Chapter 156
Elsewhere, far from the glittering thrones of the six who still sat vigil over the Tower, a different realm stretched, a place where reality bent into wild colors, where stars pulsed like heartbeats and rivers of molten silver flowed through skies instead of ground. Here lingered the other six, the forgotten opposites, those who had once stood shoulder to shoulder with their kin but turned away in disdain.
They had no interest in the monotony of the Tower. To them, watching mortals scrape at the edges of power for five long years without spectacle or brilliance was not patience, but punishment. They were ageless time meant nothing to them yet even eternity could feel dull when the playthings failed to entertain. So they left, carrying with them their scorn and their restless hunger for things grander than stalled heroics.
The God of Shadow
Where Light was brilliance, he was absence. He took the form of a tall, skeletal figure wrapped in cloaks of void-black feathers, each feather dripping ink that dissolved into nothingness. His eyes were not orbs but endless wells, drawing the gaze inward until one risked falling forever. His voice was a whisper, calm and deliberate, yet every word carried the weight of secrets meant never to be spoken. Unlike the God of Light, who illuminated paths, Shadow delighted in obscuring them. His inner voice was patient, sly, amused by ambiguity. "Let them stumble," he thought, "for truth without doubt is nothing but chains."
The Goddess of Peace
The opposite of War, she was serene and terrible in equal measure. Her form was that of a towering woman carved from alabaster marble, veins of soft gold light running through her arms and neck like rivers of life. Her hair floated like silk in water, each strand glowing faintly as though reflecting a sun only she could see. Her presence quieted all conflict—mortals who looked upon her forgot violence, forgot hatred, forgot themselves. Yet beneath that stillness was a suffocating weight, a silence so complete it crushed as easily as it calmed. In her heart, she longed for stillness eternal, for an end to the chaos of existence. "Why wage war," she mused silently, "when the stillness of oblivion is already waiting?"
The God of Life
Where Death reigned in the cycle's end, Life bloomed in defiance. His form was a shifting amalgam of beast and man, antlers sprouting like trees from his skull, vines wrapping his limbs, his flesh ever-regenerating—skin tearing open only to heal in an instant, new flowers blooming in the wounds. His laughter rumbled like thunder in spring rains, joyous yet wild. He loved mortals not for their endurance but for their fragility, for the endless cycle of birth and decay that Death so carelessly severed. His thoughts danced with impatience: "Why cling to endings when beginnings are infinite? The Tower starves because it feeds on conquest, not creation."
The Goddess of Ignorance
The twin opposite to Knowledge, she was a slender, childlike form draped in veils of shifting smoke that hid her features, her voice lilting, singsong, and dissonant. Where the God of Knowledge sought order, records, and clarity, she relished in unknowing, in the comfort of blindness. In her hands, truths unraveled, memories dissolved, and laws forgotten. She was both innocent and cruel, like a child tearing apart a toy to see it broken. Her inner voice brimmed with mischief: "What fun is there in knowing the rules of the game? The best games are the ones where no one understands why they win or lose."
The God of Waking
Dream's opposite, he manifested as a sleepless titan whose skin was etched with countless glowing runes, each one shifting with restless energy. His eyes never closed, twin orbs of molten white, and his body seemed always poised, trembling on the edge of action. Mortals who felt his presence could not sleep, could not dream; their thoughts raced endlessly until madness overtook them. To him, dreaming was weakness, a retreat. His thoughts were sharp and impatient: "Why waste eternity on illusions when the real battle is in the waking world? Dreams are for those too fragile to confront truth."
The Goddess of Stasis
Opposing Time, she was a colossus of crystalline form, frozen in a thousand fractal shards that never moved yet gave the illusion of infinite motion. Her face was beautiful but expressionless, like a statue caught between breaths. In her domain, rivers stood still, flames froze mid-flicker, and even thoughts could be locked in endless pause. She envied her brother Time for his endless current, but she despised the way he squandered it on "progress." Her mind was absolute: "Change is a lie. Perfection lies in stillness, and stillness is eternity."
As they drifted in their wild plane, their conversation rose like thunder rolling across alien skies.
"Our siblings sit chained to their thrones," Shadow murmured, voice like silk torn in half, "watching mortals scratch at walls. Do they not see the futility?"
"They crave order in chaos," Ignorance giggled, unraveling a star in her hands until it dissolved into sparks. "But order is boring. Mystery is fun."
"War waits for slaughter. Death for endings. Knowledge for answers." Waking's teeth ground as he spat the words. "But nothing happens. Five years wasted. I could burn that Tower and force them to move."
Peace raised her hand, and silence swallowed his fury. "And what then? Motion is noise. Better to let it all end. Better to let it all still."
Life laughed, scattering blossoms across the void. "No, no! Let them grow wild! Let them break their cage and make another. Creation is beauty, even if fleeting."
Stasis said nothing, but the world around her stopped moving for a heartbeat that lasted a century. Her thought was felt rather than heard: Progress is the delusion of the restless.
They agreed on little, these six who had abandoned their siblings' vigil. Yet all shared one truth—they were no longer entertained. Mortals had grown dull, predictable, unwilling to risk themselves.
The Tower, once a stage, had become a grave of patience. And so the six turned away, each to their own obsessions, leaving the fate of the Tower to those still bound by law.
But among them, one lingered longer than the rest, eyes drifting back to the Tower for a heartbeat before departing. Something had caught its attention there. Something that whispered of disruption. Something mortal yet not quite mortal.
Far beyond the council chambers of Light, War, Death, and their kin… farther even than the drifting realm of Shadow, Peace, Life, Ignorance, Waking, and Stasis, there lingered something older still.
Not a god bound by law, nor a sovereign anchored by throne, this was one of the Primordial Coequals, forgotten even by its siblings. It had withdrawn ages ago, when the universe first clothed itself in order and division. While the others warred, judged, or played their endless games with mortals, this one slipped into silence, becoming nothing more than a rumor whispered in the void. Even the Old Gods spoke of it only in hushed tones, as if uttering its name might invite it back into their company.
And yet, it had never truly left.
Unseen eyes gazed upon the Tower now. Where the six who abandoned their watch turned away in boredom, and the six still bound by duty argued endlessly, the Primordial lingered. It did not sit upon thrones of stone, nor wander in realms of dream stuff. Its presence was a pressure, subtle and constant, like a hand against the back of one's mind. No form revealed itself, only impressions: the sound of a door half-opened, the feeling of a word almost spoken, the shadow of an idea before it becomes thought.
And within that shifting haze, Daniel Lazarus's actions rang like a bell.
The way he carved through Death Knights with precision, no waste, no hesitation. The way he held himself apart even among allies, his mind locked and sealed from intrusion. The way he created disruption, not by breaking the rules, but by bending within them until they revealed cracks unseen. It was not arrogance, nor chaos, nor law, nor mercy. It was something else. Something familiar.
The Primordial stirred. If it had a voice, it would not have spoken in words, but in vibrations across the cosmos itself:
He walks where he should not. He acts as I once did. He is mortal… and yet, he is not. He is echo.
The Tower was meant to test, to cull, to entertain. But Daniel had become a riddle, one that neither Knowledge nor Ignorance could unravel, one that both Life and Death strained to understand. Even the balance between Time and Stasis quivered when he moved. And so, in that hidden space where no law could bind it, the Primordial smiled or would have, if it still had a face to smile with.
The other gods had forgotten it. But Daniel Lazarus had unknowingly drawn its attention, as if awakening something buried in the marrow of existence.
A presence older than gods now watched him.
And it was pleased.
The Primordial lingered, unseen, unspoken, unnamed. Unlike the others, it did not embody a clear axis, light against shadow, war against peace, life against death. It had no mirror, no counterweight, no rival. It had always stood between and beyond, in the cracks where definitions failed.
If mortals had words for it, they would call it chaos. But even that was too shallow. Chaos to them was disorder, accident, the breaking of pattern. This being was more. It was the pulse before creation, the storm before form, the raw thrum of possibility before Law carved the universe into lines.
When the Old Gods were given thrones, it refused one. When Time and Stasis began their endless tug of war, it stepped aside. When mortals were granted will, it merely watched. For it was not bound to govern, nor to guide, nor to judge, it was that which allowed all else to exist in uncertainty. Without it, nothing could deviate. Without it, even freedom would calcify into fate.
And now, Daniel Lazarus had caught its eye.
Not because he was destructive, but because he moved within structure without belonging to it. Because he disrupted not by shattering laws but by inhabiting them in ways never intended. Because when others saw a wall, he saw a hinge.
The Primordial pressed closer, though no form appeared. Its presence was a whisper in the marrow of reality, a ripple of unease in the watching gods who could not explain why their debate faltered when Daniel's name was spoken. They would not see the truth, not yet.
But Daniel's path, sharp and unyielding, already carried the faint scent of something ancient, an echo of a power that predated gods, one that had never chosen a champion. Until now.
The day was unnervingly still after the last of the death knights fell. Their hulking salamanders lay smoldering, corpses too massive to move, their blackened blood seeping into the soil like tar. The main force, nearly three hundred strong, advanced in silence, after tree days of alternating short rest and traveling , the clinking of armor muffled under layers of illusion and noise-dampening spells. All eyes fixed forward as the ruined skyline of Grisval, City of Echoes came into view on the third day .
Once, Grisval had been the proud watch-city of Karion, the fortress that faced the Gorge and stood as the noble's gateway to the outer lands. Unlike the capital, where cruelty and suspicion had rotted into daily life, Grisval had been alive with trade and discourse, its cobbled streets bustling with travelers, emissaries, and merchants. Now, only silence answered them. The wind carried whispers through hollow buildings, a thousand faint echoes bouncing endlessly as though the city itself mourned what it had lost.
The unified guilds paused on the ridge, discussing their plan as the sun rose high above their head as it was already high noon. Their leaders measured, disciplined, and cautious, argued for establishing a camp before pushing further. Scouts would survey the ruins, supply lines would be established, and wards would be set against the swarms of undead that roamed the region. It was the logical step; safe, structured, the way guild expeditions always operated.
But Daniel broke the silence.
"We don't have the luxury of time." His voice cut through the murmurs, calm but edged with certainty. "Each city will take no less than a month to purge. Six cities, six months… but the Tower doesn't give us half a year. We have one month, to finish the task task. At this pace, you'll never reach Karion's capital."
" remember after a month , the contract over the west region restricting other players will be lifted , and by that time all the player all over the region will swarm this place like a locust,"
"if you recall, if this happen the undead will all evolve into Ghoul or worst into a Wight,"
The guild leaders turned to him, their eyes narrowing.
"Then what do you propose?" one asked carefully.
Daniel's answer was blunt. "A high-tier, wide-range spell. Nuclear class. We end the sub-cities with one strike each."
The reaction was immediate. Shock rippled through the commanders and senior hunters. Natasha Sokolov, pale and sharp-eyed, tilted her head in disbelief. "A nuclear spell?" she repeated. "You speak of it as if it were as simple as casting a fireball."
"It is simple," Daniel replied, his tone flat, almost dismissive. "But costly. You need rare catalysts, and precise control. Fail, and you erase your own army along with the city."
The air grew heavy. The idea itself was blasphemous, guilds trained for grinding attrition, for the methodical clearance of quests, not world-ending incantations. And yet, something in Daniel's tone was too assured, too practiced, as though he spoke from experience no noble should possess.
Charlotte Lazarus's eyes flickered toward Mary Kaye Lazarus. The two cousins shared a silent glance, the kind that carried more weight than words. For a day now, they had carried their suspicions in silence, about Daniel, about the way he fought with uncanny precision, the way he spoke with knowledge no noble should have, the way he seemed to know paths others could not even see. And now, his careless mention of nuclear sorcery, knowledge so rare it sat far beyond the reach of any common noble was the final piece that made their unease settle into certainty.
Charlotte's fingers curled tighter around the twin hilts at her waist. He's a player. The thought rang clear in her mind, sharp as a blade drawn in the dark. She caught Mary Kaye's faint nod, the quiet confirmation that her cousin had reached the same conclusion.
When the guild lines shifted and the two were relieved from their forward position, Charlotte leaned close, pulling Mary Kaye into the shadow of a broken stone wall. The city's distant echo carried faintly, masking their low voices.
"Daniel Rothchester must be Dane," Charlotte whispered, her tone clipped. "I can't think of another explanation."
Mary Kaye's brows furrowed, her eyes flicking briefly toward the camp where Daniel stood calmly observing the ruins. "Maybe," she muttered. "Or maybe… he accepted Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester's hidden quest. Remember? The one no one dared to take because the rewards were unknown. What if this—" she gestured toward the city, the death knights they had just fought, the entire strange path of this trial—"is the scenario tied to it?"
Charlotte exhaled through her nose, her suspicion hardening into conviction. "Nobody cleared that quest. Nobody even touched it. The risk was too high, and the conditions too vague. Unless…"
"Unless he did," Mary Kaye finished quietly. Her eyes softened, though not with sympathy—with memory. "I had to do something similar once. To clear the Theater of Masks trial. It wasn't about strength, or items, or strategy. It was about acting. Pretending to be someone I wasn't until the very last step. It took everything in me not to break character, even when the party doubted me."
Charlotte tilted her head, the implication sinking in. "So you're saying…"
"That Dane is doing the same," Mary Kaye said. Her voice was steady, almost resigned. "He can't admit who he is. Not to us, not to anyone. If the quest he took demands that he live and breathe as 'Daniel Rothchester,' then he's bound to it. Breaking character might fail the entire chain."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the whispering wind rushing through Grisval's hollow gates.
Charlotte finally spoke, low and fierce. "If that's true, then he's playing a dangerous game. For him, and for us. One mistake, one slip of the tongue, and this entire expedition could unravel."
Mary Kaye's expression turned unreadable, though her gaze lingered on Daniel's distant silhouette. "Then we don't push him. We watch. We play along with his act, just as I once had to. If he truly is Dane, then sooner or later, his hand will reveal itself."
Charlotte's jaw tightened. She hated secrets, hated the feeling of being manipulated. But Mary Kaye's logic was sound, and she trusted her cousin's instincts as much as her own blades.
"Fine," Charlotte murmured. "We'll wait. But if he is Dane, and if he's hiding more than just a role in a quest…" Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'll be the first to cut the truth out of him."
Mary Kaye didn't reply. She only placed a hand briefly on Charlotte's arm, a silent gesture of restraint, before both cousins turned their eyes once more toward the figure of Daniel Rothchesterstanding calm, unshaken, as though the world itself were unfolding exactly as he expected.
Daniel felt it before he saw it, the weight of their eyes. Charlotte and Mary Kaye Lazarus had been watching him longer than most. Not the casual glance of guildmates measuring a companion's strength, but the quiet scrutiny of hunters piecing together a puzzle. Their whispers carried no sound to him, but their posture, the slight tension in their stance, betrayed the truth: they had already drawn their conclusion.
They think I'm Dane.
He did not let the thought ripple across his expression. His face remained calm, noble in bearing, carrying the practiced ease of Daniel Rothchester, son of Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester. He could not afford even a twitch of the lips or a stray glance to betray the act. The mask had to hold.
It doesn't matter if they're right. They can't prove it. And even if they could, breaking character now… it would undo everything. The quest chain isn't just some trial—it's a web. Every step, every lie, every gesture is weighed and measured. If I step out of role, the whole path crumbles.
He shifted his stance slightly, as if to study the ruins ahead, hiding the flicker of calculation in his eyes. Charlotte's suspicion was sharp as a blade; he could feel her distrust, simmering hot just beneath the surface. Mary Kaye was different. Her eyes were softer, remembering. She had seen Dane before. Not for long, not enough to truly know him—but enough to recognize his blood.
That was the danger.
The Lazarus bloodline carried an unmistakable mark: the Innate Gift of the Hunt. Even among cousins, it was a thread tying them together—keen senses, sharpened instincts, an almost unnatural grace in tracking prey. Daniel had not even needed to force that part of his role. It was simply him. It was the part of Dane that could not be erased, no matter how carefully he crafted the mask of Daniel Rothchester.
They saw it. In the way I strike. In the way I move. Precise, clean, efficient. No wasted effort, no hesitation. They've seen that before, even if only in glimpses.
Daniel recalled their brief encounters—moments when Dane had crossed paths with the Lazarus cousins. Short, fleeting, but enough for them to remember his meticulous nature, the cold clarity in how he hunted, how he measured every fight. They hadn't known him long, but they knew him well enough to see the reflection in his every step now.
Good. Let them think they're clever. Let them believe they've uncovered a truth. As long as they don't force it into the open, I can keep walking this path. The Duchess's son must remain alive in their eyes, even if Dane is the one breathing beneath the skin.
Charlotte's eyes lingered on Daniel a heartbeat too long before she dropped back, her hand brushing Mary Kaye's arm in a subtle gesture. The cousins moved in tandem, drifting just beyond the earshot of the other guild members. The enchanted wagons creaked softly in the distance, their wheels muffled by spells, while the main body of hunters adjusted their gear for the coming march. To an untrained eye, it looked like nothing more than a shift in formation. But to those watching closely—whether man or monster—it was the calculated narrowing of space, an attempt to speak in secrecy while still under the gaze of unseen eyes.
And there were eyes. Thousands of them.
The air carried a faint drone, barely perceptible to ordinary senses, but the Lazarus cousins had already marked them. Tiny, near-invisible things flitting through the twilight—transmittal insects, their wings shimmering faintly as if woven of glass. They were scouts, recorders, spies of whoever or whatever ruled over Grisval. Each twitching wing carried information back to a greater hive. Every word spoken, every gesture made, was being catalogued.
Charlotte lowered her voice, keeping her lips still, as though her words were breathed rather than spoken. "He knows too much. He shouldn't. Nuclear sorcery, high-tier strategies, knowledge of timelines? Nobles don't speak like that. They don't think like that."
Mary Kaye's eyes, pale as cut moonstone, narrowed. "You're saying it aloud now. You think he's Dane."
Charlotte's jaw tightened. "I know he is."
Mary Kaye's gaze flicked toward Daniel, walking several paces ahead, his form haloed by the dim glow of spell light. His stride was even, unhurried, the posture of a man at ease—but that ease was its own kind of weapon. Every step radiated calculation. No wasted motion, no uncertainty. He bore himself like a noble, yes, but beneath the practiced polish Mary Kaye could see something else. Something they had both witnessed before, however briefly.
"He's too meticulous," Mary Kaye murmured. "Too deliberate. I've seen Dane fight, even if only for a short while. He was the same—every strike measured, every plan laid out as though he'd already seen the ending. I had to act once, to clear a quest where breaking character meant failure. If Dane is doing the same…"
"Then Daniel Rothchester isn't real." Charlotte's voice was ice, her eyes fixed on her quarry. "And that means he's playing us all."
The sisters' words were near-whispers, a predator's exchange. Still, their instincts told them they were not the only predators present. Charlotte's gaze darted upward once more. The swarm of insects shifted, not close enough to strike, but close enough to see.
"He knows we're watching," Mary Kaye said at last.
Charlotte nodded. "And he knows they're watching too."
Ahead of them, Daniel's posture never faltered. His face, calm and unreadable, was turned toward the shadowed silhouette of Grisval's gates. The faintest curl of his lips suggested amusement, whether at the cousins' scrutiny, the insect swarm's silent witness, or both, none could say
Daniel's mind moved like a blade, sharp, deliberate, cutting through possibilities with the same precision he used in battle. He could sense the cousins circling around him with their suspicions, weighing him with every glance, every shared whisper. Yet rather than silence their doubts or craft a lie on the spot, he chose something far more dangerous—he let them build the story themselves. Whatever tale they spun, whatever reasoning they stitched together, it would become the foundation of his role. All he needed to do was nod in the right places, stay within the lines they drew, and the mask would hold stronger than any excuse he could invent alone.
That night, when the guild set up a temporary camp on the outskirts of Grisval's ruins, Charlotte and Mary Kaye withdrew into the shadow of a broken watchtower. Their voices were low, almost drowned by the crackle of fire and the shuffle of guards, but to each other their words carried with the weight of certainty.
Charlotte folded her arms, blades resting against her thighs, her tone sharp."He's Dane, Mary. There's no other explanation. The way he moves—the way he carves through undead like he's dissecting them instead of just fighting—it's the same as before. I remember watching him hunt during the Gorge Trials. That precision isn't something you can fake."
Mary Kaye, more thoughtful, leaned against the cold stone, her breath misting in the night air."I thought so too. At first, I doubted. Dane was careful—meticulous. He never revealed more than he had to, even with us. But Daniel Rothchester? He slips. He speaks of nuclear sorcery like it's a tool lying in his back pocket. Nobles don't think that way. Nobles cling to tradition, ceremony, bloodlines. Dane… Dane always looked ahead. Always prepared for the brutal path."
Charlotte's jaw tightened, her suspicion sharpening."Then why hide? Why pretend to be the Duchess's son if he is Dane? Why act like someone else when revealing himself would bring allies, not enemies?"
Mary Kaye's eyes softened as she recalled her own experiences.
"Because sometimes the quest demands it. Do you remember the Ashen Trial? I had to act the part of a priestess for three weeks just to open the third final sub quest. If I'd spoken out of character even once, the system would have collapsed the chain, and I would've failed. If this is his scenario… then he can't admit who he is. Not to us. Not to anyone. He has to carry the mask, no matter what it costs him."
Charlotte exhaled slowly, her suspicion mixing with reluctant understanding."So you're saying this whole Rothchester persona is part of some quest? That the Duchess's son is a mask the system forced him into?"
Mary Kaye nodded, her voice quiet but steady."Yes. And if it is, we could ruin everything by pressing too hard. Maybe even trigger a fail condition. If we care about the mission, about clearing the floor… we have to let him play the role. Even if we know the truth."
For a moment, the silence between them was heavier than words. The echoes of Grisval loomed in the distance, the whispers of the dead curling through the night air.
Charlotte finally spoke, her tone softer, yet still edged."Fine. We'll let him play his game. But I'll be watching. If he falters, if he slips too far, I'll know."
Mary Kaye placed a hand on her cousin's arm, steadying her."Then we watch together. Not as his judges… but as his shield. If the system forces him to carry this burden alone, then we'll carry the part he cannot. If he really is Dane… he's still one of us."
From where he sat by the fire, Daniel's sharp ears caught enough of the rhythm of their speech to know they had cemented their belief. They had written the story he needed, and it was stronger than any fabrication he could weave himself.
Good, he thought, eyes on the flickering flames. Let them believe. Let them build the stage and hand me the script. All I must do now… is play my role to perfection.
Charlotte Lazarus and Mary Kaye Lazarus huddled with their sub-captains, Jacob and Bonnie, in the dim shadow of a collapsed wall, away from prying eyes. The wind carried the faint scent of ash and scorched earth from the undead they had cleared earlier, but their focus was elsewhere. Quietly, they recounted their observations, the way Daniel Rothchester moved, spoke, and fought—and cautiously laid out the conclusion they had come to: he was Dane Lazarus, acting under the guise of the Duchess's son for reasons tied to some hidden scenario of the Tower.
Jacob rubbed the back of his neck and exchanged a glance with Bonnie before letting out a long, exasperated sigh. "Geez, you two dragged us all the way here just to say that?" he muttered, shaking his head. "Duh. We already know Daniel is Dane. This isn't news. Everyone who's been in the Arcane Crusade game knows it."
Bonnie leaned against a shattered pillar, arms crossed, smirking. "Yeah, seriously. This isn't exactly hard to figure out. It's the Tower. He's in character. That's what players do. Remember the 52nd floor?"
Jacob's eyes lit up at the mention, recalling their own grueling trials. "Exactly! We all had to play parts back then. I had to act as a concubine's son for five days straight. Bonnie and Sebastian had to masquerade as elves and dwarves for a month. It was insane. And yet, we survived. He's doing the same thing, just… better."
Charlotte frowned slightly, not used to being challenged, but Mary Kaye interjected softly. "Exactly. He isn't lying. He's staying in character. And being Neatherborn? That might be part of why this scenario is so… unusual. He could have stumbled into a special event nobody else even noticed while other players were busy with mundane tasks."
Jacob gestured broadly toward the ruined city. "Yeah, think about it. The Tower's voice notifications, the alerts, the scenario triggers, they're all easily muffled with a cheap spell scroll. If he wanted to stay hidden, he could. He had every reason to. And knowing Dane, he didn't just stumble, he cleared it. Without anyone noticing."
Bonnie nodded, her expression softening with understanding. "He's not hiding to deceive us. He's hiding to survive the scenario, just like we had to back then. It's tactical. Smart. And honestly… expected."
Charlotte and Mary Kaye exchanged a look, their tension easing slightly. Charlotte exhaled, shoulders relaxing. "I suppose… you're right. Maybe I've been overthinking. But it's still unnerving, isn't it? How precise, how deliberate he is."
Jacob smirked, slapping her lightly on the shoulder. "That's Dane. That's always been him. And if he's in a special scenario, then even better. We've got front-row seats to watch a master at work. Now stop worrying, and let's make sure the guild is ready for whatever comes next."
Mary Kaye added with a quiet smile, "Exactly. Let him play the role he has to. We do ours, and we survive. That's all we need to know."
Meanwhile, Daniel was already scanning the city ahead, issuing low, calm instructions to the remaining guilds: remain hidden, prepare for impact, and trust the signals. The members nodded and moved silently into position, ready to follow his lead. Unseen, precise, and deliberate, Daniel watched, knowing the stage had been set perfectly—both in the city and in the minds of those who would never guess the full story.
Daniel's gaze swept over the city ruins as the guild silently took their positions, each member aware of the careful tension in the air. With a slight motion of his hand, he signaled to the mages at the rear. "Cast the rock-vine barrier along the ridge," he commanded in a tone that brooked no argument. "Ensure it encircles our position and the forward approach. Any stragglers that escape the blast sight must be contained. Do not fail."
The mages blinked in surprise but quickly moved to obey, weaving threads of earth and plant into massive, twisting walls that erupted from the ground, coiling around their hidden camp like living fortifications. The sheer size and speed of the construction left some guild members awed and confused, muttering to each other about the scale of the spell and its implications. Even seasoned hunters could not fully comprehend what Daniel intended to unleash—his plans always seemed one step beyond what logic or training could predict.
From their vantage point behind a collapsed watchtower, Charlotte and Mary Kaye observed quietly, their eyes following every gesture and instruction. Their whispers were measured, layered with speculation and realization.
"It's becoming clear," Charlotte murmured, eyes narrowed. "The Neatherborn must have chosen him. This isn't random luck. He's not just part of a scenario, he's a disciple. The Tower recognized something in him."
Mary Kaye's expression was thoughtful, her lips pressed together. "I was thinking the same. Everything he does, every step, every calculation… it's too precise for a normal noble. And the way he acts within the role, it's deliberate, yes, but guided. He's shaping the environment as much as reacting to it."
Bonnie, standing slightly apart and brushing soot from her cloak, scoffed quietly. "It's all made up, guys. Seriously. The Neatherborn didn't choose him. Dane wasn't born yesterday. He's the biological son, the exact copy of our uncle Damon. The prodigious savant syndrome—everything about him. That's what set all of this in motion. The gods, jealous of what he created, copied it and made us human for their entertainment."
Jacob, still leaning against the wall, gave a slow nod. "Exactly. Most of our cousins did their own research, our parents couldn't stop talking about it. Damon's illness, his brilliance—it made him alpha in hunting, fighting, programming. He could see patterns no one else could. Dane inherited that same instinct, that same precision. He's carrying it forward, whether the Tower or the gods like it or not."
Charlotte exhaled slowly, her eyes flicking back toward Daniel. "And that's why he's untouchable in these early floors. He's not just surviving, he's shaping the path. Everything we've seen, every strategic choice, every calculated risk… it's in him naturally. He doesn't just react to the Tower. He interprets it, bends it to his advantage. Even if it's dangerous, even if it shocks the rest of us, he knows what he's doing."
Mary Kaye's voice dropped to a softer murmur, almost reverent. "It's why we have to watch him, not interfere. He's not playing dumb or hiding for fun. He's living the scenario the way it must be lived. And if he succeeds… we'll barely understand what really happened until after the fact."
Meanwhile, Daniel observed the rock-vine wall solidifying around their position, noting the subtle shifts in the terrain and the alignment of the mages' energy. Every element was falling into place, every guild member positioned perfectly for the upcoming strike. The cousins' whispers reached him faintly, carried on the wind, and he allowed himself the tiniest curve of a smile. They were finally piecing it together but still unaware of the full extent of what he intended.
Let them think they know, he thought. Let them construct their narrative. All the while, I remain the one shaping reality.
The vines grew taller, denser, an almost impervious barrier around the hidden camp, as Daniel turned his gaze toward Grisval's ruined walls, the city that awaited the full force of his precision.
Daniel stood at the forefront of the hidden ridge, his stance calm but commanding, the air around him already vibrating with anticipation. He raised his hands slowly, tracing the intricate sigils of a spell no ordinary mage could comprehend, a ten-tier nuclear-grade incantation he had perfected over countless mediation and practice and needed use. The Plasma Vortex was not merely destructive; it was an orchestration of energy, gravity, and raw chaos, bending the natural laws to his will.
The sky above Grisval began to darken unnaturally, a swirling halo of iridescent light forming around the city as the ambient energy twisted toward him. Sparks of molten plasma arced along his arms like living serpents, coiling and crackling with every heartbeat. The mages around him, even those seasoned in the manipulation of elemental forces, instinctively stepped back, sensing the sheer magnitude of what was about to be unleashed. The ground beneath him trembled faintly, the vibrations resonating through the enchanted battle wagons and even the hidden ridge, as if the earth itself acknowledged the impending calamity.
Charlotte and Mary Kaye Lazarus, positioned slightly apart, exchanged a glance. Their breaths caught at the scale of the power, yet their minds ran cold calculations. The innate precision, the control over the destructive force, it was Dane. This was no reckless noble; this was a master tactician, the prodigious bloodline of their uncle fully realized. Even Bonnie and Jacob, watching with awe and a twinge of disbelief, felt the weight of the energy pressing against their senses.
From miles away, across the Merchant Kingdom of Solnara Cererindu and even into the outer regions of the empire, observers,both mundane and arcane felt a shift in the very air. The horizon shimmered, the clouds roiling with unnatural currents, and the earth seemed to hum a low, resonant warning. The Plasma Vortex was forming, a brilliant orb of pulsating light and searing heat, suspended above Grisval like a living star, its edges writhing with filaments of plasma that hissed and sparked, consuming the ambient atmosphere in a corona of energy.
Daniel's focus was absolute. With a single, deliberate motion, he guided the vortex downward, drawing it tighter, concentrating the fury of ten tiers of magic into a single, pinpointed strike. The undead in the city, one hundred thousand strong, froze as if sensing the inevitable.
Then, as his final command solidified in thought and gesture, the Plasma Vortex collapsed in a controlled implosion of unimaginable force. A torrent of molten energy struck the city in a perfect cylinder, obliterating every structure, every living or unliving, creature within its radius with surgical precision. Flames and plasma arcs shot outward, the shockwave rippling through the terrain but contained by the protective rock-vine walls Daniel had commanded earlier.
From the vantage points of distant kingdoms and the outer reaches of the empire, the destruction was visible as a blinding burst of light that lingered long after the initial strike, leaving a cratered cityscape smoldering in its wake.
The air shimmered with residual energy, and the survivors, few though there were, whispered of the new Netherborn, an entity capable of leveling an entire city with the precision of a scalpel and the fury of a star.
Charlotte's hands were clenched, her eyes wide as she watched the city vanish under a single strike. Mary Kaye let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, murmuring almost to herself, "He isn't just Dane… he's something else. Something they can't comprehend."
Jacob and Bonnie could only stare, slack-jawed, as the reality of what had just occurred settled in. "I… I don't even have words," Jacob muttered, voice barely audible over the residual crackle of plasma.
Daniel's expression remained calm, almost serene. To the outside world, it looked like perfect control, effortless mastery. But inside, every thought was aligned, every calculation exact.
The city had been obliterated, yes, but every strike, every arc of energy, had been placed with the precision of a master artisan. Grisval, City of Echoes, was no more,but the message was clear: the new Netherborn, the one they thought they understood, was now impossible to ignore.
The shockwave from the Plasma Vortex had barely faded before the camp erupted in a mixture of awe, fear, and disbelief. Guild members peeked cautiously from behind the rock-vine walls, their eyes wide as the smoke and molten residue from Grisval still swirled in the distance. No words could capture the magnitude of what had just happened, and yet murmurs spread like wildfire.
"He… he just obliterated the entire city," whispered one of the younger hunters, voice trembling. "One hundred thousand undead… gone. All of them."
Natasha Sokolov's icy composure cracked for a moment as she exhaled, her crossbow lowered slightly. "That was… surgical. I've never seen anything like it. Every strike, every explosion… he targeted the core, the weak points… there was no waste, no misfire."
Charlotte Lazarus's eyes were fixed on Daniel, her blades slack at her sides. She and Mary Kaye exchanged another glance, the weight of certainty now solidified into awe. "He isn't just Dane," Charlotte murmured, her voice low but steady. "He's the prodigy we always suspected, and more… he's operating at a level none of us can even touch."
Mary Kaye's jaw tightened, her gaze narrowing with a mix of respect and fear. "He's… playing the scenario, yes, but he's also rewriting it. Every movement, every spell, calculated perfectly. If he's Dane… then the Tower didn't just test him. It underestimated him entirely."
Even Jacob and Bonnie were silent, the earlier casual skepticism drained from their expressions. Bonnie finally muttered, "I… I thought I knew what he was capable of. But this… he's untouchable. The sheer control… it's like watching the gods themselves at work."
And in truth, some of them were. High above, in the unseen realms, the Old Gods who had been observing the Tower stirred at the spectacle. The six who had taken interest in Daniel watched silently, their forms shifting with barely contained fascination.
The God of War's metallic armor shimmered with reflected light, the edges of his blade form pulsing as he murmured, "He fights with perfect efficiency… precision beyond calculation."
The God of Knowledge tilted their head, swirling glyphs of floating script dancing around them. "He doesn't merely cast. He anticipates, evaluates, and executes. This… this is applied genius in real-time."
A faint, pleased ripple passed through the God of Dreams, their form flickering like smoke, translucent yet undeniably present. "Even in the chaos of the Tower, he imposes order… but not in the way we expected. Fascinating."
Meanwhile, in a darker, distant plane of forgotten corners of existence, the lingering unseen god, the Primordial, shrouded in veils of chaotic energy, formless yet vaguely humanoid, allowed a rare, wide smile to form. No light reached the realms he occupied, yet in his mind's eye, he saw Daniel's precise, deliberate destruction of Grisval as a spark of recognition.
"That's my boy!" the forgotten god whispered, voice vibrating through the void. "The one who mirrors me… who dares to wield chaos with understanding. That's my boy."
Even as the newly unleashed destruction settled across Grisval, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins, the human observers felt a tremor of something more than fear or awe. It was understanding, a recognition that the being they called Daniel Rothchester, Dane Lazarus, was beyond mortal measure, and that the gods themselves, from the Old to the Forgotten, were paying attention.
Charlotte and Mary Kaye exchanged one last look, the weight of their suspicions now confirmed. "We were right," Charlotte said softly. "He's not just a player. He's… something greater. And somehow, the Tower or fate itself, allowed him to exist here."
Mary Kaye nodded, eyes still fixed on Daniel, who stood silent, calm, and utterly in control. "And we are part of his story now… whether we like it or not."
The camp remained quiet for a long moment, the survivors, the guilds, and the watchers all absorbing the reality: the first city was gone, one hundred thousand undead wiped in a single, precise strike, and the man responsible had just marked himself as a force none could ignore.