The plaza was a storm trapped in concrete.

  Hunters shouted at A.R.E.S.

  A.R.E.S. shouted back.

  Civilians huddled against barricades while the rift pulsed in the air like a wounded sun.

  Azhareth ignored all of it.

  He sat on the edge of the vending machine platform, holding an empty cola bottle and staring at it with the same intensity mortals reserve for dying loved ones.

  “No more coins,” he whispered, deeply offended by the universe.

  He checked Raine’s pockets again.

  Nothing.

  He sighed with all the exhaustion of a man who had ruled six centuries of kingdoms.

  A soft voice interrupted him.

  “Um… mister? You look hungry.”

  A boy—skinny, small, clothes patched at the elbows—held out a warm, paper-wrapped bun.

  Azhareth blinked. “I have eaten bread across six hundred lives. I require no more.”

  The boy pushed it gently into his hands.

  “Please. My sister made it. You really look like you need it.”

  Azhareth took a polite bite.

  The crust shattered in a delicate crunch.

  The inside was soft—fluffy—still warm.

  Chicken curry filled his mouth with spice and tenderness.

  Azhareth froze.

  He stared at the bun.

  Then stared at the boy.

  “…your sister is a genius.”

  The boy grinned.

  Azhareth finished it slowly, reverently.

  Then he knelt to meet the boy’s eyes.

  “What do you want in return?”

  The boy’s voice trembled with excitement.

  “I want to be a magician!”

  Azhareth hummed.

  He saw mana veins blocked with dark impurities—common in untrained children.

  “This will hurt for a moment.”

  He tapped the boy’s chest.

  The child gagged and vomited a splash of thick black liquid onto the ground.

  No one noticed.

  Everyone was staring at the rift.

  Azhareth continued in a calm voice.

  “These are impurities clogging your mana. Breathe like this.”

  He demonstrated a simple technique—one he’d invented halfway through his 445th life.

  The boy mimicked it.

  A flicker of mana pulsed around him, barely visible.

  “I felt something!” he gasped.

  “Practice daily,” Azhareth said. “Find me again once mana listens to you.”

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  The boy nodded and ran off, unseen.

  Azhareth turned—

  —and saw her.

  Standing still among the chaos.

  Silent.

  Focused.

  Rina Everhart.

  SS-Rank Hero.

  Heir of the Everhart Conglomerate.

  Rapier Princess.

  No entourage.

  No fanfare.

  Just razor-sharp presence.

  Hunters whispered at her arrival.

  “She’s really here…”

  “Rina Everhart—SS rank!”

  “We’re saved…”

  “Or doomed…”

  Rina tapped her wrist.

  A sleek silver drone unfolded from her bracelet—floating at her shoulder with a soft hum.

  A screen blinked to life.

  [Everhart Channel — LIVE]

  [Dungeon Behavior Research Mode Activated]

  Viewers: 238,221

  Rina’s voice was even.

  “Begin recording.”

  The drone’s lens dilated.

  A.R.E.S. moved quickly.

  “Miss Everhart—path cleared. Dungeon is classified as Rank C. But the five hunters who entered earlier… none returned.”

  Rina stepped forward as the barrier split to create a corridor.

  She did not acknowledge the panic around her.

  Hunters rushed to join.

  She didn’t look back.

  “Follow if you will. Die if you must. Stay out of the way.”

  A handful joined her, trembling but determined.

  Azhareth watched none of this.

  He was still analyzing the vending machine menu, wondering if grape soda was worth the risk.

  The rift shimmered as Rina crossed the boundary.

  Hunters followed.

  Her drone slipped through the portal last.

  The feed changed instantly to the dungeon interior.

  Stone walls.

  Moss.

  Dripping water.

  A faint violet haze.

  The silence felt staged—like a stage waiting for its actors.

  Rina spoke softly for the stream.

  “Mana density consistent with Rank C. Architecture is stable. The air is unusually metallic. Proceeding.”

  A hunter behind her swallowed audibly.

  “But… Miss Everhart… the hunters who went in earlier were B-rank. How did they fail here?”

  Rina didn’t answer.

  She placed her palm on the wall.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  There—etched into the stone—were jagged marks.

  Demon language.

  The drone zoomed automatically.

  The characters glowed faintly under mana-light.

  “Flercher is dead.

  There is no hope.”

  Rina’s jaw tightened.

  The hunters froze.

  “Demon script…?”

  “H-How is that here?”

  “That’s not supposed to appear in human dungeons!”

  “Is it fake? Did someone carve it?”

  Rina traced the carving with a fingertip.

  “…Flercher.”

  A name.

  Unknown to her.

  Meaningless to the stream viewers.

  But not meaningless at all.

  Far outside the dungeon, Azhareth paused mid-coin search for one brief moment—an instinct pulling at him—but dismissed it and returned to checking Raine’s back pockets.

  Inside the dungeon, Rina straightened.

  “We continue,” she said.

  Her voice was calm.

  But her hand tightened on the rapier hilt.

  Something was very wrong.

  The drone flickered with mana interference.

  A low rumble echoed from deeper in the dungeon.

  Hunters lifted their weapons.

  Rina raised one hand.

  “Stay behind me.”

  The rumble grew louder.

  The drone glitched again—

  Then the feed is cut to black.