Yamino appeared back in the heart of his dungeon—the throne room—with a rush of energy clinging to his skin like static. He took a deep breath. The air smelled different now. Denser. Wiser.
> "This is it... the final step," he muttered to himself.
The room hadn't changed much, but he could feel the heartbeat of the dungeon pulsing beneath the floor. A low hum vibrated through his boots. Every wall breathed faint shadows—watching. Waiting.
Yamino stood before the dungeon core, a brilliant gem now embedded deep within the obsidian pillar that had once been an empty plinth. All his mana stones, carefully gathered, some even compressed through beast cores, were now in front of him in a spectral inventory screen.
> "Let's begin."
He tapped the command to invest them all.
One by one, the mana stones disappeared into the core, absorbed like drops into a vast ocean of will.
The dungeon pulsed.
> [ Dungeon Level Increased: 8 → 9 ]
> "Come on... come on..." Yamino whispered, leaning forward.
> [ 9 → 9.5 ]
[ 9.5 → 9.8 ]
[ 9.8 → 9.9 ]
Each increment was slower than the last.
> "Don't stop now…!"
> [ 9.9 → 10 ]
Everything stopped for a moment.
The pillar exploded into blinding light.
Yamino raised his arm, shielding his eyes—but his lips curled into a grin. "Yeah. Yes. I did it."
His voice echoed inside the dungeon.
Then—everything shifted.
The world turned white again.
> "Wha—?!"
The light faded slowly… but he was no longer in the dungeon.
Instead, he stood in a lush green jungle, surrounded by bird calls and distant rustling leaves. He turned. In the distance was a small wooden hut covered in vines. The sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden shafts.
Yamino's mouth opened, but he couldn't speak. His body wasn't moving. He wasn't here. He was watching.
A memory.
> "Whose…?"
He turned toward the sound of hurried footsteps.
Down a dirt path, through a curtain of hanging vines, a woman dressed like a princess came into view. Her clothes were torn at the edge, but her elegance hadn't faded. Her hands clutched her dress, and her breath was sharp.
Beside her ran a monk—muscular, bare-chested, with orange robes flowing behind him like fire. He carried a carved wooden staff across his back and had symbols burned into his arms.
An Indian sadhu… no. A warrior monk.
They ran together—hands clasped. They were running away from something.
Then the scene shifted.
A child was born.
In the hut.
Yamino watched as the monk gently cradled the child, and the woman—her face soft with love—reached out to hold him. The baby giggled. Its laughter echoed through the air like chimes in a temple.
The memory shimmered again.
Now he saw the child's youth.
A carefree boy with wild black hair, playing near a stream with handmade wooden swords. The princess laughed in the background. The monk watched silently, meditating under a tree, occasionally cracking a smile when the boy splashed water at him.
Peace. Joy.
A life untouched by fate.
As Yamino stood in silence, the boy's life unfolded before him like a divine tapestry, woven by time and shadow. The jungle light flickered as scenes sped up and slowed down, revealing the boy's transformation year by year.
The boy's name—Astharam.
At eight, Astharam sat cross-legged before his father, the monk, who began teaching him not with weapons, but with Sanskrit verses—mantras of power and ancient knowledge. Yamino couldn't understand them at first. They were foreign sounds, swirling like forgotten winds in his mind.
But as the visions continued, something changed.
Yamino learned.
With each passing verse, the meanings started sinking in. He understood the chants, the philosophies, the breathing techniques, the rhythmic patterns of mind and body. As Astharam's soul was shaped by fire and patience, Yamino too felt his spirit resonate.
By twelve, Astharam had transformed. Through meditation, discipline, and impossible training, his physique and soul had grown sharper, clearer.
Then it happened.
During a pilgrimage into the sacred valley, he formed a contract with a deva spirit.
Gajendra.
A towering half-human entity with two elephant heads, eyes glowing like molten gold, and four muscular arms. When Gajendra appeared, the earth trembled, and so did Yamino—watching from beyond time.
From this union, Astharam awakened an SSS-ranked skill:
> Evolution Forge
A skill that allowed him to break anything—weapon, item, body, soul, knowledge, energy, even concepts—down to their core elements and reforge them into their best possible version. No limit. No condition. Just raw reality-bending creation.
From Gajendra, he mastered axe martial arts, then sword arts, until both styles merged under his own evolving style—"The Twin Spiral"—fluid and ferocious.
But peace never lasts long.
At sixteen, when Astharam went to collect firewood from the forest nearby, tragedy struck. Unbeknownst to him, his uncle—his mother's brother, a petty king of a neighboring kingdom—had grown paranoid of Astharam's growing strength.
And he acted.
When Astharam returned home, he found only ashes and blood.
His parents—butchered.
He collapsed to the ground, screaming. Tears streamed from his eyes like rivers unleashed.
He cried until his throat tore.
But no one came.
When his cries turned to silence, resolve replaced sorrow.
He cremated their bodies himself.
Then he did something… unthinkable.
Using Evolution Forge, he gathered their ashes, bones, even their blood-stained robes, and forged two axes.
> The axe born of his father's remains became imbued with the skill "Berserk Monk"—an ultra skill that multiplied his strength the more pain he endured.
> The axe born of his mother's remains granted him "Nature's Enhancement"—a divine ability that let him channel flora and fauna to augment his body and tools.
The boy who once played with wooden swords was now a warrior of ashes and flame.
He wandered.
He fought.
He survived.
At eighteen, he slayed his first god-beast. At twenty, he crafted a second Evolution Forge inside his soul.
At twenty-one, his axes awakened—not as tools, but as ego weapons.
The Father's Axe—now called Mahabali—gained the ultra skill: Bloody Monk, allowing Astharam to convert all damage taken into a single death-dealing strike.
The Mother's Axe—now Vanasati—developed Nature's Sage, granting control over the battlefield's environment.
He formed pacts with two Ahuras and three additional Deva spirits, each giving him mastery over different elemental or spiritual domains.
His fame spread like wildfire.
Whispers turned to rumors.
Rumors turned to fear.
And fear turned to reverence.
But not everyone was silent.
One king tried to test him—and lost his kingdom in a single night. Astharam erased his bloodline, burned their cities, and left their banners crushed in the mud.
> Ruthless?
Maybe.
> Merciless?
Absolutely.
He didn't care.
He had no room for mercy. Only justice, as forged in his twin axes.
But his uncle still remained. Hidden. Powerful. Manipulative.
The coward knew the truth of the massacre—but remained in shadows. Still, Astharam's rise made him uneasy. He believed Astharam was still weak… and sent assassins.
Mistake.
Astharam slaughtered them all.
Then he found his uncle.
And he ended everything.
He didn't just kill his uncle—he destroyed generations. Supporters. Allies. Friends. Whole family trees.
> "You took away my roots," Astharam whispered before his uncle's death. "So I'll burn down yours."
And he did.
His life became a storm. A legend carved in ashes, fire, and divine steel.
Even gods feared him.
He fought seven incarnations of Surya, the Sun God, and cut down all their sun-bodies, leaving divine scorch marks across the heavens.
His Blade Domain—a dimensional ability born of martial enlightenment—was so terrifying, even divine realms shook when he invoked it.
But gods were gods.
If they couldn't defeat him alone… they ganged up.
Ten gods descended.
And Astharam fell.
He died, standing.
His axes shattering in his hands.
But not before he smiled.
Not before he raised his fingers and burned his final will into the weave of reality.
> "One day… someone will carry my fire."
That was his last act.
He forged a dungeon.
A weak, hidden one. On the lowest tier.
A dungeon not made to conquer—but to pass the torch.
That final wish?
> "I want to be a god."
As the vision faded, Yamino stood breathless.
And realized—
The dungeon he now ruled…
Was Astharam's.
And his will… now lived inside him.