Chapter 32: The Silent Arrival
Then—Zandagar slowly turned his gaze toward them. Leon, Mira, Arthur, and Elara lay there, motionless. Their bodies fully healed, skin unmarred, breaths shallow and calm. Yet sleep held them tightly, as if time itself had paused for them.
A few steps behind…The man—still on the cold stone floor—lay with his legs twisted to one side, arms spread loosely like a puppet with cut strings. His fingers, once twitched, now lay open and relaxed. His eyes had closed at last. His expression…
A faint smile curved on his lips. Not of victory, not of peace—something else. As if…
As if, in those final moments, he found something he had long searched for, without even knowing it.
A release.
Beneath him, blood slowly spread, blooming like a dark red flower. It framed his still body like a canvas, painting a final picture. He lay inside it like a man cradled by death's arms, not with fear, but with an almost sacred calm. Here, in his own silent requiem—he found salvation.
Zandagar stepped forward. The barrier holding the sleeping four shimmered faintly in front of him, a translucent veil of protection. He stopped just short of it, looking once over his shoulder at the dead man, then forward again.
"So, this insect wanted to die all along," Zandagar mused coldly. "How pathetic. How fragile human life truly is."
Then, Zandagar leaned forward slightly and raised one of his arms—its obsidian blade gleaming darkly in the dim light. He struck the barrier.
A flicker.
Crack!
The barrier shattered like fragile ice.
Zandagar didn't wait. He raised his hand—slow, precise—like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. Then, he thrust downward, aiming directly for Leon's exposed throat. A blow meant to kill. To erase.
Leon remained asleep. So did Mira. Arthur. Elara. They had no idea. No time. No chance.
Zandagar's hand moved again—faster now, impossibly fast—
The obsidian blade screamed through the air.
Clang!
Steel met obsidian.
A burst of force rippled through the chamber—sharp, sudden, final.
Zandagar's blade halted—stopped just a breath away from Leon's throat. An inch more, and there would've been blood. Silence, at first. Then—
A single sword.
It was there, interposed between death and life. Held firm. Horizontal. Slightly tilted—rightward. The edge pressed against Zandagar's obsidian fingers. Not with brute resistance, but with an impossible precision so fine and absolute that it unraveled momentum like a seam torn from the inside
Zandagar blinked.
Then his eyes followed the blade—tracing it not with movement, but with disbelief. It had come from his right… yet ahead of him. Just a step.
She stood there.
One step ahead. Not beside him. Not behind. Opposite him.
Between him and the sleeping four.
Seraphina.
Her cloak danced with the sudden air. Her long silver hair flowed like silk caught in a breeze, catching the light like moonlit strands. She wasn't just standing—she had landed, grounded, held there as if time had carved that exact spot for her.
Her left leg swept back, anchored. Right knee bent low, hovering inches above the ground—balanced like a drawn bow. Boots worn and scarred from battle locked into the stone beneath her, unmoving.
Her form—flawless.
Not just in strength, but in stillness.
Her grip—reverse, both hands on the hilt. Left near the guard, right near the pommel. A style not meant to overwhelm—but control. Every part of her spoke of restraint, not power. Control. Discipline. Intent. Her knuckles were pale, yet her arms held no tension. Her frame leaned slightly forward—but only slightly. Enough to remind the world she was ready to strike, or stop it.
Zandagar stared.
Her head turned. Slowly. Deliberately. Not in panic, not in haste—but as if the moment belonged to her and her alone.
Then their eyes met.
His—dull oranged, forged in contempt.
Hers—ice blue.
No, beyond ice. Glowing. Pale fire held within frozen glass. Not furious. Not afraid. Just… set. Like a judgment passed long ago, now delivered.
They didn't blink.
Zandagar felt a flicker in his spine. Not fear.
Confusion.
"W-Where… did she come from…?"
He hadn't sensed her. Hadn't heard a sound. There was no shift in magic. No ripple in the world. Just—nothing. Until her sword was there. Until she was there.
"A step ahead…" Zandagar thought.
---
—Flashback—Eleventh Floor—
Seraphina came to a halt. The soft tap of her boots echoed against the fractured stone—measured, deliberate, each step laden with quiet control. The corridor ahead yawned in silence, its chill stretching like breathless anticipation.
She slowed. One step faltered.
Her gaze sharpened.
Wolves.
Death Wolves—five, at least. They lay motionless, their lifeless eyes wide open in frozen expressions of agony.
She did not rush. She observed
"…Dead," she murmured, voice low, laced with subtle disdain. But her eyes narrowed further, like a hawk sighting prey. Cold. Precise. "And yet… not dissolved."
A step closer. Her cloak stirred faintly in the still air. She crouched, black-gloved fingers hovering over a lifeless paw—close, but never touching.
"They should've turned into magic stones. But they didn't. That means…" A pause. Her voice dipped, pensive. "They were killed by another monster."
A beat. "But why would a monster attack another one in dungeon."
Her hand hovered over a lifeless paw, never touching, only analyzing.
"Monsters don't hunt their own—especially not in dungeon."
A flicker of tension. Subtle. Just beneath the surface. "Unless… something else intervened. The Guildmaster's suspicions were not misplaced. But for a creature to enter from the outside—the knights on watch should have noticed. And yet, nothing was seen…"
She stood, slowly, posture composed. Tense energy gathered beneath her stillness.
"…No. This doesn't add up."
And then—motion. Sudden. Graceful. Controlled chaos.
Wind caught her cloak as she surged forward. Her boots met stone with muted thunder, a shadow gliding through the corridor's veins.
She ran.
Moments later, she arrived—where the Abyssal Warden had made its final stand.
The damage was immediate. Obvious.
Shattered walls. Deep rents in the ground. Ash and blood fused into the stone.
She slowed, gaze sweeping the carnage. Calm. Analytical. Unwavering.
"So…" Her voice barely above a whisper, yet absolute. "This is where they fought the Orcs."
She knelt once more. Her gloved fingers brushed against a trail of crimson—dried, but not cold. "Still warm, They were here. Not long ago. That must mean they are nearby." Her words held no urgency, but her actions betrayed none of her calm. She rose without pause.
Then—
A sound.
Sharp. Human.
"AGHHHHHH—!"
A young man's cry. Frantic. Painful. Real.
Her eyes flicked toward the depth of the dungeon.
"…That voice. From deeper in."
She turned toward the sound, body tight with decision—then froze. "…Am I too late already?"
And then—she vanished.
Not in speed, but in authority.
A silver streak cleaved through the corridor. Her presence pressed against the air itself. The ground whispered as if scorched by something far greater than mere velocity.
Moments passed.
Then—the throne room.
She did not enter.
She arrived.
A tempest in human form. Her boots kissed the stone, and silence fell—deafened by the weight of her arrival.
Her eyes swept the room, swift and exacting.
"…A boss chamber," she murmured. "On the Eleventh Floor?"
A beat of disbelief.
"That should be… impossible."
And yet—
"…Or is it?"
Her senses hummed. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
Then—her gaze locked forward..
Zandagar.
Blade mid-thrust.
Leon.
Still. Vulnerable.
Her breath paused.
No fear.
No shock.
Only command.
Only purpose.
"He's fast," she assessed coldly. "But not untouchable."
She moved. Not rushed. Not flailing. But with total clarity.
Her left foot shifted back—precise. Weight centered. One hand found her sword's hilt. The other adjusted—reverse grip. Balanced. Ready.
Then—she moved again.
A silver line. Thin. Deadly. Like a remnant of her will etched in light.
In a single instant, she crossed the gap.
No wasted motion.
No sound.
Only resolve.
Her blade met Zandagar's obsidian strike with brutal precision. Metal rang—a single sharp note—And the attack stopped.
—Flashback Closed—
---
The present snapped back like a drawn bowstring loosed.
Her sword pressed against Zandagar's blackened strike, locked in stillness. The force of the collision sent cracks through the floor beneath them.
She pressed forward—firm, relentless.
Zandagar, towering in shadow, took a single step back. Not much. But enough. Enough for Seraphina.
Whoosh—
Her blade cut the air as she shifted her stance with surgical grace. No wasted motion. She rose—slowly—her posture aligning like a drawn bow. Her sword hung at her side, almost casual in appearance, but her grip was precise. Balanced. Deadly. She stood straight, chin high, shoulders relaxed but coiled with power. Like a queen who needed no throne.
Across from her, Zandagar moved in a wide arc, silent and deliberate, adjusting his footing like a predator preparing to pounce again.
Her eyes followed him for only a second—then flicked away, sharp and calculating. A glance. A scan. A strategist reading the battlefield.
Seraphina's thoughts folded in layers—cold and efficient. "So, I was correct. Something has disrupted the natural rhythm of this dungeon. Something foreign—something that commands." Her eyes narrowed, voice steady—final. "This imbalance… it's him. He's the cause of the disturbance in the dungeon."
Her blue gaze narrowed. "But this monster... I've neither seen nor heard anything like it. Nothing in the compendiums. Not a whisper in the archives. This thing—it's not part of the known ecosystem. What sort of creature is he?"
She shifted her weight to her back foot subtly, anchoring herself, even as her eyes continued scanning—moving too fast for a normal observer, yet deliberate in thought.
Then she saw it. The floor beyond Zandagar.
Blood. Everywhere.
Shattered remains of orcs lay strewn across the stone—broken, cut, perfectly sliced bodies. The battle had been feral, explosive, and brutal.
"So much blood… All fresh. A confrontation ended only moments ago. Kael's party—they're unconscious. Or worse. Asleep in this chaos? That voice earlier… That scream. It didn't come from any of them."
Her brows drew together, not from emotion, but from logic colliding with uncertainty.
"Then who fought this monster? Who survived? Where is he?"
She turned her head slightly, just about to glance behind her.
She didn't make it.
He moved.
Zandagar launched forward—his speed unnaturally fluid, an obsidian blur against the shadows. He closed the gap between them in less than a breath.
He towered over her now—twice her size. His presence blotted out the light. One arm raised behind him, prepared to strike—aimed directly at her neck with ruthless precision.
---
(Chapter Ended)