Chapters 123-124

Chapter 123

Silence grips the chamber. The Platinum Golem lies broken, its molten chest dimmed, its massive frame scattered across the stone. For a long breath, no one dares to speak.

Iskara is the first. Her lips curl as if the words taste foul.

“That bastard… actually did it. I thought he’d be ashes, yet he stands.”

Asterion lowers his spear, the tip scraping against the floor with a dull ring. His eyes stay fixed on Jacob, wide with disbelief, his jaw set hard as though he can’t reconcile what he’s seeing.

“By the blood of the Titans… Jacob has overcome the trial.”

Kaelric stands stiff, one hand on the hilt of his blade. He doesn’t draw it, but the grip is so tight that the leather binding creaks. His eyes dart from the fallen construct back to Jacob, as if looking for the trick he must have missed.

“Impossible. How did he—” He cuts himself off.

Vyrrak growls low in his throat, a sound that rattles in his chest. His scaled tail lashes against the ground, the sharp tip carving shallow grooves into the stone.

“Hells. I said I’d strip my own scales if he survived… curse me, I may as well start peeling. But who cares. We’re about to be showered in money.”

Sabrina Margrave exhales sharply through her nose. She folds her arms with slow precision, the tilt of her chin daring anyone to point out the flicker of surprise in her eyes.

“Perhaps not as useless as I believed. Still reckless, still crude… but not useless.”

Zibrek steps closer to the broken Golem, her boots crunching against the fragments of Platinum ore scattered across the floor. She adjusts her goggles, the lenses catching the last glimmers of dying light in the chest cavity.

“Lad, are you alright?!” Boomgar is the first who addresses Jacob, who just turns and gives him a thumbs‑up.

“A bit tired, but it’s all good.”

The chamber stays quiet after Jacob’s answer. The echo of Rafnov’s promise still hangs in the air, as if the old Miner’s voice should roll back at any moment with treasure spilling out of the walls.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches long enough that even the faint hiss of cooling metal from the broken Golem sounds loud.

Vyrrak is the first to break. His tail lashes the stone with a sharp crack. “Where’s the damn prize? He said we’d get it. If Rafnov’s legacy is hiding in here, I’ll tear the walls down myself.”

Sabrina clicks her tongue and glares at the ceiling, as though her disdain could force it to answer. “This isn’t amusing. He promised a reward. To dangle it before us and then delay is… insulting.”

The longer the silence lasts, the heavier the air grows. Greed, impatience, and unease bleed through the Champions.

The chamber answers only with the faint crackle of cooling stone.

*

I start becoming doubtful myself, actually. Where’s the damn reward?

“Hello, Rafnov, sir?” I say out loud.

“Yes, Jacob Cloud?” the miner’s voice replies immediately, steady and deep, as if it had been waiting the whole time.

The sound draws every Champion up short.

Vyrrak’s head snaps around. “So you’re still there?! Where’s the money?!”

“Where’s the prize?”

“You’ve already received it.”

I frown. My hands tighten on the hilt of Black Flame, and for a moment I think I’ve misheard him.

“What are you talking about? Nothing happened.”

“You fought a construct of pure Platinum and won. You carved through the hardest ore and endured three weeks of trials that should have broken you. That strength, those Skills, and the way you bent the earth to your will—that is my legacy.”

“Huh,” I say.

It does make sense. The sheer increase in power is definitely more than worth the pain in the ass that I suffer throughout this Dungeon. It just feels… cheap not to receive any money. And I can’t imagine that the Champions would be happy with this since they spent more than three weeks alongside me for no pay in exchange.

They might skin you alive and sell your organs in order to get their wasted time compensated somehow, King Baalrek comments.

“Sir, is there any way I could get a monetary prize, too? If that’s not too much to ask. You’re known to be very rich.”

“Jacob,” Rafnov’s soul fragment laughs. “This is a Secret Room in a Platinum‑Ranked Dungeon. What type of coin do you expect to find?”

“Errr, Platinum?” I ask, confused.

And now that that’s said out loud, the Champions groan.

“What am I going to do with some Platinum?!” Sabrina Margrave shouts. “Have we just wasted three weeks of our lives?!”

Rafnov ignores Sabrina.

“Cloud, would you mind telling everyone here what you’re sensing inside the walls of this chamber?”

My senses light up and then I frown.

“Oh. Guys… there’s a lot of Platinum in these walls. Like… a lot.”

Zibrek is the first one to catch on.

“If this Platinum is heavily infused with Mana, it will fetch Diamond coins.”

That’s when I notice something else. The giant Platinum Golem, Rafnov’s own construct, is still on the ground. My eyes widen.

“Sir, we can take apart the Platinum Golem too?!”

“You might take it apart and carry it with you. I’m glad you recognized the real reward. That golem should be melted down in order for you and your companions to forge equipment.”

“Why would I wear Platinum armor?” Sabrina Margrave says. “I would much rather get a stronger one and—”

I can hear some annoyance in Rafnov’s voice.

“The new generations have clearly forgotten much about ore. If you wear equipment made with ore that reflects your own Rank, your Skills will be amplified. This, of course, requires the purest of ores for the effect to be noticeable. If you use low‑grade Platinum, it will never show. Otherwise, you must wear ore that reflects your own level. That also generates better Karma.”

At the mention of Karma, every single Champion perks up.

Vyrrak starts rubbing his hands and looks at me with a hungry stare.

“Cloud, get mining. Let’s strip this chamber while we cut up the Golem.”

*

In the end, the only one who can somehow reliably cut the Golem without trouble is Kaelric. I know the reason why, but I can’t reveal it to the others for a matter of privacy.

Still, the swordsman has cut the golem into giant ingots that have been stored away in several Interspatial Rings.

It takes me almost two full days to extract all the Platinum ore from the chamber and by the time I’m done with the last big chunk, we hear Rafnov’s voice once again.

“Congratulations, you passed the last test. You didn’t succumb to impatience and you finished the job properly, not wasting one bit of ore. In return, you shall receive one last gift from this part of my inheritance. You’ve already received a good pickaxe, but there’s one more piece of equipment that any miner worth their name needs.”

Before I can ask about it, I feel something warm wrapping around my index finger.

I look down to find a ring. The band is rough at first glance, forged of dark‑silver metal etched with faint grooves that glow as soon as my Mana brushes against it. The warmth is steady, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. When I touch it, I feel the pull of a vast space inside.

“That is a decent Interspatial Ring,” Rafnov says. “Every miner worth his salt needs one. Use it well. Farewell, young legends.”

Right after, we get beamed right outside the Secret Room, finding ourselves, and every leftover ore, on the wetlands we had been traversing on the way to the Dungeon Boss of the Tomb of Fate.

However, what we see when we get out is not the camp we left. There’s a slaughter in front of us. Every single attendant that had been left behind is in pieces. Our Squires are bound to stakes in the ground and gagged, unconscious.

A single man in dark robes with his hood up stands with his arms crossed, staring at us.

“Champions,” he says in a deep voice.

Every Champion tenses, weapons raised, spells half‑cast. The air grows heavy with the weight of gathered Mana, yet the figure doesn’t move. He simply lifts one hand, slow and deliberate, and pushes his hood back.

Black veins streak across his red skin. Two curved horns jut from his forehead, faintly glowing, and his eyes burn orange.

The reaction is instant.

Iskara’s face drains of color, her voice breaking the silence like a whip.

“AZRAKEL?!”

The Infernal smirks, the expression cruel and familiar all at once. His gaze locks onto her, as though no one else exists.

“Long time no see, sister.”

Chapter 124

“That’s your brother?” Jacob asks Iskara, who’s now trembling.

“Where have you been?” she demands, her voice sharp but cracking underneath. “Why are you wearing that robe? What have you done?!”

Azrakel spreads his arms as if presenting himself to the world. The black veins across his skin flare brighter, his horns catching the twilight.

“What I had to,” he says. “While you were handed gifts from birth, I was clawing through stone and bleeding my veins dry for scraps. Do you know what it feels like, sister? To watch you inherit Lucifer’s Veins while I shattered myself on worthless Skills?”

Iskara shakes her head, almost disbelieving. “You trained beside me. You were strong. Father—”

“Father?” Azrakel snaps, his smirk curdling into a snarl. “Father looked at me and saw a failure. He looked at you and saw a perfect heir. And you… you accepted it. You embraced their chains. The royal parasite, leeching Skill Crystals when you were already born greater than all of us.”

Sabrina tilts her head, eyes glittering with interest. “So the Cult of Asmodeus claimed an Infernal Royal. Fascinating.”

“Silence, Champion,” Azrakel says, his voice like stone grinding on stone. Whatever warmth had colored his greeting to Iskara vanishes as his gaze sweeps over the rest of us. “I’m not here for your commentary. I’m here to finish the job Malrik and Toran were too weak to complete. I shall complete this sacred mission.”

The Champions bristle. Asterion lowers his spear into a ready stance, the point aimed straight at Azrakel’s chest. “You murdered our attendants. You bind our Squires like cattle. Do not pretend you have come in honor.”

Azrakel doesn’t even flinch. “Honor? That word belongs to your crumbling academies, your broken bloodlines, your false crowns. I don’t need honor. I need freedom.” His eyes flash orange as he turns back to Iskara. “And I’ll tear it out of your veins if I must.”

Iskara steps forward, fire already dancing in her palms. “You dare call yourself free while you wear the chains of Asmodeus? You betrayed your own people. You betrayed me.”

Asterion steps forward, spear in hand but lowered. “Why the Cult of Asmodeus, Prince? Why abandon your own blood for them?”

Azrakel’s laugh is low and bitter. “Because they’re the only ones who understand. They don’t kneel to Skill Crystals or the tyranny of royal veins. They see the truth: your system is nothing but shackles dressed as glory.” His gaze cuts back to Iskara, sharp as a blade. “And you, sister, are the perfect slave. You wear your heritage like a crown but still cling to Crystals. You call yourself free, but you’re the most bound of all. You took mother’s beatings and lashes just to be called the perfect child over and over. Yet, you still carry the marks of our parents’ love. Tell me, sister, why don’t you tell me how proud you are of being a Champion, of being a little lapdog for the Academy? Because that’s what you are—a little faithful dog on a leash of our parents and those bastards at the Academy.”

Iskara’s face twists with fury, flames dancing in her palms. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

Azrakel only smiles wider, feeding on her rage. “Hit a nerve, did I?”

Vyrrak bares his teeth in a cruel grin. “Sibling rivalry. How touching.” His eyes flick to me, then back to Azrakel. “But if you think we’ll stand here and watch you rant—”

Azrakel cuts him off with a flick of his hand. A pulse of dark Mana ripples outward, rattling the wetland reeds and bending the air. “You’ll stand here because I allow it. The only one I came for is her.” His finger jabs toward Iskara like a spear.

Iskara’s lips curl into a snarl. “Then you should have stayed dead, Azrakel.”

“Do you think that this pitiful power of yours scares me? The power of a Champion and a Rainbow Skill?”

At the mention of the Rainbow Skill everyone turns curiously toward Iskara. Everyone here knows any one of the Champions might own a Rainbow Skill—they wouldn’t be Champions otherwise. Yet, hearing it said out loud makes everyone raise an eyebrow.

Iskara doesn’t seem happy with her business being revealed. While nobody knows about Lucifer’s Veins—not among the present here, at least—this is a straight revelation that exposes her greatest trump card.

Iskara’s jaw tightens. “You’ve said enough.” The fire in her hands burns hotter, the glow casting sharp shadows across her face.

Azrakel chuckles, low and sharp, his horns glinting in the fading light. “Struck a nerve again. You always hated when people saw you for what you are. You carry the rainbow, the mark of our house, yet you keep hiding it as though the shame will vanish if you don’t speak it aloud.”

Asterion’s brow furrows, spear still raised. “So it’s true. Princess Iskara holds a Rainbow Skill.” His tone is equal parts wonder and suspicion, like the revelation explains much and raises even more questions.

Sabrina smirks, folding her arms. “Well, well. The perfect heir keeps more secrets than she lets on. I suppose we should all be honored you’ve chosen to grace us with the truth, even if it comes from your traitor brother’s mouth.”

“Shut up,” Iskara snaps, her eyes never leaving Azrakel.

But Azrakel only steps forward, shadows curling around his feet like smoke. “Do you see them now, sister? They stare at you like you’re a prize horse with a new trick. This is what the Crystals and crowns do—they turn you into an object, not a person. You wear your chains proudly, and they clap.” His voice drops into a growl. “You disgust me.”

“Can I ask a question?”

Everyone, including Azrakel, turns toward Jacob.

“You must be the Fake Champion. I heard you’re the most resourceful of the Champions here, that you stole Skills from my people.”

“I mean, first of all, you’re siding with a literal Evil God, so I wouldn’t go around pointing fingers at me for wanting to learn Infernal Skills,” Jacob says with a deadpan.

Azrakel, who’s committed a slaughter and bound the Squires of the Champions in order to rattle them, is taken aback by the words of the one he considers a Fake Champion.

“Excuse me?” the Infernal asks, stunned and angry.

“Did I stutter?” Jacob says again. “You killed our friends and spared a few to… give us a show? Wow. The Cult of Asmodeus must be made of absolute geniuses. It’s not surprising that your own father didn’t love you and preferred your younger sister. She clearly is ready to sacrifice way more than you.”

“What do you know about my sacrifices?!” Azrakel shouts, his eyes now bloodshot.

“I was born a commoner out of a mine,” Jacob explains slowly and calmly. “You were born a Royal and you still talk about Iskara being more privileged than you? You did what? You mentioned hurting your veins trying to push your Skills, right? Is that it? Is that the story? You half‑crippled yourself and then you went to cry to the Cult of Asmodeus? What else? Did you also fake a pathetic, little death, all angsty and sad about your little daddy not loving you enough?”

“Jacob…” Iskara says in a low voice. “Don’t provoke him.”

“Provoke?” Jacob replies, stepping forward. “Who said anything about provoking? I’m simply stating the truth. Tell me, Prince Azrakel, before we kill you, what did the Cult of Asmodeus give you that your parents and sister couldn’t? Was it attentions? Did they make you feel important?”

“They loved me more than my parents ever did. They recognized my real potential, and their mission is pure. We want to break the world free from the tyranny of the System and Skill Crystals.”

“What a noble soul,” Jacob replies coldly. “So noble that he kills innocents. Is that part of the plan? Please, enlighten me. How do you justify that?”

Jacob looks at the remains of the three Elves who have been chopped up and feels his blood boil. He also sees Kaelric and a few others look at their own Squires with pure rage running through their veins.

“These people are not innocent. They serve the true evil that reigns supreme at the Academy, one of the most tenacious emissaries of the System, your bastard of a Headmaster.”

Azrakel holds Jacob’s stare as if Jacob proves his point. 

“You’re pathetic,” the weakest of the Champions replies. “You’re killing those who couldn’t even make a real decision for them. Do you think that an attendant or a noble with barely anything to their name can really decide which side they’re on? You think there’s anything they’ve decided consciously? You’re a bloodthirsty pig who’s justifying their bloodlust with this crusade of yours. If you’re such a great faithful of Asmodeus, you should have come after us directly. Not after them.”

Azrakel starts walking forward and Iskara moves in front of Jacob, who simply moves her slightly to the side. 

“You used to be a child who lashed out at some perceived injustice. Oh no, you couldn’t be the heir of everything. What a sad life. And now you kill people to make yourself feel better since you can’t kill those whom you really intended to.” 

“Stop talking, Jacob,” Iskara hisses. “He’s strong.”

“I know what he’s about to do. And I know we can win,” Jacob says, turning back and, after being a miner for so long, resumes his role as guide. “Orrivane, get ready to use it.” 

Orrivane’s eyes widen, as if he’s already understood. 

Azrakel finally stops, only a few steps from Iskara. His smile is cruel, but his eyes are cold.

“Soon, sister, I’ll free you from those chains—whether you beg for it or not.”

In the next moment, a Peak Diamond Rank aura unfurls from Azrakel, making everyone’s hair stand on end.