The air felt heavier now. Thicker. Like the dungeon was watching... and remembering.
Ren walked ahead in silence.
Alone again.
And maybe — just maybe — okay with it this time.
Not angry.
Not scared.
Just tired. And that kind of tired that reaches into your bones and whispers,
"You weren't meant to last this long, were you?"
His boots scraped along the mossy stone. Echoes stretched too far. The hallway warped, widened — the kind of distortion that came with old enchantments or dreams collapsing.
He stared at the wall ahead. Blank stone. Solid.
But wrong. Too clean. Too final.
Ren (quietly):
"Yeah... screw you too."
He stepped back, cracked his knuckles, and punched it — hard. Runes flared, screamed, shattered.
Dust exploded as the wall cracked open like a brittle shell — and on the other side, light poured in. Dim and golden.
Two figures turned in shock.
Thenaia, her hand already on a spell-sigil.
And Elsera, blinked, tense but not surprised.
Ren coughed on the settling dust.
"Okay. New plan. I break shit and just hope people I know are on the other side."
Elsera:
"You're lucky it worked. That was a sacred boundary wall. Most people die touching it."
Ren:
"Most people haven't been this pissed off before breakfast."
He looked around.
Ren:
"Where's His Fanged Highness? He get wall-yeeted too?"
Elsera (calmly):
"He got lost. Just like you did. Only he didn't make it back."
Ren blinked.
"Wow. Sucks to be him."
Thenaia:
"For now. The dungeon is choosing paths for all of us."
They began walking, deeper into the stone throat of the ruin. The tension hanging between them unspoken — all of them sensing something was about to shift.
And then, it did.
Behind them — maybe twenty feet back — the air bent.
Not with light. With pressure.
And then he was there again.
The floating figure.
Black robe. Hood pulled low. Mask gone now, revealing only darkness where a face should be.
Broken sword in one hand. That same old cracked white mask dangling loosely in the other.
No footsteps.
No sound.
Just presence.
Thenaia stopped mid-step. Her voice barely a whisper:
"Ashrunner."
The name dropped like a knife into still water. Ripples went through the air. Everyone turned, instinct burning behind their eyes.
Ren's hand hovered near his hip.
Thenaia's fingers crackled.
Elsera didn't move — but her heartbeat thundered in the air like war drums.
Ashrunner floated forward, slow and dreamlike, the blade trailing just above the ground.
Then he spoke — not in the goofy tone from before, but low. Hollow. Like someone remembering how to be a person and failing halfway through.
Ashrunner:
"...Crestflare."
He looked directly at Thenaia.
Ashrunner:
"You have one. I can feel it."
Thenaia's posture shifted — not fear. Resolve.
Ashrunner tilted his head, just slightly. Almost… sad.
Ashrunner:
"Give it to me. Peacefully."
A beat.
Ashrunner (quietly):
"Or I will take it. And you will die."
Then he turned — just slightly — to Elsera.
Ashrunner:
"You too. Don't think the curse protects you. It only slows me down."
Everyone stood still. Tension pulled tight like a wire around a throat.
Ren stared at the thing in front of them. The floating corpse in a robe. The maskless reaper.
No more jokes.
No more "dumb voice."
This time…
Ashrunner wasn't asking.