Through his vision, Viktor watched them, the two figures who were making their way through the maze of corridors on the first floor. This was not their first visit to his dungeon, of course, but it was the first time he got to observe them directly, instead of hearing Celeste’s after-action report.

  Leading the way was a towering woman with a golden braid thick enough to strangle a Cyclops. Her broad sword already drawn, she strode forward confidently, but not recklessly. She must have already known nothing on this floor could even leave a scratch on her, but her watchful eyes stayed sharp, sweeping every corner like she expected something to try its luck anyway. Sweat gleamed on her brow, but her pace stayed steady. No hint of fatigue, no trace of exhaustion. And no emotion either, her face might as well have been carved from granite.

  Trailing behind her was a man who looked like he had been freshly dug out of a grave. Pale skin, hollow cheeks, hunched shoulders. He kept his distance from the warrior woman, but not so far that he might lose her. Viktor could practically hear the internal whining: Why am I here? Why is this place so hot, so dark, so disgusting? Why can’t we just go back? Well, at least the man kept it all to himself. Or maybe he used to complain a lot, but had long since learned that whimpering would not get him anywhere.

  “You said Brynhildr did most of the fighting, right?”

  [Yes, Master. Dagnar sometimes threw a fireball or summoned a gust of wind when a goblin or spider got too close, but otherwise, he let Brynhildr handle everything.]

  Then what’s the point? Viktor frowned. It was not training if the student just stood there while the teacher had to do all the work. Brynhildr was too soft with this man-child. She could learn a thing or two from Noi’ri, who just tossed the kids into the water and only intervened when they were about to drown. Then again, Cedric, Lucian, and Fiora were all eager, motivated youngsters. Dagnar? Not so much. Maybe just dragging him out of bed and getting him here was already a great achievement.

  Oh well, whatever. It was not like Viktor wanted this pathetic wretch to become better anyway. His goal was to kill him. So the weaker he was, the easier the task would be.

  “Is everyone ready?”

  [Yes, Master. Are we going to strike today?]

  Viktor shook his head. “I doubt it. But I want them in position, so that they can move out the moment I give the order.”

  He couldn’t predict when the perfect opportunity would present itself. Maybe today, maybe next week, maybe even a month from now. But when it did, he wasn’t about to squander it by fumbling over his pieces. No, he was going to grab it with both hands and crush it before it slipped away. That was why Sebekton stood ready, Khenemhotep and his tomb guards stood ready, and on the other side of the Core Room’s door, Kazyk and his ballista stood ready.

  The duo came to a halt before the staircase that led to the floor below. According to Celeste, these two had never ventured beyond this point. And sure enough, Dagnar exhaled with relief, shoulders sagging like a man who had just survived a prolonged and torturous ordeal.

  “Finally,” he muttered, already turning on his heel toward the door.

  But Brynhildr didn’t move. She stood like a statue, eyes locked on the staircase.

  “What are you waiting for?” Dagnar said with a frown. “Let’s go back.”

  There was a pause.

  “Today,” Brynhildr then said, “we’ll go to the second floor.”

  “...What? Fuck no!”

  The warrior woman turned to face Dagnar. “We’ve walked this floor enough times. There is nothing but goblins, spiders and some gnolls here. It’s time to go deeper. I heard there’s a collapsed section on the second floor, and it leads to a desert. Can you believe it? A desert underground.” For a split second, her eyes lit with sparks. “I really want to see it.”

  “Why the fuck would I want to go to a desert? Is it not hot enough in this damn place already? You want to go, then go alone!”

  “You know that’s not an option,” Brynhildr said quietly. “We have to stick together. If we split up, I can’t protect you.”

  “Fuck your protection! Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

  Brynhildr’s sigh was long and tired, as if she had had this conversation a thousand times.

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  “Because your brother’s men are still hunting you. They’ll never stop. You’re not strong enough to defend yourself, and until you are, I have to stay with you.”

  Dagnar spat. “Fine then, let’s keep going with your so-called ‘training.’ But let’s be clear. I don’t do this for you. I just want to be rid of you. The sooner you’re gone, the better.”

  For the first time, a trace of pain crept into the woman’s stoic mask. “I... I just want what’s best for you...”

  “Stop it.” The man’s voice was cold, cold as ice. “Stop acting like you’re my mother. You never were. And you never will be.”

  Brynhildr turned sharply. There were tears welling at the corners of her eyes, and she didn’t want him to see them. She blinked hard, forcing the tears back, and without another word, she began to descend the stairs. Dagnar lingered, then followed with a scowl.

  Well, that’s awkward, Viktor thought. The family drama playing out in his dungeon was not exactly what he had expected to see. And he didn’t know what to make of it. Brynhildr was an obstacle to his plan. She was someone he might need to kill one day. He was not supposed to feel sorry for her, but still...

  “What an ungrateful brat,” he muttered. “She’s done everything for you, and you treat her like garbage. Yeah, yeah, I get it. Your life sucks. But don’t lash out at the only one person who actually gives a damn about you. Does it matter all that much if she’s not your real mother?”

  [Master...]

  “What?”

  [You are not very self-aware, aren’t you?]

  “Self-aware about what?”

  [Nothing, Master.]

  Viktor frowned. What the hell was she trying to say?

  Brynhildr and Dagnar stepped into the second floor of the dungeon. There was no Cyclops waiting in the room beneath the stairs, of course, since he had pulled them all back to the third floor a long time ago. They were probably hanging around at Sebekton’s place now, tossing boulders at each other or playing whatever stupid games to pass the time. Simple creatures. Very easy to please.

  The duo moved to the next area, which had once been the maze of narrow corridors, but that was before the explosions. Now, most of the walls had been blasted away, and what remained looked like a cave. A flat, stretched-out cave with too low a ceiling and far too much floor.

  From here, it was not hard to find where the desert was. The light from the artificial sun bled in from the far end, laying a warm, golden glow across the wreckage. All they had to do was follow it back to where it began.

  Brynhildr stopped before the jagged, half-collapsed archway and gazed at the impossible stretch beyond. Endless sand spread in every direction, a vast golden ocean rippling with shallow dunes that seemed to shift. The false sun hung in the sky, an orb of blinding light that scorched the barren landscape below. It mimicked the real sun perfectly, down to the shimmering heat mirage that danced on the horizon.

  “It really is a desert.” Brynhildr breathed, eyes wide with wonder. “This is incredible...”

  The man, on the other hand, was far less impressed. He wore a look of disdain, probably not unlike the one Viktor had when he first laid eyes on the streets of Daelin.

  “What’s so incredible about sun and sand?”

  “I’ve heard stories about the deserts in the South,” Brynhildr said, her voice unexpectedly high and soft, almost girlish. “But I’ve never had the chance to go there to see them with my own eyes. Now... I finally can. Right here. Inside a dungeon. I can’t believe it...”

  “Great. You’ve seen your desert. Can we go back now?”

  The woman’s shoulders slumped slightly as she cast one more lingering glance at the golden landscape. There was the sun, false and burning high. There were the dunes, boundless and ever-changing. And there, in the middle of it all, loomed a massive block of stone—Khenemhotep’s great tomb. A fortress of the dead, encircled by towering walls, its oppressive presence left no doubt that it was the inevitable destination for any who dared set foot in the domain of the undead priest.

  The way to the mortuary complex was not empty. The desert between was dotted with half-buried ruins, broken pillars and crumbling archways rising from the sand. Such a layout was no accident, of course. Those ruins played the same role as the islands in the water realm: to make the place more inviting to the adventurers. Instead of slogging through the scorching desert to reach the tomb, they could hop from one ruin to the next. A few enemies to fight, a chest of gold to dig up, a shaded spot to rest. After all, nothing pleased people more than being able to measure their progress.

  “How about we go there?” Brynhildr said, pointing toward the nearest structure, sun-bleached remnants of a shrine, half-consumed by the sand.

  Dagnar grimaced. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

  “You said that you were going to train, didn’t you? But we haven’t fought a single thing down here yet. How is it training if we just come here, stare at the scenery, and leave?”

  Dagnar spat. The glob of saliva hissed as it struck the hot sand. “Fine. But only there. No more. Even if it’s empty, we go back. I’m sick of this heat. I’m sick of this stupid dungeon. And I’m sick of you.”

  Brynhildr gave a nod. “Promise.”

  And so, they began their march.

  “Celeste, what do we have in that ruin?” Viktor asked.

  [There is already another party there, Master, and they are currently engaged with a group of skeletons.]

  Oh? He moved his vision forward, ahead of Brynhildr and her insufferable nephew. Their plodding journey across the sand was probably uneventful, and he had no interest in spending even one more minute staring at that man-child’s sulking face. So watching other people’s fights while waiting for them to get there would definitely be a far better use of his time.

  Sure enough, the place was alive with motion. Steel flashing, wood spinning, bones flying everywhere.

  And, as it turned out, he knew these people.

  A mountain of a man who swung his massive curved sword with brutal ease. A young woman with two buns atop her head, dancing between enemies with her steel-capped staff. A bald Southerner, skin dark as obsidian, eyes keen as a hawk’s.

  And.

  A woman with a tattoo curling across her right cheek.

  The Druidess.