Chapters 44-45

Chapter 44

“What is that?” 

“What is that?” I ask again, not bothering to hide my suspicion. The thing in King Baalrek’s hand pulses, red crystal laced with black veins, shadows twisting around it in a slow orbit. I realize I’m staring at something I never thought I’d see outside an old epic or a myth. I wish I knew more about Infernals. I wish Sir Greyson had told me just how rare this was. I have no idea if I’m supposed to bow, bargain, or just keep standing here and hope for the best.

King Baalrek does not move. He lets the crystal grow heavier, the power inside it flickering, as if he wants me to feel the weight. He studies my face, measuring whether I understand what I’ve just survived.

I wait for him to speak. The silence feels dangerous. I want to believe I earned this, but I know I only got this far because of the Grimoire. If this had been about fighting or mana, if it had been about raw force, I would be dead already. I got lucky. I had the right Skill for the wrong challenge.

The crystal stops spinning, the veins pulsing. I glance up at King Baalrek, waiting for an answer. He only stares, shadows writhing behind him.

I break the silence. 

“I don’t know anything about Infernals. Not really.”

King Baalrek finally lifts his chin. A slow smile cracks across his face, more grave than kind.

“Not many of my kind remain,” King Baalrek says. “Not after the Three Apocalypses.”

I try to play it cool, but that phrase means nothing to me. I’ve studied some history, listened to Felisia and Sir Greyson talk about old legends, but nobody mentioned three apocalypses. I frown and ask, “What are the Three Apocalypses?”

King Baalrek turns, staring into the mirrored wall, watching the flames move. The heat in the room settles into something heavier, like history pressing down on every word.

“For now, you would be wise not to chase those answers,” King Baalrek says. “This world has scars that run deeper than you imagine.”

He looks back, the smile gone. “What is your name, child?”

I keep my voice steady. 

“I’m not a child. My name is Jacob Cloud.”

King Baalrek repeats it, testing every syllable. 

“Jacob Cloud.”

He rolls the name around in his mouth as if he means to remember it, as if names are things that can last longer than flames or cities.

I take a breath and look up at King Baalrek. The reward hovers in his hand, but I still don’t know what this room is or why it even exists. “Can I ask,” I say, “what is this room?”

King Baalrek turns toward me with a grave smile. “This is a place of rest,” he says. “This is also a place for our stories to continue to live on.”

I try to piece it together. “The inheritance of Infernals?”

“The inheritance of the Infernals,” King Baalrek says, his voice dropping low, “and more. But you do not deserve the knowledge yet.” His eyes cut through me, weighing my worth. “You do deserve, however, a piece of the real power a true Infernal wields.”

I shift my weight, uneasy under his stare. “You mean like a Skill? Or something more?”

“You have but a piece of our great heritage,” King Baalrek says. “Shadows and ash are nothing compared to the magnificent power of true darkness. And yet, you wield none of those.”

I frown, thrown by the phrasing. “Shadows and ash?”

“Shadows, ash, and darkness,” King Baalrek says. “A true devilkin wields all of them. That is why your class is but a mockery of our real powers.”

“Oh,” I say, because I honestly have no idea what he wants from me.

He seems almost amused. “And you are about to learn.” King Baalrek flicks the red crystal and it spins in the air, pulsing. “Look closely, mortal.”

My eyes widen. I realize it’s not just a crystal. It’s a Skill Crystal. “Is that—?”

“This is but the first Skill you will need if you want your class to evolve into its real form,” King Baalrek says.

“Infernal Wings of Ash,” he says. “Gold rank.”

I blink at him, thrown off. “But I already have a class. I just need to level it up, and find the upgrades to the set I’ve got.”

King Baalrek shakes his head. “Yours is an incomplete class. There are many pieces missing. Ash, darkness, shadows. You wield powerful flames for a mortal, but even those will never be enough. If you wish to reach the true power that the class is meant to unleash, you must master more than what the system handed you.”

He lets the words hang. “You will come across the divine at some point, and you shall recognize its power.”

I don’t even know what to ask anymore. “The divine?”

“It doesn’t matter,” King Baalrek says. “You are not ready for those answers.”

I don’t get it, and I say so. “I don’t get it,” I admit. But I reach for the Skill Crystal anyway. It hovers at my palm, and the moment my mana touches it, I feel a pressure like the heat of a forge building under my skin.

You have obtained [Infernal Wings of Ash] (Gold – Movement Skill).

Would you like to absorb this Skill?

You have absorbed Infernal Wings of Ash.

“Yes,” I say. The crystal sinks into my palm. A rush of power shoots up my arms and into my back. Pain runs straight down my spine, but it is the pain of something new growing, not of something breaking. I feel mana pool in my core, then split out through my shoulder blades. Shadows and heat coil around me, and wings burst out—black, feathered with ash and fire at the tips.

I nearly collapse from the surge. The wings unfold—huge, real, casting an impossible shadow. The mana cost hits me like a punch to the gut. I feel my reserves drop by a third just summoning them. Every beat is awkward. The wings are heavy, off-balance. I try to lift them and almost topple sideways. Every movement burns mana, each second draining me further.

King Baalrek watches, unimpressed. “This is not a Skill that bends easily to mortals. You think you can just—”

I tune him out for a second, opening the Grimoire. The Skill’s page slides into view.

The Grimoire chimes.

[Infernal Wings of Ash – Gold Rank – Lv. 1]

Mana Cost (per second): 82 MP

Flight Speed: 1 m/s

Lift Capacity: 0.2x body weight

Ash Feathers (passive): Reduces fire and darkness damage by 22%

Shadow Flicker (active): Short-range dash, 4 m, 598 MP

Burnout Timer: 4 seconds sustained flight before collapse

Top Three Flaws (by flight instability):

Wing Pulse Lag – Mana output staggers between left and right channels, making the wings lopsided and jerky in motion.

Suggested fix: Sync mana flow through the Inferior Dorsal Veins; balance output at the base of the shoulder blades before each beat.

Shadow Vein Saturation – Mana pools in the Obsidian Veins along the lower back, causing turbulence and heavy drag during ascent.

Suggested fix: Direct excess mana into the Median Shadow Vein to bleed off turbulence at the end of each flap.

Ash Vein Starvation – Mana fails to reach the outermost Ash Veins along the wing edges, weakening feather cohesion and causing the wings to shed too much mass in flight.

Suggested fix: Pulse a steady trickle of mana into both Ash Veins with every third heartbeat, and reinforce by clenching the lower spine muscles before lifting off.

King Baalrek watches the wings unfurl and shakes his head, his voice cold and final. “You do not understand, Jacob Cloud. This is not a skill that mortals master. Even among my kin, most fail. The Wings of Ash demand flawless command over mana veins that do not exist in ordinary flesh. You will likely burn yourself hollow before you fly a single lap.”

He lets the words hang, letting the full weight of the warning settle between us. “You may wield the shape, but it will drag you down every time you try to rise. That is the fate of mortals who chase the legacy of Infernals. This skill will break you if you treat it as another simple tool. If you force it—”

I glance back at the wings, already shifting my mana through the right channels. The instability smooths out in seconds. The wings stop dragging. The mana cost drops with every fix. I can already feel the flight coming under control.

[Infernal Wings of Ash – Gold Rank – Lv. 1 → Lv. 20]

Mana Cost (per second): 82 MP → 59 MP

Flight Speed: 1 m/s → 2 m/s

Lift Capacity: 0.2x body weight → 0.5x body weight

Ash Feathers (passive): Reduces fire and darkness damage by 22% → 32%

Shadow Flicker (active): Short-range dash, 4 m, 59 MP → 6 m, 39 MP

Burnout Timer: 4 seconds → 8 seconds

The Skill still has a long way to go but now I can feel the difference in my wings. With a small hop, I manage to stay in the air for a second, flapping the wings of ash before landing again on the solid ground of the Secret Room. 

“Much better,” I say.

“What the—” King Baalrek barely catches himself. “How?” 

But then he looks at the shadow bracelet on my wrist, at the wings, at me. His jaw tightens, but there’s respect now. 

“You are not done, Jacob Cloud. When you draw near the other skills you need, you will feel a signal. The bracelet carries part of my will. Trust it.”

“What?” 

“Follow the bracelet to find the rest of my heritage. Farewell, for now.” King Baalrek steps back. Shadows gather around him. “We will speak again. Trust in your destiny, but never lose your will.”

His power surges. The secret room dissolves into black smoke, the mirrors shattering into nothing. I stumble, suddenly standing back in the Dungeon corridor, my mana still burning, the bracelet cold and real around my wrist.

I glance at the bracelet. I flex my wings one more time, then let them fade. 

“Well,” I mutter. “I guess I’m not even done with this Dungeon. What else could it possibly have waiting?”

Chapter 45

The Adventurers’ Guild of Clearwater has turned into a den of voyeurs and gamblers. Nobody is laughing now. Jacob Cloud’s green dot flickers across the Smoldering Glass Crucible’s map, pulsing above the hall, moving room by room without stopping. Every time the dot pauses, a ripple of whispers cuts through the crowd, but the danger markers keep turning grey. Traps vanish. Monsters disappear. Nothing slows him down.

By this point, even the regulars have stopped placing bets. The coin piles on Guildmaster Dorn’s desk have shrunk, and only a handful of hard-heads still try to keep the odds alive.

“He’ll drop dead on the third floor,” a big-eared Silver says, his voice louder than it should be. “That’s where the Silver Golem packs are. Watch him choke.”

Someone else tries to drag the mood back, but nobody answers. The last time they heckled, Jacob cleared an elite golem chamber in less than ten minutes. Guildmaster Dorn didn’t even finish his meal before the map wiped the monsters off the floor. Now Guildmaster Dorn just sits hunched over his logbook, eyes flicking between the projection of his losses and his cold dinner.

He also allowed the kid to enter the Dungeon without a fee, expecting him to fail. If Jacob actually completes the Dungeon, Guildmaster Dorn will owe the guild a bunch of money. Adding the money he owes Lady Felisia and Sir Greyson, he’s now getting closer and closer to being bankrupt. 

Felisia stands against the wall, arms crossed. Her hands stay hidden because she’s chewed her nails raw over the last two hours. Sir Greyson stands by her side, silent, always watching.

Jacob’s green dot slices across the third floor, leaving nothing behind. Red warnings flare up and die. The rest of the guild stands silent.

Nobody can explain what’s happening. A couple of the holdouts try to save face. 

“He’s running on luck. Nobody cheats the odds forever,” a merchant’s brat says, but his voice cracks. He glances around and shuts up.

Then Jacob reaches the fourth floor. The moment his green dot passes through the portal, a single purple dot flickers to life and begins pulsing. Guildmaster Dorn sits up for the first time in hours, looking satisfied.

“There,” Guildmaster Dorn says, tapping his finger against the map. “The kid’s done. Finally.”

A low murmur runs through the crowd. Someone asks, 

“What is that dot?”

Guildmaster Dorn does not bother hiding his smirk. “That’s the shadow mimic. It shows up as soon as it wakes. Usually, the Knights in charge of traps clear the mimic as well. But if one were to regenerate before the traps, which can happen at times… only one kid ever made it back after fighting one. It’s the second-strongest monster in this Dungeon, right after the boss. Some argue it’s even harder to deal with than the boss.”

A junior scribe looks up, nervous. “Why are mimics so dangerous?”

Guildmaster Dorn spreads his hands, letting the tension run through the room. 

“Shadow mimics don’t just copy shapes or Skills. They control mana better than most humans. Born casters. Every attack can be mirrored. Every movement countered. Doesn’t matter what Rank you are. If you don’t know what they can do, you’re dead.”

People lean closer to the projection. The green and purple dots move together, slow and steady.

Felisia doesn’t blink. 

“Sir Greyson, do you think he’ll make it?”

Sir Greyson shakes his head. 

“Mimics are harder than bosses. Bosses follow rules. Mimics break them. This isn’t just a monster; it’s a test of everything he’s learned.”

A Silver Rank near the back says, “This is just a Silver Dungeon, right? It can’t be that strong.”

Sir Greyson keeps his eyes forward. 

Guildmaster Dorn answers instead.

“He’ll be lucky to last a minute. You saw what he did to the golems, but that won’t help now. Mimics adapt. They learn. Most adventurers never see one because the Guild kills them with Gil before anyone lower than Gold gets close. Even the Knights clear out if they have a choice. Watch. He’s about to find out.”

The crowd leans in as the dots creep closer. Every gambler holds his breath.

Guildmaster Dorn isn’t gloating now. 

He just waits the certain death of Jacob Cloud.

Finally, I can get some peace and money back.

Because if Jacob is able to continue and finish it, Guildmaster Dorn might very well have to mortgage his house and sell all his assets to repay all the money he now owes. 

*

I load my pack with shards and Skill Crystals. I have to make another run to the entrance room because I can’t carry everything. I trudge back through the fourth floor, boots scraping over cracked glass, loot rattling against my side. The light is dimmer here, as if the torches are running low, and every reflection in the walls seems to twitch at the corner of my eye.

The sense of being watched digs deeper. I try Echo Pulse, but the shadows only thicken. I hug the right wall, scanning every surface, yet the feeling doesn’t fade. My shadow lags behind me, bending out of line with my steps. I stop and shift my weight, expecting it to catch up, but it stays put.

A cold, sick pressure settles in my gut. I test the air, step to the left, and the shadow does not move.

My skin crawls. I grit my teeth and get ready to draw a weapon, but the next moment the shadow’s edges ripple and split. Its arms tear up from the floor and twist into claws with hooked glass talons. I throw myself aside without thinking. The stone bursts open. A giant chest erupts out of the shadow, lid gaping, fangs longer than my arm snapping shut where my skull was a heartbeat ago.

I hit the ground and roll to my feet, breathing hard. The chest slams shut and then bursts open again, its body melting and shifting as the mass flows upward. The mimic drags itself into a new form, limbs swelling and stretching as the surface ripples from black to white. I watch as it peels itself upright, rising from the floor on long, boneless legs.

[Shadow Mimic – Level 75]

The mimic shapes itself into a mirror of me. It grows to match my height and build, its skin bleached and colorless, its hair hanging limp and shadowy. Its face slides into a warped copy of mine, mouth twisted into a cold grin, eyes empty and flat. The hands flex, knuckles popping. The mimic lifts its right hand and summons Hell’s Sword—my own Skill, right down to the runes burning red and the shape of the blade.

The blade hisses as it finishes forming. I see my own fighting stance reflected back at me. My hands grip Hell’s Sword tighter. I feel every flaw in my posture as the mimic settles into the same stance, only cleaner, meaner, and colder. The mimic tilts its head, still grinning with my mouth.

The mimic lunges first, swinging Hell’s Sword in a perfect mirror of my own grip and stance. The blade hisses as it comes down, runes burning hot. I catch the swing with my own Hell’s Sword, steel crashing on steel, but the force behind it is monstrous. The mimic’s eyes stay empty. There’s no hesitation in the attack.

I feel Veins of Fire open in my chest, mana flooding every channel as I brace against the impact. The mimic twists its sword and launches Fire Slash point-blank, a burning crescent screaming toward my face. I drop under the slash and slam Fire Shield up in front of me. The flames shatter off my barrier, splintering against the glass floor.

I roll sideways, keeping my body low. The mimic advances without a word. It raises a hand, conjuring Fire Armor in a shell around its frame. I see the same shimmer of defensive mana crawl over its pale skin that I see when I cast the Skill myself. Its body turns half-transparent, wrapped in a burning shell.

I keep moving, feeling the heat surge in my limbs. I call Fire Walk and blast sideways, flames spinning out from my boots, and I circle behind the mimic. The mimic tracks every motion, skating with Fire Walk, tracing my own path in perfect counter.

I switch to offense, lashing out with Fire Slash, aiming low at its ankle. The mimic raises Fire Shield at the last second, catching the blow and forcing my attack wide. It answers with its own Fire Slash, the arc slicing for my knees. I meet the strike with Hell’s Sword, but the mimic’s blade keeps pushing, driving me back.

We trade blows—Sword against Sword, Shield against Shield, Fire Walk against Fire Walk. Each movement feels like looking in a broken mirror, every flaw in my stance exposed and used against me. My Veins of Fire burn brighter, and the mimic’s chest pulses with the same molten glow. The mimic never tires. It just keeps coming, pressing every attack with brutal precision.

Then the mimic switches tactics. It throws Hellspire, conjuring a spiraling lance of fire and hurling it for my chest. I dive sideways, barely avoiding the blast as the spear detonates, glass flying in a spray from the walls. The mimic conjures a second Hellspire and hurls it again. I call up Fire Shield, brace with Veins of Fire, and take the blast head-on. The shield holds, but the force sends me skidding across the glass.

The mimic never pauses. It plants Ember Keystone into the floor, anchoring a burning circle of fire in the center of the room. Flames spiral upward, cutting off half my escape routes. The mimic circles, using Ember Keystone as a pivot, keeping me boxed in.

I push forward, using Fire Walk to launch myself at an angle. My own Hell’s Sword crashes into the mimic’s again. The mimic slides backward, then snaps forward with Fire Slash, blade and flame striking in the same motion. Our swords lock. Sparks and fire spin between us.

The mimic keeps summoning Ember Keystone, planting burning anchors on the floor and walls. Each time I try to circle, the anchored flames trap me in a smaller and smaller ring.

I grit my teeth, pushing mana through every Skill at once—Veins of Fire, Fire Walk, Fire Armor, and Fire Shield. I lash out with Fire Slash, launching three crescents in a row, aiming wide. The mimic blocks two but the third slams into its shoulder, burning through Fire Armor and drawing a line of molten glass across its body.

For the first time, the mimic’s eyes narrow. It mimics my own glare, then launches a wave of Fire Slashes, each one tracking my movement. I dodge, block, and counter with Hellspire, driving the spear of fire into its side. The mimic catches it with Fire Shield, but the impact cracks the shield and the heat knocks it back.

We break apart. 

I am panting hard. 

The monster never hesitates. It comes again, blades and Skills flaring.

This time, however, I activate the Grimoire.

---

The Adventurers’ Guild is packed tight, every head craning toward the Dungeon Map where Jacob’s green dot pulses on top of the mimic’s purple. The air smells like sweat and old beer. Guildmaster Dorn’s clerks push through the crowd, shouting odds, waving betting slips, and shoving coin trays. The map above the hall flickers, every room on the fourth floor throbbing with dull light as the two dots crash together.

“There! There it is!” one of the junior scribes shouts, his voice shrill from excitement. “The purple’s right on him! The mimic’s got him pinned—look, you can see it moving!”

“About damn time,” a heavyset Gold Rank says, banging his mug on the rail. “The rat’s had luck enough for three lifetimes. Let’s see him wriggle out of this one.”

A merchant’s son pushes forward, waving his betting slip. “Does the mimic always eat the winner? How long’s it take—five seconds? Ten?”

Guildmaster Dorn slams his palm down on the betting table, making coins jump. “This is the end. Shadow mimics can copy every Skill a challenger uses. You see him pull out a trump card, the mimic’s got it next round. The more power he throws, the harder it comes back at him. Kid’s outclassed. I’m taking any bets—one-to-three Jacob dies, one-to-five he’s down in a minute!”

The pit in front of Guildmaster Dorn becomes a frenzy—coins, chits, and markers pile up. The Silver Ranks jostle for space, elbows fly, the crowd roars and shoves as the action builds. “Ten on the mimic!” “Put me down for twenty!” “He’s done, Guildmaster Dorn, mark it—he’s done!”

A thin old scribe calls, “Fifty gold on a kill before the ten seconds mark!” Another, grinning wide, waves a slip: “I’ll double that—bet he doesn’t land a hit at all!”

Felisia pushes through the scrum, hair a mess and eyes wild. 

“I’ll take every bet,” she says, voice cold and steady. “All of them. Five to one, ten to one. Jacob wins. Anyone got the guts?”

The crowd stares. A few laugh nervously. One merchant smirks and slaps a stack of coins on the table. 

“You’re throwing money away, Lady Felisia. Nobody beats a shadow mimic. That thing’s killed more Knights than the rest of this Dungeon put together.”

A junior scribe hesitates, glancing at his sheet, but then shoves his own stack forward. 

“Done. I’ll take your odds, Lady Felisia. I’ve never seen a single challenger survive, not once.”

Guildmaster Dorn grins, all teeth. 

“See that? Even the scribes have sense. If you want to waste your family’s gold, I’ll be the one to take it. The rest of us know how this ends.”

Felisia glances to her right. Sir Greyson stands unmoving, arms crossed, face like carved stone. He watches the map and doesn’t blink.

Guildmaster Dorn catches the look and scoffs. “You backing her, Knight? Or you ready to bet with the rest of us?”

Sir Greyson doesn’t even turn. “You’re wrong, Guildmaster Dorn. Mimics copy what they see. They mirror Skills, but never the will behind them. There are things in that boy the mimic can’t touch.”

A hush settles for a second, like the whole hall is holding its breath.

Guildmaster Dorn sneers, folding his arms. “You believe that? You can bet with her. I’ll be taking the rest.”

Felisia does not blink. She keeps her eyes fixed on the map and shakes her head once. 

“You want to see the ending, Guildmaster Dorn? Just watch.”

The tension thickens, bets scribbled faster than the scribes can count.

The two dots pulse together, locked in place, and every gambler in the room leans in to see which one blinks out first.

Ten seconds pass. 

Then a minute.

“Why is he not dead yet?” one says. 

“He’s going to be soon,” Guildmaster Dorn says with a frown. 

“Is he?” Sir Greyson mutters, looking at the map with narrowed eyes.