The battle had not slowed.
Skeletons continued to rise, emerging from the cracked stones and forgotten stairways like water pouring from a broken dam. Hundreds of them, bone-white and unrelenting, flooded the ancient mountain path. Some scaled the cliffs with inhuman dexterity, trying to flank the defenders from behind. But it was wasted effort.
These were not ordinary fighters. They were adventurers—trained in chaos, built for war.
Finn stood atop the jagged stone ruins, his chest rising and falling with every breath. His eyes scanned the horizon—what was once a fog-covered slope now revealed its true horror. An army of undead—hundreds, no... thousands—creeping up the mountain like lizards, crawling along cliffs they should never have been able to scale. The scale was nightmarish.
He slashed through six more skeletons with clean, rapid thrusts, his spear dancing like silver lightning. But then, from the roiling tide of bones and decay, something new emerged. A twisted creature, an undead contorted with spider-like limbs, rose from the horde. With a sickening hiss, it launched a volley of sharpened bone spikes towards its nearest target; him.
Finn pivoted hard, barely dodging as the spikes shattered stone beside him.
A new type... great, he thought grimly. These weren't just skeletons anymore—they were evolving, adapting. But before he could recover, a different sound sliced through the air—fwip... fwip... fwip.
His ears picked it up before his brain could register. A tight whistle of wind parting around a fast-moving object.
Projectiles. Not from the undead, not from the summit—but from below. Launched up the mountain.
His adventurer instincts screamed. Not his thumb—those were quiet. But his raw, honed senses told him everything.
"INCOMING PROJECTILES FROM BELOW! TAKE COVER!" Finn roared.
The words barely left his mouth before the sky rained death.
Within seconds—six, maybe—dozens of high-velocity bone bolts and jagged metal shards soared upward like a swarm of deadly arrows. Gareth roared and threw himself over Riveria, shield raised, his feet digging into the stone. Raul, Thomas, and Gregg rolled behind broken masonry just as the first volley landed—shk-thunk, shk-thunk, embedding themselves deep into the rocks with horrifying accuracy.
It wasn't random. The trajectory, the timing—it was coordinated. They're trying to trap us up here, Finn realized. Pin them. Box them in. Slaughter them.
A few projectiles streaked toward him—Finn's legs kicked off the ground as he twisted midair—but it wasn't enough. A few scratched his legs, leaving line of scratches, it was poisonous but with his high resistance to it, it wouldn't leave a bad effect on his limbs.
But the horde—the horde never stopped.
From every crevice, every cliff edge, they came—gnarled bones and twitching limbs, shrieking with dry lungs. The numbers multiplied by the minute. They surged forward, emboldened by the volley. These weren't just aimless undead. Something was controlling them.
Bete, snarling with raw fury, dashed ahead. A silver blur. He tore through twelve in a single movement, limbs and skulls flying into the mist like broken puppets. But even Bete, for all his power, couldn't stem a flood this large alone.
Finn backed toward the fractured stone circle, turning to the cavern entrance—the same one carved open by the fallen golem minutes ago.
That's it, he thought. That's the only way out of this.
Finn barked orders with clipped precision, his spear lashing out and sending two skeletal figures tumbling from the ledge.
"Thomas, Gregg—hold position at the cave entrance! Raul, stay with them!" he called.
The three scrambled into place, eyes wide but steady.
Further back, Gareth hauled Riveria across his shoulder. She stirred faintly, her consciousness thin and wavering. He moved her closer to the wall, where the terrain funneled the horde and gave them some space.
Bete, Tione, and Finn held the front.
The silver-haired wolf howled with fury, his claws flashing in wide arcs. Bones shattered under his strikes. Tione spun like a whirlwind, Urga blurring with each swing. And Finn—he was focused, cold, cutting with perfect precision.
But inside, doubt was growing.
His thumb… was silent.
Not a twitch. Not a warning. Nothing.
How? he wondered, eyes narrowing as he struck down another skeleton. Why didn't it react?
He had relied on it for too long. That primal sense—his instinct, his compass—had failed him here. And his familia was paying the price.
"A mistake," he muttered under his breath. "A big one."
Suddenly, Ais returned—breathless, dirt clinging to her cloak. She slid beside him and nodded, eyes sharp.
"There's a way down," she said. "A door. I'm not sure it can be opened."
Finn exhaled through his nose. That was enough. "Good work, Ais."
He turned. "Raul, take Ais, Gregg, and Thomas. Gareth—you carry Riveria. Everyone else, we're falling back!"
The order was clear. Survival over resistance.
The undead surged.
As the others moved to the broken wall—where the golem had torn through the stone—Finn, Bete, and Tione held the line. More skeletons climbed over one another, their sockets burning with ghostly green light.
One skeleton lunged at Bete.
The werewolf caught it mid-air, slammed it down, and tore through two more without a breath.
He could have escaped easily. With his speed, he could sprint back to the ship, call for help, or even circle around and flank the enemy. But Finn hadn't suggested it. And Bete didn't ask.
Because the risk… was everywhere.
And his captain knew it.
The mist had thickened again. Every sound muffled. Gareth disappeared into the black, Riveria weak but alive in his arms.
Ais led the way.
No lights. No torches. Only the faint shimmer of her wind magic marked their path.
Gregg stumbled once. Bete growled, grabbed him by the collar, and hoisted him like a sack.
Thomas—half awake—was pulled by Gareth's iron grip, his legs moving on instinct more than will.
The cave swallowed them.
One by one, they leapt into the pit.
Four-hundred ninety meters.
Finn turned once, stabbed his spear through the skull of one last enemy—then jumped, vanishing into the dark.
The Voyager rocked beneath them—not from waves, but from chaos.
Rattling bones scraped along the hull, claws clattered against wood, and muffled groans hissed through the mist like whispers of death. From both port and starboard sides, the undead climbed—skeletal hands gripping ropes and railings with unnatural tenacity.
"Behind us!" Anakitty shouted, her blades drawn, fangs bared in panic and fury.
Glenn didn't wait. He rammed his spear forward, impaling the first ghoul that crested the rail. It let out a hollow rasp before falling into the sea below with a splash.
Lefiya stood at the center of the deck, her heart pounding so loudly it almost drowned out the scraping of bone and wood. Her staff shook in her hands, not from fear—but urgency.
"Hail Dust!"
Her voice rang out like a bell. Magic flared around her, a sphere of blue and light above her scattered across the deck—freezing three skeletons and slashing them.
Interestingly, this is Alicias magic ability. Thanks to lefiya's elf ring, she can basically copy any elven magic with that ring of hers.
Tiona was already in motion—her Urga swung in wide arcs, catching multiple enemies in each heavy strike. Bones shattered. Skulls cracked. Each blow forced the undead back further, inch by inch.
On the rear deck, Cruz and Anakitty held their own, flanking the stairway to the helm. The moment the horde surged toward the wheel, they met it with steel and claws. Anakitty lunged with feline precision, slicing a skeleton's spine in one leap. Cruz brought down his sword like a hammer—reckless but effective.
"More coming up the ropes!" Alicia shouted from the side railing.
"I see them," Lefiya replied through clenched teeth.
She spun, her chant renewed. "Wind of the sacred grove, return to thy roots—!"
Another blast. Another wave of energy. The ropes on the starboard side snapped and several more skeletons plunged into the ocean, their brittle hands grasping for nothing.
Minutes passed—though it felt longer. The Voyager's deck was slick with dust and broken bone. The undead thinned. Their numbers were fewer than those on the mountain—less organized, less dangerous, but still relentless.
Finally, silence crept in.
Only the crash of waves and the panting of the defenders remained. Tiona leaned against her weapon, her shoulders rising and falling.
"Still alive?" she muttered, voice hoarse.
"I'm good," Cruz said, bruised but grinning.
Anakitty nodded, her ears flicking. "No one dead. Just tired."
Glenn spat over the side. "Next time, maybe we anchor somewhere less cursed."
Alicia nodded to his suggestion.
Lefiya lowered her staff, her arms trembling from the effort. Sweat clung to her brow, but her eyes remained sharp—facing the island, facing the mist.
"…They're still out there," she whispered.
One by one, his companions had already vanished below—first Ais, then Gareth carrying the weakened Riveria, and the rest in close order. Gregg and Thomas had been half-dragged down by Raul and Bete, their legs still shaky from the illusion's aftermath. Even in retreat, the undead pursued with mindless persistence, flinging themselves into the pit with reckless abandon. Bone shattered against stone, but some still crawled and twitched forward.
Finn stood at the precipice, eyes sharp and steady as he turned for a final glance at the mountain's summit behind him, now swarming with skeletal figures. He could hear the rattling—waves of the dead clawing across the ruins. A haunting sight, but familiar in its rhythm. Just like the lower floors of the Dungeon, he thought grimly. Just less alive.
Then he jumped.
His landing was light, sure, not even a grunt upon contact. The shock was barely a whisper to his body—he was level 7, after all. When he straightened, he could already see Gareth lifting Riveria with gentle care. The others had begun forming a defensive wedge around the spot, weapons drawn and wary.
Undead still fell behind him, but Finn wasted no time.
"Forward," he said simply.
The group moved in unison, crossing the ancient bridge just as more bone and claw crashed onto the stone floor behind them.
Riveria stirred, whispering something to Gareth. He helped her stand. She lifted her staff, and with a short, melodic chant, a golden flame ignited at the tip—a soft, steady glow. Not divine magic. It was Flare Burn—a spell of old elven make, one she hadn't used in years.
That single flame spread.
It slithered across the floor like it had been waiting, lighting up grooves in the stone. Trails of ancient design ignited, winding like veins through the dark. One after another, the hall's features lit up—walls, carvings, and symbols no one could read. Pillars bloomed with flame like torches touched by the breath of the gods.
Then the earth rumbled. Mechanisms creaked awake from centuries of slumber. The scattered pillars Ais had once leapt across now trembled and aligned, slamming together into a new bridge—one solid and straight, leading toward the massive double doors ahead.
There, bathed in golden firelight, stood a gate carved with two celestial bodies. Twin orbs locked in orbit, surrounded by strange letters and unfamiliar star maps. The moon and the earth.
No one moved. Even Riveria, catching her breath beside Gareth, stared at the doors in silence.
The golden firelight danced across the carvings, illuminating the intricate mural sprawled across the twin doors and the circular floor. All eyes—Ais, Gareth, Tione, Raul, Thomas, even Gregg—were drawn to the images engraved into the ancient stone. Celestial bodies, clearly the Earth and its moon—or whatever this world called them. Each sphere bore cities etched into its surface, and arched pathways, like doorways, connected the two.
"What is it?" Raul muttered, unable to peel his eyes away.
Silence.
Not even Thomas had a response, though his brow furrowed deeply. Something about this place—it was beyond the stories he'd heard in taverns or the maps he'd glimpsed under heavy guard. He felt like he was staring into the forgotten legacy of a god. Even Finn, ever composed and calculating, found his thoughts spiraling.
An advanced civilization? he wondered. Or maybe something far older... and not meant to be found.
But the peace was short-lived.
CRACK—CRUNCH!
Bones shattered on stone. The undead were still pouring in from above, hurling themselves into the chamber with no care for preservation.
"We need to move," Finn said, snapping everyone's attention back. His voice was calm but edged with urgency. "Fan out. Look for clues. Anything useful. A way out."
The group split into small pairs, keeping close to one another and their weapons drawn. The eerie quiet between bursts of distant bone echoed the deep discomfort that had settled over them.
Though it wasn't voiced, many couldn't help but be reminded of Knossos, the twisted labyrinth beneath Daedalus Street back in Orario. But this… this was different. Older. Stranger. There were no magical locks or artificial walls here—only stone, flame, and shadow.
At the heart of the circular chamber lay a massive sun etched into the floor. Carved figures danced in a ring around it, their arms raised in reverence or celebration—it was hard to tell.
The pillars surrounding the room, once background ornamentation, now caught their notice. Each displayed warriors—some wielding swords, others spears—caught mid-motion. As one moved along the row, the postures shifted as though animated, like still frames of a battle frozen in stone.
Ais lingered near one, her hand resting at her side, hovering over Desperate. Her golden eyes watched the stone warriors as if expecting one to leap out.
Nearby, Riveria leaned against Gareth's shoulder but began to straighten. "Are you alright?" Ais asked gently.
Riveria nodded faintly, already raising her staff. "I'm fine. I can heal myself." Her voice carried more strength now, the familiar steadiness of the high elf returning as green healing light pulsed softly over her skin.
Finn approached her, eyes narrowing slightly. "Did you know that would happen?" he asked, referring to the moment her spell had lit the chamber and seemingly awakened the entire place.
Riveria shook her head, brows drawn together. "No. It was too dark. I just… cast a simple light spell."
Finn crossed his arms, gaze drifting toward the doors again. Then what caused it?
Gareth, finally catching his breath, approached the doors cautiously. With a shrug, he pushed against them—and the chamber rumbled.
GRRRRREEEEAAANK!
The great stone doors creaked open, the sound echoing like thunder across the cavern.
Everyone froze.
Ais instinctively stepped in front of Riveria. Tione gripped her daggers tighter. Raul's mouth opened in shock.
Even Finn blinked, momentarily taken aback.
Gareth turned around with a confused expression.
"No one did that," he commented.
As the twin doors parted, the chamber beyond responded instantly. Like a living mechanism, carved channels in the floor ignited in succession—fwoosh—spitting golden flame that crawled across the dark, lighting the room with ancient fire. The flames coiled like snakes, following the pre-etched trails embedded in the floor and walls, guiding their light forward.
The Loki Familia stepped inside, their expressions shifting from wariness to awe.
The chamber opened into another descent.
More stairs.
Instead of rising to safety, the path went deeper—into the dark underbelly of this lost ruin.
Finn hesitated. A brief glance over his shoulder reminded him of what lay behind: the shattered bone pile of undead still falling in droves. Facing them again, especially on the narrow stairways, would be suicide.
He looked ahead. The stairs were lit, strangely warm and inviting.
His thumb—his mysterious "sixth sense" for danger—remained silent. It hadn't activated once since the mist.
Almost like it had gone dormant.
"Let's explore more," Finn said, firm but calm. "We have no other option."
Before they descend, Gareth closed the doors to avoid any undead that may enter from behind. And so, the group descended once more.
The stairwell was long, spiraling, seemingly endless—so much so that Bete started grumbling halfway through. When they finally reached a new landing, the stairs split—left and right.
"Great," Bete muttered. "Now what?"
"Splitting up will just endanger us," Riveria said, shaking her head. "We could be ambushed, or worse."
Though logic said dividing their numbers could cover more ground, experience told them otherwise. Finn silently agreed and led the group left.
After a short curve, they were greeted again by another stone door—eerily similar to the last. Gareth stepped forward and pushed it open with a grunt.
And beyond it, more tunnels.
"Great. More tunnels," Thomas muttered behind him.
The tunnel, however, gave way to something far greater.
The room they entered dwarfed anything they'd seen before. Riveria, now more recovered, lifted her staff and chanted softly. A warm light burst forth, and with it, Flare Burn once again lit the veins of the structure. The flame crawled through grooves and circuits etched in the walls, ceilings, even across the floor.
Light bloomed.
And the chamber revealed its true scale.
It was a city.
Houses, towers, canals—everything carved and embedded beneath the mountain. A forgotten civilization, perhaps hundreds—if not thousands—of years old.
No one spoke at first. The awe had swallowed them whole.
Even Thomas and Gregg stood slack-jawed, gazing at the collapsed rooftops, the empty homes, the scattered remains of a society long lost.
Gareth whispered under his breath, "Reminds me of the old dwarven towns back in the deepstone caves."
As they pushed forward, it became clear—this place was massive. What they thought was the base was just a higher level. Below, there were more structures, terraced and sprawling like the roots of a tree.
"Is the entire island built on top of this?" Riveria murmured, gazing to her left. There, embedded into the rocky slope, stood two massive pipe-like constructs that reached toward the sky, as though trying to breathe from the surface.
The deeper they moved, the more Riveria's thoughts churned.
Why was this built here? Who built it? Why is it absent from any known record?
She turned slightly, glancing at Thomas. He was absorbed in the sight like the rest—but something about his awe felt genuine. Even he didn't know of this place... Then why isn't it documented?
The realization struck her like a slap.
Suppression.
Suppression of knowledge.
In their world, hiding an entire city required magical cloaking. But here, it could only mean one thing: deliberate censorship. A fear that knowledge like this could destabilize something. The balance. The order.
And only one group held that kind of power in this world.
The World Government.
"You doing fine, elf?" Gareth asked, breaking her thoughts.
Riveria nodded. "Yes," she replied plainly.
But inside, her mind was aflame.
Eventually, their descent brought them to the bottom—finally.
Or so they thought.
Because there, waiting for them… was water.
Dark, still, endless water. It stretched into the shadows, swallowing what remained of the city below.
No bridges. No platforms.
Just an underground ocean cutting off the last path forward.
"This is it?" Raul said. "We came all this way for… water?"
"We can't continue," Gareth sighed.
Even Finn looked visibly frustrated. "There's no path back to the top, is there?"
No one answered.
Behind them, the ruins stood silent.
Below them, a sea of darkness.
And ahead?
Still, no answers. Only questions.
Instead they went back.
As the Loki Familia back walked from where the doors at and reached the end of the right stairwell, anticipation turned into wariness. The tunnel gradually widened into a vast chamber—one not filled with light or fresh air, but with shadows and soot.
A burnt scent lingered, stale and chemical, as they stepped into what appeared to be an ancient furnace room.
"What… is this?" Raul murmured, stepping over a shattered pot.
The chamber was enormous—at least thirty meters high, circular in shape, its walls lined with what used to be metal scaffolding and half-melted pipes. Thick cobwebs draped from the beams like curtains of age, and dust clung to every surface. Debris littered the floor—shattered glass, bent tools, and broken wooden platforms.
Riveria raised her staff, the flame of Flare Burn flickering to life once more. The glow revealed a grim detail: large, scorched cauldrons clustered at the far end of the room. Most were blackened with age, but a few still held strange, viscous residue along their insides—unusual elixirs long since dried.
"Looks like an alchemy lab," Gareth muttered, examining a collapsed table, its surface scorched and stained with dried rings.
But it wasn't just abandoned equipment that greeted them.
Finn knelt by a cauldron and narrowed his eyes. Inside, amidst the crusted filth, lay bones. Human remains—long stripped of flesh, charred and brittle. The skeletons were small, perhaps once curled up tightly as if trying to escape their fate. Some were inside the cauldrons. Others lay slumped beside them.
"…Experiments?" Thomas whispered, pale.
"No doubt," Riveria said quietly. "And they didn't survive them."
No one spoke after that. The only sound was the creak of floorboards and the faint crackle of her flame.
They moved further into the chamber, cautious now, stepping around burned-out braziers and shattered potion bottles. A toppled bookshelf had collapsed onto what looked like a desk—still half-buried under splintered timber.
Finn approached it and gently brushed away the ash.
A ledger.
The cover was mostly ruined, but as he flipped it open, the pages within were half-burned, others soaked in whatever chemical concoctions had once been brewed here.
"Language's not one I know," he said, turning it for Riveria to glance at.
The elf squinted but shook her head. "Not Elvish. Not even anything I've read from the libraries of Orario."
Gregg stepped beside a massive metal tube embedded in the wall. "Looks like they tried to pump something into these cauldrons," he muttered, tracing his fingers along a rusted pipe. "Steam? Magic energy?"
"No... this is old tech," Gareth said. "Maybe a hybrid of both."
They stood in silence, letting the unease settle in. This place wasn't built for comfort, or even learning—it was industrial, and cruel.
"Whoever lived here..." Finn said slowly, "...had knowledge. A lot of it. And none of it feels right."
The room offered no answers. Only the smell of old fire, bones long forgotten, and the memory of something twisted that had once thrived here.
"We move," Finn ordered.
The flare in Riveria's staff continued to burn steady, its soft light brushing across the ancient soot-stained walls of the forge. Up ahead, the group followed her lead, her flame casting long shadows that danced across their faces. The deeper they went, the more the walls narrowed—until they reached it.
A wall. A dead end.
No hidden passage, no descending tunnel. Just an abrupt stone surface, marking the boundary of the chamber.
Silence.
"…This is it?" Gregg said, his voice trembling.
The finality of it struck hard. The weight of the mountain above, the dust-choked air, and the flickering firelight only deepened the sense of entrapment.
Gregg backed up a step. "I don't wanna die here."
Raul grabbed his shoulder with a firm grip. "We won't. We've survived worse. As long as we're together—we'll get out."
Despite his tone, even Raul's eyes were scanning the corners, hoping, pleading, for something—anything—to give them a way forward.
With no path beyond the wall, they turned back. Retraced their steps. The old chimneys they passed earlier now caught their attention anew.
"Check the chimneys," Finn ordered.
Riveria moved to one of them, lifting her staff. With a soft breath and a flick of her hand, the flare pulsed, lighting up the inside of the shaft. The fire reflected off the soot-covered interior—large enough for several people to squeeze through. But it stretched high, impossibly so.
Thomas, eyeing the opening from below, muttered, "That's absurd. How deep are we? You'd have to climb a grave just to breathe."
Bete tilted his head, sharp black eyes glinting in the low light. "Seems climbable." He cracked his knuckles and stretched, looking up at the shaft like it was a vertical hunting ground. "Want me to check it out?"
Finn nodded. "Be careful. Call out if you see anything."
In a flash of wind and speed, Bete leapt up the walls, his boots pressing off the curved surface of the chimney in short bounds. Dust fell behind him in trails. A few minutes passed in quiet tension, until a faint voice echoed down.
"There's something here. A platform... more tunnels maybe."
Finn exchanged a look with Riveria. She gave a nod, though her brows furrowed. Her magic sensed no malice, but the silence ahead wasn't comforting either.
"Ais," Finn said. "Go with him. Double check. We need to know it's stable enough."
"Understood," she said, hand gripping Desperate at her hip.
She scaled the wall with ease, bounding from side to side like wind personified, disappearing after Bete into the shaft above.
No sooner had she vanished than a deep, guttural rumble rolled through the chamber. The air itself seemed to shudder. Dust sprinkled down from unseen cracks in the ceiling, and the very stones under their feet vibrated.
The group turned sharply toward the furnace door.
Then came the wind.
It swept through the chamber like a warning howl—sharp, cold, unnatural. It slipped through gaps in the stone, carrying with it a heavy presence, a whisper of something ancient and unwelcome.
Gregg staggered back, spear raised. "What was that?"
Thomas felt it too. A pressure. A sensation like eyes watching from the dark corners.
Riveria gripped her staff tighter, her brows lowering. "Something's coming."
Finn's voice was calm, but firm. "Ready yourselves. Whatever's on the other side of that door—"
The heat had long since faded.
Only the faint shiver of dust drifting across old stone remained, soft as breath yet sharp with tension. The Loki Familia stood motionless within the ruin of the furnace chamber. Riveria's fire flickered weakly along her staff, casting jittery shadows that slid over broken columns and ancient chimneys.
Then—stillness.
Not peace. But the kind of silence that suffocates, like the world holding its breath.
Finn tightened his grip on his spear, his eyes sweeping the room. Gareth shifted beside Riveria, muscles tensing, protective and alert. Raul moved closer to the unconscious Thomas and Gregg, already bracing for what was to come. Cruz stood near the chimney base, staring up, waiting for the return of Ais and Bete.
The mist returned—thicker, colder.
It crept along the floor like a living thing, curling through the shattered stonework and under broken arches. The flames flickered low as if threatened by the presence alone. From the far edge of the chamber, where shadows pooled deepest, two faint lights blinked open—blue, distant, soulless.
Everyone turned.
Then it moved.
A mass of black mist, thick and slithering, poured forth with unnatural silence. It stretched over the broken walls and crawled along the pillars, ignoring gravity, merging smoke with shape. From within, the faint suggestion of skeletal limbs and bone, twisted into something serpentine, slithered into view.
Cruz let out a breath. "What the hell is that?"
The others had no answer.
The shadow lurched forward—not walking, but flowing, dragging itself with twitching limbs that defied natural form.
Then it let out a sound—not a roar, but a terrible wail, like cracking stone and a thousand whispers screaming at once.
It attacked.
Tione moved first, a blur of steel and fury, blades sweeping across the mist—but the creature dissipated, reforming behind her and crashing a heavy tendril toward her back. She turned just in time, deflecting it with a powerful kick, but stumbled.
"Hold formation!" Finn barked, stepping forward and hurling his spear like a bolt of light. It struck the mass, pinning it briefly to the wall—but again it reformed.
Riveria's breathing was strained. Gareth held her steady. "We need more light!" he shouted.
"I'm trying!" Riveria raised her staff, and her voice, wavering but powerful, broke through the air.
"Flare Burn…"
A spark caught the staff's tip and burst into a radiant flame. The chamber shimmered as light pushed into the gloom.
The creature screeched, reeling, retreating from the firelight, its form rippling.
"Keep it back!" Finn ordered. "Stay with Riveria!"
Gregg and Thomas groaned awake as Raul shielded them. Gareth surged forward, axe in hand, driving back a fragment of the mist with a violent arc.
More skeletal limbs formed, rising from the floor, pulled in by the shadow's influence. Dozens of bone constructs began to crawl toward them from the corners of the chamber.
"It's pulling them in," Riveria muttered. "This thing is... feeding on something."
Then, from the heart of the mist—a pale, featureless mask emerged. White. Cracked. And smiling.
And it began to drift forward again—toward Riveria.
The shadow surged again.
Riveria stumbled as the oppressive weight of its presence pressed against her very skin. Her hands trembled around her staff. Gareth kept her shielded with one arm and swung his axe in wild arcs with the other, holding back the tide of bony limbs crawling up from the floor.
Thomas, still groggy, tried to help Raul hold off a skeleton nearing their side. Gregg scrambled for anything to fight with. The battlefield was descending into disarray.
Cruz shouted from near the chimneys, "We can't hold much longer!"
The mist pulsed.
And then—wind.
A flash of movement tore through the gloom. A sharp, cutting gale spiraled down the chimney shaft like a falling blade. It slammed into the creature with a boom, scattering the mist into black ribbons. The eerie cry that followed was half-pain, half-anger.
From above, two silhouettes descended with speed.
Bete landed first, clawed boots skidding across the stone as he bared his fangs, eyes locked on the shrieking shadow.
"Missed the party already, huh?" he growled.
And right behind him—Ais Wallenstein, blade already drawn, her golden eyes gleaming with calm fury. Wind circled her in tight spirals.
"Tempest," she whispered.
A blast erupted, clean and precise. The shockwave sliced the creature in half—momentarily.
"Push now!" Finn roared, lunging forward as he grabbed his spear and launched his attack. Tione was already beside him, her twin blades flashing as they danced through the fragmented limbs.
With the team reforged and renewed by Ais and Bete's return, the momentum shifted.
Riveria steadied herself, the flame on her staff burning brighter.
"They better not be in trouble..." she murmured as she prepared another spell.
The creature writhed, retreating toward the large door at the back of the chamber—still ajar, its frame pulsing with a dim red glow.
Finn narrowed his eyes.
"It's not finished," he said. "But it's pulling back."
The chamber had gone still, silent save for ragged breaths and the low hum of fear settling into the bones of the Loki Familia. After the misty monster's retreat, the air hung heavy with a pause they couldn't afford, yet desperately needed.
"What the hell was that thing?" Raul asked, voice trembling slightly.
No one answered immediately.
Riveria, her back resting against a stone wall, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, broke the silence. "A failed experiment, perhaps… one meant to be forgotten."
Thomas, sitting nearby and nursing a scraped forearm, shook his head. "Or a successful one… that went wrong long after."
The rest remained quiet, each nursing wounds—physical or otherwise. Only Ais and Bete stood untouched, unwavering, while Gareth leaned against his axe and Tione clutched her side where the creature had struck her.
Riveria was clearly drained, her mana taxed beyond what her body could carry. Without elixirs, she'd have to ration every spell and every breath. She reached to heal Tione, her hands trembling, and cast a modest recovery spell—just enough to ease the pain.
Nearby, Gregg and Thomas passed water around. Gareth accepted it with a grunt of thanks. Riveria took a slow sip, wiping her lips with her sleeve, still pale.
And then—footsteps.
Countless ones, echoing through the tunnel below.
Finn's entire body locked in place as a sudden pain surged through his thumb—sharp, biting.
He froze.
No… not this again.
This sensation… this unmistakable ache. He'd felt it only once before—back in Orario. The day Revis ambushed him. A feeling of being hunted, preyed upon by something that should not exist.
His eyes narrowed.
Is it dulled? Or am I only now realizing how useful it is… when it's nearly too late?
The air shifted again. Unseen eyes pierced through him, watching, waiting. This wasn't just another fight. This was a trap closing in.
He clenched his spear tightly and forced the fear down.
We can't stay. Not now.
His thoughts drifted—upward, toward the world they left behind. Toward Loki. Toward the Tower of Babel, the Dungeon below, and the One-Eyed Black Dragon still at large.
We promised to return. We still have a mission… a duty.
He couldn't fail. Not here. Not now.
"We're escaping through the chimneys," he announced sharply.
The rest turned to him, startled by the sudden command.
"But what if that thing returns?" Gregg asked, glancing behind.
Finn's gaze didn't falter. "Then we fight. But we leave."
Bete cracked his neck. "Finally."
Tione gave a breathy nod. Gareth heaved his axe onto his shoulder. Ais, ever still, stared forward—ready.
Finn looked once more at Riveria. She was exhausted, battered, but alive. And they would all stay that way—if he could help it.
"We're going home," he said quietly.
He didn't need to say more.
They rose, one by one, and prepared for the next trial.
A sound like thunder rolled through the chamber—footsteps, hundreds of them. A tremor of skeletal limbs and clattering bone, growing louder with every heartbeat. The ancient door at the end of the corridor groaned, then shattered inward under the pressure of the horde behind it.
The undead had arrived.
"Now!" Finn barked, planting his spear into the stone floor. "Positions!"
Riveria, breath shallow and skin pale, stepped forward without hesitation. Her staff shook in her hands as she raised it, the magical gemstone at its crown glowing with deep emerald light. Gareth moved to her side but didn't stop her. They all knew what this meant—a last stand. Or at least, a delay.
"I'll buy us time," she muttered. Her voice was strained but steady.
Then she began to chant—Rea Laevateinn.
The words reverberated through the chamber, ancient and powerful, laced with elven intonation and the pull of high magic. Magical runes expanded across the floor beneath her feet, glowing brighter and wider, reaching beyond the chamber and toward the incoming tide.
The undead were drawn to her now, like moths to flame—clambering over one another in their eagerness to reach the caster.
But Bete was faster. He struck like a blur, claws slashing, bones shattering beneath his ferocity.
Ais stood firm at Riveria's flank, her blade glowing faintly with wind. With each swing, a flash of motion, bones disintegrated into dust. Tione spun into the fray, cutting down waves of skeletons, her back never once turned to the mage they all protected.
At the chimney, Raul helped Gregg and Thomas climb up first, pushing them along the rough interior. "Go—don't stop!"
Gareth, axe at the ready, remained just behind Riveria, guarding her even as sweat poured from his brow. "Come on, lass… hold on just a little longer."
Finn didn't move from the center of the chamber. His spear spun once in his hand and then planted again. He was waiting—not for the horde, but for it. The thing in the mist. The creature whose presence made his thumb ache with warning. If it appeared again, he would be the wall between it and the rest.
As Riveria's chant reached its crescendo, the massive rune beneath her feet flared.
"RE-AA LAA-VA-TEINN!"
The flames burst forth.
A wave of green-white fire surged from her position like a living tide, sweeping across the stone floor and surging through the open doorway, engulfing the horde. Screeches echoed down the halls as skeletons were consumed, the flames dancing and burning with unnatural fury, clinging even to bone.
Riveria collapsed.
Gareth was there in a heartbeat, catching her limp form. "Got you," he whispered. He hoisted her over his shoulder, careful not to jostle her too much. Her chest still rose and fell—alive, but spent.
"The flames'll hold them," Bete called, backing toward the chimney.
Finn nodded. "Move! Everyone—up the chimney!"
One by one, the Loki Familia ascended—climbing, leaping, or being hauled upward by those already ahead. Gareth followed with Riveria slung over his back, his grip firm as he scaled the stone shaft.
Finn cast one last glance behind him. The flames still raged at the doorway, scorching bone and stone alike. He gritted his teeth and made for the opening.
They had bought time.
Now, all that remained was to see if there truly was a way back to the surface—and out of this cursed place.
Back aboard the Voyager, the uneasy silence settled like a weight. The mist still lingered beyond the bow, coiling over the water like smoke. Lefiya stood at the railing, her hands gripping the cold wood, eyes scanning the coastline where the others had disappeared hours ago. Her lips trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the rising swell of uncertainty in her chest.
So this is what Elfy must have felt, she thought, when the expedition parties went beyond the 50th floor… no signal, no magic traces. Just silence.
The deck creaked behind her as Alicia approached, voice soft but strained with worry. "Lefiya… don't break formation. We wait here. That was the plan."
"I know," Lefiya replied, not turning. "But plans don't account for... for this feeling."
Alicia's silence was answer enough.
"The undead are gone. For now," Lefiya added. "But we don't know if they're still alive. We don't know anything."
Glenn, nearby, scoffed. "We do know that walking into a cursed island with skeletons popping out of the water is a good way to get dead. What happens if they come back while you're out there?"
"That's why I'm not going alone," Lefiya answered sharply. She turned toward them, her eyes determined. "I'm going with Cruz. He's fast. And I won't engage—only scan the area using Rea Laevateinn. It's not just an attack spell—it functions as a detection field."
She held her staff closer to her chest. "If they're still within this island's bounds, I'll sense them. Their magical signatures—Finn, Riveria, all of them. If I can confirm they're alive, we'll return and regroup. If I sense nothing... then we'll know they've moved again. Either way, we won't be blind anymore."
Cruz gave a slow nod. "I can carry her. We move fast, stay out of sight. Get the reading and pull back."
Alicia bit her lip but said nothing.
"You're gambling on what we know, not on what the enemy might do," Glenn grumbled. "That's a good way to end up as bones in the mist."
"Miss Alicia is still here," Lefiya replied, her voice steady. "If anything happens, she can hold the ship together until we return."
"She's not a fortress," Glenn muttered.
"But she is strong enough," Lefiya said, eyes locking with Alicia's.
The older elf gave a reluctant nod. "I don't like it, but… I understand. Just promise you'll retreat if it gets bad."
"We will," Lefiya promised.
Tiona emerged from the lower deck, adjusting her bracers. "We'll cover here. You two—be fast. And stay smart."
Cruz gave a quick salute.
Anakitty, perched on the stern, kept silent, but her feline ears twitched, signaling her attention was never wavering. Eyes scanning the fog, senses primed for the slightest hint of threat.
And with that, Lefiya and Cruz moved. Down the plank, into the mist.
Time was no longer a luxury.
The ascent through the chimneys was long, dark, and unrelenting.
Five across, the narrow passage could fit the entire party shoulder to shoulder, but it left little room for maneuvering—an absolute nightmare if the enemy struck from either end. The walls pressed in, sealed tight by the passing of centuries. No breeze, no draft. Just heat and sweat and darkness.
Each breath came heavier now. Ais, always calm, now bore the look of quiet strain. Her shoulders were taut, and her grip on Desperate had subtly changed. Even Bete, the untiring beast of the group, was beginning to pant. His sharp breaths echoed down the stone throat of the mountain.
Behind them, Gareth grunted softly as he shifted Riveria's limp form. He was careful—so very careful—not to let her delicate limbs strike the walls as they moved. Her breathing was light, but steady. Her mind, however, was somewhere far from here.
Finn's mind raced with a different kind of fatigue. Not physical—his body had endured worse. But the mental pressure, the weight of every choice dragging his familia further into this unknown world… it chipped away at his calm. He could feel it.
Just behind Bete and Ais, Raul moved with focused purpose, whispering guidance to Thomas and Gregg. The two men, lacking a falna, were near-blind in the darkness, their palms darkened from scraping against ancient stone. They moved by feel alone—fingers grazing the wall, fearful of any sudden hole or crack that might swallow them whole.
"Damn it," Gregg muttered, sweat dripping from his chin. "How much farther?"
Thomas didn't answer. He was too focused on staying upright, breath coming in shallow gasps.
Tione, though battered, kept pace beside Finn. Her eyes flicked to him often, and though she said nothing, her resolve sharpened each time she did. As long as the captain still stood, so would she.
Finn watched them all—their shadows flickering in the faint magical glow Riveria's staff had left behind before going dark. Every heartbeat, every step, was another roll of the dice. And still, that eerie sensation lingered. The mist…
It haunted him.
What if it was watching?
How do you even fight mist? he thought bitterly. A devil fruit? A ghost? Or something more ancient?
Bete's nose was their compass now. He paused occasionally, sniffing with a quiet growl. "Still rock," he muttered once. "But some dirt. Getting closer."
That was something, at least.
Finn nodded, saying nothing. If there's soil, there's an opening. Somewhere. But it could be buried. If that was the case, Gareth would have to dig them out, and with Riveria on his back…
The path stretched on. Time blurred. Minutes bled into what felt like hours.
Then Gregg faltered.
His foot missed a hold. He groaned and dropped to one knee, arms trembling.
"I can't—" he gasped.
Bete stopped, clicked his tongue, and without a word, looped one arm under Gregg's and hauled him forward. "Tch. Dead weight," he muttered, though his grip was secure.
Gareth looked up, a flicker of concern flashing in his eyes. "Let me know when it's my turn to carry one of you," he grunted.
Finn exhaled, slow and quiet.
This was their test—physical, mental, and spiritual.
They were climbing not just out of a tunnel… but out of fear itself.
Hours had passed. Or at least, it felt like it.
The chimney sprawled endlessly upward, each curve or incline another test of endurance. The air had grown hotter, heavier. Twice now they'd turned—once to a long straight path, the second into another grueling uphill climb. Still, there was no end in sight.
For Gareth, the journey was punishing. He bore Riveria over his shoulders like fragile cargo, every step a careful calculation to keep her from harm. His broad fingers clung to the stone grooves, boots slipping occasionally on the worn, crumbling surface.
Behind him, Ais kept watch.
She was the least exhausted among them—calm, silent, unwavering. A shield in motion, Finn once called her. And now, in the absence of their main spellcaster, she became their most important safeguard. Her command over the wind could repel the mist if it returned. She alone had the power to buy them time.
Up ahead, Bete moved in bursts. Even he was slowing now. He leapt to a new ledge, fingers digging into the stone as he turned briefly to check on the others. Below, Gregg had collapsed again, one hand dragging along the chimney wall for support, the other limp at his side.
They pressed on.
Then—it happened.
A deep, low hum echoed through the chimney walls. It wasn't loud, but it reverberated through the stone like a groan from the world itself.
Everyone stopped.
The sound curled up their spines like ice, each heartbeat stalling for just a second.
Ais closed her eyes.
"It's begun exploring," she said softly.
No one asked what "it" was. They all knew.
She could feel it—the flow of air shifting, unnatural. The mist, or the creature that conjured it, had awakened once again. Somewhere within the labyrinthine network of tunnels, it was slithering through alternate paths. Searching.
Ais tightened her grip on Desperate. If it came through this shaft, she would stand alone. Her wind could push it back—maybe not defeat it, but hold it off long enough for the others to escape.
"Go," she whispered.
The rest of the group climbed, slowly disappearing above her, their labored breaths swallowed by the rising tension.
Ais stayed behind, motionless. Listening. Feeling.
Nothing came.
The wind stilled once more.
She exhaled, long and quiet, and then—without another word—she followed.
Above the cursed ruins, under the muted sky, Lefiya stood upon a broken slab of stone, her boots pressed against etched remnants of a forgotten world. Her hand gripped her staff tightly as she focused her chant. Cruz lowered her gently onto the surface, his eyes scanning their perimeter as her voice grew steady with magical rhythm.
A glowing circle of runes formed beneath their feet, pulsing in a calm but urgent light—Rea Laevateinn, the spell not for destruction this time, but as a searchlight in darkness. The detection range was limited, hindered by the unnatural elements of this island, but Lefiya poured everything she had into it. Her mind reached outward, brushing against faint magical echoes in the ruins, trying—hoping—to find any familiar signature. Were they alive? Were they trapped below?
She stopped the chant, breath shallow.
Nothing.
Shaking her head in frustration, she gave Cruz a short nod, and he wordlessly picked her up again, launching into a light sprint as they moved to the next sector.
The silence between them lingered for a time, until Cruz finally broke it with a low voice, not meeting her eyes.
"What happens if they... don't survive this?"
Lefiya's head snapped toward him, sharply. "Cruz!"
He flinched.
"Don't think of such a scenario. Not until we've confirmed anything," she said, firmer this time, the worry in her voice barely hidden. "We haven't seen bodies. We haven't felt anything. That means there's still hope."
Cruz gave a small nod, his lips pursed. "I just hope it doesn't come down to that."
She didn't respond, but her grip on her staff tightened. Her heart echoed the same fear—but now wasn't the time for doubt.
They continued eastward until the terrain shifted again, giving way to the northern reaches of the island—where mountainous structures loomed, half-swallowed by time. Broken towers, slanted walls, and buried roads lay forgotten under roots and dust. Lefiya hopped down from Cruz's back and began chanting again. Her circle glowed, brighter than before—until it flickered.
Still no trace.
She clenched her teeth, trying to interpret the spell's silence. Could they have gone underground? Or... are they at the mountain's peak?
But before her thoughts could gather, a low whisper cut through the air beside her.
"Undead. Four."
Cruz didn't hesitate. He dropped Lefiya and dashed forward. In one swift motion, he pierced the skulls of two shambling skeletons, their brittle bones cracking like dry twigs. The other two lurched toward Lefiya, who brandished her short sword and lunged. Her first strike severed a wrist; the second hacked a leg clean off. She spun with trained grace and delivered a final blow to the head of the last one.
They fell apart at her feet, dust rising into the still air.
Both of them paused, catching their breath. Lefiya wiped a trace of sweat from her brow and looked northward.
No more time to waste.
With their resolve tightened, the two continued scanning the northern stretch of the island—one step closer to finding their familia, or the truth that awaited them.
Hours had passed since they first fled the infernal chamber below—since Riveria had unleashed her devastating flame to buy them time and opened a path through the ancient chimneys. Seventeen vertical shafts they had climbed, with Bete leading the way through each. The last was the worst, spiraling for what felt like miles and opening to strange passages that overlooked the ruined city far below.
Now, finally, the group marched through a long, narrow tunnel—exhausted, silent, with only the sound of weary footsteps echoing against the stone.
Then, a groan broke the stillness.
"Ughhh…" Riveria stirred against Gareth's shoulder.
"About damn time," the dwarf muttered with relief.
"Shut up," Riveria croaked, still groggy.
Gareth smirked. "Welcome back."
Finn, walking ahead with spear in hand, glanced back. Relief flickered across his expression, but it didn't chase away the storm behind his eyes. His thoughts drifted again to that strange moment back at the summit—when Riveria had been found half-buried in stone, drained and unconscious. What happened back there?
The illusions, he thought. We all saw them. Our memories. Our regrets. But why only her…?
He remembered the moment clearly: waking from that strange unconscious state, the scent of damp stone in his nose, the echo of the vibrating noise that had floored them all. He remembered seeing hazy flashes—of his earliest quests, distant friends, battles long past. Nothing malicious. Just… memories.
So why was Riveria left near death?
Because she's a mage? he wondered. Was the mist draining her magic directly? Her mana reserves… That would explain it. And if true, it meant their time was limited.
The sooner they escaped this tomb of a mountain, the better.
But just as that thought settled in his mind, a sharp gust of wind slithered down the tunnel behind them. It wasn't natural.
Ais froze mid-step. The wind brushed past her skin. Her body stiffened.
A shadow loomed behind her.
The mist.
Finn's instincts snapped into place. "Worse case scenario... it's here."
He pivoted instantly, eyes scanning the tight corridor, weapon in hand. "Prepare for defense!" he called out. "Bete—eyes front! If there's an exit, find it now!"
The tunnel darkened. The air thickened.
The creature had returned.
In the narrowing tunnel, with the creeping mist pressing closer like a living shadow, Ais stood firm. The confined space left no room for wide arcs or elaborate footwork. Every movement had to be precise, deliberate.
She slowly drew her blade from its sheath, its edge gleaming with faint light in the dark passage. The metal whispered against the scabbard. Careful not to scrape the walls, she planted her heels and raised the sword.
"Tempest… Ariel!" she chanted.
A sudden burst of wind erupted from her blade, crashing forward and slamming into the incoming mist. The unnatural haze recoiled, repelled by the gale, swirling violently in place, unable to press forward. But it didn't retreat. It lingered. Watching. Groaning.
Further ahead, Bete's black eyes gleamed in the dark as he caught sight of a new vertical passage. Vines clung to the walls, patches of moss clinging to cracks in the stone. Vegetation, he realized. That means sunlight. That means an exit.
Without hesitation, he kicked off the wall, grabbed Gregg—who had been climbing sluggishly behind Raul—and tossed him into a safer corner of the tunnel.
"Ahh—what the hell?!" Gregg yelped, slamming into the wall and blinking in surprise. But it worked. He was alert now.
Below, Gareth gently set Riveria down as she coughed, her breath ragged. "Stay here. You're not moving till we're clear," he muttered, then turned to see Ais firing another wind burst to hold the creature back. The mist clawed and pressed at the walls with unseen force, a groan rising from within it—deep, guttural, full of hatred and fury. It surged again, resisting the wind, stretching tendrils toward them.
Ais didn't flinch. She planted her sword again and unleashed another Tempest, the wind howling with even greater force. The creature slowed, stalled—fighting against a storm it could not conquer.
Up ahead, Bete sprinted up the vine-covered shaft. The air grew damper, the tunnel wider. He reached a small chamber filled with broken rocks and dirt, steam hissing from cracks in the walls. The ceiling was high—too far to see clearly—but it was enough. This was it.
He turned sharply and bounded back down the passage.
At the mid-climb, Raul and Tione were guiding Thomas and Gregg upward. When Bete reached them, he landed with a huff and a smug grin.
"There's a way out," he said without hesitation. "We just need to break through some dirt and rock."
That was all Finn needed to hear.
"Gareth!" he barked.
The dwarf was already moving, scooping Riveria into his arms once more and charging up the chimney path with the others following fast behind.
Back in the tunnel, the wind roared and the mist screamed—but for the first time since they'd entered this cursed place, hope surged stronger than fear.
Ais staggered slightly, sweat clinging to her skin, her boots dragging against the stone. She pulled back with swift steps, her sword leveled in front of her as she continued channeling wind from its edge.
Each burst of Tempest pushed the mist creature back a few paces, holding it at bay, but she knew it wasn't enough to destroy it. The thing was only delayed—stalled by the force of her wind magic, but never truly harmed. It seethed and shrieked in frustration behind the storm she created.
Then, beneath the roar of rushing wind, she heard them.
Footsteps.
No… crawling, scratching—hundreds of limbs scrambling and scraping through stone.
Her golden eyes narrowed.
The undead were coming.
Ais fired one last wave of wind, a final surge of force that sent the mist creature howling in rage, its form breaking apart and reforming behind the blast. Then, with the pressure momentarily off, she turned and sprinted away—her wind shield dissipating as she rejoined the others.
She arrived just as the rest reached the chamber.
Three tunnels.
The last intersection.
This has to be it.
Gareth didn't hesitate. He stormed toward the mound of dirt and rubble at the center, already raising his battered axe. He slammed it into the ceiling with a thunderous crack that made the floor tremble. Rubble fell around him, stones cracking and dust rising in thick clouds.
He roared, tearing rocks free with bare hands, grunting as stone and dirt buried his shoulders. Still, he dug—his body half-submerged in a crumbling pile. Like the mines from his youth, he worked tirelessly, his limbs burning, his heart steady.
Ais gave her report, breathless but composed.
"They're coming," she said. "From all tunnels. Not just undead—more."
Finn responded instantly. "Positions!"
He pointed. "Bete—left tunnel. Tione—right. Ais—you're back to the front. I'll take the far passage. Nothing gets through!"
Everyone sprang into motion.
Riveria, still weak, was pressed against the wall, her limbs trembling as she tried to sit up. Thomas and Gregg flanked her, both wide-eyed and unarmed. Raul knelt besides giving them water and a canteen. He then temporarily assumed his role as the commander and assessing the battlefield with a quick sweep of his eyes.
The first wave of enemies struck like a tide.
From every tunnel, bones clattered, claws scraped, and groans echoed. Bete launched forward with a violent kick, his foot slamming into a crowd of skeletal warriors, sending them sprawling back. His fists flew, smashing ribs and snapping jaws.
Tione roared, steam practically venting from her body. Her twin blades flashed as she spun, cutting through limbs and skulls, blood splattering across the floor.
Finn—his usual control gone—gritted his teeth, bloodlust flickering in his eyes.
Heil Finegas.
With the chant of his berserk technique, he charged into the oncoming mass, no longer calculating angles or orders—just slaughter. His spear split skulls, and with his free hand, he grabbed a skeleton by the neck and smashed it into the floor hard enough to shatter the stone beneath.
Ais, still graceful, still precise, danced at the front—her blade slicing apart every undead that dared enter the misty edge of the chamber.
Behind her, a voice.
"Ais!"
Raul hurled a pouch through the air. She caught it and drank quickly. Hydration. Every edge mattered.
More undead came. More pressure.
And then—
A collapse.
"Gareth!" Raul shouted as the ceiling above gave way, rocks caving in with a deafening rumble. Smoke and dust swallowed the dwarf.
Silence.
And then, through the falling rubble, an arm burst free—covered in dirt but still strong.
"I'M NOT DONE YET!" Gareth roared, dragging himself from the pile. His axe now chipped, his face smeared with blood and sweat—but the fire in his eyes burned stronger than ever.
He slammed it again into the wall—again and again—until a shaft of light pierced the dust.
A breeze. Fresh air.
A way out.
Now all they had to do…
…was survive long enough to reach it.
It burst through the cracks like the first sunrise after a storm, flooding the chamber in a pale, golden glow that made even the filth and dust glitter. Gareth, sweat-soaked and bloodied, froze for just a second. He smiled.
"That's it," he muttered, eyes gleaming behind his grime-covered face. His axe, now chipped and dulled, clanked as he leaned it against the wall and began to dig faster, hands tearing through loosened dirt and stone.
Above, a hand reached down.
"Gareth!" a familiar voice shouted.
The dwarf blinked through the dust and looked up.
It was Cruz.
Without pause, Gareth turned and stumbled down the slope of rubble he'd carved with his own hands. He slid on loose rock, catching himself at the base where Riveria lay—still breathing, barely. Her eyes fluttered weakly but never opened.
He knelt, gently scooping her up over his shoulders. "Come on, elf," he whispered. "We're going home."
Behind him, Thomas and Gregg clambered toward the slope, battered and bruised but alive. As Gareth began climbing again—his legs trembling from exhaustion—they followed close, stumbling, slipping, but never stopping.
As they neared the exit, the tunnel lit up in a soft, haunting green.
Outside, Lefiya stood like a beacon of magic incarnate, her golden hair whipping in the wind, eyes glowing with focus as the massive Rea Laevateinn spell expanded from beneath her feet. The magic circle flared with verdant light, crackling and humming like a living thing, surrounding the exit like a barrier of divine fire.
"Rea Laevateinn!" she cried, and the world answered.
A cascade of flame tore through the ancient ruins, racing through stone and air alike. The tunnels below ignited as the spell surged downward, flames seeking the source of corruption like a purging light. Screams echoed through the mountain—inhuman, agonized, furious.
The undead, crawling and marching up from the depths, were caught in the blaze. Bones blackened and burst, ashes scattering like leaves in the wind. Even the mist that had haunted Ais recoiled violently, howling in pain as it burned, flickering out in pieces.
Raul, seeing the torrent of fire, shouted from the rubbles edge, "Escape! Now!"
At once, the rest of the familia moved.
Raul helped Ais up and out, while Tione and Bete, their bodies drenched in blood and sweat, ushered the others to the slope.
Finn, battered but determined, gritted his teeth. His thumb still ached—a lingering warning—but he ignored it.
There was no time for fear.
"Move!" he barked, pushing ahead to cover their retreat. "Get everyone out—don't stop!"
And with the undead shrieking behind them, their shadows burned by magic, the Loki Familia began their climb to salvation—chasing the light that once seemed so far away.
When Lefiya and Cruz had reached the western edge of the island, she stood once more and gathered her magic. Her voice trembled slightly, hoarse from effort, as she began the chant again—her hundredth attempt, at least. Still, she held onto hope.
And then... she felt it.
Just beneath her.
"Captain," she whispered, voice filled with sudden clarity.
Cruz, who had just finished dispatching a stumbling undead, turned toward her. His expression lit with hope. "You found them?"
Lefiya nodded firmly.
Moments later, the groups were reunited—darting through dense vegetation and crumbling ruins, dodging what remained of the undead. The terrain was treacherous, the air thick with decay and heat.
"How is Lady Riveria, Gareth-san?" Lefiya asked as she jogged beside him.
"She's alive. Just… drained," Gareth grunted, adjusting the unconscious elf's weight on his shoulder.
While they ran, Lefiya focused her magic, letting small waves of her power seep into Riveria, relieving some of the mental strain. They didn't move at full speed—Gareth carried Riveria, Cruz hefted Thomas over his shoulder, and Tione kept a tight grip on Gregg. Every step was a calculated risk.
Far ahead, Bete tore through stray undead, his fury still smoldering from their battle underground.
Finn glanced behind them. The mist that had haunted them below was gone. And yet, from the now-visible terrain, a new dread crept in. More undead were gathering, as if tracking them through some unseen force.
Perhaps, Finn thought grimly, the mist's presence below had cleared the surface—temporarily.
Still, they couldn't stop.
The size of the island became painfully apparent. The western side stretched endlessly, and the distant east—where the Voyager waited—felt like another continent.
Finn kept pace with Lefiya, asking, "What's the situation on the ship?"
"They were attacked too. The undead reached them, but Alicia and the others held the line. No losses," she replied, panting.
Finn's face tensed. "Good. Now listen—about the mist. You'll need to stay vigilant. If I'm right, it doesn't just shroud—it drains mana. That's likely what hit Riveria. If it catches you off guard... you'll collapse before you can even chant."
Lefiya nodded, jaw set. She began a concurrent chant mid-stride, only to pause and release the spell toward a gathering of skeletal figures ahead.
They weren't normal undead.
Spiderlike limbs protruded from their spines. Jagged bones jutted out like spears, and in unison, dozens of them launched sharp projectiles.
Ais was the first to react.
She surged forward, unleashing Tempest—a sweeping gust that knocked the barrage off-course. Even exhausted, she moved like a blade of wind incarnate.
Lefiya stepped forward, eyes glowing.
"Rae Laevateinn!"
A surge of flame erupted, sweeping through the horde in a storm of emerald fire. The scream of charred bone echoed behind them as ash scattered across the dark sky.
They kept moving. Desperation turned to resolve.
Ruined coliseums passed them by—great circular stones with shattered columns lying like fallen titans. They caught a glimpse of something unnatural among the ruins—huge footprints carved into dust and stone. Massive. Inhuman. They didn't have time to question it.
Temples, aqueducts, collapsed homes.
And then... familiar ground.
"We're close," Finn said, breath catching in his throat.
Bete was already ahead—his silhouette like a silver dart vanishing into the trees. They could see him stop just at the edge of the port path.
But he didn't move forward.
And that's when the rest of them reached the clearing and froze.
The sound of breath—soft, almost hesitant—was the only thing that remained.
There, just meters from their ship, stood a man.
Or something like one.
Towering. Silent. Cloaked in black robes etched with white circles and paw marks. His long, curled hair drifted slightly in the breeze. One hand rested on a closed book. The other, gloved, hung at his side like the calm before a storm.
And he was colossal.
Larger than Ottar. 7 times his size.
He did not move. Did not speak. Did not even blink.
Only waited.
END OF CHAPTER