Snapping out of their shock, the rebel operatives and apprentices lunged forward, stabbing the immobilized, shadowy forms with their short swords. Shing! Schlick! As each creature dissolved, a small chime sounded, and the Point Orbs floating beside the executioner's head pulsed brightly, confirming the kill and the earned points. The execution ground now smelled faintly of ozone and pulverized stone.

  Mr Craft stepped forward, his expression satisfied, and glanced at Locks. She landed lightly, and the white hair instantly recoiled from its striking posture, rushing back toward her head. It collected itself into her neat bun with a rapid, mechanical precision, culminating in a final, victorious snap of the hair fork that secured the bun.

  "Well done, Locks," Mr Craft praised, the flat tone gone, replaced with a subtle warmth that was rare for him. "Precise control. That is exactly how we work."

  Locks immediately melted into the 'cute girl' persona again, her eyes shining with pure delight at the praise. "Hehe! Thank you, Master! I knew I could do it!"

  While Locks basked in the approval, Mr Craft's Unwoven Eyes flared for a brief instant. The lenses over his pupils didn't just glow; intricate, fleeting diagrams of bio-energy and stamina flow mapped themselves onto his vision, performing a deep status check on her physical state. He fully expected to see a significant drain on her stamina, a deep fatigue from expending so much energy in her first full demonstration. Yet, his gaze found only calm. Her reserves were untouched; her breathing was even; the hair power seemed to consume nothing from her core.

  Impossible, Mr Craft thought, a tremor of astonishment running beneath his mask. This was the first time he had truly seen her terrifying power unleashed, and its efficiency was absolutely shocking. He had severely underestimated her. She could have cleared this entire level without a scratch and without losing a single breath. This knowledge—her terrifying, effortless strength—was now another secret he filed away, slightly unnerved by the sheer, unbridled power hidden behind his cheerful medic.

  As Mr Craft and the party continued their grind through the linear tunnels, he realized that none of the monsters here possessed any demonic energy. Clearly, this dungeon's monsters are made of pure chaos. The loot we've gained so far is just normal weaponry, Mr Craft thought.

  The 'grind' was anything but monotonous, however. The rebel operatives and apprentices, who Emmet had initially dismissed as low-level support, were beginning to show flashes of startling, specialized competence.

  One of the designated minor archers, a tall, nervous-looking boy, found himself suddenly charged by a massive Chaos brute. Instead of back-pedaling to gain distance for a shot, he executed a surprising, almost acrobatic tumble over a fallen piece of masonry. He didn't just dodge; he used the momentum of the roll to transition from the dodge directly into a crouch, his arrow already nocked and released in a single, fluid second. The shot—a low, precise bolt to the knee joint—dropped the brute instantly. Emmet, watching from the rear, instinctively adjusted the archer's rating in his internal log from 'Support' to 'Close-Quarters Specialist.'

  A moment later, an elderly operative armed only with a short sword lost her weapon. As the shadow creature closed in, she didn't retreat. With a grunt of effort that belied her age, she used the flat of her shield not to block, but to drive forward with immense, unexpected strength, shattering the shadow creature's amorphous core against the tunnel wall. I guess the school didn't just send me weaklings I thought a scholar should be, well this is good, Emmet thought, a calculating smile tugging at his lips. This is... data.

  While his comrades focused on accumulating points, Mr Craft's attention was drawn to the different accessories—rings, amulets, and weird-looking weapons—that dropped as loot. He would inspect each one carefully, his excitement displaying openly with a distinct flash in his eye, like a mad collector with a plan for every piece of raw material. The team, knowing Mr Craft was disinterested in the point tally, allowed him to claim anything he fancied with no objection.

  He picked up a simple silver amulet, his lips curling into a strange, possessive smile. "Ahh, you look beautiful," he murmured, turning the amulet over in his gloved hand. "I wonder what you will become when I corrupt you with my rend."

  "Master really likes the shiny things," whispered one apprentice, watching the strange ritual.

  Locks only smiled back radiantly. "He's just excited! He needs the best base materials for his crafts."

  This private adoration of random objects was a weird sight for his party mates, but they never dared voice their opinions on Mr Craft.

  Clyne, the Field Captain, updated his journal, quickly scratching a note about the archer's surprising efficiency. The puzzles were easily solved, and the path remained linear. Mr Craft turned to Locks, who was being clingy now that the battle was over. He had to admit, thanks to Locks, they were all feeling relaxed.

  They soon reached the end of the path: a huge entrance door. Mr Craft felt it—behind this door was something with demonic energy. Mr Craft's eyes glowed with focused excitement.

  "Everyone, listen! Behind this door is my loot. I'll take care of this. I hope no one objects?"

  After opening the door, they stepped into a circular, platformed arena. Standing chained by both hands was a demon.

  The creature was an unsettling sight, held fast by heavy, thick chains. It possessed four arms, with two of them completely immobilized by rusted iron biting deep into the flesh. Its overall physique was disturbingly thin—emaciated, even—as if it hadn't been fed for many days. This deprivation lent it both a sense of profound, desperate hunger and a visible, shuddering weakness.

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  The demon had an unnaturally large, protruding bottom jaw that seemed ill-fitted for its gaunt face, giving its expression a permanent, menacing jut. Its skin possessed a subtle, dull reddish hue. Peeking out from its brow were small horns, barely visible against its head but definitely present, giving way to a truly grotesque feature: its back was a mass of undulating, prehensile appendages. These numerous, snaking limbs writhed faintly. Finally, its overall disproportion was capped by its feet, which were oddly small and delicate relative to the immense size of its body.

  The demon began to mumble in an ancient language that only Mr Craft understood. He jumped onto the platform and spoke to the demon.

  He thought he said, "Demon, I come to destroy you." But in the true demon language, it only sounded to the demon like: "Breaking the soil with plant."

  The demon frowned in utter confusion. Mr Craft followed up, trying to say, "You are weak, kneel before me!" What the demon heard was: "Fluffy cat sleeps near small fence."

  Mr Craft, intent on exhausting the demon's combat script, used his Unwoven Breath. The air around him felt cool and thin, letting him play with the tentacle-like appendages at impossible speeds. He taunted it further, trying to deliver a stinging insult: "Your chaos is pathetic! Be gone!" But the demon heard: "The dewdrop misses the strong leaf."

  The demon, enraged, decided the human was insane and unleashed a desperate, massive surge of the snaking limbs, covering the entire platform. The sound was like a whip cracking against a mountainside. Mr Craft merely tilted his head, letting the crushing force pass harmlessly around him. That is truly all it can do, Mr Craft concluded. Its physical script is exhausted; the energy is the only thing of value here.

  "Is he trying to distract it, or is he just provoking it needlessly?" Clyne muttered, raising a hand to keep the apprentices back.

  I guess I'll just end its suffering, Mr Craft thought, his mind already moving to the conversion process. Consider this my mercy, demon.

  Mr Craft took his giant spear, "Behemoth," from his dimensional ring. The others were astounded by the colossal, heavy weapon.

  Mr Craft, with his monstrous strength, intended to end the monster, but his clinical need for certainty drove him to one hundred strikes—a total overkill.

  The weapon became a terrifying, metallic blur, a dizzying, concussive torrent. The arena stone began to crack beneath the onslaught. The air filled with the metallic, sulfurous scent of burning demonic essence as Mr Craft hammered the demon into oblivion. The sound of the weapon singing one hundred brutal, high-pitched notes justified the necessity to eliminate every last speck of resistance.

  His allies watched, jaws dropped in silent realization of their true power dynamic. "He just hit it a hundred times... for mercy?" Clyne muttered. "He's just showing us he doesn't need the points. He's here for something else entirely."

  After confirming the demon was totally defeated, Mr Craft activated his Unwoven Eyes to check for the flow of demonic energy.

  "Locks, please cover me. I'm going to do some rending," Mr Craft said, his voice taut with demanding focus.

  Locks immediately readied her white hair, creating a thick, near-solid dome of needle-like sharp spears as a guarding stance. The shimmering white barrier hummed with latent power.

  While Locks guarded him, Clyne watched the fading demonic residue and scribbled furiously on his slate. The distribution is uneven. Locks' score suggests performance is weighted heavily. If the rewards are performance-based, we need a new rotation immediately. Level Two must be different; we can’t rely solely on their overwhelming strength.

  Mr Craft began harvesting the demonic energy and converting it to a Rend Crystal. The process looked violently difficult; sweat beaded on his brow as the raw, chaotic energy visibly resisted his control, emitting crackles of dark energy that his armor absorbed.

  After thirty minutes, he was finished. "Ahh, that was rewarding."

  He took the whiplike weapon he had collected earlier. "This would be perfect," he muttered, starting the meticulous process of imbuing the Glow Crystal.

  It was a success. The whip's form and aura completely changed, becoming a specialized binding whip. "I'm going to call it Tentacoil in honor of the demon I just slew." It slowly coiled on his right arm like a snake, turning into a coiling armband.

  The Tentacoil settled silently around Mr Craft's arm. He turned to his team, his demeanor shifting back to the focused leader. "Alright, we are done in this floor level. That was the final boss."

  "Now, let's check the tally," he announced.

  The rebel operatives and apprentices now each held 300 points. Locks, surprisingly, had accumulated 800 points, while Mr Craft himself had earned 700 points.

  I was surprised how Locks gained so much despite not doing the last hit, Mr Craft noted. I guess the final hit isn't what gets the point; it's performance base.

  He shared this crucial insight with Clyne. "It seems points are weighted toward performance, not just the killing blow," Mr Craft informed him. "Locks' efficiency far outscored the others, and even without doing much besides the boss, I earned 700 points already."

  Clyne, now fully affirmed in his analysis, nodded sharply. "Understood, Mr Craft. Our initial allocation must change."

  The message was clear: Level 1 was over. Their plan now was to distribute and change roles. Everyone needs to be active starting now.

  With the new strategy settled, the monolithic archway recessed in the stone wall shuddered, grinding open with the sound of ancient, overburdened mechanisms protesting the movement.

  This was not a simple exit. A single, blinding, overwhelming pillar of pure, radiant white light erupted from the newly formed doorway, instantly washing away the shadows and the grime of Level 1. The air changed dramatically, growing sharp, cold, and electric, carrying the metallic scent of ozone and the undefinable scent of the unknown.

  This level—the proving ground of chaos and observation—was officially concluded.

  Mr Craft's eyes narrowed, not in fear, but in eager anticipation of the new energy sources waiting to be harvested.

  "Level One is done," he announced, his voice low and carrying an edge of genuine thrill. "Let's see what they have waiting for us now."

  One by one, they stepped into the overwhelming, pulsing light, leaving the easy points and solved puzzles behind, crossing the threshold into the deep, enigmatic challenge of Level 2.

  In a separate, unseen control room far above the dungeon, a cramped chamber lit only by the faint, unhealthy green glow of scrying runes etched into obsidian walls, two figures watched the feed.

  "So, this guy is interested in demons instead of other loot. What are we going to do, Master?" the Observer asked, unnerved by Mr Craft's calculated displays of power.

  The man in a black mask, sitting in shadow, gave a low, knowing chuckle. "His ability seems too overpowered. Amazing, Mr Craft, just as I expected from you."

  "Sir, that was a lost demon the Nightblade Team subdued. Unfortunately, we don't have many more, but we do have at least five left," the other man replied.

  "I don't care. Just add it to the loot reward. He isn't interested in common wealth, only power's source. A man like that is predictable, and therefore, useful."

  The black orb point collector promptly announced: "List of rewards available: Demon - 1000 points required."