculated risk even.
So reinforcements were out. He'd handle this himself.
The second option was setting traps here on the Floor 12-13 threshold.
But that had its own problems. The ambush party would be cautious as they approached the upper floors—morning had come, which meant other adventurers would be diving now. Too many witnesses. Too much chance of discovery or collateral damage. If he triggered a massive explosion here and some rookie party stumbled into the aftermath...
Yeah, no. That's how you accidentally start a Guild investigation.
Which left the third option. The one he'd been leaning toward from the start.
Go to them. Turn Floor 14 into a killing field.
All he had to do was wait for Jura to reach Floor 14, then use the summoning circle to teleport directly into position. Set up traps while they were still unaware. Hit them where they felt safe.
Risky? Absolutely.
But if he pulled it off...
A slow grin spread across Max's face.
It would be worth it.
He finished setting up the tent and crawled inside, pulling out his bedroll. As he settled in, his gaze drifted to Kairu, who was perched on his shoulder, jiggling contentedly after digesting the goblin and kobold stones.
Looking at the slime now, it suddenly hit Max just how blessed he was to have a partner like him.
"Hey, buddy," Max called softly.
Kairu's pulsed, turning toward him.
"You were a lifesaver back there," Max continued, his voice warm. "I don't know how successful I would've been against those Armadillos on my own. I'd certainly have been in a pinch. But thanks to you, I didn't need to worry about them and could focus on the apes and the dragons."
He reached forward and scooped the slime into his arms, hugging him gently. "Thank you for that, little guy."
Kairu vibrated in surprise—Ki?—but he understood the sentiment. His core glowed a soft, happy blue, jiggling in excited pulses. They shared the moment in companionable silence.
After a beat, Max pulled back, looking at the slime with genuine pride. "You know what? I don't know how exhausted you are, but go ahead and absorb the Armadillo stones. All of them."
KI!?
Kairu bounced in shock. He was fine, really. He'd already digested plenty of stones to recover his magic and stamina. Not to mention the power boost he'd gotten fighting alongside his master. He didn't need the extra Armadillo stones.
But he couldn't refuse his master's gift.
Carefully, Kairu retrieved the seventeen magic stones from his internal storage and absorbed them one by one.
The rush hit immediately.
Magic flooded his system, thick and intoxicating. His core flared bright silver-blue, pulsing with power. He launched off Max's shoulder, unable to contain the surge of energy, and started bouncing around the corridor at high speeds—faster than before, more controlled.
His pseudopods extended instinctively, whipping out to grip the walls and ceiling as he swung through the air like a miniature acrobat.
Max watched in delight as Kairu became a blur of motion, practicing his new strength with unbridled joy.
That's my boy, Max thought with a grin.
Several minutes passed before Kairu finally settled down, landing on Max's shoulder with a satisfied Ki-ki! His core still pulsed with excess energy—not exhaustion, but the opposite. He was practically vibrating with magical adrenaline.
Max chuckled. "Guess you won't be sleeping anytime soon, huh?"
Ki! Kairu bounced enthusiastically.
"Good," Max said. "Because I need you on watch while I rest."
He pulled out his rapier, inspecting the blade under the dim crystal light. Chips and dents marred the edge—especially the section that had struck the Infant Dragon's underbelly during the Floor 12 fight. It was still functional, but barely. One more solid hit and the blade might shatter entirely.
"Think you can fix this?" Max asked, holding it out.
Kairu dropped from his shoulder, landing with a soft plop beside him. The slime jiggled once—Ki!—and absorbed the rapier into his body without hesitation.
Max watched as the blade disappeared into Kairu's translucent mass, the metal breaking down into base components almost immediately. The slime's core flared brighter, processing the steel, analyzing its structure, understanding its flaws.
This is going to take a while, Max realized. Kairu wasn't just patching the blade—he was rebuilding it from scratch, using the dissolved Armadillo carapaces and his own magical reinforcement to strengthen the metal beyond its original specs.
"Take your time," Max said. "I'm going to test something, then get some sleep. Just wake me when it's ready, or I'll come when the summoning circle activates."
Ki-ki! Kairu pulsed in acknowledgment, his body already hard at work.
Max stood, closing his eyes and letting Auto-Evade flicker to life. The sphere of awareness expanded outward from his body, painting the world in sharp tactical relief.
He pushed it carefully, feeling for the limit.
Ten feet had been his previous comfortable range during the Floor 7-12 dive. But after hours of sustained use on Floor 12, constantly adjusting the radius, fighting while maintaining it...
Fifteen feet.
Clean. Stable. No strain.
Max opened his eyes, grinning despite himself. Progress.
His mana capacity had increased from the constant expenditure, and his control had sharpened from being forced to adapt on the fly. It wasn't a massive leap—just five more feet—but in combat, that extra distance could mean the difference between a clean dodge and taking a blade to the ribs.
He let Auto-Evade collapse, conserving energy, and stretched. His mana sat at about 95% now—recovered nicely during the brief rest—but his body still carried the echo of exhaustion from the Floor 12 gauntlet. Not debilitating, but enough that he'd be fighting at maybe 85-90% efficiency if he dove into combat right now.
Not good enough. Not for what's coming.
He glanced at the perimeter wards he'd set up earlier—magic circles humming at the edge of his awareness, keyed to alert him of any approaching threats. Nothing had triggered them. The threshold between Floors 12 and 13 was quiet.
Safe enough to rest properly.
"Alright," Max said, crawling into his tent and pulling the bedroll around him. "I'm going to sleep until the summoning circle activates. No point rushing into Floor 13 just to waste energy before the real fight."
He looked at Kairu, who had finished processing the rapier and was now bouncing near the tent entrance, core glowing with excess magical energy. "You keep watch. Between the perimeter wards and you, nothing should be able to sneak up on us. Wake me the instant anything happens."
Ki-ki! Kairu saluted with a pseudopod, his core glowing a determined blue-white.
Max smiled. "I'm counting on you, buddy."
He lay back, letting his exhaustion take over. His breathing slowed. His muscles relaxed.
It had been almost four hours since he'd started the Floor 7 dive. Four hours of constant combat, constant mana expenditure, constant tactical decisions. His body needed this.
Within minutes, he was asleep.
-◈ -
Time passed in quiet stillness.
An hour. Then an hour and a half.
Kairu continued his patrol, never wavering, never tiring. He was alert, bouncing between the tent entrance and the perimeter wards in a steady rhythm.
Then—
Ping.
Max's eyes snapped open.
Not a sound. Not a physical sensation. Something deeper—a magical tug at the edge of his awareness, like a string pulled taut across vast distance.
The summoning circle. The one attached to Jura.
He's there.
Max jerked upright, adrenaline flooding his system. The sudden movement startled Kairu, who'd been mid-bounce near the tent entrance. The slime spun around, pseudopods flaring defensively before recognizing his master was awake.
Ki? Kairu asked, confused but alert.
"It's time," Max said, his voice sharp with focus.
He moved with practiced efficiency, not wasting a single motion. The bedroll went into his storage bag. The tent collapsed in seconds, folded and tucked away. Camping supplies, rations, spare equipment—everything packed and stored in under a minute.
Kairu watched, pulsing with anticipation. His master's urgency was infectious.
Max grabbed a water canteen, uncorked it, and channeled a thread of water magic through it. The liquid lifted from the container in a floating sphere, cool and clean. He pressed it against his face, washing away the last vestiges of sleep, then let it splash across the back of his neck.
The cold shock cleared his mind completely.
He dismissed the water with a flick of his wrist, letting it evaporate into harmless mist, and checked his gear one final time.
Rapier—repaired, gleaming with that strange bluish-silver sheen, sharper and more balanced than before. Strapped to his belt.
Armor—adjusted, secure, no loose straps.
Perimeter wards—dismissed with a thought, their mana dissolving back into the ambient flow of the Dungeon.
Max closed his eyes, reaching out with his awareness toward the summoning circle.
There.
The tug was stronger now, insistent. Jura reached Floor 14. Which meant the ambush party was gathering. Which meant Max's window was open.
He opened his eyes, checking his internal state one last time.
Mana: 100%. Stamina: 100%. Mind: Clear.
Perfect.
His grin widened, sharp and cold.
Time to set the trap.
-◈ -
Floor 14
The world twisted.
Reality folded in on itself, then snapped back into place with a disorienting lurch. Max materialized in a crouch, rapier already drawn, Auto-Evade flaring to life at 15 feet.
The atmosphere hit him immediately—darker and heavier than Floor 12, oppressive in a way that felt almost deliberate. The Dungeon was maintaining its aesthetics perfectly: each floor deeper, each layer more hostile.
Max's Magic Sense expanded outward, painting the corridor in sharp tactical relief.
There.
Jura.
The catman was sprinting at full speed deeper into Floor 14, arms pumping, ears flat against his skull. Monsters closed in from all sides—Hellhounds, Almiraj, a lurking Dungeon Worm coiling near the tunnel entrance—but the PoD Barrier Max had planted around him shimmered like a second skin, deflecting claws and fangs with ease.
The contract circle glowed faintly beneath Jura's feet as he ran, pulsing in rhythm with the barrier's energy.
Max watched for a moment, analyzing the barrier's performance. It absorbed a Hellhound's fire breath without flickering. Turned aside an Almiraj's horn-spear with barely a ripple. Even when a Hard Armored tried to ram Jura from the side, the barrier held firm, redirecting the impact into a glancing blow that sent the creature tumbling.
Half an hour, maybe, Max calculated. He'd charged the barrier with 10% of his mana before planting it—a significant investment, but seeing it hold strong even on the Middle Floors filled him with quiet satisfaction.
Good. The theory works. Devil magic scales with intent, not just raw power.
That gave him roughly seventy minutes—maybe an hour and half if Jura took a detour or the ambush party spent extra time preparing. Enough to set up a proper killing field. Enough to turn their ambush into his.
Max's grin turned vicious as Jura disappeared around a corner, still running, still blissfully unaware.
Let's get to work.
-◈ -
For the next hour, Max turned the entrance corridor into a killing field.
Contract circles were planted in overlapping patterns. False circles layered over real ones to create hesitation, to make every step a gamble. Throwing knives coated with elemental magic, positioned on ledges for quick access.
He worked methodically, testing angles, calculating blast radii, optimizing kill zones. Every trap was placed with surgical precision, every sight line measured, every escape route accounted for.
Then came the perimeter wards.
Max sketched larger contract circles at strategic points around the staging area—detection arrays keyed to his Magic Sense, barrier triggers designed to funnel enemies into choke points. He actively maintained them, channeling a thin thread of mana through each one to keep them stable and alive.
And the Dungeon... didn't interfere.
Max paused, frowning as he felt the stone beneath his feet pulse faintly. The Dungeon was aware of his magic circles. It had to be. He could feel its attention like a weight pressing against his consciousness, alien and vast.
But because he was actively maintaining the circles—feeding them power, keeping them alive—the Dungeon treated them as extensions of him rather than foreign objects to be dispelled.
Just like when high-level mages cast their spells, Max realized. Riveria's long chants, Lefiya's bombardment magic—their spell circles stayed active under their feet even deep in the Dungeon. Not because the labyrinth allowed it, but because the caster maintained the connection. The magic was tethered to their will, their mana, their intent.
Interesting, Max thought, filing that observation away. The Dungeon doesn't erase active magic. Only dormant constructs. That's... exploitable.
Another piece of the puzzle. Another tool in the arsenal.
He finished the last ward and stepped back, surveying his work. The entrance corridor was now a nightmare waiting to happen—layered traps, concealed circles, sight lines that converged on a single kill zone where he'd be waiting.
Perfect.
Max positioned himself on a ledge overlooking the entrance, testing angles one final time. From here, he had clear vision of the trap corridor, multiple throwing knife caches within arm's reach, and an easy escape route if things went sideways.
Kairu settled on his shoulder, pseudopods twitching with anticipation.
"Remember the plan," Max murmured. "Mines thin the herd. Chaos in the smoke. Then we pick off the survivors."
Ki-ki, Kairu pulsed.
Max closed his eyes, extending his Magic Sense as far as it would go. Thirty meters. Forty. Fifty.
He waited, counting the minutes in his head.
Forty-five minutes since Jura reached Floor 14.
And there—distant but approaching—he felt them.
Twenty-four signatures. Moving fast. Cutting through Floor 14 like a scythe through wheat, slaughtering everything in their path.
The ambush party.
Max opened his eyes, his expression cold and focused. His hand rested on the pommel of his rapier, fingers drumming once against the blade.
His grin widened.
Come on, then. Let's see how you like being the prey.
--> Devil in a Dungeon <--
AN:
First of all, apologies for late chapter. I was unwell and was resting the whole day and couldn't publish.
Coming to the chapter, another setup chapter and we get to see what the ambush party was up to in the meanwhile. Also we seem to have a competent leader, do you think he would lead his party straight to the trap?
Please go through the ending of last chapter, it will make clear why Max was suddenly going berserk on the Ambush party.
In the next chap, we will get to see what happens when you mess with a Devil in the Dungeon in its gory detail.
I'm genuinely curious to know what you think about the story so far as I feel it is starting to flatline due to the lack of comments. The few who comment, I am very grateful to you as it gives me something to look forward to after I publish. So please share your thoughts/opinions/suggestions. I go through all of them.
If you'd like to read 4 chapters ahead, support my work, or commission a story idea, visit p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m/b3smash.
Please note that the chapters are early access only, they will be eventually released here as well.
or
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Next update will be on Friday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.