The return to the surface was a blur of sunlight and fresh air. Their first stop was the guild to turn in their dungeon harvest, followed by the familiar, soot-stained interior of the blacksmithy.
The blacksmith examined Azazel's notched longsword with a critical eye. "This is on its last legs," he grunted. "The core is stressed. For your strength—and your Mythic—you need steel. Iron is too weak." He gestured to a rack. "This one will serve you better."
Azazel picked up the indicated blade. It was a well-balanced steel sword, double-edged, with a sturdy guard and a pommel set with a faintly glowing red gem. "Cool. I'll take this one."
"One gold."
Azazel paid without complaint. "Hey, can you check my spear, too?"
The blacksmith's eyes widened as he handled the dwarven weapon. "Where did you get this, kid? The dungeon? No wonder... This is ancient make. Common in that era, but a rare find now. It's a good piece. Take care of it." He then handed over a box. "Your partner also left orders for me. It's all here."
Back at the inn, Reginleif was waiting. "Let's take a normal guild quest today. Cool with you?"
"Ya," Azazel said, leaning the spear against the wall. "I'm cool with that."
At the guild, Reginleif selected a quest slip. "Ogre elimination. Two of them."
The receptionist smiled. "Haven't seen you two in a while! Very well. The ogres have been harassing a village north of here. Good luck."
A village hunter led them to a stony cave. Inside, a single, hulking ogre was gnawing on a bone.
"Only one. Where's the other?" Azazel whispered.
"Must be out wandering. Let's deal with this one first."
Their coordination was seamless. Reginleif darted in, her blade slicing the ogre's hamstring. As it roared and stumbled, Azazel drove his spear through its calf, pinning it to the cave floor. In one fluid motion, he mounted the creature's back and brought his new sword down on its neck. The steel bit deep, but the cut was messy, leaving the head dangling by a thread of sinew.
"Damn," Azazel muttered, wiping gore from the blade. "This thing can cut, but my swordsmanship is still lacking."
"Let's find the other one."
They followed a trail of broken branches to a river. As they scanned the water, a thunderous crash came from behind. Reginleif shoved Azazel hard to the side as a massive wooden club smashed the ground where he'd been standing.
The second ogre roared.
"What a sneaky bastard!" Azazel snarled, his temper flaring. He planted his feet, gripping the spear. Darkness Mythic surged down his arm, coiling around the shaft like a vortex of hungry shadows. He didn't just throw it; he *released* it. The spear became a black streak, obliterating the ogre's entire upper torso in a spray of viscera. A sharp tug of his will, and the shadowy line he'd created retracted, pulling the spear back to his hand.
"*Now* we're done," he stated, the anger fading into cold satisfaction.
Reginleif just shook her head. "Overkill much?"
After collecting their reward, they restocked supplies. The following day, they trained outside the fortress walls. As they sparred,
Azazel swung his spear, experimenting with faster thrusts. Reginleif stood nearby, practicing fine control over her wind Mythic, spinning her dagger through the air like a boomerang.
Azazel focused, imagining himself moving faster. In a blink, his vision warped — and suddenly he was in front of a tree.
"—What the hell?!" he yelled, rubbing his head where he'd collided with the trunk. "How did I get here? Great… my spear's stuck."
Reginleif stared, wide-eyed. "Azazel... that was a new move. You were so fast, you became like a mist."
***[Narrator]***
To channel Mythic power, one must awaken a *Qliphoth Seed* within their soul.
These seeds bloom along the Tree's roots, granting power at the cost of [ קְלִיפּוֹת]—the husks of reality. The more one ascends, the closer they drift toward godhood… or oblivion.
"You just said 'tree roots'," Azazel resonating . "I need to get used to this."
He tried for thirty minutes with no success. Then he remembered the impulse: the desire for speed, the focus on a shadow. He fixed his gaze on a patch of darkness ahead and willed himself *there*. The world blinked, and he was standing in the shade.
"Hey, you figured it out!" Reginleif called. "So, what triggered it?"
"Well, as usual... it's darkness," he said, catching his breath.
"The shadows. As expected, straightforward as usual."
He twirled the spear. "I'll call it… Voidfool."
Reginleif raised an eyebrow. "Voidfool? Really? That's a stupid name. What about 'Void Step'?"
"I thought of that," Azazel said, smiling faintly. "But there's a card in Tarot called The Fool. It means potential and endless paths — that's what this feels like."
Reginleif sighed. "Fine, philosopher. Just don't confuse people with it."
They trained until sunset, perfecting their forms and laughing between exhaustion and bruises.
That night, they returned to the inn, ate quietly, and fell asleep — ready to face the dungeon again the next day.
The familiar, oppressive air of the dungeon welcomed them back. They made quick time to the 16th floor, where they were met by a clattering band of Skeletons and shrieking, teleporting Imps.
The skeletons were easy, shattering under precise blows. The Imps, however, were a lesson in frustration. They would blink in and out of existence, striking from behind before vanishing again. It was a war of attrition, forcing Azazel and Reginleif to fight back-to-back, anticipating the next flicker of movement.
When the last imp dissolved into purple smoke, Azazel let out a sharp breath. "Imps are so fucking annoying, god damn!"
[Seventeenth Floor — The Sky's Hunger]
The 17th floor was an aerial gauntlet. The cavern ceiling was alive with the flutter of Killer Bats and the shrieking dive of Harpies, while giant insects scuttled below. Reginleif became a whirlwind, using pillars and uneven walls as launchpads to meet the flying threats on their own level. Azazel, adapting, formed shards of Black Ice in his hand and threw them like kunai, each one finding its mark in a bat's wing, sending the creatures crashing to the floor in frozen heaps.
After harvesting what they could, they descended to the 18th floor.
[Eighteenth Floor — The Hollow Legion]
And found an army.
Dozens of Hollow Warriors stood in ragged ranks, their forms spectral and shifting, yet armed with tangible, rusted swords, axes, and wooden shields.
Azazel squinted. "What's the difference between a ghoul and a Hollow Warrior? They look exactly the same."
Reginleif shot him an incredulous look. "Oh, I'm sorry, why are you yapping about differences when there's a whole army in front of us?"
"What, are we not going to talk about the difference?"
Reginleif ignored him, darting forward to engage the first line with lethal efficiency. Azazel stared. "You for real right now? Fine."
He gripped his spear. With a thought, he activated **Voidfool**. The world became a series of dark, blinking instants. He was a phantom pinball, materializing for a split second to deliver a crushing blow or a piercing thrust before vanishing and reappearing elsewhere in the ranks. He carved a chaotic, devastating path through the spectral soldiers.
An hour later, the last Hollow Warrior dissipated. Azazel leaned on his spear, breathing heavily. "Woah, that took forever. And they were actually blocking with those stupid wooden shields."
Reginleif, already collecting the low-grade gems they dropped, simply shook her head. She set up a small, warded camp in a cleared alcove.
"Hey," Azazel said, sitting down. "You never answered my question earlier."
"No, I'm not answering a stupid question like that."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know, you stupid idiot!" she retorted, a hint of genuine exasperation in her voice.
Azazel grinned. "So the idiot doesn't know what the dumbass doesn't know."
Reginleif sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders. "Sometimes you can be exhausting, you know that?"
"Sorry," he said, his tone softening slightly. "Curiosity is something I do. That's why I asked you."
"You and I are in the same boat, learning about different things slowly but surely. You need to remember that I don't know everything."
"Alright, I'll keep that in mind," he conceded. Then, after a pause, "By the way, how old are you?"
She looked at him, a genuine surprise on her face. "All this time, you never tried to ask how old I am."
"No," he replied honestly. "But I'm asking now."
"I'm 17."
Azazel nodded. "I see. So you're a teenager, like me."
Reginleif's eyes widened. "Wait, you're 17 too?"
"I'm 16."
"Oh."
A comfortable, understanding silence fell between them, the simple revelation bridging a gap they hadn't acknowledged was there.
[Nineteenth Floor — The Vermin's Den]
After a few hours of rest and easy conversation, they pressed on to the 19th floor. The air grew thick with the stench of decay and a faint, acrid chemical smell. Before them skittered a pack of Dog Rats—grotesque, rat-like beasts with a strangely canine gait, their fur matted and eyes glowing with a sickly green light.
"Rats," Azazel spat, a visceral disgust in his voice. "I'm just going to kill them all."
He raised a hand, and the very air grew cold. Reginleif felt the surge of his Mythic, a chilling pressure, and understood his intent. She added her own power to his, using her Wind Mythic to guide and concentrate the frigid air, creating a vortex.
"**Abyssal Vortex!**" Azazel commanded.
A swirling, dark-watery maelstrom erupted in the center of the pack, sucking the Dog Rats into its core. The initial pull damaged them, but as Azazel held the technique, channeling more power, pillars of icy water shot out from the vortex, flash-freezing every last creature in a prison of solid, black ice.
The technique ended. Azazel gasped, his right hand and forearm completely encased in a rime of his own dark frost, the skin beneath numb and burning with cold.
Reginleif was at his side in an instant, using carefully controlled gusts of wind to crack and break the ice from his arm. "You hate rats *that much* to go this far?"
"The toxic buildup..." he gritted out, flexing his feeling back into his fingers. "It would have hurt like hell if either of us got bitten."
"We have healing potions and antidotes! What's the point of stocking up if we don't use them?"
Azazel gave a weak shrug. "I always forget we have that bag."
Reginleif rummaged in the magic bag, retrieved a healing potion, and poured the glowing liquid over his frostbitten hand. "How does it feel?"
"Good," he said, the color and sensation returning. "Thanks."
"Cool. Now... the boss floor. Are you ready for this?"
A fierce, determined light returned to Azazel's eyes. "Hell yeah. Our plan is simple, Reginleif. Use your Wind Mythic to contain the poison gas. That's our only shot at beating the god-damned hound that nobody can beat."
They turned to the massive, rune-carved gate that marked the entrance to the 20th floor. The air hummed with malevolent energy. They shared a final, determined glance, their breaths misting in the suddenly frigid air.
They pushed the gates open, and stepped into the boss's lair.
(End of Chapter)☯️