Time itself seemed to freeze.
That image—Wake standing amidst the ruins—would be etched forever in the minds of the survivors.
He stood motionless at the heart of the devastation, where a catastrophic spell had just swept through. And yet, strangely, not a speck of dust clung to his form. His arms hung loose, and his hollow eyes—deep as the abyss—remained still and unnervingly silent. He looked upward, not to survey the destruction, but as if watching a bird glide casually across the sky—utterly detached from the chaos that had unfolded.
Who could believe that this being had just withstood an attack capable of leveling a mountain?
Vagador's teeth clenched with a screeching grind, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence like a blade of rage:
"What… kind of monster are you!?"
Wake gave no answer—he simply stepped forward.
No blinding aura.
No flashy magical effects.
Only slow, steady footsteps—each one echoing with the weight of a being from another world. A presence that defied every law Vagador had ever known.
For the first time in his life, Vagador lost his composure—the regal air of a King abandoned him. He even forgot about his subordinates.
The air itself seemed compressed. Sound vanished. All that remained was the heavy rhythm of Wake's steps on the shattered plaza—each one like a funeral bell tolling in Vagador's chest.
Then, in a blink, a jet-black sword appeared in Vagador's hand, summoned from his spatial ring. The blade gleamed coldly, catching the dim light.
Magic?
Dragon Seal Arts?
All of it had proven useless. Wake had not even been scratched.
He had no choice but to fight with his own hands, to crush the fear now surging through his veins, and turn it into the strength to destroy the abomination before him.
"Do you think your immortal flesh makes you invincible!?" Vagador roared.
His body vanished, becoming a black flash that pierced the air. His sword shot forward—straight through the chest—faster than sight, more violent than any storm.
But—
It was stopped.
Not by a fancy technique.
Not by an impenetrable barrier.
But by bare fingers.
Wake raised his hand and, with only his thumb and index finger, pinched the black blade as if plucking a weed in a barren desert.
All the momentum behind the strike vanished. No sound. No shockwave. Even the howling wind fell silent.
Vagador's eyes bulged. He poured every ounce of magical energy into the sword, trying to push it forward by even a millimeter. His muscles bulged. Veins crawled up his skin like writhing worms. Arcane power surged from the hilt to the tip.
But Wake's fingers did not move.
Then—
Crack.
The sound of the blade snapping echoed, dry and brittle like human bones breaking. It rang out in the dead silence, final and merciless.
The magic surrounding the sword sputtered like dying sparks… then faded completely.
"It's not the flesh," Wake said, his voice low and cavernous—each word dropping like boulders into a deep cave.
"It's that your era… has ended."
Vagador instinctively stepped back, but fear no longer resided in his mind—it had already gripped his soul.
His pupils shrank. And in his eyes, there was only one figure left—a towering shadow consuming his entire vision.
Wake—already right beside him, faster than the thought that had barely formed in Vagador's mind.
One hand clamped down on Vagador's head—just as it had done to Fire D'gon. To Wake, there was no difference between Vagador and his subordinates.
The other hand curled into a fist.
No light.
No mana.
No effects.
Only the sound of muscle tightening—dry and cold like stone grinding against stone.
Vagador screamed, his arms flailing as if drowning in a nightmare. He tried to pull away from the iron grip around his skull, but it was useless.
The punch landed.
Not fast—but heavy.
Unavoidable. Inescapable.
BOOM.
There was no earth-shattering explosion.
Just a low, crushing shock—like the laws of physics themselves had been shattered and rewritten.
That punch didn't hit the body—it pierced flesh, bypassed all defenses, and struck the core of Vagador's existence.
In a single moment, it was as if all light in Vagador's eyes went out.
No pain. No scream.
Only a stunned, absolute terror—when he realized that his life no longer belonged to him.
Vagador's body was hurled backward. But unlike those who die from magic—
He didn't fall. He broke.
His body shattered in midair.
Piece by piece.
Then crumbled into ash—like an ancient god-statue forgotten by time.
No blood.
No bone.
Only emptiness where he had stood.
The ashes faded into the void—taking with them an era that once prided itself on supremacy.
Wake lowered his hand.
He remained still—like the immovable pillar at the center of a world whose fate had already been sealed.
No words.
No heavy breath.
As if the one he had just erased… had never even existed.
As if killing a mighty being was nothing more than a repeated motion—like the mindless turning of a cog in an eternal engine of annihilation.
In that deathly silence, the air itself seemed to kneel—crushed beneath the brutal force that had just been unleashed.
Gerald—trembling from the aftershock—struggled to keep himself upright, leaning on his magic staff. Decades of war had taught him well. He had faced countless fearsome foes, battled dozens who claimed to be invincible.
But what stood before him now—
It defied all known definitions of power.
This wasn't just strength.
It was negation.
Absolute negation.
Valador didn't die because he was weak.
He was erased—like a misspelled word in the holy scriptures.
Gerald swallowed hard, trying to wet his parched throat.
A chilling question gnawed at his mind:
Was that… thing… even of this world?
The monsters that once roared at Gerald's arrival were now frozen—petrified.
Even the iron-plated beasts dared not move.
Some of them trembled, crawling backward, primal instincts of survival awakening in their blood.
They had never witnessed such a thing—a being who used no magic, no skills, yet shattered the laws with bare fists and crushed the concept of strength itself.
To them, Wake was an anomaly—outside of all ranking systems, beyond all tactical plans.
Unquantifiable. Uncontrollable.
He was the period at the end of all logic.
Amidst the wreckage, only one figure remained standing—Ice D'gon, the last of the four Dragon-Wing Guardians still intact.
But beneath the cold armor of frost, his mind had already shattered—splintered like a broken mirror.
Terror itself had claimed every nerve still functioning within him.
Wake was walking toward him—calmly, as if strolling.
But to Ice D'gon, each step was a heartbeat in the countdown to doomsday.
It was that very silence—that deadly stillness—that made Ice D'gon tremble beneath his dragon-forged scales.
Sweat poured from him like a waterfall—cold, steady, dripping like blood being drained from his body.
He knew:
He wasn't facing an enemy.
He was standing before extinction incarnate.
Before he could react, Wake stood in front of him—like the scythe of death itself walking out from hell.
Faced with that skull-like, emotionless visage, Ice D'gon fell to his knees.
His icy wings drooped like torn robes.
It wasn't a choice. His legs had simply lost the strength to stand.
He didn't dare lift his head—not out of injury, but because the thing before him… was not something he could challenge.
Only then did Wake finally turn away… and begin walking toward Gerald.
He spared Ice D'gon—because his opponent had lost the will to fight and, more importantly, had done nothing to provoke him. Unlike Fire D'gon and Valador, death was reserved only for those who chose to step toward the abyss.
He grabbed Dolly and slung her limp body over his shoulder once more.
He walked toward the cracked throne room doors—his footsteps light as the wind... yet leaving behind a silence no sound could ever fill.
Then he stopped.
Without turning around.
His voice rose:
"Gerald, wake up those two rats playing dead."
Gerald flinched. Not because of what was said, but because his name had just been uttered by someone to whom he had never introduced himself.
Wake continued walking straight into the hall. It wasn't an invitation, nor an order. His steps made no sound. Only a voiceless echo resounded in everyone's chest—a dreadful, silent understanding that all familiar concepts were crumbling.
Gerald shivered. He didn't dare refuse. He didn't dare ask why. At that moment, he no longer had the time to question how that being knew his name.
He turned to look at Earth D'gon and Storm D'gon—bodies bloodied, but alive. The two lay still, holding their breath, praying for the nightmare to pass.
A thin bolt of lightning cracked through the air and struck the unmoving bodies.
Earth D'gon jolted upright first, his whole body trembling, eyes wide and fixed on Gerald.
Storm D'gon roared, rolling instinctively to the side before standing, staring at Gerald like he might pounce on him the next instant.
"You heard him."
Gerald shrugged slightly—a helpless gesture, though he was flanked by two pairs of eyes that looked like they could peel his skin off. He hesitated for a brief moment, then sighed and walked toward the throne room doors. Before disappearing into the shadow cast by the towering archway behind him, he left a single remark:
"You still have the choice to run away."
The magic light from torches lining both sides of the rocky walls cast a dim glow—neither warm nor welcoming, but cold and indifferent.
In that light, three figures slowly entered the throne hall.
Gerald walked in the middle. On either side were Earth D'gon and Storm D'gon—once the pillars of the fortress's defense, now reduced to silent shadows, too afraid to breathe too loudly, too broken to lift their heads.
The dark stone walls were carved with images of dragon scales, claws, and hundreds of fierce eyes—symbols of ancient power, now cracked and crumbling. Not by time, but by the battle that had spilled over from the square outside. The air was thick, almost sliceable—heavy, frigid, and saturated with the scent of ash from a faith long fallen.
As they reached the center of the great hall—where the light no longer spread but lingered like fragments of a broken moon—they stopped before the throne.
But it was no ordinary throne. It was a massive block of stone sculpted into the shape of a dragon's claw, rough and sinewed, ominous and raw.
Upon that throne, Wake sat motionless.
Like a statue carved from the stone of hell itself. His elbows rested on the armrests, fingers interlaced in a gesture that resembled prayer… as if praying for the death of the world.
His hollow gaze pointed straight at them—not with anger, nor hatred, nor even life.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. Yet his stillness froze the entire hall.
Even the sound of their heartbeats echoed unnaturally loud in that suffocating silence.
Gerald swallowed. His throat felt parched.
Earth D'gon and Storm D'gon instinctively dropped to their knees.
Not out of loyalty—but because their legs could no longer resist the survival instinct screaming in their bones.
Gerald, however, remained standing.
But he knew—it wasn't courage. It was that the fear within him was so immense, it had not yet processed into action.
Wake's eyes flicked toward the two Dragonwing Sentinels—cold and quiet as a blade at the neck. Not swift, not sharp, but enough to make one's skin crawl. When he finally spoke, his voice was not loud, not threatening, but clear and absolute—like a law written in blood:
"Bring out everything Valador ever hid."
Earth D'gon and Storm D'gon lowered their heads and silently exited the hall like soldiers carrying their fallen comrades from the battlefield.
Soon after, Earth D'gon returned with several rings in hand.
Not enchanted rings. Not precious jewelry.
But spatial rings. Inside them were treasures, gear, and belongings of those unlucky enough to have wandered into this fifth floor.
"Show me."
Wake tilted slightly to one side, resting against the throne's back.
His left hand supported his chin while his right tapped gently on the armrest—a rhythm with no sound, but one that made Earth D'gon feel like each vertebra in his spine was being softly tapped... by a hammer made of ice.
"Y–Yes, sir!"
Earth D'gon trembled, bowed, and began the process.
With each activation, a brief flash of light shimmered and vanished, releasing piles of items that spilled onto the cold floor like early winter frost.
Gold coins poured like water, forming glittering stacks.
HP and MP potions, red and blue, scattered like blood and ice.
Enhancement stones of every hue—blood red like dried gore, ocean blue like watery spirits, deep violet like condensed thunder from the heavens.
Swords, spears, armor, shields...
Weapons and gear once coveted by countless adventurers now lay scattered before Wake's feet—like worthless toys before a child too old to care.
The great hall began to lose its balance.
Not from noise—but from the sheer excess.
Too many items. Too bright. Too absurd... before the man seated on that throne.
Wake remained unmoved. His eyes merely passed over the pile—like a blade grazing still water.
But Gerald… was different.
His gaze locked onto a single object.
Not the gold. Not the enhancement stones. Not the weapons.
But one of the three skill boxes.
The black one, trimmed with gold on its four corners, lay quietly amidst the lifeless loot—like a sleeping beast pretending to be docile among sheep.
It didn't glow—yet drew the eye like a black hole.
Gerald froze.
A chill ran down his spine. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping in sync with his erratic heartbeat.
His hand trembled. Not from fear—but from overwhelming excitement.
"This can't be…"
The words slipped out like a breath.
Not meant for anyone.
Just a whisper—a lonely soliloquy to test the truth…
that his mind refused to accept.