Dorian
The ambush party moved through Floor 14 like wildfire, cutting down everything in their path.
Crystal Mantises shattered under warhammers. Wild Hellhounds were butchered mid-charge. Even a juvenile Dungeon Worm had been torn apart by coordinated strikes. The group was in high spirits—bloodlust and adrenaline made them loud, but effective.
Dorian stayed at the rear, his greatsword resting casually on his shoulder, eyes scanning constantly for threats. The formation was textbook security protocol: tamers in the center, surrounded by a protective shell of collared monsters moving in coordinated layers.
At the vanguard, six Ligerfangs prowled—sleek, aggressive Floor 15 predators with razor claws and territorial instincts. Behind them, a dozen Hellhounds paced restlessly, flames dripping from their jaws, eyes glowing ember-red. Four Minotaurs anchored the corners—massive, axe-wielding brutes whose sheer bulk created mobile barricades. And at the front and rear flanks, two enormous Bugbears lumbered forward, each standing eight feet tall with claws like shortswords.
The tamers held advanced bells—sleek, engraved instruments that pulsed faintly with magic. Every monster wore a reinforced collar that glowed in sync with the bells, establishing mental links far more sophisticated than Jura's crude equipment.
They were a well-oiled killing machine, and they knew it.
As they approached the entrance corridor leading from Floor 14 to Floor 13, the mood shifted. More relaxed. Confident.
Everyone knew the Dungeon didn't spawn monsters in transition corridors between floors. Safe zones. Breathing room before the next plunge.
Garron, the hulking beastman second-in-command, walked near the front with his axe slung over one shoulder, grinning. "Finally. Let's bag this blue-haired bastard and—"
BOOOOOOM.
The lead Ligerfang exploded.
Not metaphorically. The beast's front legs vanished below the knees in a black-red pulse of erasure. The creature collapsed forward, shrieking in agony, its claws scraping uselessly at the stone as blood poured from the impossible stumps.
The formation froze.
"What the—?" its tamer muttered, stepping forward, squinting at his monster. "I don't see anything! What's wrong with you?!"
The Ligerfang writhed, screaming. Its eyes rolled white with pain. But the corridor ahead looked clear—no visible trap, no enemy, no threat.
The tamer moved closer, bell raised, trying to soothe the panicking beast. "Calm down, you stupid—"
THUNK.
A six-foot earth spike erupted from the floor beneath him, punching through his groin and exploding out through his chest. He hung there, suspended on the stone spear, mouth gaping, blood pouring down the shaft.
His bell clattered to the ground.
"AMBUSH!" someone screamed.
Panic detonated.
Everyone surged backward—away from the entrance, away from the death—but the moment they turned, crimson magic circles flared to life across the corridor's exit behind them.
WHAM.
Invisible barriers slammed into place, sealing them in. A Minotaur bellowed and charged the barrier, raising its axe to smash through—
The arm that touched the crimson circle vanished.
The Minotaur stared at the stump where its right arm had been, then roared in agony. A Bugbear swiped at the barrier with its massive paw. The paw disintegrated on contact, erased to the wrist.
"IT'S A TRAP!" Dorian roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "STOP MOVING! EVERYONE FREEZE!"
But it was too late.
The corridor erupted.
Black-red pulses detonated in rapid succession as more creatures stepped on concealed PoD Mines. Two Hellhounds vanished from the torso down, their upper halves collapsing in sprays of ash and blood. A Ligerfang triggered another mine, losing its entire hindquarters in a flash of erasure.
Lightning arced through the air in blinding azure streaks as electrical traps discharged, seizing muscles and locking joints. Three Hellhounds collapsed mid-stride, foam bubbling from their jaws as electricity coursed through their bodies. A Ligerfang fell paralyzed, twitching violently.
Stone spikes erupted like jagged teeth—six feet tall and brutally precise. One skewered a Minotaur through the gut, lifting the creature off the ground with a wet crunch. Another punched through a Hellhound's skull, killing it instantly. A third spike caught an adventurer in the thigh, pinning him to the floor as he screamed.
The smell of burned flesh and ozone choked the corridor. Blood pooled across the stone. Screams filled the air.
Dorian's mind raced, ice-cold fury sharpening his thoughts to razor edges.
This is too perfect. Too clean.
They'd walked into this ambush the moment they entered the corridor—not by chance, not by bad luck, but by design. Someone had known they were coming. Someone had prepared this killing field specifically for them.
Jura.
Dorian's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. That little catman bastard had either been working with the enemy from the start, or their target had fooled him so thoroughly that Jura had led them straight into a trap without even realizing it.
Either way, Jura was dead the moment Dorian got his hands on him.
But that was a problem for later. Right now, the immediate question burned in his mind: How many enemies are we facing? And what level?
If the blue-haired mage had a First-Class adventurer backing him up—Level 4 or higher—they were screwed from every angle. No amount of numbers or tactics would save them. They'd be slaughtered like cattle.
But if he had a handful of Second-Class adventurers? Level 2s, maybe Level 3 support?
Then we have a chance.
Bloodprice pulsed faintly in his grip, the cursed blade sensing his intent. Not yet. He couldn't activate the curse yet. Not until he knew what he was facing.
"TAMERS!" Dorian bellowed, his voice cutting through the panic. "Test the perimeter! Use the monsters! I want every inch of this corridor mapped—north, south, east, west! Find me a way OUT!"
The tamers, shaken but trained, raised their bells and began issuing commands.
"Hellhounds—north wall! Check for traps!"
"Ligerfangs—south side! Slow advance!"
"Minotaurs—test the barriers! Don't touch them directly—use your axes!"
"Bugbear—east corridor! Move carefully!"
The monsters surged forward in controlled waves, testing the perimeter systematically.
Six Hellhounds charged toward the north wall, probing for weaknesses in the barrier. The first stepped on a PoD Mine and lost its legs, collapsing with a howl before a second detonation finished it. The second triggered a lightning mine, paralyzed instantly, then an earth spike erupted through its back. The third and fourth hit PoD Mines simultaneously, their torsos erased, dead before they hit the ground. The fifth was caught in a restriction circle where stone barriers crushed it from three sides. The sixth triggered a cluster of three earth mines and was impaled by overlapping spikes, pinned like an insect specimen.
"North wall is a death trap!" one tamer shouted. "No way through!"
Three Ligerfangs prowled toward the south side, testing the periphery cautiously. The first triggered a PoD Mine cluster and its front half simply ceased to exist. The second hit a lightning mine, paralyzed, then an earth spike followed and punched through its neck. The third survived the initial traps but was caught in a restriction circle that funneled it into another PoD Mine cluster where it was obliterated.
"South side's the same! Completely sealed!"
Two Minotaurs advanced toward the eastern barrier with axes raised, testing the crimson magic circles from a distance. The first stepped on an earth mine and a spike erupted through its foot, pinning it in place. It bellowed and tried to pull free just as a PoD Mine detonated beneath it, erasing its lower body. It died screaming. The second triggered a lightning mine mid-charge, paralyzed, then restriction circles slammed barriers into it from three sides, crushing ribs before an earth spike finished it.
"East is blocked! Can't break through!"
One Bugbear advanced cautiously toward the western exit, testing the ground with its massive paw. It stepped on a PoD Mine and the limb was erased to the shoulder. The beast roared in agony, stumbled, and triggered a secondary earth mine. A spike punched through its gut and it collapsed, bleeding out.
The second Bugbear, seeing its companion fall, refused to advance further and stood its ground, roaring defiance.
"West is trapped too! We're completely boxed in!"
The trap corridor fell silent except for moans and crackling fires.
Dorian stood in the center of the carnage, jaw clenched, greatsword gripped white-knuckle tight. The monsters had done their job—mapped the killing field, triggered the worst of the traps. But the cost had been brutal.
Eighteen fighters left. Six wounded Hellhounds with burns and electrical damage. Three injured Ligerfangs with cuts and burns. Two battered Minotaurs, one missing an arm. One Bugbear, intact but wary.
His remaining forces were scattered across five or six clear spots in the corridor where no traps had triggered—small islands of safety in a sea of death.
Dorian opened his mouth to give the next order. "Everyone! Pull out your—"
Then suddenly darkness.
Thick, choking, suffocating black mist poured into the corridor from every direction—walls, ceiling, floor. Visibility dropped to nothing. The world became a void.
Dorian's words died in his throat.
Shit.
He knew what this was. Magic. Illusion or environmental manipulation—it didn't matter which. What mattered was that his men were now blind, scattered, and vulnerable.
Can't risk friendly fire. If I give orders and someone swings blind, we'll kill each other.
He forced himself to stay silent, gripping Bloodprice tightly, and focused.
Observe. Find the pattern. Wait for the opening.
The mist was absolute. Sound became muffled, distorted. Dorian's heartbeat thundered in his ears. But beneath the oppressive silence, he felt something.
Movement.
Not sound—intent. A predator moving through the darkness with purpose. Dorian's instincts, honed through years of combat, screamed at him.
Duck. NOW.
He didn't question it. He dropped into a crouch—
—and felt the displacement of air above his head.
His shoulder bumped into Bloodprice's blade. For a split second, panic flared. Did I trigger the curse?!
But then he remembered. He'd used his own blood as the binding medium when he'd accepted the cursed sword from Lord Rudra. The blade wouldn't harm him unless he willed it.
Dorian looked up.
Standing directly in front of him, rapier extended where Dorian's head had been a heartbeat ago, was a figure with blue hair and glowing amethyst eyes.
Their target.
Their eyes met.
The black mist was gone. Dispelled. Dorian's instinctive dodge had caused Max's blade to strike Bloodprice instead of flesh—and that contact, that moment of resistance, had broken the illusion's hold on Dorian's mind.
Pain breaks illusions.
Dorian's lips curled into a cold smile.
Now he knew what needed to be done.
"EVERYONE!" Dorian roared, his voice cutting through the mist like a war horn. "CUT YOURSELVES! SHALLOW CUTS! THE MIST IS FAKE! PAIN WILL BREAK IT!"
Max's eyes widened slightly. Shit.
Dorian didn't give him time to react. The Level 3 swordsman surged forward, Bloodprice sweeping in a devastating horizontal arc aimed at Max's ribs.
Max twisted, Auto-Evade screaming warnings, and barely avoided the strike. The cursed blade passed inches from his chest, trailing dark energy that made his skin crawl.
He's fast. Level 3 fast.
Dorian pressed the attack, greatsword moving with terrifying speed despite its size. Overhead slash. Horizontal sweep. Upward cut. Each strike was calculated, precise, designed to corner Max and force him into a corner.
Max backpedaled, rapier deflecting where he could, dodging where he couldn't. His PoD-coated blade met Bloodprice in a shower of sparks. The impact sent vibrations up his arm.
He's stronger than me. Can't win a straight contest of strength.
Behind them, Dorian's remaining fighters were cutting themselves—shallow slices on arms, cheeks, hands. One by one, the illusion shattered for them. The black mist remained, but it no longer fooled their senses.
Max cursed under his breath.
Advantage gone. Time to adapt.
He raised his free hand, channeling mana.
Dorian's eyes narrowed.
"Not this time."
-◈ -
Max
Minutes earlier, Max watched from his ledge perch, heart pounding despite his outward calm.
Shit. They're good.
He'd expected panic. Rout. Maybe half the party dead in the initial blast. Instead, they'd adapted in seconds, sacrificing monsters systematically to clear the field, preserving human lives at the cost of their collared beasts.
These aren't Jura-level amateurs. These are professionals.
Still, the numbers favored him now. Eighteen fighters, a few wounded monsters, and most importantly, the tamers were rattled. He could see it in their body language. Hands trembling on their bells. Eyes darting. The mental link between tamer and beast required focus, confidence. Fear disrupted that.
Time to capitalize.
"Kairu," Max hissed. "Monsters first. Kill anything that is alive. Go."
The slime launched off his shoulder like a living missile, pseudopods extending into bladed tendrils as he vanished into the shadows.
Max leaped from the ledge, landing in a combat crouch thirty feet from the regrouping party. He raised his palm.
"Soren Sokatsui!"
A chantless azure blast erupted—pure destructive force compressed into a spear of light. It streaked toward the tamers clustered in the center.
ROAR.
The remaining Bugbear lunged into the blast's path, absorbing the full impact. Fur ignited. Flesh vaporized from its chest in a spray of superheated steam. The beast collapsed, dead before it hit the ground.
But the tamers behind it survived, shaken but intact.
Damn it.
Max's mind raced. Tamers are the linchpin. Control the monsters, control the battle. I need to break that link. Fast.
He raised both hands, channeling mana, and reached deep into his memory—the fragments of knowledge he'd glimpsed while searching his mind for Mind Control and Reading techniques. He'd seen the theory there, buried with other Mind Arts. Illusions could impose will onto reality's surface, not altering truth but layering false perception over it. The stronger the imagination, the more convincing the illusion.
Max closed his eyes for a heartbeat, imagining.
Floor 12. The mist. Thick, choking, suffocating. He remembered the terror of fighting blind, the way sound became distorted, the way every shadow felt like death. He imagined that mist here. Pouring from the walls, the ceiling, the floor itself—thick and black and absolute.
"Illusion Magic: Black Mist."
Darkness exploded outward from Max's position, flooding the corridor in seconds. Visibility dropped to arm's length. The world became a choking void.
Panic reignited.
"I CAN'T SEE!"
"WHERE IS HE?!"
"TAMERS! HOLD THE LINE—"
Max moved.
Graphic Violence Warning: Skip to End if you want to avoid it
No honor. No mercy. Just efficiency. He channeled every underhanded tactic he'd absorbed from Naruto—Zabuza's mist assassinations, ANBU throat-slitting, the brutal pragmatism of shinobi warfare.
His first target was a strong-looking fighter with a sword raised and eyes wide with fear. Max materialized behind him with a Shunshin. His rapier punched through the gap between fourth and fifth ribs, piercing the left ventricle. The man gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. Max twisted the blade and withdrew. Silent. Efficient.
One.
A mage came next, hands glowing with a half-formed spell. Max's PoD-coated blade slashed across the throat, severing the carotid artery. The mage clutched his neck, gurgling, collapsing as consciousness fled in eight seconds.
Two.
An axe-wielder spun wildly at shadows. Max drove his rapier through the base of the skull at the C2 vertebra. Instant paralysis. The man dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Three.
A shield-bearer crouched defensively. Max feinted high, then swept low, his PoD-coated blade carving through the Achilles tendon. The man screamed and collapsed. Max finished him with a thrust through the eye socket.
Four.
A tamer raised his bell, trying to command the chaos. Max appeared beside him, rapier punching through the spine between T12 and L1. The tamer's legs gave out. Max grabbed his bell, snapping it with a PoD pulse. The mental link shattered. Nearby Hellhounds went berserk, turning on each other in a frenzy of fangs and fire.
Five.
A dual-wielding fighter moved fast, scanning for threats. Max targeted the kidneys with a retroperitoneal strike, PoD-coated. The pain was exquisite. The fighter collapsed screaming, bleeding internally. Max moved on.
Six.
His seventh target was a bruiser with a greatsword raised, snarling into the mist. Max charged, rapier aimed for the heart—
CLANG.
The greatsword intercepted his thrust, deflecting it inches from the target's chest. The force of the parry sent Max skidding backward, boots scraping stone.
He looked up.
Dorian Kess stood there, greatsword raised, eyes blazing with hatred. A thin line of blood trickled from a self-inflicted cut on his cheek—fresh, deliberate.
He hurt himself. Pain broke the illusion.
Max's heart sank. Shit.
And then Dorian's voice cut through the mist like a blade.
"EVERYONE! CUT YOURSELVES! SHALLOW CUTS! THE MIST IS FAKE! PAIN WILL BREAK IT!"
Through the dissipating haze, Kairu's silhouette flickered between shadows near the edge of the corridor, dragging a dead Ligerfang and the fallen Bugbear into a crevice. The slime was nothing if not efficient—cleanup duty and material harvesting all in one.
While Max cursed under his breath, rapidly assessing the battlefield.
Advantage gone.
Eleven adventurers still capable of fighting stood in defensive positions, weapons drawn, eyes scanning for him. The wounded had pulled back to the safer zones. The remaining monsters—three Hellhounds, two Ligerfangs, one battered Minotaur—formed a protective screen around the tamers.
And at the center of it all, directly in front of Max, Dorian stood like a sentinel. His sword raised. Eyes locked on target. Ready to intercept any attack Max threw.
He's positioning himself to cover the others. Smart.
Max sighed, his mind racing through tactical options.
I can't pick them off one by one anymore. They're grouped up, alert, and Dorian's fast enough to intercept me if I commit to a single target. If I try to rush past him, he'll cut me down. If I stay at range and cast, the monsters will tank the damage while the fighters close in.
Which meant he needed to change the equation entirely.
Max raised his free hand, channeling PoD. The black-red energy didn't form into a spell—instead, it wrapped around his body like liquid shadow, spreading across his limbs, torso, legs. Within seconds, PoD covered him like a second skin, coating every inch of his body except his face—he needed clear vision for what came next.
The energy pulsed, alive and hungry, forming armor that shimmered with lethal intent. Max looked like a crimson-and-black specter, wreathed in erasure given form.
At the same time, he dialed Auto-Evade up to fifty feet. The sphere of awareness expanded violently, covering the entire boxed-off entrance corridor from barrier to barrier. Covering every fighter. Every monster. Every gap in their formation. Every trap still waiting to be triggered. The entire killing field painted in perfect tactical relief.
The strain hit immediately—maintaining PoD Armor and Auto-Evade at maximum range devoured mana at an alarming rate. But Max didn't need long. Just a few minutes. Just enough time to end this.
Dorian's eyes widened slightly at the sight, but his grip on Bloodprice didn't waver. "What the hell—"
Max didn't give him time to finish.
Shunshin.
The world blurred. Max vanished from Dorian's line of sight and reappeared behind Garron.
Garron's instincts were good. He sensed the displacement of air, spun with his axe raised, and swung in a brutal horizontal arc meant to cleave Max in half.
It didn't matter.
Max's PoD-coated rapier met the axe mid-swing. The blade didn't deflect. It didn't clash. It erased. The axe's steel head simply ceased to exist where the rapier touched it, the weapon splitting apart like paper against a blade.
Garron's eyes went wide with shock.
Max followed through. His rapier continued its horizontal slash, carving through Garron's torso at the waist with surgical precision. PoD didn't cut—it unmade. There was no resistance. No bone, no muscle, no viscera to slow the blade.
Garron's top half slid off his hips and hit the ground with a wet thud. His legs stood upright for a heartbeat longer before collapsing.
The corridor went silent.
Eleven adventurers stared at the bisected corpse, horror dawning on their faces. This wasn't a fight. This was an execution.
"GARRON!" Dorian roared, and something inside him snapped.
He didn't think. Didn't strategize. Pure rage detonated in his chest, obliterating everything else.
Bloodprice pulsed in his grip, responding to his fury. Dorian's hand moved to the blade's edge—the cursed steel that would kill anyone else who touched it—and gripped.
The edge bit deep into his palm. Blood welled up, crimson and hot, soaking into the weapon.
The curse activated.
Dark red energy exploded outward from the blade, veins of blood-light crawling across the steel like living things. The air around Dorian grew heavy, oppressive, as the hemotoxin curse awakened. His eyes blazed with murderous intent.
One cut. That's all I need. One cut, and you bleed out while I get stronger.
He surged forward with pure Level 3 speed, Bloodprice raised high, closing the distance in less than two seconds.
But Max was already gone.
Seven.
Shunshin.
He reappeared beside the tamer controlling the battered Minotaur—a wiry human with a bell clutched in his right hand, eyes wide with panic. The tamer raised the bell defensively, as if the magical instrument could shield him.
Max's rapier flashed.
The PoD-coated blade sliced through bell, hand, and the arm holding it in one clean stroke. The tamer screamed as his severed limb hit the ground, bell still clutched in dead fingers. The mental link to the Minotaur shattered instantly. The beast bellowed in confusion, then collapsed as its magical tether dissolved.
Max didn't stop. He pivoted, driving the rapier through the tamer's heart. The man's scream cut off mid-breath. He crumpled.
Eight.
Dorian spun, tracking Max's new position, and charged again. "STAY STILL, YOU COWARD!"
Max ignored him.
Shunshin.
He appeared beside an elven mage mid-chant, hands glowing with half-formed lightning magic. The elf's eyes went wide. Max's rapier took his head off at the neck. The body collapsed, electricity sputtering out.
Nine.
Shunshin.
A dwarven axeman bellowed a war cry and swung at empty air where Max had been. Max materialized behind him, rapier punching through the gap in his armor at the spine. The dwarf's legs gave out. Max withdrew the blade and moved on.
Ten.
Shunshin.
A pallum spearman tried to form a defensive stance with two others—a human and a chienthrope. Max appeared in the gap between them, PoD Armor brushing against the spear shaft. The weapon's tip erased on contact. The pallum stumbled. Max's rapier found his throat. The human swung desperately. Max sidestepped and split him from shoulder to hip. The chienthrope tried to run. Max appeared in his path, blade through the heart.
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.
Dorian was screaming now, incoherent with rage, chasing shadows. Every time he closed the distance, Max vanished. Every time he thought he had an angle, his target was already killing someone else.
Where?! Where is he going to appear next?!
Max's Shunshin wasn't random. It was surgical. Auto-Evade at fifty feet gave him a perfect tactical map of the entire corridor—every fighter's position, every gap in their formation, every moment of vulnerability, every active trap still waiting. He appeared where they couldn't defend. Struck before they could react. Vanished before Dorian could intercept.
Shunshin.
A catman tried to use his speed, darting between the safe zones. Max appeared mid-stride beside him. The rapier split him through the ribcage.
Fourteen.
Shunshin.
A werewolf with a longsword tried to predict Max's movements, blade raised defensively. Max appeared at an angle the werewolf hadn't covered, rapier through the heart before he could adjust.
Fifteen.
Shunshin.
The second tamer—a human clutching his bell with white-knuckled terror—tried to command his remaining Hellhounds to attack. Max appeared beside him, rapier carving through wrist and bell simultaneously. The mental link shattered. The Hellhounds went berserk. Max finished the tamer with a thrust through the throat.
Sixteen.
Shunshin.
A beastman warrior—massive, seven feet tall with scales along his arms—roared and swung a warhammer in a wide arc. Max didn't dodge. He appeared inside the swing's radius, too close for the hammer to hit, and drove his rapier up through the jaw into the brain. The beastman collapsed like a felled tree.
Seventeen.
The remaining Hellhounds and Ligerfangs, their mental links severed, went berserk—attacking each other, attacking the walls, attacking nothing. Kairu emerged from the shadows and systematically finished them, pseudopods extended into bladed tendrils.
And then there was silence.
Dorian stood in the center of the blood-soaked corridor, chest heaving, Bloodprice gripped so tightly his knuckles were white. Blood still dripped from his self-inflicted palm wound, soaking into the cursed blade. His eyes scanned the carnage—seventeen corpses, dismembered monsters, blood pooling across stone.
And standing at the far end of the corridor, untouched, wreathed in black-red energy like a demon given form, was Max.
Their eyes met.
Dorian's rage... shifted. The screaming fury crystallized into something colder. More focused.
It's just you and me now.
He looked down at Bloodprice. The curse was active, yes. The hemotoxin pulsed through the blade. But it wasn't enough. He'd activated it with his blood, but Max was too fast. Too elusive. If Dorian couldn't cut him, the curse was worthless.
I need more.
Dorian's jaw clenched. He raised his left hand—the one already bleeding from gripping the blade—and pressed it flat against Bloodprice's edge. Then he dragged it down the length of the steel, opening a deep gash from palm to wrist.
Blood poured out, soaking the weapon completely.
"I offer my blood," Dorian growled through gritted teeth, his voice echoing with something darker than rage. "Grant me power." He didn't care about the cost. His comrades were gone. The price didn't matter anymore.
Bloodprice responded.
The dark red energy exploded into crimson flames that wreathed the entire blade. The curse didn't just activate—it evolved. The hemotoxin aura expanded, thickening the air around Dorian with lethal intent. The very atmosphere grew heavy, toxic, poisonous.
This wasn't the Level 3 curse anymore. This was something that could kill even Level 4 or Level 5 adventurers with a single cut. The hemotoxin had reached lethal levels.
Dorian's eyes burned with cold determination as he raised the fully awakened Bloodprice.
"No more running," he growled, his voice low and deadly. "No more tricks. Just you. And me."
Max's expression was unreadable behind the PoD Armor, but his rapier was raised, ready.
The real fight was about to begin.
--> Devil in a Dungeon <--
AN:
Oof, I feel bad for Dorian and his gang. Poor dude got lured into a trap and lost everything. Though he is not ready to give up though. He will avenge his comrades and teach the dumb Isekai mc a lesson.
I hope the chapter came out well as writing gory scenes is not my best strength and hope all monsters and adventurers are accounted for? If not just understand Kairu was doing his job so well, even I didn't know where they went ;)
Coming to Max, he just didn't want to risk exposure, that's why he chose the route of most efficiency. PoD also has another benefit: erasing the bodies. So he should be safe, right? Though how many of you felt this was going overboard by Max?
As for Dorian's cursed sword 'evolving' all of a sudden, there is reason for that and we will know why in the next chapter in addition to seeing the conclusion of the fight.
As always, don't forget to share your thoughts on the story and who do you think will win in a review/comment.
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Next update will be on Tuesday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.