The game "Myth of Dungeons" was widely acclaimed to be unbeatable, a digital leviathan designed to break the will of the most powerful clans.
Its challenge did not lie solely in the strength of its monstrous inhabitants, but in the ever-increasing, soul-crushing pressure of the ambient mana.
The higher one ascended, the denser the magical atmosphere became, exerting a tangible, psychic weight that could shatter a player's concentration and physically force them to log out.
To reach the 99th Floor was not merely a display of skill; it was a testament to an almost inhuman resilience and willpower, a feat that no one, not even the combined might of the Andrews family, had come close to achieving.
A tense silence had fallen over the grand hall, broken only by the soft hum of Aelion's holographic display.
The Council Elders stared, their composure shaken by the impossible data shimmering in the air.
But the Andrew family was not about to concede. With a collective, defiant step forward, they presented their own champion: Richard Andrew.
Richard swaggered to the podium, the very picture of entitled arrogance.
He was the root of this conflict, the spoiled heir whose obsession had ignited a five-year war.
With a condescending flick of his wrist, he activated his own display. The hologram materialized, listing his achievements:
[Name: Richard Andrew
Game ID: Heaven Chaser
Level: 86
Floor: 90]
It was an impressive level, a testament to the vast resources the Andrew family had poured into the endeavor. But compared to Aelion's, it was merely competent, not legendary.
Yet, it was Richard's chosen Game ID that caused a fresh, incandescent anger to flare in Aelion's eyes.
'Heaven Chaser.' The word "Heaven" was a direct, mocking synonym for Celastine, a name often whispered for her ethereal beauty and grace.
'This bastard,' Aelion's mind churned, a storm of protective fury. 'He still dares to taint her name with his filth, even in a virtual world.'
He felt a primal urge to lash out, to wipe that smug look off Richard's face with his bare hands, but he held himself back with an iron will.
Any move here, in front of the Council, would backfire catastrophically.
His only recourse was to clench his fist until his nails bit deep into his palm, the physical pain a grounding anchor against his rage.
Richard, however, possessed no such self-control.
He burned.
The sight of Aelion's superior stats was a public humiliation, a stark announcement that despite all his advantages, he had been outclassed by a crippled exile.
But more than the envy over a game, it was the crushing realization that Celastine was about to slip irrevocably from his grasp.
All his life, he had been convinced the universe would bend to his whims. Seeing something—someone—defy him so completely for the first time unlocked a feral, uncontrollable rage.
His face flushed a deep, mottled red, and his eyes glazed over with a manic, crimson tint.
Seeing Richard's composure shatter, a cold, satisfied sneer twisted Aelion's lips.
He leaned forward, just slightly, and his voice, though low, was laced with venomous contempt. "Serves you right, bastard."
Richard heard the whisper but couldn't make out the words. The mutter itself was an insult, a final straw.
"What the fuck are you muttering? You bastard!" he snarled, lunging forward and grabbing a fistful of Aelion's collar, violently yanking him off balance.
The polished wooden stick clattered to the marble floor.
The support gone, Aelion's legs buckled instantly, his body betraying him in front of the entire assembly.
A wave of rowdy excitement swept through the crowd; this was far more entertaining than dry statistical reports.
Before anyone could react, Celastine launched herself forward. Her movement was a blur of righteous fury.
With a smooth, powerful motion born of a lifetime of defending her brother, she slapped Richard across the face.
The crack of the impact echoed in the suddenly quiet hall.
Richard staggered back, his hand flying to his stinging cheek in a state of utter unreality.
A single, bewildered thought looped in his mind: 'Someone dared to slap me?'
The public humiliation, the pain, the shattering of his ego—it was too much. His rage burst its final dam. Curses spewed from his mouth, vile and unrestrained.
"You bitch! Do you really think that I won't harm you? Mark my words! In a year, you will be my slave! After I've used you, I will make you public property!"
Those words were a detonation.
Aelion's blood surged, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated fury that momentarily overrode a lifetime of physical limitation.
A power he didn't know he possessed, born of a brother's love and a bottomless well of rage, surged through him.
He planted his feet, standing fully on his own for the first time in a decade, and with a burst of impossible speed, he drove his fist deep into Richard's gut.
The air left Richard's lungs in a choked gasp.
He doubled over, coughing up a spatter of blood that stained the pristine floor, his eyes wide with shock and agony. The collective gasp from the crowd was deafening.
Aelion, however, had expended every last ounce of his strength.
The world swam before his eyes, and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the marble.
Disbelief held the hall in a frozen tableau. Someone had dared to punch the heir of the Andrew family.
Not just punched him, but struck him with such force that he vomited blood. The gasps and murmurs swelled into a cacophony.
Without a second's hesitation, Celastine was at her brother's side, her own fury replaced by frantic concern.
She hauled his unconscious form into her arms and, with a strength that belied her slender frame, began dragging him away from the chaos, her single-minded goal clear: get him to the hospital.
A deep, pervasive ache was the first thing to register, a familiar companion that told Aelion he was still in his broken body.
Consciousness returned slowly, pulling him from a void of exhaustion into the sterile, white light of a hospital room.
Blinking away the haze, his vision focused on the figure seated at his bedside.
Celastine was there, her posture rigid, her eyes shadowed with a fatigue that was more than physical. She had been watching him, her gaze a mixture of profound relief and simmering anxiety, for who knew how long.
Seeing the deep worry etched on her face, so often a mask of fierce determination, an audible chuckle, dry and raspy, escaped Aelion's lips.
It was a sound of pure, weary irony. The absurdity of their entire situation—the clan wars, the virtual battles, his own fragile body—all culminating in him lying in a hospital bed yet again, seemed to crash down on him at once.
The sound acted like a trigger. Celastine's concern instantly morphed into incandescent fury.
She launched forward, grabbing the front of his hospital gown in her fists and pulling him slightly off the pillow.
"Would you explain to me," she shouted, her voice trembling with a cocktail of fear and anger, "what is so funny about this situation? You were unconscious for a day! You could have—!"
She cut herself off, unable to finish the thought.
Aelion waved his hands weakly in a gesture of surrender, the ghost of a smile still on his lips.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he rasped. "It's just... the timeline. My little display of temper... it forced their hand. The war has to end this week. There's no other path for them now."
The change in Celastine was immediate and absolute.
All the anger, the playfulness, the sisterly fear—it vanished from her expression as if wiped clean.
What remained was a picture of pure, unadulterated seriousness, the face of a seasoned strategist assessing a critical juncture in a long campaign.
She gave a single, heavy nod, the weight of his words settling upon them both. The five-year shadow war was reaching its endgame.
Without another word, she reached for the bag beside her chair and retrieved a sleek, metallic band.
In this era, due to the overwhelming cultural and social dominance of Virtual Reality, the technology had been seamlessly integrated into the very fabric of daily life.
This was a neural interface band, a personal terminal that contained the encrypted sum of a person's entire digital existence, most importantly, all the data for every game they had ever played.
It was genetically locked, a failsafe ensuring that even if it were stolen, it was nothing more than a useless piece of hardware to anyone else.
Aelion took the band, its cool, familiar weight a comfort in his palm.
This was his true weapon, the vessel for his vengeance. Slipping it onto his wrist, he felt a faint, almost imperceptible hum as it synced with his biometrics.
The final piece of the puzzle was the immersion pod. Wherever you were, all you needed was this band and a pod to sleep in.
As you rested your physical body, your consciousness would be fully transported into the game world, a reality as tangible and consequential as the one he now lay in.
His body was broken, but his will was about to be unleashed in the only arena that mattered now. The final floor of the Myth of Dungeons awaited..