The sand worm's maw was a continent of teeth.
Damien hovered in the air, his shadow wings beating against the superheated air, his eyes fixed on the impossible creature below. The worm's mouth stretched across the horizon, a circular pit of darkness lined with rows upon rows of jagged teeth, each one the size of a mountain. The sand poured into its gullet like water down a drain, and the suction it created was so powerful that Damien could feel himself being pulled downward, inch by inch.
He had faced monsters before. He had killed Balor, the Ant King, the Corrupted Spirit, Jörmungandr. all massive.....But this...Was different...It was truly, size over anything else
The worm's body extended beneath the sand, its full length impossible to determine. It could have been miles long. It could have been tens of miles. It could have been hundreds. There was no way to know. The only thing Damien could see was the endless circle of its mouth, and the sand that disappeared into its depths.
"How the fuck does one even begin to kill this thing?" he muttered.
He descended, his daggers materializing in his hands. He aimed for the worm's teeth—if he could destroy those, maybe he could find a way inside. Maybe he could kill it from within.
He struck.
His blade connected with a tooth, and the impact sent a shockwave rippling through the air. The tooth cracked.....but did not break. It was harder than diamond, harder than anything he had ever encountered.
The worm reacted.
Its mouth closed, the teeth interlocking like the gears of some vast, ancient machine. The sand around Damien erupted, and he was forced to fly higher, dodging the sudden rush of debris.
He circled above, his mind racing.
This was not a fight. This was a siege.
He attacked again.
This time, he aimed for the worm's hide....the thick, armored skin that protected its body beneath the sand. He drove his daggers into it with all his strength, the shadow energy surging through his blades.
The skin held.
It was like trying to cut through a mountain. The worm's hide was thick, layered, designed to withstand the pressure of the earth itself. His blades barely scratched it.
The worm responded by diving deeper into the sand, its massive body creating a whirlpool of shifting dunes that threatened to pull Damien under. He flew higher, his wings straining against the suction, his eyes tracking the worm's movements beneath the surface.
It was fast. Faster than anything that size had any right to be.
He chased it.
Hours passed.
Damien attacked the worm from every angle. He struck its teeth. He struck its hide. He struck its eyes....massive, dark orbs that emerged briefly from the sand before disappearing again. Each attack was powerful, precise, devastating.
And each attack was useless.
The worm's body was too vast. Even when he managed to carve a deep wound into its hide, the damage was negligible—a paper cut on a creature the size of a continent. The worm would dive, the sand would cover its wounds, and it would emerge again, unharmed.
Damien was not taking damage. The worm was not fast enough to catch him, not smart enough to trap him. But he was not winning. He was not even making progress.
He landed on a rocky outcropping that jutted from the sand, his chest heaving, his daggers still in his hands.
"This is impossible," he muttered.
He thought of the expeditions that had come before. The Zeus Familia. The Hera Familia. They had reached Floor Seventy-One. They had seen this creature. How had they survived? How had they fought it?
They had not. That was the answer. They had turned back. They had given up.
Because this worm was not a monster. It was a force of nature.
He took to the air again.
This time, he flew higher, ascending until the desert stretched beneath him like a canvas of gold. He could see the worm's body now—not just its mouth, but the vast, serpentine shape that coiled beneath the sand. It was endless. It was infinite.
And then he had an idea.
It was a stupid idea. A reckless idea. But it was the only idea he had.
He was going to cut the worm. All of it. Every single inch.
He descended like a meteor.
His daggers became a blur of motion. He carved through the sand, through the worm's hide, through the layers of muscle and flesh beneath. He did not stop. He did not slow. He kept cutting.
The worm screamed—a sound that shook the very foundations of the floor. It thrashed, its body coiling and uncoiling, trying to throw him off. But Damien held on, his blades carving deeper, wider.
He moved along the worm's body, cutting as he went. He cut through the first segment, then the second, then the third. Each cut was a mile long. Each cut was a battle in itself.
The worm fought back. It dove into the sand, trying to crush him. It surfaced, trying to shake him off. It rolled, trying to bury him. But Damien was relentless. He was not a man anymore. He was a machine of destruction.
Hours passed. The sun did not move. The sand did not cool. The worm did not die.
Damien kept cutting.
He thought of the expeditions that would come after him. The adventurers who would one day stand where he stood. They would have to fight this creature. They would have to survive.
He wondered if they could.
He thought of Orario. Of the people who lived there. Of the gods who ruled there. Of the world that existed beyond the dungeon's walls. He thought of how fragile it all was. How easily it could be destroyed.
He thought of what would have happened if he had never come to this world. If he had never gained the Shadow Monarch's power. If he had never become the God King.
The world would have fallen. The dungeon would have consumed it. The Great Quests would have remained unfinished. The One-Eyed Black Dragon would still be alive.
But he was here. And he was cutting.
He reached the worm's tail.
It was the last segment. The final piece. He had cut through miles of flesh, through layers of armor, through everything the worm had thrown at him. And now he was at the end.
He raised his daggers.
And he cut.
The worm split in two.
The impact was catastrophic. The ground shook. The sand erupted. The sky itself seemed to shudder as the worm's body separated, its two halves falling away from each other, their movements becoming sluggish, then still.
Damien stood on the sand, his chest heaving, his daggers dripping with ichor.
The worm was dead.
But even in death, it squirmed. Its two halves writhed, their nervous systems still firing, their muscles still twitching. It would take hours for them to fully stop moving.
"Damn...You must regenerate at least once a year....For a monster rex."
Damien watched it for a long moment. Then he spoke.
"I am going to call you Olgoi-Khorkhoi."
A nod to the legendary creature of Mongol folklore. The death worm. The monster that lived beneath the sand.
It was fitting.
He turned and walked away, his shadow wings folding against his back.
The battle was over. But the war was far from finished.
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