"Tell me a little about those three skill boxes." Wake's voice rang out—so calm, so soft—that it seemed to momentarily hush the entire space.
Storm D'gon, now shockingly submissive, bowed without hesitation. He had adapted to his new role with astonishing speed—a transformation so abrupt that Gerald frowned in suspicion. Taking a single step forward, Storm D'gon raised his hand and pointed toward the three boxes scattered among the spoils of war. His gesture was crisp, yet ceremonial.
"My Lord..." His voice was low, filled with reverence—and was that… pride?
"This silver box contains a very special skill. It allows the user to project a fake status board.
He paused, making sure Wake was listening, then continued:
"That means the user's real status will be completely hidden, replaced by a fabricated one with customized stats. As long as the total doesn't exceed their actual stats, everything else can be rearranged freely. It's a perfect tool for disguise, deception—even nullifying appraisal-based abilities."
Gerald narrowed his eyes. A skill like that… in the right hands, it could cause an entire nation to misjudge a single individual.
Storm D'gon moved on, pointing to the golden box:
"The golden box is a rare auxiliary item. Opening it allows the user to upgrade any one skill tier—at a one hundred percent success rate. However, it can only be used once in a lifetime."
Gerald's frown deepened. To someone already possessing a powerful skill, this could be the very key to unlocking a new realm of strength—transcending their current limits.
Then Storm D'gon lowered his hand, his tone growing solemn as his gaze shifted to the black box, adorned with gold in each corner.
"And... this black box..."
Silence fell over the chamber. Even the crackling of fire seemed louder than before.
"This is Vagador's legacy," Storm D'gon whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
"A one-of-a-kind skill, sealed away for thousands of years. It cannot be copied. It cannot be replicated. It can only be… passed on. A power that belongs to no known magic system."
"What...?" Gerald involuntarily stepped back, eyes wide with disbelief.
A skill that doesn't belong to any magic system? That was… impossible!
Storm D'gon bowed deeply, almost as if in penance.
"This is the skill that He—no, the skill that Vagador chose to pass on to the one who will inherit his will."
"Oh?" Wake's voice broke the tension, calm and casual:
"So, who among you has been chosen?"
"Not us..." Earth D'gon immediately shook his head. But just as he was about to explain further, Storm D'gon stepped forward. In his slender arms, he gently cradled a massive spherical object. Its surface was rough with dark scales that shimmered with an undertone of violet beneath the torchlight—a dragon egg.
The most closely guarded secret of Vagador… turned out to be a life yet unborn.
Wake said nothing as he gazed at the egg.
Understanding the silence, Storm D'gon spoke up:
"This dragon egg… Vagador nurtured it with his own mana for many years. No one knows where he found it. But once it hatches, this creature will be the only one able to use the black box."
No one responded. The four guardians all knew this truth, yet none of them understood Vagador's deeper intentions.
Was this a legacy?
A long-term scheme?
Or something that reached beyond the grasp of all current understanding?
Only the egg remained… silent, listening, perhaps, to the tale of its own destiny.
As for Gerald… he hadn't moved since. His gaze was locked onto the black skill box lying among the pile of equipment—a relic once thought to exist only in legends. But now, his mind was exhausted, and only one desire remained: to leave.
He didn't belong here.
From the moment he witnessed Wake annihilate Vagador with a single blow, from the moment he realized that this being resembled nothing ever recorded in history… Gerald had wanted to flee. But he didn't dare.
No one had told him to stay—yet no one had given him permission to leave.
Then, amid that heavy silence—like the room was being squeezed by an invisible giant hand—Wake's voice rang out. Calm. Low. But it struck Gerald's heart like a crushing weight.
"Earth D'gon."
"Yes, my Lord." Earth D'gon bowed immediately.
Wake raised his hand ever so slightly—like brushing away a stray hair from his shoulder:
"Take Gerald outside. He is no longer needed here."
It wasn't a command.
It was an absolution.
Gerald raised his head. His chest tightened.
Relief surged through him, so potent it stung his eyes with tears. Yet mingled within was something bitter, something that tasted like ashes:
He was spared—not because he was worthy, but because he simply… didn't matter enough to keep.
Earth D'gon approached and bowed respectfully:
"This way, please."
Gerald didn't respond.
He merely turned and gave Wake one final look.
The figure still sat there—on the throne, amidst shattered stone and ruins—like an unnamed god awaiting recognition.
Gerald exhaled softly. He would never forget this creature. Not ever.
Earth D'gon escorted Gerald out through the hidden doorway he had entered from.
In an instant, silence returned.
Only Storm D'gon remained, standing next to the dragon egg that now emitted slow, rhythmic breaths—like the heartbeat of some ancient unborn being.
Wake rose from his throne and took a step forward.
Dolly, the puppet-like companion, was slumped beside the throne—like a discarded toy forgotten in haste.
Wake spoke, his voice as soft as wind skimming a canyon, yet every word echoed through Storm D'gon's mind like a resonating bell:
"Can it be stored in a spatial ring?"
Storm D'gon looked up, hesitation flickering in her eyes. After a pause, she slowly shook her head:
"It can't, my Lord."
Wake remained silent.
Storm D'gon continued, her voice respectful, yet tinged with fear:
"This egg… has been tested with various storage methods. High-grade spatial rings, even sealing arrays. Every time, the space either collapsed—or was… devoured."
"Devoured?"
"Yes…" She bowed her head lower.
"Once, Lord Valador tried using the Seven Nights Pond, an ancient spatial artifact, to contain the egg. The artifact shattered within three breaths. This thing… has a living barrier. It resists all attempts to confine it."
Wake said nothing, hands behind his back, as he examined the egg—like studying an undefined branch of forbidden knowledge. The pale violet light reflected off its scales shimmered faintly across his body, as if absorbed into an unseen abyss within him.
Then he asked, his tone unchanged:
"If it can't be stored, then how do we move it?"
Storm D'gon answered quickly, her voice firmer this time:
"It can only be carried by hand—or with a dedicated mana formation designed to emulate incubation. Otherwise, the shell will crack. Lord Valador spent six months creating the Nurturing Cocoon, a biological matrix simulating dragonkin bloodlines, just to keep it stable during transportation."
"I see…" Wake gave a faint nod, quietly absorbing every piece of information.
No disappointment. No excitement.
No confusion.
Only silence.
He was simply... thinking.
A minute later, he asked,
"Can the Cocoon Incubator be recreated here?"
Storm D'gon flinched slightly, but still replied,
"If there's enough energy... and with your permission."
"Then begin," Wake nodded gently.
She raised her head, a determined light in her eyes.
"Yes, my lord."
Storm D'gon carefully placed the dragon egg on the stone floor, inside a small magic circle etched hastily with her claw-tip, imbued with magical power. Then she stood, extended her arm, her five fingers spread wide in midair, as if manipulating something unseen.
Instantly, the ground beneath her feet cracked into three concentric circles. Ancient runes emerged—twisted and distorted like the fragmented memories of dragons. A soft bluish-purple glow rose from the earth, forming a misty aura that enveloped the area.
Storm D'gon began chanting, her voice blending human tones with the deep tremor of Dragon Tongue:
"Nas'trava il-thuun... Ka'dor Embraya..."
Beneath her feet, magical roots emerged like silken threads, weaving themselves into a semi-transparent cocoon around the egg. It was both supple like flesh and sturdy like horn—a material not born of nature, but woven from currents of magic.
The surface of the Cocoon Incubator slowly changed hue—from deep violet, to a blackish purple, and finally to a translucent amber, like fossilized twilight. The dragon egg nestled snugly within, no longer emitting any vibrant signs of life—as if it had drifted into a peaceful, secure slumber.
Storm D'gon bowed, sweat trickling down her forehead.
The spell had drained almost all her magic in mere minutes.
"It's done," she exhaled. "This incubator will maintain temperature and energy flow for seven days without recharging."
She paused for breath, then continued,
"After that, a small magic infusion will suffice. The outer shell is reinforced to withstand impact, yet light enough to carry."
Wake stepped forward, gazing down at the egg now wrapped in a cocoon as gentle as a mother's breath.
He reached out and lifted the entire cocoon in his arms. It was a perfect fit—warm, silent, and still.
A life was sleeping in his hands.
Not a weapon.
Not a treasure.
But… a seed.
When all was done, Storm D'gon stood quietly, unmoving, like a statue carved in silver. Her posture straight, arms at her sides, her slender form encased in shimmering silver scales. That stance—solemn and obedient—spoke of a being whose very blood pulsed with obedience, whose instincts had been engraved by creation itself with the command to follow.
Wake glanced at her, his eyes probing.
Storm D'gon stood silently—calm, unmoved, neither resisting nor grieving.
Valador was dead.
Yet to her, his death seemed no more than a cold number erased from some soulless ledger.
There was no sorrow in her gaze.
Nothing to be remembered.
Just a milestone erased.
A necessary change.
And then… she returned to that endless state of waiting—for orders.
Wake watched her a while longer. His voice, hoarse and deep, broke the silence like a whisper echoing from the depths:
"What do you… think of Valador's death?"
Storm D'gon raised her head slightly, answering in a flat, steady tone—neither high nor low—like reading a hard-coded line of logic from within:
"He was the master. Now, he is no more. Emotions? …Unnecessary."
"Why?" Wake pressed.
"Because you have replaced him. That is enough for me."
Her voice remained unchanged—emotionless, like a machine.
She stood still like stone, her hands lightly resting on the Incubator Cocoon, which silently absorbed heat magic, exhaling a chilling aura.
Wake stared deep into her eyes.
Eyes that held no flicker of emotion.
"I am not your master," he said.
"And I have no interest in replacing Valador."
His voice was cold as frost.
Storm lowered her head.
Her silvery hair swayed faintly.
A brief silence fell over them.
"Go call in the swamp creature."
Storm looked up, and for the first time, a flicker of doubt surfaced in her eyes.
"You mean… that swamp thing? The weakest one on this entire floor?"
"Yes," Wake affirmed.
"As you wish."
Without another word, Storm D'gon turned and strode out of the great hall.
Outside the plaza.
Storm D'gon's lone figure stepped into the open.
The air still carried the ashes of battle—as if the terror of earlier still lingered, hiding just beyond reach. The surviving monsters from the brutal clash with Gerald remained gathered, their eyes filled with unease.
None dared flee.
None roared.
None cried out for revenge for their fallen kin.
All were frozen in a state of uncertain waiting—for none of them knew where this floor would go… now that everything had changed.
The one they called King—Valador—was dead.
All that remained was a name: Wake.
A mysterious being now residing within the throne room.
Storm passed through the monsters without a word.
Her steps were heavy, yet steady—each stride crushing the unease festering inside them.
To these creatures, Storm D'gon was no longer a guardian of the throne, but the first herald of a new dynasty.
Ice D'gon had vanished.
No one knew where he'd gone.
Storm's gaze swept across the forest to the west.
And there—she saw it.
The swamp creature.
Still curled up in the shadows—filthy, pitiful.
So weak that no one had ever bothered giving it a name.
Storm D'gon approached, stopping before it.
Her shadow stretched long, swallowing its small form.
"You," she said—her voice cold as a millennium of frost buried beneath the Dungeon.
"The ruler… summons you."
A subtle tremor ran through the plaza.
All the monsters fell silent.
Their eyes turned—together—toward the swamp creature.
No laughter.
No mockery.
Not even a scoff.
Even their breathing was stifled,
as though any sound might shatter the deathly silence.