The descent from the Fifty-Second Floor to the Fifty-Eighth Floor was the most grueling trial Damien had faced since entering the dungeon.
It wasn't that the monsters were particularly stronger than anything he'd encountered before. They were strong, yes formidable, even but nothing an expedition of first-rate adventurers couldn't handle with proper tactics and coordination.
The problem was something else entirely.
"INCOMING!"
Someone's scream echoed through the corridor as another column of flame erupted from the ground, forcing adventurers to scatter in every direction. The fire wasn't aimed at them—not directly. It was being fired through the floors, punching up from the depths below like nature's most violent artillery.
Damien dodged left as another flame burst through the stone where he'd been standing. His daggers flashed, cutting down a Venom Scorpion that had used the chaos to creep close, its massive stinger dripping with paralytic poison.
"I'M GOING TO RIP THOSE BASTARDS APART!" he roared, frustration finally breaking through his composure.
The Valgang Dragons on the Fifty-Eighth Floor had locked onto the expedition's position. From their nests deep in the Dragon's Vase, they were firing flares of destruction through multiple floors all the way up to the Fifty-Second. The flames punched through stone and earth with terrifying accuracy, forcing the entire expedition to run a gauntlet of constant, unpredictable bombardment.
And that was just the floor problem.
The corridors of the Dragon's Vase were oddly well-structured, almost architectural in their design, as if some ancient civilization had carved paths specifically to funnel adventurers into kill zones. Through these corridors, the expedition had to fight.
Venom Scorpions lurked in every shadow, their massive forms blending with the darkness until they struck. Their stingers could paralyze a Level 4 in seconds, and their claws could crush bone even through enchanted armor.
The Silver Worms were worse.
Massive serpents with gleaming metallic hides, they preferred ambushes above all else. A corridor that seemed empty would suddenly erupt with serpentine fury as a Silver Worm burst through the wall, floor, or ceiling. Their fangs injected venom that didn't paralyze....it melted flesh from bone.
And the Thunder Snakes...
"LIGHTNING!" someone shouted.
Damien saw the blue-white arc before he heard the crackle. A Thunder Snake, coiled in the corner, released a bolt of electricity that jumped between three adventurers before they could dodge. They fell screaming, muscles seizing, as the snake slithered forward to finish them.
Vritra was there before Damien could move. The shadow dragon's claws closed around the snake and squeezed, crushing it into sparking paste.
But the worst....the absolute worst were the Ill Wyverns.
Bluish-purple dragons three meters long, they filled the air like locusts. Their favorite tactic was simple: hover at the edge of range and spam barrages of fireballs until whatever was below stopped moving. The fireballs weren't as powerful as the Valgang Dragons' flares, but there were so many of them.
This was the area that truly distinguished first-rate adventurers from second-raters. Level meant nothing here. Stats meant nothing. If you didn't have instinct—pure, primal, life-honed instinct—you died.
Damien had that instinct.
His skill, Mind's Eye, made the chaos almost beautiful. He could see the attacks before they came—the trajectory of a fireball, the eruption point of a Valgang flare, the strike pattern of a hidden scorpion. He moved through the carnage like water flowing around stones, his daggers always finding the exact right place at the exact right time.
But Mind's Eye applied only to him.
So while he could dance through hell untouched, everyone around him was struggling. And Damien couldn't wouldn't let them die.
He became a blur.
A Valgang flare erupted beneath a group of Loki Familia adventurers. Damien was there before the flame finished rising, his shadows extending to pull them clear. An Ill Wyvern lined up a shot on Riveria as she cast healing magic. Damien appeared on its back, daggers driving through its skull before it could release. A Venom Scorpion lunged at Tiona from behind. Damien's boot caught its face, redirecting the strike into a wall where Tione's blades waited.
"Damien!" Tiona called out as he blurred past. "You're everywhere!"
"Someone has to be!" he shouted back, already gone.
Vritra aided where she could, her massive form a weapon against the Ill Wyverns that swarmed too close. But even she couldn't be everywhere at once. The expedition pressed on, step by agonizing step, through corridors of fire and fang.
It was straining him.
More than any single battle, more than any boss fight, this endless gauntlet of chaos was pushing Damien to his limits. His stamina drained with every rescue, every kill, every prediction. His shadows fought constantly, cutting down monsters that broke through the line. His mind raced at full capacity, processing a dozen threats per second.
But he didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Not while people depended on him.
Hours passed.
Time lost meaning in the Dragon's Vase. There was only the next corridor, the next ambush, the next flare. Adventurers fell—not to death, thankfully, but to exhaustion and injury. They were carried by their comrades, healed by Riveria and the other mages, pushed forward by sheer determination.
And then, finally, impossibly...
The expedition stumbled into a vast chamber.
The corridor opened into space, and ahead of them, carved into the living rock, was an entrance. Massive stone doors, ancient and worn, stood slightly ajar. Beyond them, darkness promised new horrors.
But also, somewhere in that darkness, the Fifty-Eighth Floor.
Damien stopped at the threshold, breathing hard. Blood—not all of it his—coated his clothes. His daggers had been cleaned so many times by his shadows that he'd lost count. Every muscle screamed for rest.
Behind him, the expedition gathered. Weary. Wounded. But alive.
"We made it," Tiona breathed, disbelief in her voice.
Riveria moved to Damien's side, her jade eyes studying him with concern. "You need rest."
"Later." He stared into the darkness beyond the doors. "The Valgang Dragons are in there. The ones who've been shooting at us for hours." A slow, dangerous smile crossed his exhausted features. "I owe them something."
Tione groaned. "Of course you do."
Ais said nothing, but her golden eyes gleamed with anticipation. Battle waited ahead. That was enough.
Damien looked back at the expedition—at the adventurers who had trusted him, followed him, survived because of him. Then he looked forward, into the darkness where dragons waited.
"Let's go," he said. "We're not done yet."
...
Rushing down to Floor Fifty-Eight, Damien, Ais, Tiona, Tione, Riveria, Finn, and Gareth were the only ones to enter. Everyone else was resting, their stamina spent after the grueling gauntlet through the Dragon's Vase. The seven of them had opted to form a party of elite members to go ahead and wipe out as many Valgang Dragons as they could before the dragons could launch another barrage at the exhausted expedition.
However...
What awaited them there was something else entirely.
Regret.
Anger.
And Loss.
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