The hunters finally arrived before the grand cave the entrance to the dungeon.
The Peerless Guild, the ShadowClan, and even Tyrone Gardon from the Evening Daily News stood in collective awe.
The mouth of the cave glowed, illuminated by Hunter Crystals embedded deep within its rocky walls. Crimson, sapphire, emerald brilliant colors shimmered under the dungeon's dim light, casting a dreamlike glow across the cavern.
It was breathtaking. Surreal.
As if they had stumbled upon the treasury of an ancient god.
Gasps echoed through the ranks.
These weren't ordinary crystals they were S-Rank Hunter Crystals, each worth hundreds of millions on the black market. And yet here they were, scattered casually at the dungeon's entrance, before they had even taken a single step into the true depths.
Excitement swelled like a wave.
If such unimaginable riches lay at the threshold, what awaited them further inside? Greed, hope, and ambition burned in the hearts of every hunter.
Yet amidst the wonder, a shadow stirred.
The ShadowClan moved quietly, almost unnoticeably.
Near the entrance, they etched a faint, dark sigil into the ground a Shadow Mark. It pulsed once with a sinister glow before fading from sight.
Most hunters remained lost in their dreams of fortune.
But Kyle Nyeku, the Peerless Guild's sharp-eyed leader, noticed. His gaze hardened, but he said nothing.
There were bigger things at stake.
As they ventured deeper into the crystalline tunnel, Tyrone's excited voice echoed behind them, broadcasting the spectacle live to millions.
Viewers across the world were spellbound watching, waiting, breathless.
And then... they saw it.
At the cavern's heart stood a colossal door ancient, majestic.
Forged from shimmering gold and blood-red wood, it towered fifty meters into the air, every inch engraved with strange beasts and forgotten battles.
The air turned heavy. The ground trembled.
Without warning, the massive doors groaned open, ancient mechanisms grinding to life.
Weapons were drawn. Shields raised. Mana surged like wildfire.
From the deepening gloom behind the doors, a figure emerged.
A towering nightmare muscle-bound, wrapped in stone-like skin that cracked with every movement.
Twin horns curved back from its monstrous head, and from hollow, glowing eyes, a chilling aura radiated like a death sentence.
In one clawed hand, it gripped a jagged weapon of bone and black steel. A whip-like tail lashed the air behind it, while shredded wings framed its hulking form.
Every silent step it took made the very dungeon tremble.
This was no mere beast.
It was a calamity given flesh.
The true battle of the dungeon...
had just begun.
The members of the Peerless Guild, along with Tyrone Gardon from Evening Daily News and even the ShadowClan members, stood frozen, their eyes glued to the monstrous figure before them.
Tyrone, with all the professionalism of a man about to wet his pants on live TV, hurriedly zoomed his camera right onto the dungeon boss's face broadcasting the horror in glorious high definition to millions of viewers back home.
And what a face it was.
Two massive clawed hands. Twisted, hellish horns. Skin that looked like it had been chiseled straight from a demon's worst nightmare.
It was like someone had taken every horror movie villain, mashed them together, and then dipped the result in pure nightmare fuel.
Viewers across the world collectively screamed. Some dropped their popcorn. Others hid behind their couches.
Children wept. Grown men reconsidered life choices.
Meanwhile, inside the dungeon, the monstrous boss began to... size them up.
He gave them a slow, lazy look scanning the hunters from head to toe as if he were a bored customer browsing rotten vegetables at the market.
Then, without warning, the boss made a face.
A face of pure, unfiltered disappointment.
He sighed.
Not a ferocious roar. Not a bloodthirsty bellow.
A bored, unimpressed sigh as if someone had promised him a banquet, and instead delivered a moldy sandwich.
And then, casually, arrogantly, he turned around and started walking away, striding leisurely back toward the giant dungeon gates.
The hunters were stunned.
The insult was worse than any attack.
He hadn't even deemed them worthy of killing.
It was like an elephant rolling its eyes at a colony of ants trying to challenge it to a wrestling match.
Tyrone, still half-hiding behind his cameraman, couldn't resist making a savage comment over the live broadcast:
"Well, ladies and gentlemen, it seems our brave hunters have managed to... mildly inconvenience the dungeon boss's day."
The hunters' faces darkened.
Pride shattered. Ego bruised. Rage ignited.
Kyle Nyeku, leader of the Peerless Guild and not a man known for taking disrespect lightly, stepped forward and bellowed,
"HEY! YOU! STOP RIGHT THERE! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU MYSELF! MY GUILD WILL CLAIM THIS DUNGEON!"
His voice echoed across the cavern, full of fury and righteous indignation.
The dungeon boss paused.
Slowly, he turned his head back toward Kyle.
And then he made another face.
An even more dramatic look of disappointment, complete with a slow, patronizing head shake, as if to say:
"How tragic. They really think they stand a chance."
That was the last straw.
"ATTACK!" Kyle roared.
In an instant, the entire army of hunters surged forward.
Mana swords blazed to life. Elemental blasts lit up the cavern. Arrows whistled through the air like a deadly rainstorm. Fireballs, lightning bolts, ice spikes every spell and every weapon was hurled straight at the dungeon boss.
The barrage was enough to obliterate a small mountain.
Tyrone, wisely deciding that bravery had its limits, scrambled behind one of the massive crystals and ducked for cover, dragging his camera crew with him.
"Keep filming! If I die, I want it to be Emmy-worthy!" he hissed at his cameraman.
Explosions shook the ground. Smoke engulfed the battlefield. The hunters pressed on, convinced they were overwhelming the boss with sheer firepower.
Seconds passed.
Then a minute.
The smoke grew so thick that they could barely see each other, let alone their enemy.
But in the chaos, a hopeful whisper started to spread:
"We did it..."
"We killed it!"
"Victory!!"
Cheers began to bubble up among the hunters.
Little did they know...
The dungeon boss hadn't moved an inch.
And in the next moment, when the smoke cleared they were about to realize just how badly they had messed up.
They cheered, they whooped, they high-fived like they had just won the lottery, defeated a demon king, and gotten promoted at work all in the same day.
Even Kyle, the always-serious leader of the Peerless Guild, allowed himself a rare smirk.
Tyrone Gardon from Evening Daily News was practically jumping up and down behind his crystal shelter, yelling into his mic,
>"Ladies and gentlemen, history has been made! Humanity has triumphed, although we didn't believe in them but it seems that the Peerless guild really are peerless!"
But then...
Something strange started to happen.
The thick smoke that had blanketed the battlefield began to swirl unnaturally.
A visible vortex formed at the center, like a hungry mouth sucking in the mist.
The hunters watched, puzzled. Was this... part of the dungeon collapsing?
Their confusion quickly turned to horror when the smoke cleared.
There, standing tall, as unharmed as a bored king watching a parade of clowns, was the dungeon boss.
And what was he doing?
Not fighting.
Not roaring.
Not even preparing a counterattack.
No the dungeon boss was looking up at the cavern ceiling, shaking his head slowly like a man filing a mental complaint to the gods.
He even seemed to mutter a few curses under his breath, throwing a glare skyward, as if blaming some unseen manager for this farce of a fight.
It was the ultimate, soul-crushing humiliation.
Every hunter's jaw dropped.
Tyrone, breaking the heavy silence, whispered into his microphone with a stunned, almost reverent tone:
"Breaking news... uh... it seems the boss is... disappointed in us."
Not a single scratch marred the dungeon boss's body.
Not even a burnt fingernail.
Their greatest weapons, their finest spells, humanity's so-called "unstoppable firepower" had done less damage than a gentle spring breeze.
It was a blow that shattered morale instantly.
You could hear the collective sound of egos deflating like popped balloons.
One hunter even dropped his sword and sat on the ground, staring into space like a man who had just realized all his life choices were mistakes.
And then the boss moved.
One step.
Just one.
The moment his foot touched the ground, everything changed.
A monstrous aura erupted from his body, sweeping across the cavern like a tsunami of pure death.
The air grew so heavy that it felt like the ceiling itself was collapsing on them.
C-Rank and B-Rank hunters didn't even get the chance to scream.
They simply collapsed where they stood, bleeding from their eyes, ears, and noses, dying without a single word.
The A-Rank hunters dropped like marionettes with their strings cut, fainting on the spot.
Only the S-Rank hunters humanity's pride, the strongest warriors alive remained standing.
Barely.
Their legs trembled. Their faces twisted in agony as they fought against the overwhelming force pressing them down.
Most were already on their knees, their bodies refusing to listen to their pride.
Kyle Nyeku, gritting his teeth so hard that veins bulged from his forehead, somehow managed to stay on his feet but it was a losing battle.
This was no ordinary monster.
This was death itself, given form and muscle.
Meanwhile, behind his crystal bunker, Tyrone clutched his mic with shaking hands and hissed into the broadcast:
"Dear viewers at home... I think... I think I just peed a little. If you're watching this... please tell my wife I love her."
He wasn't joking.
The aura was so thick with malice, so suffocatingly oppressive, it felt like their very souls were being crushed.
The ShadowClan members, usually the most cunning and ruthless of all, didn't even try to stay proud.
Their instincts screamed louder than their pride and as one, they bolted backward, scrambling for the exit like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
None of them dared look back.
Because deep down, they all understood one horrifying truth:
This was not a battle.
This was a funeral march.
And they had already dug their own graves by daring to step into his domain.
This... was the true power of the Dungeon Boss.
An existence utterly unrivaled.