Chapter 41-43

Chapter 41

The Guildhall buzzes with a low, tired hum. Most of the crowd hasn’t left, though the tension has faded. Half the city is here just to see how long Jacob Cloud can keep pulling off the impossible. Overhead, the Dungeon Map casts its pale light. Jacob’s green dot glides down a corridor, headed back to the first room on the second floor. 

Guildmaster Dorn sits with a dark expression behind his desk, chewing through a plate of cold roast beef while his clerks tally up the latest round of bets.

One adventurer with a mug of beer elbows his friend and points at the projection.

“He’s going back to the first room again. Does he think he left something behind?”

A junior scribe leans over, watching the map.

“He’s been doing this every time. He drops his loot and just stands there, but now he’s stopping in every single chamber. See? Look—he’s not just running through, he’s checking all the walls.”

Sir Greyson frowns at the display and crosses his arms. 

“He isn’t wasting time. He’s looking for something.”

Felisia narrows her eyes, but she stays silent. Her gaze doesn’t leave the map.

Another adventurer laughs, thinking it’s all some rookie’s panic. 

“Maybe he thinks he missed a Skill Shard under the rubble!”

But a sharp-eyed merchant’s son steps forward and squints at the map. “No, look at his path. He’s hugging the walls. He’s doing it in every room—systematically. He isn’t looting, he’s searching for a mechanism. Maybe he thinks there’s a secret passage or a Secret Room.”

The crowd’s noise dips, then rises as more people catch on.

Guildmaster Dorn slaps his hand on the table and starts to laugh—loud and full-bellied, the kind of laughter that drowns out conversation. 

“A secret room? In the Smoldering Glass Crucible? Saints, that’s rich! There hasn’t been a single hidden chamber in this Dungeon since it was mapped fifteen years ago. Not even the Knights who cleared all the trap arrays found one. Not even the best! What’s he going to do, walk through the wall?”

The crowd starts chuckling along. Dorn waves his fork at the map, shaking his head. 

“Let the little rat poke at the glass all day. It’ll be the first time a miner from Shit’s Creek discovers what all the Knights missed. Maybe he’ll find a Secret Skill, too, hiding behind a rock!”

A few people snicker and others look away, not wanting to sound foolish. Nobody expects anything but another long loop through empty rooms.

But then, as Dorn is still laughing, Jacob’s green dot passes through the side of one chamber and vanishes. The dot doesn’t pause, doesn’t flicker, doesn’t show up on any other floor. It just disappears from the projection.

A hush falls over the entire Guild. Even the dice clattering in the corner stop. The map keeps pulsing, but there’s no trace of Jacob left anywhere.

Someone in the back whispers, “Where did he go?”

Another adventurer sits up, eyes wide. 

“Did the map break? Did the array just lose track of him?”

Felisia leans forward, staring hard at the place where the dot vanished. She doesn’t say anything. Her hands curl tight around her sleeves.

Guildmaster Dorn’s laughter dies in his throat. He squints at the Dungeon Map, waiting for the dot to reappear. It doesn’t.

The silence stretches. The Guildmaster’s face loses color. He lowers his fork, still staring at the spot where Jacob Cloud just walked off the map and vanished from the Dungeon entirely.

---

Adrienne Clearwater stands on the moonlit terrace above Clearwater Bay while Sir Renquell watches her with his usual neutral calm. She keeps her eyes fixed on the lights below because she does not want to show how much the upcoming Sky Hunt weighs on her mind.

“Why are you on that boy’s side?” Adrienne says, her voice clipped as she turns to face him. “You’re sworn to me. Do you want me to lose the Sky Hunt?”

Sir Renquell answers without hesitation because he has no patience for empty flattery.

“You will never lose the Sky Hunt as long as you have the only Diamond mobility Skill in Clearwater. Calantha can move well because she has Water Dash—and you can expect her to upgrade it like you did—but you are the only one here who can move at the speed you need to set a new record.”

Adrienne crosses her arms and leans against the balustrade. She does not hide her annoyance.

“You act as if this is guaranteed. You taught me Water Wings, but you know Calantha will do anything to win. And you’ve rescued the boy. You’ve yet to tell me why, Sir Renquell.”

Sir Renquell keeps his gaze on the water because he does not need to look at Adrienne to see the tension in her posture.

“I have given advice to everyone you have asked me to instruct,” he says. “But only one Skill lets you truly fly. Only Diamond Skills let you break free of the ground. Anything lower will fail unless you find a monster’s shortcut, and even then, you’ll pay the price.”

Adrienne presses her lips together and does not speak for several seconds. The silence stretches while the city below flickers with lamps and distant music.

“That does not answer my question, Sir Renquell,” Adrienne says pointedly.

“I know,” the child-looking Elf replies, turning toward her. “Why are you under the impression I’m required to do anything more than my job? I’m ordered to tutor you to the best of your talent because your father is a great man who earned the respect of my kind. But at what point did you forget I’m not one of your servants?”

Sir Renquell lets one burst of his aura out, and Adrienne stumbles back.

The young woman bites her lower lip and nods.

“I should thank you for teaching me Water Wings,” she says at last. “But if Felisia catches up to me, I will still blame you.”

“You can blame me if you lose,” Sir Renquell says, “but you will not lose because your Skill is the only one that will carry you to victory if you use it as you were taught. The Sky Hunt requires speed above everything else. Felisia is fast, much faster than she should have been, thanks to the boy. But you have been Tutored in a Diamond Skill. Only because I taught you everything about its efficiency you can use it at your level. No one here has the same acceleration, and no one here can take flight.”

“What if my sisters bought a flying Skill?”

“Who’d teach them?” Sir Renquell sighs. “The true flight Skills are all at Diamond, at the very least. Diamond Skill Crystals are rare in Clearwater City and in the Clearbay at large. And even if they magically found one that fit them, how would they train?”

“Isn’t there a Gold or Platinum Rank Skill that lets you fly?”

“Theoretically,” Sir Renquell says, scratching his chin, “yes. But, in practice, no. And even if there was, it’d be something extremely unique, some starter for a greater flying foundation. Not even I would know how to teach its mastery. Therefore, what use would it have? And where would they even find something like that? And again, even if they found it, who could master it?”

Adrienne looks away because she does not want him to see her face.

“If I lose,” she says, “then it will be because the gods have decided to humiliate me.”

Sir Renquell says nothing more.

He waits in silence because he knows that Adrienne will leave first.

When she finally leaves the terrace, she walks without looking back, because she refuses to show any doubt.

I do know someone who could master a Skill like that, Sir Renquell suddenly thinks. But where would he find—

The Elf’s head suddenly snaps toward the city below, specifically toward the Adventurers’ Guild.

Has he…

Chapter 42

The air in the Adventurers’ Guild feels stale, as if even the dust has grown tired of waiting for Jacob’s dot to reappear on the Dungeon Map. People cluster around the main projection, whispering about where he might have gone and what he could be doing. Guildmaster Dorn stands near the front, arms crossed, a scowl on his face while his senior clerk brings him another stack of betting slips.

One of the Silver-ranked adventurers leans over the map and shakes his head.

“There’s no way he just vanished,” he says. “He must’ve triggered some kind of hidden array.”

A merchant’s son pipes up, “If he really found a secret room, what do you think he’s going to get? Is it true there are different kinds?”

Guildmaster Dorn cracks a wry smile, rubbing his chin as he looks around the hall. He likes having an audience, especially one desperate for answers.

“There are three kinds of secret rooms in any Dungeon worth the name,” Dorn says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “First is the basic type. It’s usually just a copy of a regular room from the same floor, but you get the best loot you’d find in the Dungeon all there. Maybe you walk into what looks like another monster den or a standard treasure chamber, but the drops are always higher grade. That’s why old mapping teams used to hunt for them: easy risk, high reward, nothing too special in the layout.”

He waves a hand to show it’s common knowledge. 

“Those are the ones even most Knights can find if they have the patience. Just takes time and a good sense for anomalies.”

A Gold-ranked adventurer, arms folded, asks, “And the second type?”

Guildmaster Dorn grins. 

“Second type is much rarer. When you find one of those, you don’t just get better loot, you get special variations of the Dungeon’s usual monsters. Maybe the floor has glass golems, but in the second type of room, you find a golem with a mana core, or one that manipulates flame. Sometimes you get monsters nobody’s ever catalogued before. The main thing is, these rooms always drop unique Skill Crystals or the kind of loot that lets you evolve a Class into a rare variant. That’s why serious explorers spend their whole lives mapping out the deep Dungeons—because finding one of these rooms can change everything for a party.”

The scribe in the back scratches his head. 

“That’s what everyone’s hoping for, right? The special Skills and the class evolution stuff?”

Guildmaster Dorn nods, then glances at the projection again.

“Everyone wants the second type,” he says. “But almost nobody ever finds them. It’s usually the big Guilds that sweep those rooms and then keep the rewards for their own initiates.”

A kid near the front raises his hand. 

“So what’s the third kind of secret room?”

The Guildmaster’s smile fades, and for a moment, he looks at the crowd like they’re wasting his time.

“The third kind doesn’t matter,” Dorn says flatly. “You’re never going to see one. They don’t show up in low-level Dungeons. Even here, in the Crucible, nobody’s found so much as a whiff of one. Forget it.”

But his answer only sparks more curiosity, and several adventurers lean in, pressing for details.

“Come on, Guildmaster,” the merchant’s son insists, “what’s the third type? You brought it up. Is it some kind of boss room? Or is it like the ones from the legends?”

Guildmaster Dorn grimaces, but before he can dodge the question, Sir Greyson speaks up.

“The third kind isn’t something you map,” Sir Greyson says, voice low and steady. “It’s not a regular part of the Dungeon’s pattern. These are the aberrant rooms—the ones where the whole Dungeon changes. Not just the monsters, not just the loot, but the laws inside the room. Those rooms aren’t built by whoever carved out the rest of the Dungeon. They’re inscribed into the very system matrix by a superior power.”

A hush falls as the crowd listens, uncertain.

“A superior power?” the merchant’s son repeats. “You mean, someone tampered with the Dungeon?”

Sir Greyson shakes his head, his dark hair catching the lamplight. 

“No. Nobody tampers with rooms like that. When the system wrote the first Dungeons, there were beings who had the authority to inscribe their will onto the matrix. The stories say those rooms are the real treasures, but they aren’t just rare—they’re impossible to find. The activation mechanisms require more than just Skill or luck. They demand power. They demand knowledge most people will never touch.”

Guildmaster Dorn scowls and waves a hand, as if to chase away the story.

“Legends,” he says. “You’re talking about myths, not real Dungeons. Nobody in Clearwater has ever found a room like that. Not in living memory. If such a thing even exists, it’s outside the scope of what we do here.”

But the crowd doesn’t back down. A junior scribe, encouraged by Sir Greyson’s answer, blurts out, “If the legends are true, who made those rooms? The gods?”

Sir Greyson shrugs. “

Not just the gods. The only races with the power to write rooms into a Dungeon’s system were the free divine races. The Dragons, the Infernals, the Highbloods—those who could challenge the gods and sometimes even beat them.”

This time, everyone falls silent. Guildmaster Dorn looks annoyed, but he knows the room is hanging on every word.

He tries to dismiss it with a laugh. 

“And even if there was such a thing, nobody in this city would ever qualify to enter. The activation sequences are too complex. You’d need to be Mithril Rank at the very least to have a hope, and even then, you’d probably die before getting a good look. It’s all fantasy. The kid in the Crucible doesn’t have a chance at anything but the first type, if that.”

Someone in the back asks, “So what happens if someone does find a third-type room? What does it mean for the Dungeon?”

Guildmaster Dorn shrugs and starts stacking papers, making it clear he’s finished with the topic. 

“It means they’re not coming back out the way they went in. That’s what it means. If someone ever finds one of those rooms in the Smoldering Glass Crucible, I’ll eat my own boots and kiss the boy’s ass. Not gonna happen.”

He turns away, but the Guild stays quiet, everyone thinking about the third kind of secret room—something not built by mortals, not mapped by the Guild, not even meant for ordinary adventurers. Even as the crowd returns to whispering about Jacob’s disappearance, every mind in the room circles the question that nobody can answer.

Has the kid actually found something none of them ever will?

---

I circle the north wall on the second floor for the third time. I already swept this chamber for Skill Crystals, but something keeps nagging at me. The Grimoire flickers at the back of my mind, so I pulse Echo Pulse straight through the wall, forcing mana into every channel until the surface lights up in my vision.

That’s when I see it. A runic overlay appears—lines and symbols way too dense for any trap I’ve found before. These runes burn brighter than anything in the Crucible. They twist around each other, forming a mesh that cycles through so many shapes I can barely track them. Most arrays here are simple: wards, pressure plates, mana fuses. This one is different. The Grimoire struggles, error messages running past, before it locks onto a single line:

[Unknown Array — Origin: Aberrant.]

I press my palm flat against the glass. The wall hums under my hand. The Grimoire pulses, breaking down the structure as best it can. I count thousands of tiny runes packed into bigger symbols. There are three nested arrays. The outer binds energy, the middle channels it, and the core locks something deep inside. The center rune glows with both fire and blood, caged in a lattice that shifts every time I blink.

My eyes water, but I don’t look away. The Grimoire gives me a prompt:

[Potential flaw detected: Central node sequence incomplete. Manual input required.]

I push mana from my core, focusing on the central rune. The glass heats up under my fingers, the runes crawling outward. The wall ripples like a pond. The array stirs, lines spinning out in a spiral that fills the whole chamber. Every other rune in the room goes dead, one after another.

For a second, nothing happens. Then a sharp crack splits the silence and the wall tears open. A doorway forms right out of the glass, heat flooding the room. I stare at the empty darkness past the threshold, then step through.

The air on the other side almost knocks me back. It’s blistering hot, heavy, and dry. There’s no mist, only glass polished so clean that every surface throws back my reflection. Shadows run along the floor, restless and thick, slithering even though there’s nothing to cast them. Every step echoes, and every shadow creeps in the corners of my vision.

The heat keeps rising. I wipe sweat off my brow and force myself to breathe slow. I try Echo Pulse, but nothing shows. No traps, no arrays, not even a single flaw. The Grimoire is silent.

A voice cuts through the heat. It’s shrill, grating, and it bounces around the room until it feels like it comes from every mirrored surface.

“What a mockery they have made of my kind.”

I spin, searching every reflection, but there’s nothing there—just me and the shadows. I grip Hell’s Sword, my voice tight.

“Who’s talking? Show yourself.”

A shadow at the far wall peels upward, stretching into a figure with horns that curl above its head. The rest is lean and tall, arms too long, claws scraping the glass but leaving no sound. Its face is just darkness, but the eyes burn with red light.

“You talk like you own this place, little miner,” the shadow says. 

How does he even know my background?

Its voice is layered and angry and cold all at once. 

“You are only here because the system allowed it. The system gives you a Class that doesn’t belong with you. It gives you a name, doesn’t it? What did it call you?”

I keep my grip tight on Hell’s Sword and give nothing away. 

“If you want to know my name, tell me yours first.”

The shadow’s grin widens, baring fire instead of teeth. 

“Names mean nothing to me now. I want to see what the system calls you, what power it dares assign in my absence.”

“I don’t owe you that,” I say. “If you want something from me, you can ask straight. Or you can try taking it.”

The shadow’s eyes narrow. The glass under my feet ripples as it steps closer, horns rising higher.

“You have courage,” the shadow says, “but courage is cheap here. You have crossed into a room meant for my kind. You must answer the question, or you will answer to the array beneath your boots.”

I glare at the shadow and refuse to flinch. “You think you can threaten me with your fancy runes? Go ahead. I’ve dealt with arrays before.”

The shadow doesn’t move. It just lets the silence drag out until the room starts to vibrate. The rune circle beneath my boots flashes white, then burns deep red. Light bursts through every line, and the whole pattern surges with heat so intense it feels like standing on the lid of a furnace.

I grip Hell’s Sword tighter. The glass creaks under me. The air smells like hot metal and something sharper, almost alive. The rune pulses again, faster now, and arcs of red light flicker across the mirrors, painting my reflection in hellish colors.

“Answer,” the shadow says, its voice crackling like burning coal. “Speak, or the array will strip your secrets and your flesh both.”

This time, when I look down, trying to peer through the array with the Grimoire, I get a splitting headache and my nose starts bleeding.

What—

There’s an information overload.

The Grimoire doesn’t even give me any line.

It’s just…

I’m too weak to even process this—

“You hold a shard of my legacy,” the shadow says, voice rolling like thunder. “You know what you carry. I want to hear you say it.”

A shadow of his legacy?

“Who are you?” 

The shadow goes still, only the horns moving, curving wider with each word.

“I am what is left when memory burns away and only vengeance remains,” the shadow says. “I am the echo of what the system stole and what it cannot remake.”

I let that sit. I keep my eyes on the rune at my feet, watching the way the light pulses. I know I’m stalling, but I want to see how far I can push before this thing forces my hand.

“You want to hear it so bad?” I say, finally. “Infernal Architect. That’s what the system called me. But I didn’t ask for it, and I sure as hell don’t owe anyone an apology for surviving.”

The shadow’s smile spreads into every corner of the room. “Infernal Architect,” it echoes, rolling the words out slow. “A title built on my people’s bones. The system grants you power and thinks that is enough.”

“What are you?” 

The shadow fills the room with its burning eyes and twisted horns. The heat presses into my bones and the rune array crawls up the walls, swallowing the light.

“You don’t get to ask questions,” the Infernal snaps. “You are here to take the trial of this room. If you fail, I will kill you like a dog and gut you like a pig.”

I roll my shoulders and stare straight back. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Gut me first, then kill me? Unless you want to gut a corpse. Doesn’t make sense.”

The Infernal hesitates, teeth bared. “You arrogant little wretch. You think you’re clever?”

“I think you’re stalling,” I say, and the glass under my boots starts to tremble.

The Infernal raises an arm. The runes spiral outward, and a gigantic cube of shadow forms in the air. Paths and corridors twist inside it, every side spinning and shifting like a living maze. In the center, a small orb of red fire pulses, sending out sparks that vanish into the black.

“This was a favorite pastime for Infernal children,” the shadow says. “A puzzle any spawn of our kind could solve. You are going to try to retrieve the ember. You have to get it out without triggering the inner locks or setting off the traps. If you fail, you die. If you try to cheat, you die. If you hesitate, you die.”

Infernals?! 

The cube floats between us, turning slow. I see hundreds of routes through the maze, all of them tangled and wrapped around one another. The Infernal sneers at me, voice dripping with contempt.

“Of course, you will die like a dog. You will never solve this puzzle. Even a real Infernal child would outpace you, and you’re just a miner playing at being a master. Go ahead. Try. Fail. Scream. You—”

I tune out the rest. I reach for the ball of fire with my mana, not even bothering to look at the spinning cube. My mana threads slip between the shadows and find the gaps in the paths. The Grimoire flickers, showing me the structure. I nudge the ember, coaxing it forward, sliding it through every turn, pushing it up and around each snare. I keep my focus on the fire, ignoring the Infernal’s voice.

Ten seconds later, the ball of red fire floats free, glowing hot in my hand. The cube is still spinning in the air, untouched. The Infernal’s voice is still ranting, something about humiliation and legacy and worthless mortals.

I let the fire hover above my palm. The Infernal finally stops. His eyes flick from my hand to the cube, back and forth, as if he can’t decide which one to trust.

He stares at me, then at the fire, then at the empty cube. His mouth opens, and he actually chokes on his words.

“What the fuck?” he says.

Chapter 43

The Infernal stares at me. He doesn’t speak. The fire in his eyes dims for half a heartbeat as he watches the ember hovering over my palm.

For the first time, the room goes completely silent.

Then the Infernal snaps back. Anger floods the mirrors, turning every reflection into a scowl.

“Do this then. This is the trial.” 

He waves a claw, and the cube vanishes. In its place, a pillar of interlocking gears appears, spinning faster the longer I stare. Each gear is covered in hooked runes and nested locks. The Infernal sneers.

“Unbind the gears and unlock the rod at the center. Fail and you die.”

I don’t wait. I send the Grimoire in. My mana slips past the hooks, finds every hidden release, and I break down the sequence. I pull the rod free with one twist.

The gears fall away. The Infernal’s mouth snaps shut.

“Alright, that was just a warm up. This is the real trial.” 

He tries again. A puzzle of shifting tiles appears next—each tile covered in symbols that twist and writhe.

 “Align the glyphs. Miss once and the whole thing explodes.”

I let my mana flow over the puzzle. The solution forms in my head before he’s finished talking. I move the tiles into place, one after the other, every piece snapping into alignment.

Tiles vanish. The Infernal’s voice goes tight. “You little—”

He doesn’t finish. 

“ALRIGHT. THIS IS THE REAL, REAL TRIAL.” 

The tiles turn into a spiked sphere, orbiting a crystal heart. 

“Disarm the core. Don’t trigger the spikes.”

I pulse the Grimoire, scan the sphere, and slide the spikes back into their sockets. 

I pull the heart out and hold it up.

The Infernal’s eyes go wide. The anger fades. What’s left is raw disbelief.

“You cheated,” he snarls. “No mortal solves the puzzle that fast. You must have gotten lucky. Very well, little wretch. You passed all the children’s test. Let’s see if you can survive the real, ultimate, true trial.”

He doesn’t give me time to answer. The cube vanishes, and another shape forms in the air. This time it’s a tangle of interlocked rings, each one spinning in a different direction, each ring covered in runes and spikes. In the center, a black core throbs with light. Runes crawl over the surface, shifting every time I blink.

“This is the trial for adults,” the Infernal says, voice cold and sharp. “Solve it, or die.”

I don’t bother with the drama. I pulse the Grimoire, let it scan every moving part, every rune, every trap hidden in the rings. The solution comes up before the Infernal can even finish his threat.

I send my mana in, split it six ways, hit the fail-safes, and push the core out. The rings freeze. The core pops free and floats into my hand. The whole trial lasts less than a minute.

The Infernal’s mouth opens. He doesn’t speak. His eyes track the core, then jump to my face, then back to the puzzle.

I let the black core and the ember float side by side above my palm. I meet his glare and do not blink.

He tries to say something, but the words die in his throat.

He paces, horns scraping the ceiling, shadows whirling behind him. Then he spins on me.

“What are you?” he demands. “You’re not an Infernal. You’re not even trained in our ways. How did you do that? Nobody does that. Not even my own blood.”

“How do you know I’m a miner?” I ask, confused. 

“That’s your first question?” the shadow looks at me in disbelief. “Your Skills, idiot.”

“You can read my Skills?” I frown. 

The Infernal’s horns twitch. He looks almost insulted. 

“Not all of them, but every shadow in this room can see what you carry. It’s written on your mana. You’re still just a miner, even if you dress yourself up in my people’s power.”

I squeeze the black core, rolling it in my palm. 

“So, what’s the reward? I didn’t know secret rooms would be this easy. Is this, like… like, what’s the hardest a room can get?” 

---

King Baalrek watches the boy, studying every twitch and gesture. The puzzles lie broken on the floor, every trap unraveled and every challenge turned to dust. Jacob stands in the center, sweat on his brow but not a hint of fear in his eyes.

No mortal solves those tests like this, Baalrek thinks. Not without training. Not without centuries at the forge or the pyre. His hands don’t even tremble. He moves through the trials as if he’s done this a hundred times. It isn’t right.

King Baalrek keeps his stance wide, letting the heat pulse off his body. He stares down at the mortal who broke every trial without hesitation, a mortal who refuses to kneel or ask for mercy. 

He has no idea what kind of feat he has just accomplished. He has some Skill, I suspect. A bloodline, perhaps. But a Skill is more likely. Something profoundly ancient. And whatever he got, it merged with him perfectly. Even if someone finds a great Skill, it doesn’t always fit the person. This boy here, instead, has been ordained by fate. 

This insolence should have earned death, yet something in King Baalrek refuses to crush it. He feels the old code waking up in him, the law that binds every true Infernal king.

This one stands as if he owns the place, King Baalrek thinks. He acts as if the system was meant for him. There is no terror in him. There is only defiance. He’s the spitting image of the best of my kind.

He feels the old urge to crush the challenger, to teach him humility, but the fire cools as he watches. The boy’s attitude grates, but it’s familiar. 

This is how Infernals act, Baalrek reminds himself. We do not bow to anyone—not to fate, not to gods, not even to death.

King Baalrek studies every line of Jacob’s face, searching for trickery or fear, but he finds only the hard edge of pride. There is no Skill signature he recognizes. There is no sign of forbidden magic, only a stubborn will that mirrors his own kind.

If the system wants to cheat its rules, then I will answer as a king should.

King Baalrek raises his voice so that it shakes every wall. 

“You have met every test, mortal. You did not break. You did not beg. There is worth in that. ”

He draws fire and shadow into his hand, forging a shape from his own authority. The chamber bends to his will. The glass hums with the weight of his presence.

King Baalrek does not smile. He does not look away. 

“You will receive a reward. I am King Baalrek, and I do not break my word. You have earned it, not because you are clever, not because you are strong, but because you stood here and spat in the face of every death I promised you.”

He lets the fire settle into a single point, the shadow folding around it. 

A piece of infernal power, shaped by an ancient king’s hand.