"Speak now—where is he?" Klassen growled, his voice rough as stone grinding against stone, brows furrowed into a sharp line of barely restrained fury.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating. Khass hesitated under his father's sharp glare, the weight of decades of authority pressing down on him.
Seeing no way out, he finally answered, "He was last spotted outside a Sacrificial Dungeon."
The words fell like a hammer on Klassen's chest.
His face darkened immediately, as if a storm had broken across his weathered features. Mana flickered faintly around his frame, responding instinctively to his rising fury.
It didn't much time to connect the dots.
"Don't tell me he entered the Sacrificial Dungeon."
There was a distinct sharpness to his voice now. Cold. Dangerous. Even the walls seemed to recoil.
Sacrificial dungeons.
The very name was a death sentence for the unprepared. Grim relics of a chaotic age, these dungeons were infamous across the continent. Created by ancient warlocks or born of fractured mana dimensions, they were designed not to be explored—but to consume. Even among the most battle-hardened Awakened, they were spoken of in hushed tones.
Unless a absolutely necessary, no warriors wanted to enter inside.
For an unawakened human like Zarek to enter such a place…
It was suicide.
Most sacrificial dungeon had ten layers—each deadlier than the last. Survival wasn't expected. It was only deamed of. The idea of anyone clearing it alone, especially a boy like Zarek, was laughable to most.
But Klassen wasn't laughing.
He was furious.
His chest heaved once, and a fire lit behind his eyes—burning, ancient, and barely controlled.
"You good-for-nothing son…" he growled, voice a low snarl. "If anything happens to my grandson…"
He didn't finish. Couldn't. The words strangled themselves in his throat, choked by rage and fear. Instead, he let out a cold snort that reverberated like a thunderclap through the silent courtyard.
His gaze turned, cutting across the air like a blade, landing on Knull, who stood in the distance.
Disappointment shimmered in his eyes—raw and bitter.
How petty. How blind. How narrow-minded could his descendants be, to allow infighting to bring them to this? The heir of a great family cast into death's jaw, and all for what?
Pride?
Envy?
He wanted to shout, to berate them all—but there was no time.
Even a moment's delay could cost Zarek his life.
With a burst of mana, Klassen vanished from the courtyard, disappearing into the horizon like a phantom wind. Only his last words remained, drifting like ash in the wake of his fury.
"And you, Knull… just wait till I come back."
The temperature dipped in his absence.
Knull stood motionless, but inside, he wasn't shaken. Not in the slightest.
He knew exactly what that cold promise meant. His grandfather's fury would be merciless when he returned. But that didn't bother him. Not really.
After all, this was about legacy. Inheritance. Power.
And above all… position.
Knull had long known the truth: his grandfather loved him. Deeply. But when it came to that bastard Zarek…
That love ran deeper.
As Klassen's figure disappeared into the distance, a slow, crooked smile curled Knull's lips.
"Grandpa, I know you love me," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, "but your love for that bastard is even greater."
He chuckled softly, the sound sharp and bitter. "If that bastard dies in the dungeon… hehe…"
He let the sentence trail off, savoring the thought.
Khass, standing beside him, glanced sideways at his son. He didn't need telepathy to guess what was on Knull's mind. The subtle satisfaction in his expression said enough.
And yet, he said nothing.
No reprimand. No correction. No guilt.
Instead, Khass's eyes narrowed, flickering with cold malice.
Zarek.
That name alone was a stain—a splatter of ink on the proud Silversword legacy.
A mistake.
"A mistake that should have been corrected long ago," Khass muttered under his breath, as if repeating a mantra he'd long ago memorized.
His voice carried no remorse. Only venom.
And the hatred in his eyes, the sheer disgust written in his features—it was real.
Too real.
So real, one might wonder what kind of father could harbor such loathing for his own blood.
But in this family—one built on power, pride, and prestige—blood alone had never been enough.
Unaware of the storm brewing within the Silversword family, Zarek moved through shadows and stone, navigating the grim reality of the Mad Wolf Sacrificial Dungeon's first floor.
Right now, he was alone—utterly, entirely alone—on foreign soil carved by blood, steel, and madness. And if he wanted to leave this place alive, he had no choice but to clear all ten floors.
All ten.
There were no shortcuts. No second chances.
The first rule of dungeon survival: understand the terrain. Master the floor. Every inch. Every shadow. Every death trap disguised as ordinary.
Two hours had already passed since he entered, and by now, Zarek had charted a mental map of the land. The first floor spanned roughly two kilometers in length—a maze of twisted cliffs, scattered stone pillars, and narrow ravines choked with mist. The oppressive silence was only broken by the occasional distant howl or the crunch of bone under claw.
And now, crouched low behind a hulking slab of cracked obsidian stone, Zarek's sharp eyes remained locked onto a cave entrance nestled in the cliffside ahead.
He had finally found it.
The lair.
The source of all the mad wolf's on the floor.
Nearly every Mad Wolf he'd encountered in the past hour had emerged from that very opening. Damp, dark, and reeking of old blood—it pulsed with danger.
"Another one might come out any moment..."
Zarek's whisper barely stirred the stale air. He crouched deeper into the stone's shadow, one hand gripping the worn leather hilt of his Wolf Howl Dagger. He just needed one more. One more dagger—then he could use the Enhancement Stone to upgrade the tresure.
A faint breeze brushed against his cheek. His ears twitched.
Something was coming.
Ever since that strange surge of power earlier—his impromptu level-up—Zarek had noticed his senses sharpening. The dull haze that once weighed him down seemed to have evaporated. His hearing was more acute, his reactions quicker. He could now detect even the tiniest fluctuation in the air.
Without thinking, his grip on the dagger tightened.
Please let it be alone, he thought. While he could technically hold his own against a pair, maybe even three Mad Wolves if he pushed himself, he didn't want to take that risk—not until the dagger was enhanced.
Then it happened.
Whoosh!
A blur of gray and black burst from the cave entrance, claws gouging into the ground, eyes blazing with raw crimson light. The creature was bigger than the others—its fur matted with dried blood, muscles twitching with barely restrained aggression. Its maw parted to release a snarl that made even the dungeon walls tremble.
A Mad Wolf—fresh from the den and hungry for blood.
Zarek didn't flinch.
His body moved instinctively, every step calculated, each breath controlled. He was no longer that aimless waste of space, mocked and discarded by his family. No—down here, in this new twisted world of death and survival, he felt… free.
Feral. Focused. Alive.
As the beast charged, the faint glow of Silversword Aura ignited along the edge of his dagger. It shimmered faintly, almost invisible, but deadly. With this aura, even an ordinary blade could cleave through armor. Combined with the Wolf Howl Dagger, it became a predator's fang.
Zarek waited until the wolf was just far enough from the cave to ensure no others would follow—then he moved.
Silently. Lethally.
But despite his near-invisible approach, the beast jerked its head mid-run, catching a scent—a scent soaked in blood, its kin's blood. Zarek's previous kills clung to him like ghost. The Mad Wolf's crimson gaze sharpened, locking onto its target.
It lunged.
It's sharp Irons fangs reflected the incoming light, claws arched forward.
But Zarek had already anticipated the charge.
With a single sidestep, smooth as silk, he twisted his body around the beast's lunge. His feet slid against the stone, finding perfect footing.
Then—he struck.
The dagger flashed. Enhanced by aura, it glowed faintly in the dim dungeon light.
Puchi!
Bone met bone—and didn't stop.
The blade plunged cleanly into the wolf's skull, tearing through fur, flesh, and brain matter in a single thrust. The impact was so precise, so fast, that the beast didn't even get the chance to yelp.
Its momentum carried it forward half a step—then it collapsed.
A low, pained whimper escaped its throat as life fled its eyes.
Zarek stood above the corpse, his breathing steady, his gaze cold and unreadable. Blood dripped from the tip of his blade, pattering onto the stone beneath him.
He didn't smile, neither he mocked the beats for its weakness.
This was survival. Nothing more.
As he knelt beside the corpse to retrieve the dagger and check for loot, his thoughts flickered—Back to Earth, wondering if his Father had even come to check his body..did he felt sad when he found out his son was dead.
A complicated look appeared in his eyes, then he shook his head, To focus on important things.
He felt the cold air of the dungeon brushing against his cheeks, the distant wolf howls.
Then his lips curled upwards.
For the first time in his life, Zarek felt like he was the world he was meant to be.