General Pov
Folkvangr
5th Day of Max's Baptism
The air in the executive chamber was heavy, pressurized by the silence of the strongest adventurers in Orario. Sunlight slanted through the high arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing over the dark, polished mahogany table, but it did nothing to warm the room. They sat like statues carved from tension and violence, the silence stretching until it felt like a physical weight pressing against their eardrums.
When the heavy double doors finally groaned open, the pressure broke.
Freya entered with effortless grace, her silver hair catching the amber candlelight as she glided to the head of the table. The executives rose in a single, practiced wave of reverence—a choreography of steel and silk—remaining standing until she settled into her high-backed chair and waved a delicate hand to release them.
"Report," she said softly, her voice carrying clearly through the quiet room.
Ottar spoke first, his deep rumble anchoring the room. "The perimeter around Folkvangr is secure. No threats detected within the radius."
He offered no elaboration. He didn't shift in his seat. To Ottar, the "why" didn't exist. There was only the Goddess, her will, and the wall he built around both. Freya dipped her chin, accepting the absolute certainty of his protection.
But the silence that followed was violently punctured.
Scritch-scritch.
Sharp claws dragged against expensive wood, a sound of grating impatience that made Hogni wince at the far end of the table.
"I've wiped out two, maybe three small familias by now," Allen spat, the words clipped and cold. His tail lashed behind him, striking the back of his chair with a rhythmic thump-thump. "But none of them talk. No matter what I try, they die before they speak."
He glared at the polished wood, his knuckles white. He wasn't just hunting enemies; he was venting the frustration of a First-Class adventurer forced to play exterminator for a "worthless" newbie. The sheer indignity of skulking in the shadows for a Level 2 was eating him alive.
"They have a headquarters somewhere," Allen growled, looking directly at his goddess, his eyes burning with golden fire. "But every trail vanishes the moment we enter Daedalus Street. The sewers, the old tunnels—it's a maze. Either we commit more resources to flushing them out, or you let me be... direct in my methods."
The air in the room spiked with heat. Across the table, Hedin adjusted his glasses, a sneer of distaste curling his lip at the beastman's lack of composure.
"Patience, Vana Freya," Freya said, her voice cooling the room like a sudden draft. Her eyes held Allen's, extinguishing his flare of temper without breaking his spirit. "Maintain the current pressure. If they do not break by the baptism's end, the leash will be loosened."
Allen sat back with a huff, his tail still twitching, temporarily pacified by the promise of future violence.
"And the baptism itself?" Freya asked, her gaze drifting naturally to the elf who had visibly disdained Allen's outburst.
Hedin smoothed his cloak, the picture of elven composure and intellectual superiority. "Proceeding within parameters. Max is learning restraint and proper mob management," he reported, his voice like ice clicking against glass. "His adaptation rate is acceptable, if crude. However, the diplomatic fallout remains a nuisance."
He paused, tapping a gloved finger against the table. "I will be visiting the Seolo and Alf's Royal forests tomorrow regarding the... incident at the lake. We must ensure the Elves understand that while we regret the damage, our member is under our protection."
He didn't look at the others, but the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his irritation. Max was an unproven variable in a very expensive equation—one that was costing Hedin his valuable time on diplomatic visits he hated making.
Freya offered a small, approving inclination of her head before her eyes drifted across the table to the four brothers sitting in a rigid row.
Dvalinn, Alfrigg, Berling, and Grer moved in haunting synchronicity. Four heads tilted at the same angle; four sets of eyes avoided direct contact until her gaze found them.
"Upper floors—" Dvalinn began.
"—scouted thoroughly—" Alfrigg continued.
"—no unusual activity—" Berling added.
"—everything in order," Grer finished.
The Gulliver brothers spoke as a single entity, their voices cascading like falling dominoes. Yet, their rigid posture betrayed their feelings; the "Shield of Freya," forged in battle and bound by brotherhood, being sidelined for a newcomer's protection detail felt like a demotion they couldn't voice without appearing petty. They tapped their fingers in unison, a silent drumbeat of boredom.
Finally, the weight of her gaze settled on the far end of the table, pinning the dark elf in place.
Hogni looked as though he wanted to sink into the floorboards. He stared intently at a knot in the wood grain, watching his own reflection waver in the polished surface.
"G-Guild activities normal," Hogni mumbled, his voice barely rising above a whisper. He could feel Hedin's critical gaze boring into the side of his skull, judging his stutter. "Surrounding areas c-clear. No... no suspicious movement detected."
He swallowed hard. He knew he should mention the unusual influx of adventurers returning from the Dungeon lately—the numbers were statistically odd, whispers of something shifting in the middle floors. But he glanced sideways and saw the sharp glint of Hedin's glasses. What if he gives me that look? That dismissive sneer that says I'm just being paranoid again?
The comment died in his throat. Better to stay silent than be mocked, he told himself.
Freya leaned back, her expression thoughtful as she absorbed the full scope of the reports. The candles flickered as she exhaled softly. When she spoke again, her voice dropped to something silkier, more intimate—a tone that made every executive lean forward imperceptibly.
"You've all done excellent work. We are making progress." She paused, and the room seemed to hold its breath. "However, in two days, Max's baptism will conclude. When he ventures into the Dungeon..."
The implication hung in the air like a blade on a thread.
"They will definitely make their move."
She didn't need to ask. The question filled the chamber like smoke, heavy and suffocating: Who will guard the favored?
The silence pressed against their eardrums until Allen's chair screeched violently against the stone floor.
"I'm not doing it," he snapped, the sound harsh and final. His claws gouged the table. "I am a warrior, not a babysitter for some upstart who hasn't even earned his name."
The Gulliver brothers shook their heads in four-part harmony, their refusal synchronized and absolute. "Ill-suited—" "—for solo ops—" "—our strength—" "—is unity."
Hedin opened his mouth, breath drawn to offer a calculated alternative—
"I... I will go."
The words were soft, stammered, but they stopped the room cold.
Every head turned.
Hogni didn't look up from the table, but his hand—which had been trembling against his leg beneath the surface—went still. In that moment, the mask of the shy, stuttering elf cracked just enough to reveal the cold steel underneath.
This was his domain. The shadows. The silence. The unseen blade.
He would watch Max. He would follow him into the dungeon. He would find the "secret" that made the boy special in Freya's eyes—the reason she looked at him like an equal rather than a worshipper. And if he found a weakness instead...
The abyss has plenty of room for mistakes.
Freya's smile broke like the sun through storm clouds—warm, genuine, radiant. "Excellent, Hogni."
"Let us reconvene as necessary." She rose, and the movement was a dismissal. "Ottar."
The Boaz followed her out, the heavy doors closing with a click that seemed to release the tension from the air itself.
The executives dispersed instantly. Allen stormed out first, the door swinging shut behind him hard enough to echo down the corridor. The Gulliver brothers marched out in rhythm, while Hogni fled as quickly as dignity allowed, desperate to escape the lingering weight of attention and Hedin's analyzing stare.
Only Hedin remained.
He sat motionless in the quiet chamber, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The candle flames flickered, casting long shadows across his face as his eyes tracked the door where Hogni had departed. A predatory glint caught the amber light.
Surprising, Hedin thought, a thin smile touching his lips. But efficient.
His dark counterpart rarely volunteered, preferring to hide in his room until dragged out. But Hogni was the perfect shadow for this. And Hedin? He just needed to ensure the test yielded actual results.
He needs a push, Hedin decided.
He just needed to point Max in the right direction—a sharp word about mediocrity, a casual suggestion that the upper floors were insufficient for one of Her chosen. Max's pride would do the rest. Hogni would feel obligated to follow him deep into the middle floors.
And when the chaos inevitably started—when the Evilus made their move against a separated target—Hedin would be there to dissect the aftermath.
One way or another, his analysis of this "anomaly" would be completed.
Hedin rose smoothly, adjusting his robes with precise movements—smoothing non-existent wrinkles, ensuring perfect alignment. He moved toward the exit, his footsteps measured and deliberate, leaving the hall to the cold, silent shadows once more.
-◈ -
Hogni
Hogni's blade, the cursed Victim Abyss, clashed against Valletta's in a violent eruption of sparks that momentarily turned the oppressive gloom of Floor 14 into a strobe-lit nightmare. The shockwave of the impact vibrated through his bones, and he immediately threw himself backward, skidding three steps across the damp stone. His heart hammered against his ribs like a panicked bird trying to break free from a cage.
Too close. She's too close. One more hairbreadth and the thread of my existence will be severed by that witch's steel.
"Tch. Coward," Valletta spat. Her voice was a jagged blade, sharp and utterly dismissive, echoing off the petrified bedrock walls.
No, no, no—this is not cowardice! This is strategic repositioning! A master of the void does not engage in petty brawls; he seeks the perfect tactical advantage! Hogni's thoughts raced in a desperate attempt to maintain his internal script even as he barely deflected her next strike. The Abyssal Shadow never retreats! He merely... relocates to a more favorable sanctuary of darkness!
But even the elaborate chuunibyou monologue couldn't mask the freezing truth: he was terrified.
This was Valletta Grede. A name that sat at the very top of the Guild's blacklist, a woman who had turned murder into a high art and human skin into a costume. She was a Level 5 psychopath who breathed malice. And somehow, through a comedy of errors and his own crippling social ineptitude, Hogni had ended up standing between this monster and his Goddess's newest interest.
How did this happen? his mind shrieked. The mission was simple! Be the unseen guardian! The Eternal Watcher of the Void! But I lost the boy between floors, I panicked, I ran blindly into the light... and now I am here. Exposed. Fighting.
Valletta didn't give him time to breathe. She lunged, her blade coming at him with a vicious, linear thrust aimed directly at his heart. There was no flourish in her movement, no theatrics—only the efficient, bone-deep intent to end a life. Hogni twisted his body at an unnatural angle, feeling the cold kiss of her steel as it whispered past his ribs, slicing through his dark cloak like it was silk.
Why is she so ferocious?! How can a human be so predatory?!
"Move," Valletta's voice was flat, almost bored. She pressed forward, her strikes coming in a relentless, blurring flurry. "Get out of my way, you pest. That boy is important to the plan. He belongs to us now."
Never! The Eternal Guardian shall not allow the darkness to be defiled by—
Her blade grazed the reinforced guard of his throat. Hogni flinched, his hands beginning to tremble as he broke the blade-lock and leaped back into the shadows of a stalagmite.
"I don't have time for this dance!" Valletta hissed, her composure finally beginning to fracture into raw frustration. "Every second you waste is another second he gets away! Do you have any idea what Thanatos will do if I fail to retrieve the anomaly?!"
Hogni's blade flashed out in a reflexive, desperate counter-slash aimed at her throat. Valletta jerked her head back, and the strike carved a shallow, stinging line across her shoulder instead. Bright crimson blood welled up instantly, soaking into the fabric of her gear.
She stopped. She didn't scream. She didn't curse. Her eyes narrowed into predatory slits as she reassessed the cloaked figure before her.
She's... actually taking me seriously now. Hogni realized. The realization brought a nauseating mix of cold terror and a strange, flickering spark of excitement. This was an equal opponent. For the first time in eons, he wasn't facing a terrified rookie or being dismissed by Hedin. He was in a duel of First-Class adventurers.
"Identify yourself!" Valletta barked, her voice echoing with a command that demanded obedience. Her eyes darted over his cloaked form, searching for a crest, a ring, any sign of his affiliation. "You move like an elite, you strike like a master, but you hide like a gutter rat. Who are you?!"
Hogni clamped his mouth shut so hard his teeth ached. I can't tell her. The mystery is my only shield! The moment I speak, the Abyssal Shadow dies and only the stuttering fool remains! What if my voice cracks? What if I trip over my own tongue?
He deflected her next strike in a heavy, stubborn silence.
"The silent type? Fine." Valletta spat on the ground, the gesture dripping with loathing. "Then die nameless in the muck where you belong."
She feigned a high, sweeping slash that Hogni rose to meet, but at the last microsecond, she dropped her shoulder and surged past him. She ignored him entirely, her boots thudding against the stone as she sprinted toward the corridor Max had vanished down. She didn't care about the fight anymore; she only cared about the objective.
She's ignoring me! She's going for the boy! If she reaches him, the Lady's light will be extinguished!
No!
Hogni moved. The fear didn't leave him, but the training of years took the steering wheel. He didn't hesitate. He blurred past her with the fluid, impossible speed of a Level 5. He was a streak of shadow that bypassed her entirely, his blade slamming into the stone wall inches from her face, sparking violently and cutting off her path with a scream of tortured metal.
Valletta skidded to a halt, her heels carving grooves in the floor. Her eyes were wide with a shock that instantly curdled into pure, concentrated venom. She looked from the blocked path to Hogni, her lip curling back in a sneer that revealed her teeth.
"So that's how it is," she hissed, her voice dripping with contempt. "You're not just some random interference. You're a watchdog. A personal guardian." Her eyes narrowed as she gleaned the truth from his desperate, over-the-top protection. "Loyal. Powerful. Pathetic. Silent."
She laughed then—a harsh, grating sound that felt like sandpaper on the soul.
"You must be one of that whore's pets. Is Freya's bed so cold that she needs to send her lapdogs to fetch new toys?"
Hogni's world stopped.
The trembling in his hands died. The racing of his heart slowed until it was a steady, rhythmic thrum of cold iron. The crippling anxiety, the fear of judgment, the worry of being seen—all of it was incinerated in an instant.
Whore?
She called my Goddess... a whore?
Red-hot rage flooded his vision, staining the edges of the world in a bruised purple. The internal narration, the chuuni scripts, the carefully constructed persona of the Abyssal Shadow—all of it was drowned out by a singular, primal, and terrifyingly focused need to silence the mouth that had spoken those words.
"You..." Hogni's voice didn't stutter. It didn't waver. It sounded like the grinding of tectonic plates deep beneath the earth. "DARE!"
He attacked.
There was no technique now. No "style." It was raw, unadulterated, First-Class violence. He swung Victim Abyss with enough force to shatter the stone floor, a guttural scream of pure, animalistic rage tearing from his throat.
Valletta's eyes widened. She hadn't expected the explosion—hadn't expected the quiet "rat" to transform into a walking calamity. But she was a veteran of a hundred death matches. She saw the sloppy opening his rage created.
He's lost his mind. He's wide open.
As Hogni brought his sword down in a crushing overhead arc, Valletta didn't block. She stepped inside his guard, her own blade flashing upward—not a killing strike, but a maiming one. She aimed for his face, wanting to blind the beast.
Hogni saw the glint of steel too late. He jerked his head back in a desperate, last-second recoil, his own momentum working against him.
SWISH.
Her blade missed his eyes by a fraction of an inch, the wind of its passing stinging his skin. But the razor-sharp tip caught the edge of his hood.
With a violent, tearing snap, the fabric was shredded. The hood was blown back by the force of her strike and the vacuum created by his own movement.
Hogni stumbled back, his face exposed to the damp, cold dungeon air. His dark skin, his long silver hair flowing free, his wide, panicked eyes, and his long, pointed ears—everything was laid bare.
He froze.
The rage evaporated as quickly as it had arrived, replaced instantly by the crushing, suffocating weight of exposure. The "Abyssal Shadow" had crumbled into dust. Just Hogni remained—the man who couldn't look a shopkeeper in the eye.
Valletta blinked, staring at the features she now recognized with a jolt of genuine alarm.
"Ah," she said, a cruel, cold smile spreading across her face as the pieces clicked into place. "So it is you. I should have known."
She leveled her sword at his exposed face, her grip tightening. Warier now. Much warier.
"The Dark Elf of Folkvangr. The Black Knight. Hogni Ragnar. I was wondering when a coward like you would finally be forced out of your hole."
Hogni took a shaky step back, his hand coming up to reflexively cover his face, his eyes darting around the cavern as if the very shadows were judging his nakedness.
She sees me. She sees me. Everyone sees me. I'm naked. I'm exposed. I want to go home.
"Tch." Valletta's jaw clenched, her irritation returning as she realized the scale of the obstacle before her. "Level 5. Of course Freya sent her most loyal dog to guard the boy. She's getting desperate."
They exchanged another flurry of blows, moving deeper into the labyrinthine reaches of Floor 14. But the dynamic had shifted fundamentally. Valletta was no longer dismissing him as a pest. She was fighting for her life against a man who, despite his mental fragility, possessed the refined lethality of a former King.
Hogni's fear was still a constant knot in his stomach, but his blade was moving on its own accord now. Muscle memory, drilled into him through years of brutal training and thousands of battles, transcended his anxiety. He was a passenger in a body designed for slaughter.
"Stop getting in my way!" Valletta shouted, parrying a strike that nearly shattered her wrist.
Hogni broke the blade lock and created distance, his breathing ragged. She's connected to Evilus. To Thanatos. This was planned from the start. They were waiting for Max, just as Lady Freya predicted.
"I don't have time for this!" Valletta's strikes were getting desperate, wilder, the precision of a master duelist being eroded by the ticking clock of the Dungeon.
There was something in her voice—beneath the aggression, beneath the hatred—
Fear?
Hogni's next strike came with more force, a heavy horizontal sweep. Valletta met it, but her boots slid backward on the stone, the friction emitting a low groan.
She's... starting to worry. She knows she can't beat me quickly. She knows the Guild or the rest of the Familia will arrive if she stays much longer.
He pushed her further into the corridor. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way!" she screamed, her voice cracking.
Hogni's blade slashed across her ribs—not deep enough to kill, but enough to draw a jagged line of bright red.
Valletta hissed, retreating into the mist. She felt that. She understood now. This wasn't a "pest" she could swat aside. This was a wall of black steel that would not break.
"This isn't over!" Valletta snarled, but there was something hollow in her voice now. "You hear me, Dark Elf?! We will have that boy! Thanatos demands it!"
Hogni pressed his advantage. The internal monologue whispered again, quieter now, but steadier, a fragile armor against the world. The Abyssal Vanguard does not yield. I am the shield of the Moon...
Somewhere behind them, Max was hopefully escaping.
Please, Hogni thought, a desperate, silent prayer beneath his anxiety. Please just run, boy. Get back to the castle. Tell Lady Freya what happened. Let her know I... I tried. Let her know the Eternal Shadow didn't run away.
Valletta's blade clashed against his again, but she was looking for an exit now. She wasn't pressing forward with that overwhelming aggression. She was calculating if the boy's soul was worth dying for at the hands of the Black Knight.
Hogni was absolutely, bone-deep terrified. He wanted to go home. He wanted to hide in his room for a hundred years and never speak to anyone ever again.
But he didn't move.
"Come," Hogni whispered, his voice trembling with fear but his sword as steady as the bedrock itself. "Into the abyss with me."
-◈ -
Max
He stood frozen, his rapier still raised in a trembling guard, blood trickling down his cheek to drip onto the stone floor. His mind raced through possibilities, weighing options with the cold, tactical calculation that had become his primary survival mechanism.
Two figures. Both insanely fast—moving at speeds that made shunshin feel like a mirage rather than a high-speed movement. One had tried to kill him, or at least deliver a lethal warning showing his weakness. The other had saved him.
What do I do?
Curiosity burned in his gut. He wanted to know who they were, especially the savior who had appeared like a ghost in the dark. The attacker was clearly an Evilus elite, but the savior... that was a mystery worth investigating. He could follow at a distance, using their trail and his Magic Sense to observe without losing a limb in the crossfire.
On the other hand, Rivira was still the objective. Floor 18. Safety. A place to regroup and count his mounting pile of loot. Most importantly, it was the chance to rub it in Hedin's arrogant face that he'd conquered the Middle Floors till Floor 18 on his first real dive.
Max lowered his rapier slowly, his ears straining to catch the distant, rhythmic CLANG of steel echoing from the side corridor. The sounds were moving deeper into the labyrinth, growing fainter with every passing second.
If I slip past them now—
SCREECH!
Max's head snapped around. The Dungeon, sensing the boss fight had concluded, was already sending in the cleanup crew.
Crystal Mantises materialized from the bedrock walls—three of them, their translucent bodies refracting the dim dungeon light into a kaleidoscope of predatory color. Behind them, a trail of Dungeon Worms skittered over the cooling remains of the ambush party.
Right. No time for a mid-life crisis when the walls are trying to eat you.
Max fell into the familiar rhythm immediately. His body moved on a magical autopilot—dodge left, thrust through the first Mantis's core, pivot, and a horizontal slash across the second's neck joint. Kairu surged forward, his blue form rippling as he extended pseudopods to collect magic stones and absorb the dissolving corpses with practiced efficiency.
Just another day at the office.
Minutes passed in a blur of motion. The corridor filled with the sounds of industrial-scale slaughter—steel through chitin, the wet hiss of dissolving monsters, and Kairu's satisfied vibrations. Finally, the spawn rate slowed, then sputtered into silence.
Max wiped his blade on his trousers and surveyed the red-stained corridor. Kairu had vacuumed up the last of the bodies.
Wait. The sword.
Max's eyes landed on Bloodprice, lying discarded next to the void where Dorian's torso had been. The cursed flames had died, but the steel still pulsed with a sickly, dark energy that seemed to swallow the light.
I can't leave that here. If a rookie finds it, they're dead. If Evilus gets it back, they're armed.
"Kairu," Max pointed. "Eat it. Store it in a sealed pocket. Do not—and I mean do not—digest it."
SQUELCH.
The slime engulfed the massive cursed greatsword, stowing it away in the deepest reaches of his stomach.
Max retreated to the small alcove near the entrance. He pressed his back against the cool, damp stone and let his breathing steady. He checked the connection in his mind. Jura's signal was still strong.
He left maybe an hour or two ago, Max reasoned. He won't be at Knossos yet. He's likely navigating the edges of Floor 15 or 16. It's a viable exit. Teleport to Jura, knock him out again, and vanish into the deeper floors.
It was the smart play. The safest way out of a deteriorating situation.
DRIP.
Max frowned, his focus broken by the sound.
DRIP.
What the hell is that?
He reached up, his fingers touching his cheek, and they came away stained a bright, wet crimson.
Oh.
The cut. The blade that had grazed him. It was still bleeding.
Max's eyes narrowed. That's... impossible.
His Devil physiology, further amplified by the Falna, should have closed a shallow graze like that in seconds. He had healed broken ribs and deep lacerations in minutes during the Baptism. A scratch on the cheek should have been an afterthought.
But this wouldn't stop.
Max probed the wound, wincing at the hot, stinging needle of pain. His fingertip came away with blood and something else—a viscous, sickly yellow substance that glowed with a faint, malevolent light. It looked like sap, but it moved with a life of its own, crawling along the edges of the wound.
A curse? No... an anti-healing agent.
Max's jaw clenched. The assassin's sword was coated in something designed to stall healing. A specialized poison.
That's terrifying, Max thought, a chill running down his spine. If that blade had hit my throat, I wouldn't have just bled out; I would have been unable to stop it.
"Good thing I'm a cheat code," Max muttered.
He raised his hand, focusing his mana. The black-red energy of PoD materialized around his fingertips, humming with the intent to erase.
He pressed the PoD against his cheek.
The effect was immediate. The yellow substance hissed and bubbled as the erasure touched it, dissolving like acid meeting paper. The curse fought back for a heartbeat—Max felt a strange, cold resistance—but ultimately, the PoD won. The foreign agent was wiped from reality.
Immediately, the familiar warmth of his Devil healing flooded his face. The flesh knit together in seconds, sealing the skin until only smooth, unblemished tissue remained.
Crisis averted.
But then, a heavy thought settled in his chest.
That person saved me.
The second figure. The one fighting the assassin right now.
They don't have PoD. They probably don't have my healing. If they get cut by that blade...
They wouldn't be able to heal. In a battle between high-speed masters, a single nick that refuses to close is a ticking clock. A death sentence.
Max sighed, reaching into his bag with a groan. "I am going to regret being a good person."
He pulled out a High Mind Potion and a Recovery Potion, popping the corks and downing them both back-to-back. The Mind Potion hit his core like a block of ice, instantly cooling the "burn" of his low reserves and refilling the void. The Recovery Potion sent a rush of warmth through his limbs, purging the lactic acid and fatigue from his muscles.
Mana: Refilling. Stamina: Green.
"Kairu," Max said, checking his gear. "Change of plans. We're going in."
The slime bounced toward him, understanding the shift in intent. Kairu hit Max's chest and began to flow, his gelatinous mass spreading across Max's torso and shoulders like a layer of living, translucent plate armor.
Max patted his chest, feeling the cool, protective weight. "We've got each other's backs. We'll be fine." He assured himself and the slime and he plunged into the dark corridor where the fighters had vanished.
It took longer than he expected to catch up. The sounds of combat were echoing strangely, bouncing off the bedrock walls to create a disorienting maze of noise. The Dungeon seemed to be throwing up barriers—shifting shadows and elongated corridors—to keep him away.
But he didn't need sound to track them. He just had to follow the carnage.
The corridor was a graveyard.
Max stepped over the bisected remains of a Dungeon Worm that had clearly been killed mid-stride. A few yards later, he passed a Hellhound that had been embedded into the stone wall by a sheer kinetic shockwave. Ash piles were everywhere, marking where monsters had been vaporized simply for being in the way.
They aren't fighting monsters, Max realized, eyeing a massive crack in the floor. They are the environmental hazards the monsters are stepping on.
Finally, the tunnel opened into a massive, jagged cavern. The air here was heavy, pressurized by Killing Intent so thick it made Max's skin crawl.
He peeked from the edge of a stalagmite and froze.
The scene was beyond anything he'd witnessed. It wasn't a sword fight; it was a scene ripped straight out of a high-budget battle shonen.
Two figures were blurring in and out of existence in the center of the cavern. There was no "clash-and-reset." It was a continuous, deafening roar of steel-on-steel—hundreds of impacts per second creating a stroboscopic rain of sparks.
Max's eyes could barely keep up. He saw afterimages—ghostly streaks of silver and pink that lingered in the air long after the combatants had moved.
As he watched, a massive snake spawned from the ceiling, roaring as it lunged down to crush the intruders.
Neither fighter even looked at it.
The assassin swung a wild, savage arc. The savior parried with a flourished twist of his blade. The resulting shockwave of air pressure caught the snake mid-air. The massive creature simply EXPLODED, its body torn into three pieces by the sheer force of the fighters' displacement. It turned to ash before it even touched the ground, ignored as background noise.
They're in a completely different dimension of power.
Max thought as he squinted, his amethyst eyes glowing as he focused through the strobe-light sparks.
One figure was a whirlwind of sadistic aggression. He recognized the "Crazy Bitch" energy, her blade dripping with that sickly yellow coating.
The other—his savior—was the epitome of "Chunni."
The figure moved with a rigid, almost theatrical grace. His dark cloak billowed with dramatic flair despite the lack of wind. Even his dual-wielding style was unnecessarily flashy, yet flawlessly lethal.
The savior spun, parrying a strike that would have leveled a building, and his hood finally fell back.
Silver hair whipped through the air. Silver-green eyes burned with a mixture of terrifying, cold focus and a frantic, underlying social anxiety that only Max, with his meta-knowledge, could recognize. Dark skin. Pointed ears.
Hogni Ragnar.
The Black Sword. One of Freya's Level 5 executives.
Max's jaw dropped, the blood on his cheek forgotten.
She really meant it, he thought, stunned. Freya didn't just give me a gift. She sent a Level 5 bodyguard to watch my back in the dungeon.
'No one touches what is mine.'
The phrase echoed in his mind, no longer sounding like an over the top sentiment, but like a cold, brutal reality as he watched.
--> Devil in a Dungeon <--
AN:
Well, well, interesting revelations and old faces. Who would have thought both sides planned for the same thing and it would end up in blowing in both of their faces?
Though I need to clarify that Hogni is stronger than Valletta, both in terms of stats and experience. But his confidence issues are making the battle balanced. If he activates his magic, things will instantly flip in his favor. Though he might be embarrassed for who knows how long after that? :)
And obviously Max didn't learn he shouldn't play with fire however lucky he was, especially when that fire is a Level 5 Psychopath, but he didn't care and came to watch them fight much to the dismay of Hogni when notices him, heh. Let's see how things go from here...
Just for clarification for those who doesn't get it, the beginning part of the chapter till Hogni's Pov was a Flashback though it wasn't labelled.
As always, don't forget to share your thoughts on the story and any suggestions you have on what else Max could try in a review/comment.
If you'd like to read 5 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
If you just want to tip or get me a coffee, you can do so on k.o-f.i.c.o.m./b3smash.
Next update will be on Tuesday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.