Helmutt took his time.

The descent was steep, each footstep ringing hollow against stone slick with moisture. Torches lined the narrow stairwell in iron sconces, burning low and crooked, casting their sickly orange light that barely reached the cracks.

Past the first cells were the broken ones. Men and women of stature, of name, once clad in satin, now left to rot in rusted chains. A few lifted their heads, gaunt and bleary-eyed. One muttered something, a rasp of breath that barely carried any volume. A desperate plea, listened by none.

Helmutt didn't stop.

Beyond them, past the rows of discarded ministers and generals, was the final cell.

It reeked of damp stone and burned iron. A single torch lit the room, though barely, its flame struggled to survive in the stagnant air. Inside the cell, shackled to the back wall, sat the final remnants of the Empyrian Empire.

Emperor Caelus Empyria—stripped of crown, stripped of dignity—sat slumped against the wall, his once-regal black hair now matted and clinging to dried blood. The golden robes of his station hung in tatters, dulled and torn, barely hiding the bruises that marred his skin.

Beside him, bound by the same mana-sapping chains, Empress Virelya sat upright, barely holding on. Her emerald eyes, once sharp enough to silence a court, now dulled by pain and hunger. Her lips trembled. But she didn't look away as Helmutt stepped into the dungeon.

He grinned at the sight.

"Well, well," he said, arms outstretched as if greeting old friends. "Still alive. Color me impressed."

Neither ruler answered. Not immediately.

Helmutt's gaze drifted to the chains, then back to them. "Several months now. I thought you'd have cracked by week two. But here you are. The mighty Empyrians—still bleeding, still clinging to your little charade."

Caelus said nothing. He didn't even blink. Just twitched one blood-caked finger against the stone.

Helmutt clicked his tongue.

"Maybe that's what's so charming about you both," he said. "Regal to the end. Starving, shivering… and still pretending you're royalty of a world that no longer exists."

The silence stretched. Thin and tense, like a wire strung too tight.

Helmutt brushed dust from his sleeve. "You're making this worse for yourselves. The longer you wait, the crueler the methods become."

He didn't sound cruel. That made it worse. His tone was light. Familiar. Almost bored.

He stepped closer. The iron bars groaned under his weight as he leaned in. But he didn't look at them like prisoners. He looked at them like artifacts.

"You know why I'm here," he said. "I don't care about your coffers. Or your court. Those who didn't die kissed my boots. Some—still do. You've seen their faces. The rest?" He shrugged. "Fertilizer for the pits."

Still no reply. Just the quiet grit of Caelus grinding his jaw.

Helmutt's voice lowered. "I want the roots," he said. "The last ones. The ones you tried to bury. The last of the Empyrians."

At that, Virelya stirred. Her head lifted just slightly. The effort looked like it cost her, but she managed it. There was no fire left in her eyes.

But there was clarity. Helmutt saw it, and simply smiled. A very, thin, smile.

"Still nothing from you, my lady?" he asked, voice almost tender. "I'll ask again. Where did you send the girl?"

No answer.

Virelya didn't move. Didn't flinch. Her wrists burned where the mana-suppressing chains dug in. Her spine curved beneath the weight of long-held silence. Her body was half broken.

But her gaze? It was unshaken.

"You won't find her," she whispered.

Helmutt's smile changed. Not smug. Not amused.

Just patient.

As if he already knew he would.

"I know what you were doing," Helmutt said, his voice soft, almost sympathetic. His lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile. "Hiding her. Shielding her. You didn't want the world to know. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Not until the time was right."

He let that linger, savoring the silence. "Thing is," he continued, "word always finds a way to crawl out."

Neither Caelus nor Virelya responded. That, of course, only encouraged him.

"She wasn't just your daughter," Helmutt said, tone dipping lower, more focused now. "She was your legacy. The crown jewel of Empyria. A child like that wasn't meant for parades or politics. You hid her away like a relic; you kept her behind velvet curtains and gilded walls. No public appearances. No foreign visits. Even her birthdays were closed-door affairs. She was precious. Too precious to risk."

He stepped forward. His tailored boots creaked against the stone.

"She's not dangerous," Virelya said quietly, her voice raw. "She's kind. Gentle. She'd never hurt anyone."

"No," Helmutt agreed. "But kindness doesn't matter. Not in the eyes of kings. Or conquerors. I'm sure the both of you know that by now. Personality doesn't matter. Power does."

He crouched, meeting them through the bars. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"You knew what she was. From the moment she touched her first spell circuit. Long before she ever spoke an incantation. She's not a prodigy. Not just some golden-blooded heir."

A pause.

"An Archon, was it?"

Virelya flinched. Caelus didn't move, but his jaw locked, hard.

"You can deny it. But some of your men were less disciplined under... persuasion. I've seen the signs myself."

Helmutt stood, brushing dust from his coat, hands folding behind his back. "So you understand my position. One empire harboring an Archon? It's not acceptable. A high-tier Archmage? Fine. Rare. Dangerous. But manageable."

He turned, pacing slowly. "An Archon, though?" His voice was almost casual. "No. I can't allow that."

A slow breath escaped him. Humorless. Cold.

"I decimated your empire," he said, gaze shifting upward to the ceiling, "because you would never let her go. And because, one day, she would walk into the world and change it."

"She would've brought peace," Virelya snapped. The fire in her voice flared, brittle but real.

Helmutt only shook his head. "No one with power like that brings peace. Not without war first."

He tapped his chest once. "And I prefer to strike before the fire spreads."

He turned, walking down the corridor, stepsechoing in the dark. But his voice still carried.

"Your empire's gone. Your name—meaningless. Your ministers? Half are rotting. The rest kneel when I call. Some even thank me."

He stopped. Didn't look back.

"But this can all end. Just say the name. Give me a location. A direction to chase."

There was silence. But only for a moment.

"You'll never touch her," Caelus growled. "Your threats mean nothing."

Helmutt turned. Slowly. His smile had faded. "You say that like you're still a king."

"I say that as a father."

And there, just for a flicker—Helmutt's eyes narrowed. Not in rage.

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But something colder. Something personal. Something that hurt.

He looked at Virelya. Her strength hadn't shattered. Not yet. But the cracks were showing. She was trembling. Even after months of torture, the two hadn't broken. But Virelya—she was close.

"You see?" Helmutt said, voice calm, almost soothing. He spoke to Caelus now. "She wants to tell me. Not because she's weak. But because deep down… she's wondering if Lia is worth this. Worth all this pain. Watching you rot. Hearing you scream. "

Virelya squeezed her eyes shut.

Helmutt crouched again, face level with hers through the bars. His tone dipped, soft and coaxing.

"You can end it. Just say the words. No more cold floors. No more teeth bloodied from biting through screams. No more of this."

She stayed silent.

Helmutt tilted his head. "Still nothing?"

Another pause. A breath. Then finally, quietly:

"I'd rather die than tell you where my daughter is."

Helmutt smiled faintly and glanced at Caelus. "You hear that? She'd rather die."

He stood, leisurely brushing off the front of his coat. The movement was slow. Almost courteous. "A shame," he murmured. "But if that's what she wants…"

He raised one hand, finger pointing lazily toward the control panel.

"Up the current."

Virelya jerked in her chains. Her voice cracked the moment the order landed.

"No—wait!" she cried. The panic surfaced instantly, as if it had never truly left. "Don't—please, not again!"

The guardsman hesitated just long enough to glance at Helmutt.

A single nod was the response.

Virelya thrashed. "I take it back! I didn't mean it!" Her voice hitched into a shrill, panicked pitch. "Please—I'm begging you—I can't—don't do this!"

The lever creaked.

"No!"

Her scream tore through the air as lightning surged through the iron. The manacles hissed. Her body spasmed violently, heels scraping against the stone. Her mouth opened in another scream, but the sound gave out halfway, her voice collapsing beneath the weight of it.

The smell of burning flesh clung to the room.

"Virelya!" Caelus roared, his voice booming through the dungeon like a war cry. But beneath the fury, there was a crack. One he couldn't hide.

She wasn't crying anymore. Just gasping. Quiet, pitiful breaths between convulsions. Her head hung low, hair matted to her cheek, face slack with pain.

Caelus shouted again, not words this time—just a sound. A broken sound. Half agony, half rage. He wasn't sure if it was meant for the gods, for Helmutt, or for himself.

The current stopped.

Virelya slumped forward, chest heaving, shoulders twitching with the aftershocks.

Helmutt didn't gloat. He didn't mock her. There was no need.

He turned to go.

"Talis. Reset her for tomorrow," he said quietly. Then, over his shoulder, "As for Caelus… do what you want. Hit the switch whenever you'd like. He won't break. But if you get bored…"

He gave a small shrug. "Pass some time for entertainment if you grow bored within these dark confines."

The guardsman named Talis bowed without a word.

Helmutt's footsteps faded up the stairwell, the echoes swallowed by stone and silence.

The guard lingered by the panel, hand resting on the lever. He glanced once toward the hallway, then again at the emperor and empress, his eyes narrowing. After a few seconds, confirming that it was just them—he moved.

His steps quiet, he moved toward the cell and unlocked the gate with a flick of the wrist. He slipped inside without a sound.

Virelya barely stirred. Her chest still rose and fell in shallow bursts, the scent of burnt flesh lingering in the air.

"Are you alright?" he asked, voice low.

A few seconds passed.

"Is it over?" she murmured. "Or do we need a few more screams for realism?" Her head turned just slightly. A weary smirk ghosted across her lips.

"Was my acting good enough, Varus?"

The man, still dressed in the armor and dull gray cloak of a prison guard from Arlasand—the empire that Helmutt ruled—let out a slow breath.

"It always is," he replied. "Too good, honestly. You're going to give me a heart attack one of these days."

He reached into his belt pouch and passed her a small vial. "Drink. Soothes the throat and numbs the pain. Won't do much for the burns, but… we need you lucid."

Virelya tilted her head back and swallowed it in one go, grimacing.

Across the room, Caelus lifted his gaze. His body still hung partially in the chains, but his voice had steadied. "How much longer?"

Varus stood straight. His tone shifted—crisp now, measured, but never cruel. "Helmutt is planning a summit outside the castle walls. Three weeks from now. He rarely leaves the estate, never without an entourage. But this meeting requires his personal presence."

"So that's when we move, then. What about the others? Are they ready?" Caelus asked.

"Not yet," Varus replied. "I'm still gathering hands. A few War Paragons in the lower barracks are loyal. I have one of your old sentinels in the kitchens. He's injured, but still sharp. There's also a prisoner in Wing D who shouldn't even be here at all. An obsidian-tier warrior suppressing his level down to platinum from the Merra Kingdom. Helmutt doesn't even know what he's holding."

"Is he an asset or a wildcard?" Caelus asked in a skeptical tone.

Varus nodded. "Already made an oath. If I can release him during the breach, he'll be able to level half the city in an instant. Be a shame… since it's the empire's home—but it's better than dying prisoner in it."

Virelya sighed. She was already feeling slightly better with the potion working along her system. "If that's what it takes… then fine."

Caelus nodded once. "And Lia?"

Varus's expression didn't change.

"No word," he said. "And that's the good news. He's turned over half the castle, had every one of his scryers and oracles probe the region. Nothing. I doubt he'll be able to convince a Watcher for a favor. He most likely won't find her any time soon."

Virelya chuckled faintly. The sound scraped out of her throat like rust, but it was genuine.

"Of course he won't," she muttered. "Even I don't know where she was sent. That oaf could burn every map on the continent, and he still wouldn't find her."

Varus allowed himself a thin smile.

"She's safe, then," Caelus said quietly.

"For now," Varus replied. "But we still need to keep up appearances. Helmutt's watching your reactions. If either of you slip, even a little…"

"We know," Caelus cut in. "That's why you need to start up the current a few more times. On me."

Varus hesitated. "Are you sure? I was only able to bring in the one potion. Things are getting strict and my movements are limited."

"We've bought enough suspicion for one night. No use wasting it. Just keep things flowing normally. Even without the potion, the both of us are tougher than you think, Varus," Caelus replied.

He looked to Virelya, her body still trembling slightly, but her eyes clear. She didn't look back, but she still nodded all the same.

"We didn't become rulers because we were weak, Varus. We've taken worse," she said.

"We endure. That's what we do. That's how we've always done it," Caelus added.

Varus gave a faint nod.

He stepped back into the hall, closed the gate, and locked it without much fanfare. At the panel, he hesitated just long enough to glance behind him—then threw the lever.

Sparks flared. Caelus's body arched. But this time, he didn't scream. He simply gritted his teeth, and held in the pain, a muffled grunt the only sound escaping his mouth.

Three more weeks.

Then blood would answer blood.

The dungeon core pulsed faintly beneath Enya's palms—cool, then warm, then electric.

She flinched at first, but Renwick's hand rested gently on her shoulder.

"Stay with it," he said. "It's trying to read your intent. Let it."

Enya nodded, lips pressed tight. Her heart was thudding faster than it should've. Not fear—just too many things happening at once. The hum of the portal gate nearby. The circle's subtle pull on her mana. Renwick's steady voice guiding her through something that felt far larger than herself.

The portal master, standing beside them, system panels up, waved his hand.

"Opening the link to the void," he said calmly. "Brace yourself."

In the next instant, the world fell away.

It wasn't physical. She didn't move, but everything inside her stretched, pulled thin like thread sliding through a needle's eye. The chamber vanished. Her body remained behind, but her thoughts… they… floated.

She drifted into darkness; a complete, endless, and suffocating feeling. The void was empty. Unwritten. Vast. Cold. It was a plane of silence waiting to become something.

"Now," Renwick's voice came through—distant, echoing, yet anchored to her thoughts. "Fill it. Feed the core your energy. Don't try to shape it all yourself. That's the core's strength. You're the vision. It's the sculptor."

System Notification: Spatial Zone detected. Coordinates: B8N3S Set coordinates as dungeon core Anchor Point? [Accept/Decline]

She accepted with a mental thought.

System Notification: Dungeon core Anchor Point has been set.

"Now," Renwick's voice came through—distant, echoing, yet anchored to her thoughts. "Fill it. Feed the core your mana. Dungeon cores specialize in manipulation of matter. Let it do the work. You're the vision. You're the crafter."

Enya grimaced. The energy flow was harder than expected—like squeezing magic through a straw.

Her hands shook slightly at the core's surface back in the real world as she began channeling. Not just mana, but soul energy.

"Small mass detected in the spatial zone," the portal master called. His eyes were locked on his interface, scanning windows only he could see. "Core response is stable. Manifestation has begun."

Renwick nodded. He turned back to Enya who was standing before him.

"More," he urged. "You need a base mass. Keep pouring in more mana."

Inside the void, something began to stir. Dust. Particles. Strands of matter unraveling from nothing, pulled into existence by sheer force of will.

"Imagine something simple," Renwick urged. "A common room. Surrounding walls. A ceiling. Make sure it is completely closed."

She visualized it.

A room. Plain, rectangular stone. Smooth floor. High ceiling. Four walls.

The core responded like a brush guided by thought, etching out corners, drawing up the walls in wireframe, thickening the floor beneath her invisible feet. It wasn't perfect. Some lines were crooked, some texture uneven, but it continued..

Shapes formed from the soup of particles, walls coalescing from dust, floor pressing down from nothing. They didn't slam into place; they settled neatly into being. A sealed, windowless room, floating in the black.

She felt herself sweat, even though her real body was still elsewhere.

After several minutes of pouring in the majority of her Soul-Energy—the room stabilized. The chamber was made.

The hum in her body began to dull. Her connection slackened.

Back in the real world, she drew her hands back from the core. Sweat clung to her brow. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

"A solid, stable mass has formed in the coordinate zone," the portal master said. "It is safe for travel."

"Well done," Renwick said with a nod.

Enya breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't done much, as most of the process was automated by the dungeon core—but she felt exhausted.

Please set your dungeon access permissions. [Open/Closed]

She decided on the closed option. Renwick explained that this meant only people she invited could enter her new dungeon. It didn't seem like a good idea if anyone could just intrude upon her dungeon core whenever they wanted.

"Well then, shall we go visit your new sanctum?" Renwick asked.

"Yeah—Oh, uh… no," she stumbled. "I want to wait for Pell."

She turned around, scanning the room.

Right now, it was only her, Renwick, the portal-master that Pell hated, the portal master's assistant, but no sign of Pell himself.

It had been nearly an hour already since she arrived and began forming her sanctum. The information guild shouldn't have been that far away. He should've been here by now.

"Where is he?" she asked aloud.

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