บท 349: Dungeon fight part one

Blood drips down Cora's arm as she grips her sword tightly, the metallic scent mingling with the damp air of the dungeon. Her knuckles whiten, and a pained grimace twists her lips. 'Shit, what am I supposed to do in this situation?' Her thoughts race, her heartbeat pounding against her ribs. 'If they make a move now, they might provoke that monster, and even with my full power, defeating him would be uncertain—no, impossible.' Her shoulders tense as she glances toward Ilúvëthar, her voice coming out as a low, reluctant growl. "I'll make sure everything goes according to the King's plan." With a heavy sigh, she turns to face the elf prince, catching his gaze just long enough to convey her determination.

"Maintain formation. Twelve, seven, eighteen—cut off any exit Ilúvëthar could use." Bein's voice, a whisper that hardly disturbs the stillness of the air, echoes softly as he mutters into a small communication device under his shirt. 'I knew this would happen, ugh... I just hope the guild master doesn't overreact.' His eyes narrow with concern, flickering between his allies and the formidable figure ahead, calculating the risks in silence. Tension coils within him like a spring, his every muscle bracing for what might come next.

Above them, the dark roots coil and twist around the towering ancient tree, weaving a suffocating pattern of blackness as they crawl upward, inch by inch, until they envelop the brilliant flower at its peak. The flower vanishes beneath the twisting tendrils, which bind it in a writhing cocoon. The monsters, a grotesque horde, twitch violently as they sense the transformation. Their glassy eyes glaze over, their bodies convulsing as their ravenous focus shifts to the corrupted tree.

Without warning, they leap, their twisted, sinewy forms floating towards the bark in a nightmarish dance. Their maws slam into the tree's surface, gorging with savage urgency. Sharp teeth scrape against wood, and a viscous red liquid—thick, pulsating like blood—spurts forth from the gashes, the sap gushing down in hideous rivulets. The monsters latch onto the tree, clinging with bone-black claws as they drink deeply of its unnatural sap. Their bodies shiver and quake, and with every swallow, they grow still, a dreadful calm settling over them. They feed until the tremors that wracked their forms cease entirely, and for a moment, an eerie, monstrous tranquility descends.

"Enough." Mirelith's cold voice cuts through the frenzied feeding, resonating like a bell chime in the stillness of a graveyard. At once, the monsters freeze, their grotesque bodies locking up, rigid with tension. Slowly, with a reluctant shudder, they pull themselves away from the tree, their eyes dimming extinguished by his command.

Mirelith's golden eye narrows as it fixes on Ilúvëthar, a calculating gleam within its depths. "Your own efforts will decide if you are worthy of 'that' flower," he declares, his voice low and deliberate, each syllable cutting through the air like shards of ice. "I won't stop anyone from attacking you. However, I will prevent the others from claiming what lies here." He floats down slowly, his presence shifting to Ilúvëthar's side, a foreboding shadow that looms far larger than his physical form.

The temperature drops suddenly. The air turns bitter, and the very breath Ilúvëthar exhales becomes a mist, his chest tightening as the chill seeps into his bones. Goosebumps prickle along his skin, an instinctive reaction to the oppressive energy beside him. Mirelith stands close, his golden eye staring directly into his soul. He leans in, his voice a whisper that sinks directly into Ilúvëthar's very soul, bypassing the barriers of flesh and thought. "Watch your words," Mirelith warns, his voice holding a gravity that makes the air itself quiver, like a threat of death folded into velvet.

A shudder ripples through Ilúvëthar, his confidence cracking, his heartbeat pounding violently within his chest. "If that man hadn't mentioned you," Mirelith continues, his words trailing into a low, dangerous murmur, "you would be nothing more than ashes scattered across this stone." His breath, icy and slow, brushes against the elf's ear, and Ilúvëthar feels his entire body stiffen under the weight of that whispered truth—a truth that threatens to suffocate him with its inevitability.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The cold breeze whispers around the pine trees, their needles swaying softly as moonlight filters through, casting a mesmerizing dance of shadows across the forest floor. The night is alive with subtle motion, and high above, spectral owls swoop and swirl, their wings glinting with an ethereal glow, painting ghostly arcs in the sky. A visual spectacle unfolds, as the owls themselves create a living piece of art. Leena watches the display for a moment before speaking, her voice soft yet without a shred of emotion. "Impressive, right? Who knew owls could create art," she murmurs, her gaze distant. She sits across from Kael, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the earth.

Kael looks at her, waiting for her to continue, sensing the depth beneath her simple words. Leena's expression is lost somewhere far away, a place of memories and lingering shadows. "I never expected to raise them," she begins, her tone contemplative, almost detached. "One day, I came across a young chick. It must've been bleeding for hours... its wings were torn, feathers soaked in crimson, arrows piercing its fragile body. It was a mess—covered in blood, its eyes hollow as it lay there, waiting to die. I ignored it at first, just walked past it, thinking nature would take its course."

She pauses, her eyes narrowing as if trying to see that distant day clearly once more. "At first, I thought it was following me up the mountain. I remember thinking, 'How foolish.' It was struggling, barely able to stand, and yet it trailed after me. I was certain it wouldn't survive—no, it couldn't survive. The climb up was harsh, three long miles of steep, unforgiving slopes, and the cold... it was bitter, gnawing. The chick's leg broke somewhere along the way. I heard the snap, but it didn't stop. It fought a large cat that came upon it, a desperate creature seeking an easy meal. The owl lost an arm to it, one of its wings ripped away in the scuffle. But it kept moving. By the time I was halfway up, it was crawling, dragging its broken body inch by inch on a single leg."

Leena's eyes glisten under the moonlight, her voice growing softer, touched with something like reverence. "I had no idea what to make of it, this pitiful creature that defied its own agony. I thought, 'Why? Why does it keep moving?' It wasn't following me. No, it had a purpose. I watched it climb, my heart heavy with confusion, perhaps even guilt. And when I finally reached the top, I understood. Its ambition... its determination was all for something greater than itself. On that cold, once-empty mountain top, there was a nest. A tiny nest with a tiny, starving chick—its sibling. All that blood, all that pain, all that struggle was to reach the top, to feed it one last time, even as it was dying."

She sighs deeply, her breath misting in the chilled night air as she looks further up, her gaze drifting to the darkened treetops. "Later, I realized the truth. When the parents die, the siblings are left to feed each other. That chick climbed that mountain, facing certain death, just for the chance to give its sibling a chance at life. From then on, out of respect for that one owl that I could not understand, I decided to help other spectral owls. It was an impulse at first, a way to honor something I didn't fully grasp. I never imagined it would lead to this." She gestures to the sky, where the owls dance their ghostly ballet, their wings like strokes of pale silver against the dark canvas of night.

'Hmm... what to do, what to do,' Kael muses, tapping his chin thoughtfully as his sharp gaze lingers on Leena's delicate yet otherworldly form. 'She's not human or elf... whatever species she is seems intricately tied to nature, almost as if it's etched into her very existence.' His hazel eyes narrow, studying the subtle movements of her black-veined arms and the faint pulsations from the crimson flower blooming in her eye.

With a heavy sigh, Kael shifts his posture, his gaze sharpening. "Let me rephrase my offer," he says, his tone calm yet insistent. "I'll tell you everything I know about the world, in return for information about this dungeon and your mother—the one you mentioned earlier." His voice carries a weight that suggests this isn't just idle curiosity. 'Something will happen here,' he thinks, his mind already calculating. 'Something that will keep Leena and anyone else tied to this place from interfering with the main storyline. The adventurers are safe, probably... but I need whatever information I can get if I'm going to make this dungeon worthwhile.'

For a moment, the only sound is the wind, low and mournful as it weaves through the towering pines. The spectral owls overhead suddenly take flight, their silent wings creating ghostly arcs against the pale moonlight as they vanish into the shadows. The absence of their presence leaves a profound stillness in the air, a cold weight that settles heavily between the two.

Leena exhales slowly, her crimson eye half-lidded, unreadable. Her hand brushes against the soft grass as she taps the ground rhythmically. The glow from her flowered eye dims slightly, its dark center seeming to swirl. Finally, she leans against her arm, her expression betraying nothing but a faint trace of weariness. "Very well," she murmurs, her voice low, calm, but with an edge of something Kael can't quite place. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you... since it will all be over soon."

She tilts her head, her crimson hair cascading over her shoulder like a river of blood. "But first," she continues, her gaze locking with his, "I wish to hear of the world."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"He who we failed has given you a choice," Dúnadan mutters, his gravelly voice reverberating through the cavern like distant thunder. His dark, ashen-grey skin cracks slightly as he pops his neck, stretching his small frame. Pieces of his outer layer peel off and fall to the ground, turning to dust before vanishing into the air. "In truth, I dislike you. However, given that you are connected to the warrior I faced, I will show restraint."

The figure next to him, a twisted amalgamation of elegance and malice, lets out a soft chuckle, her lips curling into a wicked smile. "What a cute little thing," she says, her voice sweet but dripping with venom as she licks her lips. Her nails, long and black like obsidian, tap rhythmically against her hip. "So, who will you choose, boy?"

Ilúvëthar steps forward, his silver-blue eyes gleaming with malicious intent as he adjusts his posture, the picture of unearned arrogance. 'To think he knows the fairy prince. This complicates things. So these are the two V and I met before... delightful.' A cocky grin stretches across his face as he glances at them. "Before I decide, tell me why you're not twitching like retards? If I remember correctly, neither of you could form a coherent sentence on the last floor."

"He who we failed is feeding us his energy," the woman replies, her voice lilting and almost playful, though her sharp gaze reveals the cruelty beneath. "It's temporarily stopping the corrosion in our brains. He's allowing us to go all out—well, as much as we can, anyway." She takes a deliberate step closer, her movements serpentine and unhurried. Her black, tattered gown clings to her form, flowing unnaturally with an unseen wind. "You'll choose me, right?" she purrs, her face locking onto his.

Ilúvëthar's grin widens as he rubs his chin, his thoughts spinning like a spider weaving a web. 'Making it unnecessarily troublesome, aren't they? That man's fighting style was painful enough, but I doubt she's any weaker. I see what they're doing.' His eyes flick toward Cora and the others in the distance, lingering on their tense postures. 'Ah, how generous of them to complicate matters further~'

"I'm assuming," he says, his tone mockingly casual, "that whoever isn't chosen will be free to hunt them down?" He jerks his chin toward the adventurers, his smirk growing sharper.

"Yes," Dúnadan states flatly, his heavy voice leaving no room for ambiguity.

Ilúvëthar's tongue brushes against his teeth, his lips curling upward into a malicious grin. 'How considerate. Judging from her performance on the last floor, she's likely a caster—fairy magic. Dealing with her would be a pain.' He licks his lips, a spark of twisted amusement in his eyes as he focuses back on Dúnadan. "Then I choose you," he announces, pointing at the towering figure.

"Hmhmhmhm~" The woman laughs softly, an eerie, unsettling sound that lingers in the air. She steps closer to Ilúvëthar, her black nails grazing his cheek as she leans in, her breath cool against his skin. "Aww, I was really hoping you'd pick me," she whispers, her voice dripping with mock disappointment. As she trails her fingers across his jaw, purple-glowing marks appear, pulsing faintly with a sinister energy. "That's a little present~" she adds with a playful wink before turning away, her focus now on the distant adventurers. Her smile sharpens as she licks her lips. "They'll be fun to play with."

"To think she likes a disgusting man such as yourself," Dúnadan mutters, exhaling deeply as his body begins to shift. His muscles bulge and harden, his frame elongating until he towers at an imposing 7'6".

Ilúvëthar chuckles, his voice low and smug as he touches the purple markings. "I tend to have that effect on women," he sneers, his tone dripping with self-satisfaction.