The meeting broke apart in a storm of orders and marching boots.
Officers barked commands, runners sprinted into the ruins, and already the chosen were being gathered. Yet even before the first hundred men had formed ranks, the dungeon stirred again.
A distant screech tore through the air, followed by the unnatural sound of claws raking across ice. Shadows spilled from alleys and broken gates.
Then they came.
Not in silence, not in glory—but in a tide. [Ashfang Horrors], [Famine Shades], and twisted beasts of frozen sinew poured toward us like a black river, their howls clawing at the very sky.
But the earth beneath my boots did not quake. The walls did not shiver. This was not their final strike. It was a distraction—their last, desperate gambit to drown us before the ritual could begin.
"So this is your last resolve?" I grinned, raising my blade as the first row of monsters came into view. Mana flared along the steel, singing with heat. "Then let it be tested against mine."
I surged forward, and the ground sang with my charge.
Around me, veterans who could barely stand straight minutes ago found new fire in their veins. Imperial shields slammed down beside me, spears leveled, banners whipping in the wind. Bloodied, exhausted, starving—yet they shouted like lions facing jackals.
Behind us, the formation took shape. Two thousand chosen soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, their armor glinting dully in the dying light.
Mages hurried among them, chanting the first binding incantations. Runes carved hastily into the ground began to glow a deep, ominous blue.
The girl—small, trembling, yet unyielding—took her place at the heart of the ritual circle. She raised her staff, and lines of light spread outward like roots, linking man to man, mage to mage.
But the monsters did not wait. Their claws slammed into shields, their fangs screeched against steel, their shadows slid like knives between our ranks.
I cut one down, then another, my sword burning with each strike. Ash burst into the air, stinging my throat, but I did not falter.
"Hold!" I roared, mana amplifying my voice across the chaos. "Hold the line! Every heartbeat you give feeds the fire that will end this wall!"
The clang of steel and the screams of dying beasts blurred into a single sound—like a storm raging behind me. I felt it only dimly. My focus burned elsewhere—on the pulse of power gathering in the circle.
The chosen stood locked in their places, their armor glowing faintly as spell-lines wove across their bodies.
Their eyes were blank, yet full of fire, as if their very souls were being pulled through a funnel. The mages sang louder, their voices trembling from strain as runes burst into brilliance, etching themselves across the icy ground.
At the center, the girl raised her staff higher. She was no longer trembling—she was radiant, her hair rising as if carried by an invisible wind. Light bled from her eyes, and her voice joined the chorus in a language not meant for mortals.
I turned just in time to see the wall flare. Its surface rippled, black and blue ice shimmering like liquid obsidian. It knew. The fortress itself felt the storm about to crash upon it.
The air grew heavier. The soldiers nearest the circle staggered under the weight of mana. My breath caught as the power pressed against my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.
Even the monsters slowed, their howls twisting into whimpers, their bodies shriveling as the very magic of the dungeon was drawn away from them and into the circle.
Then—silence.
The chanting stopped. The circle blazed white-hot. The world held its breath.
"Majesty," Orion's voice cut through the stillness, hoarse and awed, "give the word."
I raised my sword, and with every ounce of strength left in me, pointed it toward the wall.
"Break it."
The circle exploded into light.
Thousands of souls screamed as one—not in agony, but in defiance. The line of soldiers, the bound mages, the girl at the center—all their lives and wills became a single spear. It surged forward, tearing from the circle as a colossal beam of burning azure-white.
The night itself cracked apart.
It struck the palace wall with the force of a star. For a heartbeat, the world turned white—brighter than the sun.
The wall shuddered, groaned, and then… it screamed. The ice fractured, black veins tearing across its surface. Shards the size of towers rained down as the wall convulsed, split, and finally—collapsed.
When the light faded, only a storm of frost and falling rubble remained.
And through it, for the first time, the gates of the palace lay open before us—and through the fracture, you could see the entrance to the dark building beyond.
———
In a hall of gold and blue icy statues, an old man stood at the center, facing a wooden door. His head scales had turned white with age, and his fingers trembled as he reached for the knob.
Just as he touched it, he turned abruptly toward a youth lying on a giant sofa, watching him with a sad expression.
"Are you sure they destroyed the wall?"
The youth nodded, his eyes dark and deep as wells. "I always gave you updates! But my [EC] are depleted now too…"
The old Scalari King nodded slowly. "It hurts me to leave you — our home of generations." His green robe looked spotless, yet small holes marked its wear. The cloth twirled faintly as the old king spun around.
The young boy stood and walked toward him. "Maybe you'll find a new home in this new tower dungeon."
"We have to," the king replied, sighing. "Even though I'd rather wait for a new dungeon tower to be created in our own land."
A shadow of sorrow crossed his face, and he muttered to himself, "Why in the hell are dungeon towers created so rarely?"
"Hahaha!" The youth burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the grand hall. "Because most of the time—besides a few rare exceptions—only defective dungeons become tower dungeons!"
The king raised a scaled brow. "That's new information. I've never heard of it before. Why is that?"
The youth laughed again and swung an arm around the old man's shoulders. "You see, some dungeons begin with less starting knowledge. They don't understand the specific difference between underground and tower dungeons—"
He paused briefly, as if waiting for a response, then continued as they walked toward a window. "Tower dungeons are called world dungeons in some cultures. It means they're vast! But the problem is—the bigger a dungeon, the more experience and mana it needs for leveling and maintenance."
The king nodded in understanding. "And with just one floor… that's really dangerous."
"Really dangerous," the youth agreed. "They need to create a self-sufficient space. They can't alter each floor like we underground dungeons can. Sooo—" He stretched the word thoughtfully, then shook his head. "There were some tower dungeons in the past that had completely dead floors…"
The king tried to process this information, but before he could ask more—just as a fraction of truth had been revealed—the dungeon core, in its avatar form, silenced him by pulling him into an embrace.
"They're coming. You need to go!"
The king nodded. With uncertain steps, he turned back toward the door, thanked the youth once more, and grasped the handle. With one last look, he grinned at the dungeon.
"You know… when they leave this dungeon—my soldiers will be waiting for them."