In the Outer Edges of the Nazcadania Empire...
A storm whispered through the hills outside, the kind that didn't bring thunder or lightning—just cold wind and the chill of secrets shifting in the dark. Deep within one of the empire's forgotten border manors, nestled between cliffs and shadowy forest, a single chamber remained lit by candlelight.
Ken Thompson sat stiffly behind his cluttered desk, eyes rimmed red with sleeplessness, the stench of burnt wax clinging to the air. Rugs muffled the creaks of the wooden floor beneath him, and towering bookshelves pressed in on all sides like silent judges. Dozens of dusty tomes were stacked high—half of them unopened for decades, their pages swollen with humidity.
Beside a toppled crystal decanter, his wine sat untouched and warm, the deep red dull beneath the candle's flicker. His hands trembled slightly as he read the report for the third time, the fourth. Each word refused to shift, refused to rewrite the truth.
"All guards on Floor 50 confirmed dead.
Signs of sudden elemental interference.
Bodies frozen solid.
Artifact stability possibly compromised."
He exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath shaky. Cold sweat clung to his back beneath his embroidered tunic.
"That floor was supposed to be clean," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "The artifact was stable. No spawns. No anomalies. No... freak occurrences."
He leaned back into his old leather chair with a groan. It squeaked under his weight, as if protesting the burden of whatever truth he was trying to ignore.
A pale-faced aide stood across from him, thin shoulders tense, clutching a small stack of scrolls. "Sir... should we send another team down?"
Thompson's jaw clenched.
"No. Shut it down. Seal Floor 50. Immediately."
"But—"
"I want every last mana stone pulled from the lower levels by dusk," Thompson continued, ignoring the interruption. "And strike all records of the slaves stationed there. Burn them if you have to. No names. No trace."
"Y-Yes, my lord," the aide stammered and quickly backed out, nearly dropping a scroll on his way.
The chamber fell into silence again, broken only by the soft sizzle of wax dripping to the wooden floor.
Thompson leaned forward, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose. "Damn artifact must've glitched.
He glanced toward the dark corner of the room where a cracked crystal sphere sat in a velvet-lined box. Its surface shimmered—faint, like something watching back.
"Whatever it was... let it stay buried."
Back in the Dungeon – Floor 70
The Rest Room was a rare sanctuary—cool, quiet, and alive with faint magical runes etched across the stone walls. They pulsed in shades of soft blue, like the heartbeat of the dungeon itself, calm after chaos. The air was thick with the smell of mineral water, blood, and recently extinguished spells.
Arthur sat with his back against the wall, legs stretched, his black shirt tossed nearby, clinging to a spear haft. His skin still gleamed with sweat, and his chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, like a war drum fading in the distance.
He looked... drained.
Not injured—but worn down to the soul, the way only a dungeon could do to someone. Battle had that effect. Especially when every swing mattered.
Across from him, Olivia sprawled on a pile of fresh cloths she'd tossed over a crate, armor plates resting neatly beside her like a dragon shedding scales. Her white-blonde hair, damp with sweat, clung to the sides of her face, and a small cut along her collarbone glimmered faintly with healing magic.
Arthur groaned. "I feel like a squishy fruit someone threw down the stairs."
Olivia cracked a smirk. "Because you are one."
"Oh, come on," he said, dragging out the words like a dying bard. "I helped you land hits. Real ones. With fire. and made you faster by making you lighter.
He mock-glared at her. "I'm wounded. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. This is character assassination."
"I'll send flowers," she said dryly.
He tilted his head, pretending to pout. "You know, I thought we were bonding."
"We are," she replied with a too-innocent smile. "That's why I'm giving you the honor of fighting on your own next floor."
Arthur froze. "Wait. What?"
"You need experience," Olivia said, stretching her arms behind her head. "And no, I'm not training you. That would be boring. You're going to fight solo on Floor 71."
He stared at her in horror. "You're abandoning me?"
She rolled her eyes. "I'll be watching. From a safe distance. Probably with popcorn."
Arthur dropped his head back onto the stone floor. "This is cruelty."
"This is mercy. You've got magic, instincts, and a talent for not dying. It's time we find out what you're really bad at."
"Oh great," he muttered. "What if I do die?"
"I'll save you," she said instantly, her voice dropping in pitch, mock-heroic. "Like a knight in shining armor. Princess Arthur, rescued from doom!"
He cracked an eye open and smirked. "You wish you were half this pretty."
"Oh, I know I am."
They both grinned, the weariness lifting slightly, tension fading beneath the layers of banter.
"You're impossible," he said, raising a brow.
"Mmhm. And you're weak."
"Wow," he said, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. "First the squishy fruit, now this. You wound me, Lady Olivia."
"I'll patch you up after you survive the next floor."
She tossed him a small, shimmering health potion. He caught it with one hand and gave her a lazy salute.
"Floor 71, huh?" he muttered. "Bring it on."
Olivia curled up more comfortably and closed her eyes. "Rest while you can, knight-in-training. Tomorrow, we find out if you're fruit salad or firestorm."
Arthur looked at the ceiling, smile tugging at his lips.