Deep in the shattered arteries of the ruin, Nara's pale fingers danced over an ancient mechanism. The final stone door shuddered open, and a hiss of stale, perfumed air slipped past her mask. The sarcophagus room awaited — walls etched with writhing hieroglyphs, statues with eyeless stares, and at the center, a golden coffin inlaid with gems that drank the torchlight. "Jackpot," Nara whispered. Thin threads of spirit-thread spiraled from her fingertips, sweeping the chamber in precise arcs. Jewels, gold bars, ceremonial daggers — all whisked up into her Pocket Ring without a single coin clinking.
Then… silence. The air thickened, shadows stretching unnaturally long. The hieroglyphs began to bleed with dim crimson light. Rays of gold burst from the seams of the coffin, stabbing upward like spears of dawn.
CLANG!
The lid blasted into the ceiling, spinning end over end. Out rose a towering, bandaged figure whose wrappings bled light — not sunlight, but a molten, gilded glare that made the room feel like a furnace. Its head was crowned with an obsidian headdress, and twin eyes glowed with death's patience. A voice echoed in her skull, brittle as sand on steel:
"Thief of my tomb…suffer the judgment of Setkhefre." Gasps rolled through the Puppet Walker Clan's section as the golden beams tore skyward from the ruin's projection orb. The image of the towering, death-crowned Setkhefre filled the viewing screen, its aura of holy-dark power making even seasoned cultivators stiffen.
Patriarch Morvek the Weaver, robed in black silk patterned with thin silver lines like a spider's web, leaned forward. His hood hid most of his face.
"So… she's awoken a Guardian Pharaoh," he murmured, voice threaded with approval rather than concern. "Only one in ten thousand ruin-seekers finds one… fewer still survive it."
Elder Thyra Coiled her hand, fingers constantly flexing as if tugging invisible threads, let a slow smile curl her lips. "She won't just survive. This is her stage." Another elder, stoic Bram Stitchskin, folded his arms. "Setkhefre's servants are legion. If she turns them…" Morvek's head tilted, gaze sharpening. "She will" Morvek said confidently.
She's a daughter of the Web."
Around them, lesser disciples whispered in awe and fear, some clasping talismans. The clan knew — if Nara could best a Guardian Pharaoh, her name would be whispered alongside the great puppet masters of legend. Shadows writhed at Setkhefre's feet, spilling toward her like liquid smoke. Nara's eyes narrowed — this wasn't going to be a smash-and-grab anymore.
The air warped under Setkhefre's gesture, the vast golden mummy's palms sweeping forward. A cascade of Shadow Servants — tall, thin warriors made of swirling black smoke and gold wrappings — spilled from the casket's light, their hollow eyes burning crimson. Nara's smile was faint but unmistakable. "Puppets are puppets," she whispered. "And all puppets dance to my thread." Her fingers flicked, and silver spirit-thread lanced outward like dozens of lightning-fast spiderweb strands.
Before the Shadow Servants could even take their first full step toward her, the threads had slipped into their chests, coiling around their core-light. Their crimson glare dimmed, replaced by a glassy obedience. In perfect unison, the Shadow Servants turned on Setkhefre!
The chamber rang with the sound of enchanted blades clashing against the Pharaoh's dark aura. Up in the Observatory, gasps burst from the Puppet Walker Clan's section.
Elder Thyras grin widened to something feral. "Oh… she's not just fighting him," she murmured. "She's rewriting his army."
Morvek chuckled low, like silk tearing. "Exactly as I taught her." The stolen Shadow Servants hammered at Setkhefre's golden frame, each strike ringing like chimes struck by warhammers. For a moment, it looked like Nara's gambit might overwhelm him. But the Pharaoh's eyes flared — not crimson, but molten gold.
"Kneel!" He lifted one massive, bandaged hand. The air crackled, not with magic but with the command of an ancient monarch. Reflect Sorcery flared to life — a shifting mirror-like aura that shimmered across his entire form. One of the Shadow Servants swung its scimitar; the blow rebounded in a blinding arc of light, turning back on its own body and scattering it into black mist. The remaining Servants hesitated. Setkhefre surged forward, his headdress gleaming, and unleashed Dead Break — two crushing blows that blurred faster than sight.
The first shattered the spirit-thread connection to another puppet. The second was aimed directly at Nara, a shockwave of dark force hurling her into a column hard enough to crack the stone. She slid to one knee, breathing fast, the copper taste of blood in her mouth. In the Observatory, one of the younger Puppet Walker disciples stiffened.
"She… she might lose them all—"
Morvek didn't even blink. "Watch her escalate. This is where she truly shines." Nara's fingers flexed, ten shimmering spirit-threads sparking into being at once. Her eyes narrowed. "Alright, Pharaoh. Let's dance without the warm-up." Steam hissed across the cracked flagstones as Nara's qi flared white-hot. She spun her hands through intricate loops, condensing a gleaming marionette controller from pure white qi — the control rods humming with restrained power.
"Let's see if you can keep up."
From her Pocket Ring dropped a hulking miniature four-armed Gordo Puppet, armor-plated like a siege tank. Its segmented pauldrons snapped into place, and steam vents along its back spat white vapor as it awakened. The thing's eyes burned with cold, artificial focus. She lashed four spirit-threads into the puppet's joints and spine, then six more into the room's unseen spaces.
Setkhefre raised his staff, but Nara was already in motion. The Gordo Puppet thundered forward — its upper arms crossing into a shield block while the lower pair hammered down with mace and axe in alternating arcs. Every strike landed with a clang that sent dust falling from the chamber ceiling.
The Pharaoh parried with his ceremonial blade, but each block staggered him a step back, chipping more of the gold filigree from his armor. At the same time, Nara's free threads flickered outward like a whip-crack. She seeded the chamber floor with qi mines — compact white motes that hummed with violent intent.
They skittered into cracks, under rubble, and even latched onto the hems of Setkhefre's trailing bandages without him noticing. From the Observatory, Morvek's eyes glinted. "That's her True Wave deployment… few can multitask like this." The Puppet Walker Patriarch chuckled under his breath. "Few survive it either."
Back in the ruin, the mines pulsed in sync with the Gordo Puppet's assault. Each detonation sent golden dust spiraling upward, chewing through Setkhefre's defensive aura one bite at a time. The golden Pharaoh snarled, veins glowing like molten metal beneath his tattered wrappings. His eyes burned with the cold fury of a monarch whose throne was under siege. He raised both arms, channeling the full weight of his power.
With a violent sweep, Shadow Servants surged from the darkness, smashing into the Gordo Puppet's armored form, battering its limbs and trying to seize the spirit-threads controlling it. Simultaneously, Setkhefre slammed the ground, triggering an ancient resonance that shattered the qi mines — but rather than exploding, they absorbed the dark energy, feeding it back into the Pharaoh's aura like blood to a wound.
The chamber flickered with warped light as his strength surged, the golden glow intensifying. Undeterred, Nara snapped her fingers, jerking the spirit-threads in impossible patterns, twisting the puppet's four arms into a relentless whirlwind of blades and fists. The puppet spun like a storm, deflecting and crushing the servants with brutal efficiency.
Each Animus Mine that detonated now ripped the fabric of the ruin itself, tearing at Setkhefre's defenses but at a cost: Nara's own energy was drained, her breaths coming faster, her vision flickering with strain. The Pharaoh's Dead Break slammed into the puppet's shield, splintering chunks of armor and sending the machine staggering.
The clash echoed like thunder. Neither combatant gave quarter. Setkhefre's voice boomed, "You overreach, child of threads. This tomb is mine to command!" Nara's eyes burned with fierce resolve. "Not today, Pharaoh."
The battle turned into a war of attrition, every strike and counterstrike testing the limits of spirit and machine alike.