Sandholt, Targarth…

  Adam sat in a levitating carriage opposite Ledley and several familiar faces from the bar. The vehicle glided above a vast swamp that stretched to the horizon—once a mining city, now a sprawl of murky water and skeletal industrial remains.

  Thick plumes of black smoke rose from distant conduits, staining the overcast sky.

  Adam folded his arms and watched in silence.

  “It’s hard to believe this used to be a mining capital,” Ledley said lightly.

  Adam glanced at him. “How did it end up like this?”

  Ledley swirled the wine in his half-filled glass. “The Alliance of Guilds.” His lips thinned. “After the incident in Valar, they began fighting over rights to every profitable mine and dungeon. The older sectors were abandoned in the process.”

  He gestured lazily toward the swamp below.

  “And rot is patient.”

  Adam followed his gaze.

  “This is what happens when an incompetent monarchy tries to rein in guilds it can’t control,” Ledley added with a scoff.

  Adam remained quiet. He knew little of politics, but even he had heard of the royal family’s fall.

  “What about the people who lived here?” Adam asked.

  “Dead,” Ledley replied flatly. “Or scattered.” He took another drink. “When a Grand Dungeon descends, the land changes. Infrastructure collapses. Trade routes shift. In a few months, Targarth became unrecognizable.”

  Adam studied him. “You’re from Targarth.”

  Ledley didn’t answer immediately.

  Then he nodded.

  “It must be difficult,” Adam said evenly, “watching your homeland become this.”

  “I have no allegiance to Targarth.” Ledley drained his glass. “Are you ready?”

  The shift in tone was deliberate.

  Adam straightened. “I am.”

  The carriage began its descent.

  “Remember—do not enter the dungeon until the perimeter is cleared.”

  Ledley stood before a six-man squad: Adam and five Awakened from the Drumblade guild. Brown and purple robes marked their affiliation. Behind them, the swamp thickened beneath a canopy of twisted branches. A spinning yellow vortex pulsed at its center—the dungeon entrance, its glow casting restless shadows across stagnant water.

  “If we encounter other parties?” one of the Awakened asked.

  “The same as always,” Ledley answered immediately. “No unnecessary conflicts.”

  They nodded.

  “You know your positions.”

  The squad dispersed.

  “Ulric.” Ledley motioned Adam closer.

  “What is it?”

  Ledley retrieved a pink candy and flicked it into Adam’s palm. “Next month’s suppressant.”

  Adam raised a brow. “Ahead of schedule?”

  “Consider it a courtesy.”

  Adam swallowed it without hesitation.

  “Thank Cardinal Rama,” Ledley said with a thin smile. He leaned in slightly. “Your promotion has been finalized.”

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  Adam’s eyes sharpened.

  “Archbishop.” Ledley extended his hand. “Congratulations.”

  They shook.

  “To be honest,” Adam said evenly, “I’ve been anticipating it.”

  Ledley chuckled and produced a small ring bearing an engraved sigil. “Proof of rank. Wear it only during formal assemblies. Only the official ceremony remains.”

  Adam slipped it into his inner pocket. “Understood.”

  “Let’s finish here and return to Gido.”

  Adam turned to leave.

  “Ulric.”

  He paused.

  “Reports of disappearances inside dungeons have increased in this region,” Ledley said quietly. “Don’t take unnecessary risks.”

  “I won’t.”

  Adam stepped into the swamp.

  The mud sucked softly at his boots as he moved away from the vortex’s hum. Croaking frogs and rustling reeds filled the air.

  Adam, how long will we waste time with these insects? the demonic voice whispered. You’re an Archbishop now. The mission is complete. Let’s hunt.

  Adam stretched his shoulders, ignoring it. He continued observing the swamp.

  I helped cause this.

  Reports had described thriving mines. Trade caravans. Crowded taverns.

  Now there was only stagnant water and glowing decay. Valar was hundreds of miles from Sandholt, yet its shadow reached this far.

  He exhaled slowly.

  The vegetation thickened—green weeds, rotting trunks, clusters of floating leaves that pulsed faintly with bioluminescence.

  The more I think about it, the more the Edril Elixir feels like a scam… but how do the Varidan verify authenticity?

  He moved deeper.

  Hours passed.

  The swamp darkened. Ahead, a lattice of crisscrossing branches formed a natural barrier. Narrow gaps allowed only drifting leaves to pass.

  Adam slowed.

  Sword marks scored the bark.

  Someone’s been here.

  He traced the cuts with his eyes until he found a narrow opening—barely wide enough for a person.

  Go in, the demonic voice urged eagerly. There’s something worthwhile beyond.

  “What?”

  I don’t know. But I can feel it.

  Adam hesitated only briefly. “You’d better be right.”

  He raised a hand.

  “Come forth.”

  Flames rippled across the water’s surface before coalescing into a humanoid shape.

  “Guard this entrance,” Adam ordered. “Do not allow anyone through.”

  The Familiar submerged into the murk.

  Adam slipped through the gap. The air shifted instantly.

  The croaking ceased. The rustling died. Even the faint hum of the dungeon faded.

  [Establishing Connection to The Omen…]

  [Connection Successfully Established.]

  Already frightened? the voice mocked. Pathetic.

  The water here was clearer—less stagnant.

  He waded forward.

  No ripples formed around his legs. No sound accompanied his steps. From the earlier sword marks, at least two people had come through. But why?

  The silence pressed in.

  Adam walked another fifteen minutes before stopping.

  A faint crimson wisp flickered in the distance, barely pushing back the darkness. Beneath it—voices. Low. Guarded.

  He closed his eyes briefly.

  I’d rather not…

  He drew a slow breath and submerged without a splash.

  Two men in black suits stood before a warped vortex that shimmered with a pulsing crimson glow. The portal twisted in on itself like a wound that refused to close.

  Their attire was immaculate—black shades, tall top hats trimmed with a red sash. Golden urns hung from their belts, and blackened crosses rested against their chests.

  “How long do you think—”

  “Quiet.” The other man didn’t look at him. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “Our task is to guard the entrance until the mistress returns. We do not ask questions.”

  “I was only—”

  “Enough.”

  The reprimanded man muttered under his breath and turned away and froze.

  A silver-haired youth stood several meters away, water lapping silently around his boots.

  “Who the hell are you?” the guard barked.

  Both men reached instantly—one hand for the golden urn, the other for the cross.

  “Lukas,” the senior guard said without taking his eyes off the stranger, “you cast the illusion on the entrance.”

  “I did.”

  “Then explain that.”

  Lukas faltered.

  The senior guard inhaled. “We’ll handle this—”

  Steel flashed.

  His sentence ended in a wet gargle as a blade opened his throat.

  Lukas barely processed the spray of blood before something struck the back of his neck.

  Darkness swallowed him.

  Adam watched Nokum wipe its blade clean with mechanical calm while Salma held the surviving guard aloft by the collar.

  She stepped forward and bowed. “My Lord. The perimeter is secure. No additional presences detected.”

  “Well done.”

  Adam studied the unconscious man. “Wake him.”

  Salma tightened her grip slightly.

  The man convulsed and snapped awake.

  “W–Who are—”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Adam interrupted mildly. “You should concern yourself with whether you leave here alive.”

  The man’s composure crumbled.

  “I’ll talk,” he blurted.

  “Good.”

  Lukas spoke quickly—about the illusion, the portal, the mistress’s orders. About waiting. Guarding. Not asking.

  When he finished, Salma ended him with a flick of her wrist.

  Adam extended a hand. Dark energy coiled around the corpses. Flesh stilled. Then shifted. Moments later, two new Familiars knelt before him.

  “You may return.”

  They bowed and dissolved into shadow.

  Adam turned his attention to the crimson vortex.

  The Widow… and the Undertakers. Of all places.

  He remembered their first encounter—how lightly he’d regarded her then.

  If they concealed the entrance with illusion, then whatever lies beyond is valuable.

  “Stop thinking and move,” the demonic voice growled. “If they want it, we must want it more.”

  Adam exhaled softly, almost amused.

  “No one’s stealing anything from us.”

  He studied the distorted portal one last time.

  “Let’s see what has you so eager.”

  Without hesitation, he stepped through.

  The swamp vanished.