Seven days had passed since Sylas fell.
The silence after his defeat was not peace.
It was the breath before the scream.
And now, the sky split open.
Thorne, the Bloodskull King, stood atop the skeletal remains of the northern capital's tallest spire, his silhouette carved against a storm-wracked horizon.
His armor pulsed with crimson veins, feeding on the corrupted energy of the Red Tide.
One slow step forward—and the earth cracked like dry bone, molten fissures spreading for miles.
From the lava rivers, three monstrous shapes emerged: Redscale Behemoths, each the size of a warship, their eyes burning with mindless hunger, tails lashing like wrecking balls.
They were not beasts.
They were weapons.
And they were marching straight for the Sanctuary.
Inside the Temple's core chamber, the air shimmered with golden warmth.
Kael lay motionless on the central stone bed, chest rising and falling in slow, deep rhythm.
Forty-eight hours.
No food.
No movement.
Just rest—absolute, unbroken stillness.
Above him, the system glowed silently:
[Insight Accumulation: 97%]
[Breakthrough to Foundation Establishment: Imminent]
[Warning: External Energy Surge Detected.
Threat Level: Elite.
]
Elara stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight.
She didn't flinch when the distant tremors shook dust from the ceiling.
On her back, a folded banner bore the faded crest of the fallen empire—now reforged as the flag of the Sanctuary.
"Orin," she said without turning.
The scholar stepped forward, his hands trembling slightly as he unrolled a scorched scroll.
"The ritual… it's possible. But not how they did it in the old days. We don't seal with sacrifice. We reverse it. Let them pour their power into the ground—into our ground—and let the Temple take it instead."
Mira, the field medic, adjusted the straps on her pack.
"So we fake a collapse. Make them think they've breached the core. Lure them into overcommitting."
"Exactly," Elara said.
"We don't stop the wave.
We ride it."
Her voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"We stop being survivors.
Today, we become hunters."
Dren, standing at the northern gate with a battered rifle in hand, spat on the cracked pavement.
"Then give me the signal."
He turned to his squad—twelve souls, all volunteers.
"You heard her. We lose. Badly. Make them taste victory. But don't die. Kael hates it when I die."
The first behemoth hit the outer wall like a meteor.
Stone exploded.
Flames roared.
The perimeter alarms screamed once—then went silent.
Dren's team opened fire, lasers slicing the air, only to vanish against the monster's hide.
One shot the beast's eye.
It blinked.
Then crushed the shooter under its claw.
They ran.
Bleeding.
Screaming.
Deliberately broken.
The second wave came fast—mines detonated too early, turrets misfiring, the defense grid flickering like a dying star.
From the high tower, Thorne watched through a scope of black crystal, a grin splitting his face.
"Pathetic," he rumbled.
"You build a fortress… then leave the door open?"
He raised his hand.
"This is not a battle.
It is an offering."
With a thunderous crack, he slammed his palm into the ground.
The three Redscale Behemoths turned toward each other—then exploded.
Not fire.
Not blood.
Raw, pulsing energy, a tidal wave of crimson power surging into the earth like a river returning to its source.
"The ancient pillars will awaken," Thorne whispered.
"And this time… they will answer me."
But beneath the Sanctuary, in the depths where the Temple's roots had grown thick and dark, something else stirred.
The system blinked.
[Insight Accumulation: 99%]
[Breakthrough Imminent.
Warning: External Energy Being Redirected.
]
[System Anomaly Detected: Sealing Matrix Responding to Incoming Power.
]
Elara's eyes narrowed as she stared at the trembling floor.
The map on her wrist display flickered—energy readings spiking inside the Temple, not outside.
The walls hummed.
The air thickened.
Golden light seeped from the cracks in the stone, forming faint, ancient runes that hadn't been seen in a thousand years.
She looked down at Kael.
Still sleeping.
A faint smile on his lips.
"Fools," she murmured.
"You think you're sacrificing us?"
She turned toward the central altar, where Orin had already begun tracing symbols in ash and blood.
"No.
The golden aura faded like embers in a dying fire.
Kael didn't move.
His eyes were already closed, his breathing slow and even—back to sleep as if the world hadn't just trembled beneath divine power.
Above him, the cracked ceiling of the cave shimmered faintly, the runes etched into stone pulsing with residual energy.
The Sanctuary—once just a hollowed-out mine shaft—now stretched over two hundred meters in every direction, its boundaries marked by floating fragments of obsidian monoliths, humming with ancient power.
Outside, the wind howled through the skeletal remains of the old world.
And death was coming.
42 hours until the Second Wave.
Dren stood at the northern ridge, binoculars pressed to his scarred face.
Below, the wasteland boiled with movement—mutated hounds with six legs and acid-dripping jaws, towering rock-beasts fused with rusted steel, and worst of all, the Crimson Husks: humans twisted by the Red Tide into hollow-eyed fanatics, chanting the name of their god-king.
Thorne.
"The Bloodskull King himself," Dren muttered, handing the binoculars to Elara.
"He's not leading from the rear. He's marching at the front. Wreathed in black flame."
Elara adjusted the scope, her violet eyes cold and calculating.
Once, she had commanded legions of imperial knights.
Now, she commanded a ragtag fortress of refugees, dreamers, and one man who saved the world between naps.
She lowered the scope.
"Then we don't fight him."
Dren blinked. "What?"
"We don't fight him," she repeated, turning toward the Sanctuary's heart.
"We feed him."
Inside the central chamber, Orin—the gaunt, ink-stained scholar—was drawing a circle in powdered bone and crushed crystal.
"The ritual of false ascension… it's forbidden for a reason. If this fails, the backlash could unravel the Temple's core."
Mira, the field medic with hands steady as steel, checked the evacuation routes.
"And if we don't do it, there won't be a core to unravel. The outer walls won't hold against a破虚境-level assault. Not even with Kael sleeping like a god in the middle of it."
Orin sighed.
"Then let's make damn sure he wakes up after we're done."
Elara stood before the sleeping form of Kael.
He was sprawled on a pile of furs, one arm behind his head, snoring softly.
A faint golden halo flickered around him—The Unbroken Calm—and within its radius, fear dulled, wounds healed slower but deeper, and time itself felt… thicker.
She knelt beside him.
"You lazy, impossible man," she whispered.
"You don't know it, but today, I hold the war."
Then she stood, turned, and raised her voice.
"Begin the False Offering."
The plan was insane.
Orin's ritual would project a psychic beacon—a fake signal of the Temp