[Chapter 90. Spoken Secrets]
While the brilliant golden light pulsed with rhythmic intensity around Searanox's reforming limb, the air in the narrow tunnel seemed to vibrate with the sheer pressure of the mana being channeled. Garu, the mountainous Grak'thul, shifted his massive frame with a grace that belied his size, slowly turning away from the gruesome barricade of stacked corpses he had been guarding. The bioluminescence of the dungeon moss flickered weakly, drowned out by the radiant aura of the Golden Order.
"Your associates were noble, Dhampir," the Grak'thul rumbled, his deep, bass voice echoing like rolling thunder through the subterranean passage. He looked back at the wall of dead Carapace Crawlers with a strange sort of professional respect. "The way they held this bottleneck... they bought you the precious time you needed to reach this section and attempt your final stand."
Searanox squinted against the blinding radiance of Astera’s scepter, his vision still swimming with dark spots from the previous blood loss and the lingering phantom pains of the venom. He felt the cold earth beneath his palms, the grit of the dungeon floor a stark contrast to the divine heat radiating from the woman in white. "What associates?" he managed to rasp, his throat feeling as though it had been scrubbed with sandpaper.
"They must have fought through the primary nest ahead to clear a path for you," Garu continued, his four upper arms crossing over his broad chest as he turned back to face the wounded man. "To leave a trail of carnage like this... it takes a dedicated squad. Overwhelming numbers would have swarmed them. They died to give you these few extra minutes of life. A worthy sacrifice, though a tragic one for your clan."
Searanox took a slow, shuddering breath, his mind working through the fog of the healing process. "There's no one else," he said, each word deliberate and sharp, cutting through the Grak'thul’s assumptions. "I came in here alone."
Garu's dark, deep-set eyes widened in visible shock. The sheer impossibility of the statement seemed to hang in the air between them. "Alone? Against a Void-Corrupted infestation of this magnitude? Impossible," he grunted, shaking his massive head. "A dozen seasoned warriors of your current level couldn't have survived the initial breach, let alone pushed this deep into the tunnels."
From behind the towering silhouette of Garu, Narina—the feathered beastkin—fixed her unblinking yellow eyes on Searanox. Her talons clicked irritably against the wood of her pale bow, her feathers ruffling in a display of mounting aggression. "He’s lying," she snapped, her voice high and piercing. "No single person, especially not a low-level initiate, could make it past the first few of those corrupted beasts. He’s hiding his party’s location or their identities."
"I’m not lying. I came here to scout the dungeon," Searanox replied, his gaze sweeping past the Grak'thul and the silent, horned Aruru. He felt a surge of irritation that the truth was so hard for these 'high-level' beings to swallow. "I had no idea what the purple portals meant until I stepped through. There was no one else with me. Just my drones."
Astera's rhythmic chanting continued without interruption, her focus seemingly absolute as she stabilized the growth of his new calf. However, the golden light flickered for a brief, microscopic moment—a subtle sign that she was listening. Valdor, the elderly figure in the dark cowl, stepped forward, his gnarled hands gesturing toward the carefully stacked corpses of the barricade.
"The damage patterns on these carapaces... the strategic placement of the bodies to narrow the kill zone... this was not a desperate, chaotic last stand," the old man observed, his voice thin but sharp with academic interest. "This was calculated. A deliberate engineering of the environment. A masterclass in bottleneck tactics." His piercing gaze returned to Searanox’s face. "Who taught you to fight like this, boy? Who was your mentor in the ways of magitech warfare?"
"Survival," Searanox replied simply. "When the choice is between thinking or dying, even the biggest fools learn the lessons of the battlefield quickly."
Aruru, who had remained as silent as a statue until this point, finally spoke. The sound was a low, dry rasp, like wind blowing over a desert. "The barrier technology. The autonomous drone formations. This is not the work of a level twenty-one scavenger," he stated, stepping closer until his shadow fell over Searanox. "This is a Commander's work. A Tactician's work. You have the movements of someone who has led armies, not a lost scout."
Searanox met their collective stares, his mind racing as he felt the strange, tickling sensation of flesh and muscle knitting itself together under his skin. "I've fought for my life every single second since this nightmare began," he said, a deep-seated weariness seeping into his voice. "I didn't survive that swarm just to be interrogated by a group of strangers in a hole in the ground."
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Astera's chanting finally ceased, the intense golden light fading into a soft, ambient glow as Searanox's new calf muscle gave a final, involuntary twitch. She lowered her scepter, her luminous, eyes studying him with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "The way you speak," she began, her voice cool and melodic, "it sounds as if mere months have passed since your world’s integration. A newly integrated world, perhaps? One that has yet to establish its first capital?"
Searanox gave a short, harsh laugh that turned into a cough. "Months? I wish. It's been days. Not even a full week has passed since the System descended and the dungeons appeared."
The members of the Golden Order exchanged swift, sharp glances. Their facial expressions shifted in a synchronized dance of disbelief and alarm—silent communication flowing through their mental link. After a few heavy moments of silence, Astera turned back to him, a new sense of urgency sharpening her features. "You're telling us... you are confirming... that we are currently standing in a Stage One World Dungeon?"
Searanox looked at her, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. The terminology was foreign to him. "Yeah. Stage One, I guess. So what?"
Valdor stepped even closer, leaning heavily on his gnarled staff as he looked up at the tunnel ceiling. "Corruption... true Void Corruption... should have no influence on the Outer Rim. The System's protections for a Stage One world are supposed to be absolute. The wall between the Void and a new integration is the strongest in the multiverse."
"The Outer Rim? What's that supposed to mean?" Searanox asked, his confusion mounting. "And what wall?"
Narina snorted, the sound echoing sharply against the stone walls. "The Outer Rim is the newest cluster of worlds to receive the System's blessing—or curse, depending on who you ask. To find this level of corruption here... this isn't just a minor dungeon problem, Dhampir. This is an anomaly. A catastrophic breach of System logic."
Valdor adjusted the cowl over his face, his eyes shadowed. "A corrupted instance is like a cancer. In a mature, Stage Four or Five world, its appearance is a grave crisis that requires a planetary response. But here? In a world that hasn't even finished its first week? It shouldn't be possible. It’s like a newborn infant being born with the plague."
"This Dhampir is a citizen of a Stage One world. There will be severe System penalties if you continue to speak so carelessly of your knowledge," Astera said, her voice soft but carrying a firm edge of warning. She resumed channeling a small amount of cooling healing energy into his limb to soothe the remaining inflammation.
The golden glow intensified again, filling the claustrophobic silence with its warmth. Astera turned her head toward her team, the light from her scepter brightening as she made a decision. "Prepare to move forward. The heart of this corruption won't wait for us to finish our debate, and it certainly won't stop growing."
Garu gave a solemn, heavy nod. "We will cleanse this place, as the Order commands. If the Void has found a way into the Outer Rim, we are the only line of defense." He moved to the front of the passage, his four massive arms flexing and cracking, ready to tear through whatever lay beyond the blockade.
As the last of the fresh, unblemished flesh finally sealed over the bone of his new calf, Astera's light receded. Searanox sat up and flexed his foot—it was a perfect, scarless limb. He felt a strange, detached connection to it, as if he were wearing a high-quality prosthetic rather than his own flesh and blood.
Narina's yellow eyes darted from Searanox to Astera, her talons twitching. "We're actually taking him with us? After all that? He’s a liability, Astera. He’s level twenty-one. A stray breeze from the Boss will turn him into paste."
"He is a unique variable in an unprecedented event," Valdor stated, his ancient eyes gleaming with a scholar's curiosity. "His very existence here—having survived this long in a corrupted zone alone—it is of immeasurable value to the Order. We cannot abandon such a specimen to the dark."
"He has localized knowledge we may need to navigate the shifts in this dungeon's geometry," Astera added, her voice calm but final. "And the Golden Order does not waste assets, Narina. Not even... unconventional ones."
Searanox pulled on his worn leather boot, watching them carefully. He was acutely aware that they were still conversing in the background of their minds, deciding his fate while he sat there. Garu grunted and shifted the first massive Carapace Crawler corpse aside, clearing a path now that Searanox was mobile.
"Dhampir," Aruru rumbled, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Tell us about the layout you encountered before the breach. What lies ahead in the main chamber?"
Searanox stood up, testing his weight on the new leg. It held perfectly. He provided a detailed, clinical description of the dungeon's structure and the behaviors of the beasts—relying heavily on the memory of Iris's scouting report, since he hadn't personally fought the deeper variants yet. Using the cold tip of his Magitech Rifle, he drew a crude but accurate map into the compact, damp earth of the floor.
"This was the layout as of four hours ago," Searanox said as he finished the sketch. "But it changes constantly. The Carapace Crawlers don't just use the existing paths; they dig new tunnels to flank intruders. If the corruption is changing them, they might be ignoring the dungeon's original geometry entirely."
"Remarkable clarity," Narina admitted, her yellow eyes following each drawn line with predatory interest. "You must have been in this hole for a very long time to have such a detailed understanding of the geography."