During the Abyssal Plague, dungeons were among the most prominent manifestations of the Abyss.
If you were to interview creatures from the Material Plane who survived the Abyss's large-scale invasion, their deepest impression of the Plague would likely be either the swarming hordes of lesser demons or the Abyssal outpost dungeons. Before understanding the Abyss was thorough, Planescape's inhabitants once believed the Abyss was a realm dotted with dungeons, where all demons resided within one city or another—but this was utterly mistaken.
The first mage capable of entering the Abyss recorded his astonishment upon discovering its vastness and inhospitable environment. As far as the eye could see, not a single structure was visible.
Dungeons are the Abyss's outposts, and nothing more.
Dungeon cores are born under the will of the Abyss, natural phenomena belonging to the Abyss like the existence of fiendish spawn. The birth cycles of dungeons follow distinct patterns. They are rarely seen in the Abyss during ordinary times, appearing in vast numbers only when the Abyss launches massive invasions of the Material Plane, spreading like a plague and proliferating wildly across the Material Plane.
Even outside demonic calamities, the Abyss sporadically spawns dungeons, though they seldom endure. The mindless hordes of monsters are sufficient to trample every wall flat. The ever-shifting natural environment transforms the surface terrain into something entirely different within weeks—or even days. Two or more demons may clash at any moment, altering the landscape in an instant, turning seas into fields and fields into seas... Maintaining a functional structure in the Abyss is akin to building a house in a year-round typhoon zone—it demands immense cost.
The Abyssal dwellers' concept of "shelter" differs drastically from most Planes of the Material Plane creatures, rendering dungeons unpopular.
Even when ascending to Archfiend status, hellhounds still favor caves, shadow fiends still gravitate toward chaotic zones formed by countless spatial rifts, and entities like the Reaper prefer tombs. Mundane cities are far too fragile compared to most Archfiends themselves, rendering them largely useless. Only a few outliers, such as the Abyssal mages known as Fiend Mages, require a city to house libraries, laboratories, and experimental specimens.
However, this doesn't mean the Wrath Demon Saemon is unfamiliar with dungeons.
Demon Spawn share many similarities with dungeon cores. Both originate in regions protected by the laws of the Abyss—birthplaces accessible only to nascent dungeons and Demon Spawn, with matured fiends struggling to enter. Dungeons also share similarities with demons—both possess boundaries. Primitive dungeons lack self-awareness, existing solely on instinct, and require significant growth to evolve. Yet once the "newbie protection period" ends, demon spawn have matured into rampaging creatures, while dungeons remain immobile structures. Before these nascent dungeons develop self-will, they become prime targets.
Most demons hold no interest in possessing cities, yet the core of a dungeon contains energy that circulates like a universal currency. While mages and artisans of the Material Plane must devise methods to extract this energy, demons need not concern themselves. Originating from the same Abyss, they simply consume it whole.
Over his long demonic existence, Simon had devoured several dungeons—some newly born, others with masters. He knew the taste of those crimson stones, and he knew what happened to dungeons with masters—it was more troublesome, but Simon always devoured them in the end. He always managed.
Dungeons fortunate enough to avoid such consumption usually had masters—a master being the primary reason a dungeon survived—either demons or charmed creatures from the Material Plane. They bound themselves to the dungeon core through a pact, becoming its masters and thereby erasing any chance of the dungeon developing its own will.
Take the analogy of Eastern immortals: like rare treasures of heaven and earth, they start with high potential but rarely have the luck to fully manifest their essence. Nine times out of ten, they're claimed by other powerful beings to become magical artifacts. Dungeons may not be quite so sophisticated, but the principle remains the same—who would refuse such a windfall?
The Wrath Demon Saimon had never witnessed a mature, ownerless dungeon, but it had heard of what such dungeons might evolve into: much like monsters transforming into demons, a dungeon core without a master would slowly mutate, giving birth to a Nest Mother.
Nest Mothers are unseen in the Abyss itself; all dungeons there perish prematurely, becoming either fodder or training grounds. Yet among dungeons abandoned by their masters in the mortal realm, such cases have occurred. When a master perishes but the core remains, the dungeon, after a long recovery, resumes functioning and quietly develops self-awareness.
However, no great demon has ever evolved from a Nest Mother.
Was it because the Nest Mother's intelligence remained instinctual? Was it because the dungeon's fleshy nature prevented any Nest Mother from surviving long enough to evolve? Or was it because those dungeons lingered too long far from the Abyss? Simon didn't know, nor did he have the slightest interest in finding out. In any case, dungeons were mostly treated as useful special structures rather than distinct monsters.
When the Wrath Demon Simon recognized the creature before him as a Nest Mother, it didn't raise its guard at all.
Of course it was a Nest Mother. The winged female was one with the dungeon; the Wrath Demon instinctively knew this. The Nest Mother's presence meant Victor hadn't contracted with this dungeon at all. He was likely too severely injured to even form such a bond. The Nest Mother appeared in response to Simon's questioning and answered his queries. This suggested she had likely awakened recently and obeyed the Abyssal visitor without question—a natural tendency, as Abyssal creations inherently lean toward the Abyss.
Many of these judgments contained unconfirmed assumptions, taken for granted, but that was the nature of the Wrath Demon. They possess normal intelligence, some even capable of cunning, but when enraged, they grow indifferent to most details. The angrier a Wrath Demon grows, the stronger its combat prowess becomes, yet its thought process grows increasingly linear.
At this moment, the Horned Wrath Demon named Simon was furious.
"Lead the way!" the Wrath Demon commanded. "To the dungeon's core!"
The expressionless Broodmother obeyed.
The winged Broodmother led the way, with Simon following, still clutching Victor. They traversed dark passages devoid of life, corridors devoid even of torches, pitch-black like ruins. After another turn, the space ahead suddenly opened up.
Though no torches were lit here, the hall remained clearly visible under a faint, eerie glow. In the center of the vast chamber, a pool of blue-tinged water reflected the red stone suspended above. The giant bloodstone radiated a dazzling light, emanating an alluring, magical power.
The dungeon's core was within sight. Simon stepped forward, walking all the way to the edge of the magic pool.
"So you haven't claimed this dungeon after all," the Wrath Demon snorted coldly.
Victor had remained silent throughout the journey, limp in the Wrath Demon's claws as if finally drained of his defiant energy. Not a sound escaped him now. The Wrath Demon's fury finally subsided slightly, allowing him to consider matters beyond mere destruction. Two pitch-black eyes fixed on the massive core not far away. The demon lord's perception swept across the entire Magic Pool, across the entire dungeon core, arriving at the same conclusion as before.
This was an incomplete yet remarkably pure dungeon, with no living being having left its mark within the core. Time and the events unfolding above had carried away its former masters. During these centuries of isolation, the essence of the Abyss had been swept away entirely—an unprecedented occurrence, much like the severing of the Abyssal Passage itself. Had not the demonic descendants who had lived for generations on the surface been assimilated by the Material Plane? Viewed this way, the situation became understandable.
The Broodmother stood motionless beside the pool of magic, her gaze unfocused. This newly born dungeon consciousness seemed driven solely by primal instinct. Earlier, it had obeyed Victor's commands even without a contract, and now it followed Simon's—quite convenient. "Idiot," Victor muttered under his breath, seemingly afraid to provoke Simon further, so he took it out on the Nest Mother instead. "Wait to be devoured!"
This reminded Simon.
Opening its maw could devour it, but doing so would merely add another dungeon core's energy at best. As a demon lord, Simon found a single dungeon core barely worth mentioning. Like rune materials, extracting it yielded limited value, yet left in place it formed a far more potent magical array.
Before gaining deeper insight into the Material Plane, before the Abyssal Passage fully opened and other demon lords emerged onto the surface, this dungeon stood as the Abyss's sole foothold in the mortal realm.
Once it was his, Victor's bargaining chips—his "host" status and home-field advantage—would all belong to Simon.
Demons were a self-centered lot, collaborating for profit and attacking each other for gain—the law of the jungle had always been thus. The bastard left behind could force Simon to scout here; Simon, having come here, could certainly seize every advantage encountered. In less than a second, the Wrathlord made its decision.
It kept a watchful eye, scanning the entire hall. Only their group remained within the hall. The demon's senses detected no trace of other living beings. There were no traps nearby, no hidden ambushes. Only the Broodmother stood motionless beside them, oblivious to all the Wrath Demon's actions. As Victor seemed poised to speak again, Simon scooped him up and hurled him aside, snapping off a stone pillar from the hall's edge to crush the flat book beneath it. The former Serpent of Lies let out a muffled groan, unable to speak further.
After completing this, Simon returned to the pool of magic and extended his claw.
The sharp claw opened, grasping the suspended dungeon core. The Wrath Demon's soul began to probe into the core. It was empty inside, the power pure and easily grasped, like an open treasure vault awaiting its master. Simon unapologetically allowed his soul to coil around it, preparing to claim the core as his own.
This would be a remarkably swift process.
The ensnared creatures of the Material Plane required lengthy mastering rituals. Their bonding with the dungeon core took a full day and night, during which the dungeon's internal creations would advance from the outer layers inward, testing the new master's worthiness. Even for a Lich settling into a dungeon, the process took considerable time. While imprinting their mark, they would reshape the dungeon's environment. These perfectionist, overly confident, and fastidious demons would spend months etching their markings. By the time it was complete, the dungeon itself would be further upgraded, its combat power elevated to new heights.
As a Demon Lord with no interest in shaping his living environment, the Wrath Demon Simon needed only to engrave his soul mark into the dungeon core.
It employed the most direct and brutal method: the Wrath Demon's soul would cleave through the outer shell like a dagger, piercing straight to the core. It would spread its corruption, forcing the host to synchronize with its essence—a crude act akin to a child marking food with teeth and saliva. This was the standard method demons used to taint anything. The advantage was that it took less than ten minutes; the disadvantage was...
Within the hall, behind the Wrath Demon, a faint candle flame flickered to life.
Only when the flame ignited did onlookers realize it hadn't appeared suddenly—it had been burning all along, unnoticed for reasons unknown. The candlestick and its bearer had blended into the background, invisible to any discerning eye. Only now, as a sudden flash of insight struck, did the Wrath Demon, in his fury and shock, grasp what had been hidden.
Within the temple of the Star God stood a candlestick known as the "Distant Starlight." This divine artifact held a candle that burned without flame, its light casting an oblivion over all it touched.
When activated, the artifact emitted a conspicuous celestial radiance, vividly visible to demonic eyes. Yet the Star God's artifact had been activated long before the Wrath Demon's arrival. Now the radiance had faded, and the Holy Son of Salo, holding the candlestick, stood in the chamber at the dungeon's core. He had been waiting here since the plan's inception. The light that exposed Samuel did not come from the candlestick. The Holy Son, holding the candlestick in his left hand, grasped the Sun's Scepter in his right.
He clenched the spiked ornamentation on the scepter, blood surging along the patterns toward the shaft like hot oil poured into fire. The coral-red scepter flared to life. The Patriarch of the Saros faith glared at the demon. Fueled by his unwavering resolve, the Divine Scepter of Saros blazed brighter than any previous display.
The blazing sun had been brought underground by the Son.
The scepter glowed like molten iron, a dazzling golden-red. The sun emblem at its tip erupted with tangible golden light, filling the air with the scent of melted gold. The unleashed divine magic reunited with its ancient adversary, lashing out with frenzied ferocity like a creature on steroids. It pounced upon the great demon nearby, exploding across every inch of its skin.
Saro's divine magic was not swift like light. For an uninitiated wielder—even a natural-born Holy Son—attacking a demon lord with the Sun's Scepter was a taxing endeavor.
The rays possessed tangible substance, bearing the weight of a thousand pounds, their speed almost painfully slow. Had he retreated immediately, the Wrath Demon Saemon might have evaded them.
Yet, having seized the dungeon swiftly and cunningly through demonic trickery, his body was now immobilized.
Saimon's extended soul was trapped there, as if stuck in an exceptionally narrow passage. It couldn't crawl out for the time being, and it was too late to withdraw—the previously tranquil core of the dungeon suddenly surged. Tashan shed its harmless disguise, revealing its true intent, clutching relentlessly.
The slow yet intense rays of the Sun's Light crashed down upon the Wrath Demon.
Sharp bone spines shattered like ice picks, and solid muscles melted like wax figures—both swiftly softening and dissolving under the flames. The acrid stench exploded through the hall, the demonic form's flesh emitting a nauseating putrid odor before vanishing entirely upon the next wave of light. Like cold water splashed onto boiling oil, like a red-hot iron pressed onto ice, the collision between divine magic and the Abyssal demon sparked a violent reaction, the magic in the air nearly boiling. The Wrath Demon Saemon's agonized roar pierced the heavens. Before the Holy Son of Saro collapsed from exhaustion, a third of this avatar's torso had already vaporized.
Not enough. Far from enough.
Demons of the Lord-level possessed terrifying vitality, and melee-focused types like Wrath Demons were especially troublesome. Such damage still couldn't finish it off. Victor remembered this, and had said so.
The empty city tactic would be ideal, but failure wasn't the end of options. A dozen minutes was ample time to prepare several backup plans. The Abyssal Demon Lords would likely pass the responsibility among themselves, with an eighty percent chance the Wrath Demon (though not necessarily this specific one) would arrive. Provocation worked exceptionally well on Wrath Demons. Should the ruse fail, Victor could continue stirring anger and diverting attention. He could exploit the rage demon's lack of knowledge about Tashan and the Material Plane to dig a deep pit for the newcomer. As long as the Abyssal demons continued their age-old tradition of acting independently, and as long as greed remained in their hearts, the arrangements at the dungeon's core would be a grand, open scheme.
After endurance and sacrifice, Tarsan finally seized his chance.
Trapped by greed, the Wrath Demon Saemon faced the dual divine artifacts unleashed by the ambushing Salothian Son. After that, it was Tarsan's turn to act.
The silver blade reflected lingering golden light, slicing through the heavy air—and the Wrath Demon's body.
It was a blade over a meter long, with a reverse edge along its spine, a blood groove along its face, and peculiar patterns etched into its surface. The Dragonwing Clan had designated this long sword as their weapon. Over the years, various residents had forged countless types of long swords for Tashan—similar in form, yet differing in effect. Dwarf craftsmen perfected its sharpness to the utmost degree, witches imbued the blade with venom, and robed mages cursed it with various hexes. This silver blade, however, was covered in runes inscribed by the official Saros priest. After the artisan dwarves had carved them with exquisite craftsmanship, the Pope blessed it with the Sunbeam Staff.
This silver blade bore the name "Demonbreaker."
A name utterly lacking in creativity, yet remarkably concise and fitting.
Though the blessed blade lacked the Sunstaff's dramatic effect, flesh torn by it still sizzled like beef pressed against a red-hot griddle. Like a dinner knife slicing through butter, the Demonbreaker sank into the Wrath Demon's shoulder, plowing downward and cleaving through most of its torso.
"Stop!" roared the Wrath Demon, Saimon.
Still unable to move, unable even to turn its body, it could only shout futilely at Tashar with its back turned. The Wrath Demon was utterly astonished, incredulous—though no one was left to interpret its expression. Tashar frowned at the blade stuck in bone. She pulled the dagger free, flapped her wings, rose into the air, and dove downward once more.
Swish!
The silver blade cut through tough, resilient hide with a satisfying snap. Its force, combined with Tashar's strength, was enough to cleave a bull in two. Now, with a swift swing, it severed the Wrath Demon's thick arm. Blood spattered three feet in every direction. Tashar soared upward, dodging the flying gore. Another blow followed swiftly, aimed squarely at Saimon's remaining left horn.
"How dare you!!" Saimon roared, enraged. "Stop! I command you!"
Tasha answered her question with action.
The first strike landed with a sharp clang against the horn. The Wrath Demon's horns were indeed hard—even this clone's. The feedback from the blade's rebound gave Tashar an initial gauge of its hardness. Then came the second strike, third, fourth... Ten swift, evenly spaced blows landed on different points along the entire horn, ringing out in a chaotic clatter. She paused at the spot where the resistance felt most optimal, held her breath for a moment, then unleashed dozens more strikes faster than before. Her blade danced like a hummingbird's wings, delivering countless blows to the same spot in the blink of an eye.
Had she not been here, in this moment, Tasha might have said it felt like returning to the kitchen of her past—like chopping soft bones and mincing meat on a cutting board with a cleaver.
Blade shadows flickered across the dim hall. The radiance of Saro had faded, replaced by the eerie, shifting glow reflected from the Demon Pool and the dungeon's core. The dull thud of the blade striking the long horns began to change pitch. The first tiny crack appeared on the horn, followed swiftly by a second. If this scene were slowed down and the faint sounds amplified, it might evoke the image of logging. Crack, crack, crack, creak—squeak! The tree is about to fall!
The Wrath Demon's roar rose another octave.
The long horn was finally severed halfway, its cross-section revealing a gruesome display of flesh and tendons. Tashar stared directly at the half-wound, raised his blade, and transformed it into a circular cross-section.
Alas, time was limited; symmetry between left and right could not be achieved.
"Stop!" Simon roared.
It wasn't just a vocal command—a thunderous order echoed from its very soul, demanding Tasha halt, cease, freeze. It sought to make her obey, submit, bow. The Wrath Demon Lord threw its entire being into assaulting the dungeon's core, its abyssal essence raging unchecked. Perhaps this aura held a regal, sovereign effect on the legitimate Dungeon Mother. Tasha showed no reaction, swinging relentlessly. As the long horn struck the ground, the next blow cleaved into the Wrath Demon's leg.
Only then did a flicker of change stir within the demon's soul.
It finally grasped what Tashan intended.
How to destroy a Greater Demon's avatar? Over eighty percent destruction was required, with vital organs utterly crushed. The dragon-winged form acted with purpose, swiftly and meticulously dismembering Simon before tossing the severed limbs into the demonic pool. Simon finally understood: the Nest Mother before him knew the correct method to destroy an avatar, and she dared to do it. She showed not a shred of intention to yield.
The command began to soften.
It transformed into a demand that was fierce in tone but weak in substance, then into a reluctant, resentful negotiation. A faint panic rippled through the dungeon's core, and the Nest Mother finally spoke: "So you are afraid after all."
"What do you want?" Simon demanded, fury boiling over. "You're a creation of the Abyss too! Why?!"
No, Tasha was not a creation of the Abyss. Her allegiance had never been to the Abyss, nor did she intend to obey any command from it. There was no possibility of negotiation. The moment the Fiends set foot in the dungeon, they had become mortal enemies. But why waste words explaining her motive?
So she offered only the simplest reason.
"You tore my book," the Nest Mother replied.
"What?" Simon exclaimed in shock.
No further explanation followed. The blade swung down, severing the Wrath Demon's head.