Question: What do you do when a boss suddenly starts charging an ultimate attack in front of you, and you can tell at a glance that it's about to be catastrophic?
Answer: Who has time for a proper answer? Get over there and start hacking!
The moment everyone saw the Deacons of the Deep begin gathering their magic in unison, the same thought hit all of them at once.
If they couldn't interrupt this, they were finished.
Sein Dungeon seemed to have anticipated exactly that.
A ring of Aldrich's Corrupted Flesh gathered around the Deacons. Dark purple-black energy of the Deep rose into the air and coalesced into a protective barrier, sealing off incoming attacks.
The objective wasn't complicated on paper — throw everything they had at the barrier, break it, kill the Archdeacon, interrupt the cast.
Sein, naturally, had accounted for more than that.
Specifically, for people who'd skipped the intended route.
"Pfft! Pfft!"
The enormous coffin erupted like a volcano, hurling masses of black flesh through the air. Mid-fall, each mass twisted and reformed, hitting the ground as fully realized monsters.
Corpse Grubs. Hollow soldiers. Cathedral Knights. Worm-faced creatures.
Every monster type they'd already fought through today, appearing one after another — and matching the Deacons' remaining count exactly.
They didn't even wait to fully land before throwing themselves at the adventurers.
The Corrupted Flesh monsters carried identical stats to their originals, plus a Berserk buff layered on top — and a targeting priority locked onto whichever adventurer registered as weakest.
The final mechanic.
Anyone judged to have skipped the intended route would face reinforced monsters spawned from Corrupted Flesh mid-fight, alongside an accelerated cast timer on the Deacons' ultimate.
How the dungeon determined "skipped the route": if an adventurer had never lowered both gates through legitimate exploration — either in a previous run or the current one — and instead walked straight to the Deacons, they got flagged. If they'd lowered the gates in an earlier visit and skipped it this time, the penalty scaled down — weaker enhanced monsters, or half the usual volume of Corrupted Flesh.
One more condition existed. If Fingri's group hadn't personally killed both Giant Slaves before reaching the Deacons, both giants would join the fight too — an additional layer of punishment for the shortcut.
It sounded like a lot of overlapping rules on paper. In practice, the penalty rarely escalated to genuinely brutal levels. Only the maximum penalty stacked with both Giant Slaves reached "difficult." The reasoning was simple: the Deacons already possessed an instant-kill skill that was hard enough to use cleanly in a normal fight. Accelerating that cast further under the skip penalty was already plenty. Pushing it harder would just be excessive — better to save the extra cruelty for somewhere else.
"How are we supposed to fight this many?!"
Tusk was on the verge of a breakdown. He'd noticed the Cathedral Knights bearing down specifically on his group.
What was this — targeting the weakest link on purpose?
Running wasn't dignified, but it worked. Bone Fang had no choice left but retreat. Even a single Worm-faced creature alone was already a serious headache.
Watching the flood of monsters pour in, Fingri exhaled and turned to Matilda.
"They'll have to see it, Matilda."
Aleya jumped in place, her scarecrow expression cycling through several distinct shapes of there has to be another option — can't we just not have Matilda go full-serious yet?
Fingri shook his head. No point hiding it any longer. What if they actually pulled off a win here? They'd already cracked the red-light secret. Maybe they could clear the boss on the first real attempt.
Matilda said nothing. She knelt on one knee and pressed her palm flat against the stone.
Aleya squeezed her eyes shut, remembering her own first time watching Matilda go serious.
Her reaction back then had been: That's a weapon?!
Fingri carried the title "Flash" for his unsettling Flash-magic tactics.
Matilda's title — Hell March — came from the effects of her own Weapon.
Red rings lit up across the ground, one after another, spreading outward like ripples on water until they'd swallowed the entire battlefield.
For a moment, everyone's thoughts went hazy.
"I'll go steady them. Keep Matilda's stamina topped up," Fingri said, already moving toward Tusk's group.
Watching the strange phenomenon spread, Tusk asked, "What's happening?"
Then something clicked, and his eyes went wide.
"Wait — is that legend about Weapons actually real?"
"Yes. We weren't hiding it deliberately," Fingri said. "It's just genuinely not usable under normal circumstances. Matilda's Weapon is called Hell March — the armor itself. Its effect summons the dead who once caused her harm, and forces them to fight at her side."
As he spoke, more than a dozen red silhouettes had already materialized around Matilda — men and women, young and old, all rushing toward the incoming monsters. Some were swatted apart instantly by Worm-faced creatures. Others held their own against Cathedral Knights.
Clearly, the phantoms' strength varied wildly.
"The dead keep whatever strength they held before dying. Weaker ones sometimes come back stronger than they were. Stronger ones can never exceed Matilda's own current strength."
"Oh…" Tusk nodded blankly.
The last time he'd seen anything like a Weapon had been through a different Gold-Rank party. But a question kept nagging at him. There'd been a rumor going around that Matilda had been cut from her old party specifically because of this Weapon. But Hell March's effect, on paper, didn't seem that extreme — a necromancer's magic was arguably worse.
So why the exile?
Fingri seemed to read the question off his face.
"I'd recommend everyone close their eyes for what's coming. You really don't want to watch this part."
"Why?"
"Because Matilda hasn't fully mastered the Weapon yet. There's a side effect when she activates it."
As he spoke, red phantoms began appearing beside every adventurer standing within range of the red aura.
Fingri shrugged.
"Like this. Hell March applies to all of you too."
That didn't sound so bad, honestly. Summoning the specific dead people who'd once hurt you to fight beside you was awkward, sure. Embarrassing, maybe.
But not exile-worthy.
Fingri just smiled and said nothing.
He turned to look at the hundreds of shapes slowly taking form in front of him, and something wistful crossed his face.
"Turns out everyone who ever hurt me is still alive out there…"
Tusk stared at the phantom forming in front of him, confusion giving way to disbelief.
"Who could I possibly— Grandma?!"
His brain simply stopped.
A kind-faced elderly woman stood before him. His grandmother — the person who'd loved him most as a child, gone years earlier to a long illness.
The moment recognition hit, something in his chest tore open.
"Mom?!"
"My sister?"
"W-wife?!"
Exclamations broke out across the battlefield. Every adventurer was suddenly face-to-face with the dead they carried buried inside themselves.
Hell March's summoning condition was, specifically, a dead person who had "caused harm." Which covered both physical injury and something far broader — grief. Emotional wounds. Loss. Trauma that never fully closed.
In some traditions, seeing the dead again was considered a miracle. Reunion with a lost loved one might have brought joy under other circumstances.
But Hell March had one non-negotiable condition: the summoned dead had to hurt the summoner.
Otherwise, what would even be hellish about it?
Elsewhere, adventurers who'd seen their deceased loved ones had already broken down entirely, sobbing as though something physical was being pulled out of their chests.
Tusk had been holding on by sheer will.
Then his grandmother's gentle, warm expression flickered — and reformed into the ravaged, agonized face she'd worn in her final days. The exact image capable of hurting him most.
That was the moment he lost it completely. Tears came without permission.
Watching the reaction ripple across the group, Fingri thought privately: Sorry. I'll make it up to everyone once we're out of here.
Hell March, functionally, weaponized grief. Every activation forced everyone nearby to relive the specific pain of losing someone they'd loved — and the deeper that wound ran, the stronger the resulting phantom became.
It ripped old scars open, over and over, without asking permission.
No ordinary person could withstand that pattern repeated indefinitely. That was exactly why Matilda had never lasted in a normal party.
Fortunately, she'd found Fingri and Aleya.
Aleya hadn't summoned a single phantom.
Fingri had summoned hundreds.
Old people. Adults. Children. Every one of them wearing genuine, easy smiles. Similar clothing. Faces that shared a family resemblance running through the whole crowd.
The villagers from Fingri's hometown.
"Mr. Fingri — why don't you—"
Tusk fought to keep his eyes off his grandmother mid-fight and redirected the question toward Fingri instead.
"I've gotten used to it."
Fingri blinked.
The villagers before him shifted. Their plain, honest faces twisted, monstrous traits blooming across their bodies one after another until they'd fully transformed into grotesque beasts — heads thrown back, howling toward the ceiling.
Tusk flinched hard, cold sweat breaking across his skin.
"W-what's happening?!"
Fingri clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Years back, I got cursed protecting my party. Left me unable to keep adventuring, so the leader cut me loose. I spent a long stretch depressed after that. Thought about heading home, taking up farming. My village had always treated me well — figured they'd take me back even coming home with nothing to show for it."
He paused.
"When I actually got there — the village was gone. Overrun with monsters. Nearly got killed myself. A mercenary patrol happened to be passing through and pulled me out in time. Fought alongside them, cleared the monsters out. Afterward, their captain told me those monsters had been the villagers. Corrupted into that shape by some rogue mage."
Hundreds of transformed villagers charged the Corrupted Flesh monsters. More of them slammed against the barrier protecting the Deacons. For a moment, the entire arena filled with terrible howling.
Tusk understood the implication.
He'd personally killed the people from his own village.
Probably the moment to shut up.
"Alright, don't get all heavy about it — that's ancient history at this point," Fingri said, delivering a hearty slap to Tusk's back and his default bright, sunny grin. "Honestly, I feel lucky Matilda's ability lets me see them all again."
Tusk went quiet. He'd only seen his grandmother once and it had wrecked him.
Fingri had seen his entire village.
"Mr. Fingri — who were the mercenaries that saved you?"
"Why the sudden interest? They weren't anyone famous back then."
He lifted both arms and flapped them slowly like wings.
"Light Eagle Corps. Back then they were still calling themselves White Eagle."
"Their commander — Eliphis — told me mid-fight that the monsters were transformed villagers, and their weak point was the head."
Fingri looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
"Never imagined back then he'd end up someone this important to the kingdom. Shame I still haven't tracked down the mage who did it."
"What would you do if you found him?" Tusk asked — and immediately regretted the question the second it left his mouth.
Fingri considered it seriously.
"Maybe feed him to Aldrich. No — actually, maybe get Wolnir to bite him in half. Wait. The Abyss Watchers wouldn't be a bad option either."
He sank into genuine contemplation.
Meanwhile, Matilda's stamina had started running dry. Aleya pulled a seed from her pouch and threw it at her — instant recovery, energy fully restored.
"Vigor Vine."
Aleya's signature creation. She insisted on fielding her personally cultivated plants in combat wherever possible, and Vigor Vine was the crown of that research — instantly restoring vitality to the point where a person could theoretically run three days and nights without tiring.
Ordinary bodies, unfortunately, tended to simply explode from the overload shortly after consuming it.
Only something on the scale of Matilda's Weapon actually needed that much raw stamina in one sitting. The two abilities complemented each other almost too perfectly.
As for Fingri — he summoned the most phantoms of the three by a wide margin, over a hundred, and his mutated villagers hit reasonably hard on top of it. He also, genuinely, enjoyed the reunion each time.
Together, the three of them formed a team with a synergy so strange it barely made sense on paper — and had carried all three of them to Gold Rank regardless.
Whenever Hell March activated, it meant the Hasavi Party had finally stopped holding back.
What followed was best described as a race against death.
Phantoms and monsters collided across the battlefield in miniature war, howling filling every corner, the line between "monster" and "combatant" dissolving entirely.
With the phantoms clearing a path, Fingri closed on the Deacons' barrier — practically the ideal setup for standing still and pouring everything into a single sustained attack. He planted his feet and hacked without pause.
The barrier flickered violently under the pressure.
Matilda couldn't sustain full Hell Warrior output — no, Hell March — while also fighting at full strength. She shifted to clearing the weaker enemies instead.
Things looked to be tilting in their favor.
But the dark storm clouds the Deacons had summoned had already swallowed the entire arena. A growing, ominous pressure kept accumulating in everyone's chest.
Once that pressure hit its ceiling — that was the moment they died.
Fingri asked Aleya for another Vigor Vine and swallowed it without hesitation. His whole body flushed bright red. His twin blades moved fast enough to outrun the naked eye completely.
The barrier flickered faster.
Faster.
Approaching its breaking point.
The Vigor Vine's toll caught up with him — a mouthful of blood forced up his throat.
Aldrich's coffin erupted again, spitting out more Corrupted Flesh, and this time layering Deep magic on top of the assault.
Fingri didn't dodge. Stopping meant losing every ounce of momentum he'd built for Gravity Slash.
Even mid-cast, the Deacons couldn't escape the gravity pull tightening around Fingri's position. One by one, they slid across the ground toward him — the Archdeacon most of all, dragged from the center of the formation almost all the way to the barrier's inner edge.
Exactly what Fingri wanted. He needed the Archdeacon pinned against the wall, close enough to finish fast.
Then —
The dark clouds overhead contracted sharply. Then expanded, all at once.
Every adventurer's body seized.
Blood sprayed from eyes, ears, nose, mouth simultaneously.
The Deacons' ultimate had reached the halfway mark.
They were about to be instantly killed.
Everyone threw everything remaining into the barrier. It looked ready to give — like Wolnir's bracelets had, holding onto some final stubborn thread of strength that refused to snap.
At this point, nobody but Fingri and Aleya had anything left but pure resolve.
We already had our deepest wounds torn open just to be standing here. If we don't kill these things now, none of it means anything.
This was the moment for the finishing blow.
"Break — for me!"
Fingri roared. Blood burst from his body under the Vigor Vine's strain as he swung with everything he had. The phantom villagers behind him roared in unison.
CRACK!
A crisp, clean shatter.
The barrier disintegrated instantly. The Deacons of the Deep stood exposed.
Fingri cut off mid-swing and, faster than anyone could track, drove his blade straight through the Archdeacon's chest.
At the same moment, Matilda reshaped most of her armor into a giant spear and hurled it forward with every last drop of strength she had left.
Target: the Archdeacon's head.
HEADSHOT.
The wound was catastrophic. Bone Fang broke into cheers — there was no possible way anything survived a hit that severe.
Everyone watched, expectant.
Fingri sighed.
He already knew.
Sein Dungeon's monsters didn't play by conventional rules of injury severity. And the Deacons of the Deep were among the most sinister of all.
They'd still been a step too slow.
The Archdeacon's head had already been blown apart — only the lower half of his face remained.
That remaining half curled into a grin.
His staff rose, slow and deliberate.
The dark clouds above descended.
"This is way too damn hard…"
Fingri exhaled, long and exhausted, right before the arena vanished entirely into darkness.
At the same time, elsewhere in the Cathedral of the Deep —
The story cut to a different party entirely.
"This is kind of easy, actually."
Leon and his group watched the Deacons of the Deep dissolve steadily into ash, one after another.
They couldn't help sinking into thought.
Leon muttered, half to himself:
"Is there a second phase we're not seeing?"
They'd cleared the dungeon step by step, following the intended route in full. No skip penalty had ever applied to their run.
Then — an unusually crafted—