Behind the Palace of Vagador.
This place served as both a teleportation site and the final point of the fifth floor of the Dungeon.
The air was thick with the stench of mud and moss, the distinctive scent of a swamp, cloaking the entire space in a chilling stillness. Gnarled tree trunks jutted from the ground like the claws of ancient cursed beasts, stretching upward in silent despair. Withered vines drooped down, swaying faintly in the breeze like the hair of wandering wraiths.
On the damp earth, within a clearing just wide enough for an ancient ritual, a gray stone circle stood. Its diameter was roughly five meters. Carved across the cold stone surface were countless twisting patterns—like remnants of a long-forgotten magical array—now faintly glowing with a dull ashen light. It gave no warmth, only an eerie chill to those who looked upon it.
Before the circle stood two silent figures.
One of them was Gerald—a level 199 mage, the one who had blasted the roof off Vagador's palace with a single overwhelming spell. Standing beside him was a towering figure with skin like cracked, dried earth—Earth D'gon.
Neither spoke. Only the soft whistle of wind through hollow root arches echoed, carrying the damp scent of stagnant water.
Gerald gazed intently at the stone circle, his eyes lingering on the desolate scenery behind him. Part of him regretted not being able to explore further; another part was still pondering the strange creature he had seen—one that resembled no known monster, yet bore a skull-like head akin to an Undead.
Earth D'gon remained silent, unmoving.
Gerald cleared his throat.
"You... were once loyal to Vagador. And now, you follow Wake. That shift happened so easily?"
Earth D'gon tilted his head slightly, his tone devoid of emotion. "I am loyal to no one. I simply obey the strongest power at any given moment." His voice rumbled like stones grinding deep within a mountain—each word weighty as boulders.
Gerald narrowed his eyes, letting out a dry chuckle. "So… in your eyes, Wake has already surpassed Vagador?"
Earth D'gon nodded without hesitation. "There is no need for argument. One glimpse… was enough."
His reply left the air hanging still for a moment. Then Gerald sighed softly, as if speaking to himself, "So that's it… That kind of power doesn't forgive. It chooses who gets to live…"
Earth D'gon corrected him, voice steady:
"It's not forgiveness. It's a granted chance. And you are the first to leave this floor… still alive."
Gerald remained silent, his gaze drifting toward the swamp beyond. No one knew what thoughts were swirling in the old mage's mind. Perhaps he was already considering a return to the Capital—burrowing through dusty libraries and forgotten grimoires in search of clues about the skeletal creature he had encountered.
No one stopped him. No one encouraged him, either.
Earth D'gon stepped forward and placed his stone-like palm at the center of the circle. A dim ashen glow erupted—not blinding, but subtle, almost faded. Gerald didn't look back. He stepped into the light, and his figure gradually dissolved into the pale radiance—vanishing like a memory erased from the depths of the Dungeon.
As Earth D'gon returned to the great hall, a small figure glided in behind Storm D'gon, skimming close to the ground like it was sliding across the swamp.
It was the lowest of all swamp creatures—a feeble swamp monster, the weakest being of the fifth floor.
Storm stopped ten steps from the throne, then bowed slightly.
"It has been summoned, my lord Wake."
Wake gave no reply. But his deep eyes—dark as the abyss—remained fixed on the creature slithering in: a lump of slimy muck with no defined shape, barely distinguishable from a shadow seeping across the cold stone floor.
"Come here," Wake said. His calm voice echoed into the gloomy hall.
The swamp creature twitched. It didn't speak. It simply paused for a heartbeat, then resumed inching forward, leaving behind foul, sticky trails. Its formless head bowed low, too afraid to raise its gaze toward the figure on the throne.
Wake sat motionless, one hand resting on his chin. His voice rang out again, colder and more distant:
"How long have you been on this floor?"
The creature trembled—not clear if out of fear, or simply due to its soft and flimsy nature.
After a long pause, a faint croak, like a frog being squeezed, oozed from the mound of mud:
"...I… do not remember clearly… but… a very long time ago… even before he…" it hesitated, "...before Vagador appeared…"
Storm D'gon's expression darkened slightly. Earth D'gon furrowed his brow.
"Before even Vagador?"
"Y…yes… I… I used to crawl through the cracks of this place… before the palace was formed… before the Dragon-Winged Guardians were created…"
Its words broke off. The creature seemed to merge with its own muddy memories, each sentence dredging up something buried deep.
Wake fell silent, as if threading together ideas in his mind. Then he tilted his head.
"Interesting… so you're one of the first beings ever here?"
Storm D'gon raised his gaze toward Wake, eyes filled with suspicion.
Wake let out a faint chuckle—a fleeting sound like a cold breeze brushing through a graveyard. A thought drifted through his mind, half like a joke:
Fifth floor… A swamp with no boss? What kind of lazy dev designed this?
A swamp… with the boss being a guy in a cloak riding a stone dragon?
He paused for a moment. It seemed absurd. Yet his eyes gleamed with a peculiar insight.
Wait…
If this were a game, then the thing that most closely resembles the name of the map… is often the hidden boss.
Wake looked down at the swamp creature as if it were trying to bury itself into the floor. A gamer's instinct whispered in his head:
A properly designed game would have a swamp boss on the swamp floor!
"A low-level monster, no skills, no combat form. Just a breathing lump of mud."
"But a lump of mud that has survived this floor full of monsters, scorned by all… and still hasn't died?"
"Sounds like an NPC with a hidden plot twist."
"If this were a game, that's textbook design… the true boss is always the one that looks weak, pathetic, and useless—but hides the most broken mechanic."
"In this world…" Wake raised his foot and gently pressed it on the creature's head, "...I've grown far too used to that kind of twist."
He held his foot there—not applying pressure, but enough to send a ripple through the mud beneath, like a tiny wave spreading across a swamp.
The creature trembled violently. Every inch of its sludge quivered, as if suppressing some primal reflex. It didn't resist. It didn't cry out. It simply opened two small, bubble-like eyes…
…And a faint glow appeared.
Not physical light—but a silent, ancient consciousness stirring beneath the black muck.
A will, long buried, was being forced awake.
No one saw. No one heard. But deep within, something had opened its eyes.
"…You just stepped on me…"
"…Again… after all these years…"
A voice echoed from within the mud—not spoken aloud, but muttered to itself.
No one but the creature heard it. But within its mind, memories surged back like a river reversing course.
"I am Mol'Tharn…"
"The Immortal Mire, sixth of the Six Demon Gods."
"Architect of the Dead Prairie, devourer of souls through a bottomless swamp."
"I once dwelled in a realm so deep no light could reach it."
"I was a god, worshipped only through fear…"
"…Until you appeared."
"Wake — King of the Demon Realm."
"You were not one of us. You were above all."
"You did not bring Darkness or Destruction. You brought only Will."
"A Will that crushed everything too weak to survive."
"And I…"
"I… was once crushed beneath your foot."
The Demon Realm of that age had no name, no laws.
Only the Six Demon Gods: each with their own madness and chaotic power. They warred and devoured one another to survive.
Then he arrived—not from the Divine Realm, nor from Hell.
He was The Outsider.
No light. No darkness. Just a body of flame sealed in magma, and eyes without bottom.
"No one understood what you were… but when you spoke, all six of us bowed…"
"Even the Spirit of Tidal Annihilation ceased to thrash. Even the Void Serpent went silent."
He didn't trample the other Demon Gods. He simply made them listen.
And from that, the Demon Realm gained its first law.
"The Strongest Shall Be King – and the King was you."
"You are neither light… nor shadow…"
"…You are the first flame, the primordial silence…"
The swamp creature lay flat, its body dissolving layer by layer—as if it longed to fade away, to die and never face what stood before it.
"The Immortal Mire… does not die."
A voice echoed—like the wail of a mountain buried deep within the underworld, mournful and resonant.
"The Mud Rampart is not forgotten."
An image emerged—
A throne made of monster corpses.
A purple-blooded swamp flooded beneath it.
Six massive silhouettes stood side by side—like cursed Demon Gods.
Among them, Mol'Tharn—the only one without a fixed form—was nothing more than a massive pool of mud, with countless eyes and mouths rising and sinking across its surface.
In the shattered fragments of Mol'Tharn's mind, a silhouette slowly emerged amidst a sea of flames.
Mol'Tharn screamed in silence—for the mud had no voice.
It had come face to face with the one who once made it bow.
The one who had trampled over the Six Demon Gods.
The one who ruled them all through sheer, overwhelming force.
"…Why… are you here…?"
Another vision—
The sky torn apart by light.
Mol'Tharn's body shredded, exiled to the swamps of Dungeon Floor 5, eternally formless, and forever unable to recall its true shape.
From its hollow, dark eye sockets, a gaze seemed to pierce a buried corner of the soul—one forgotten before time itself began.
"He doesn't remember me..."
"…He doesn't even remember himself…"
"…Has he lost the throne of the Demon Realm?"
Once a proud Demon God, Mol'Tharn now boiled with despair and rage.
For the one it once called "Lord" now stood before it—indifferent, emotionless, like a stranger.
"You're still the same. Carrying no past. Demanding no explanation.
You're simply here to assert your right to exist."
"And just like before… once again, I am crushed beneath your heel."
"So be it… Our King."
"Even if I am but trash adrift in the river of time…"
"…My legacy must still be passed on."
"Take what remains… from one who once dared to raise his head."
CRACK!
A single phrase flickered—seen by none, yet etched into the very soul of the swamp creature:
[Swamp Deity's Inheritance]
A skill inherited from the god who once ruled the boundless swamplands. The body becomes immune to all corrosive, decaying, and mutating effects. Can generate swamp terrain in battle areas. Recovers mana from contact with swamp soil.
Swamp Sovereignty
Transforms the surrounding terrain into a swamp, reducing enemy movement speed and reaction time by 80%. Constant HP regeneration within user-generated swamp zones.
Mud Clone Army
Summons up to 12 mud clones. Each possesses 30% of the user's power. Clones can liquefy to heal the original body.
Swamp Curse Fog
Releases a cursed mist that inflicts all living creatures with "Decay" (slow rot). Magic consumption doubles while under its effect.
Right after, Mol'Tharn's final memory faded—forever lost.
No farewell. No regret.
Only a sigh—whispered to itself.
"...I once existed."
"...And he walks away as if he never saw me."
Less than a second later, that knowing gaze disappeared—replaced by the soulless emptiness of mindless swamp sludge.
All that remained was a trembling, idiotic creature, unaware of why strange new skills now echoed within its mind.
Moments later, Wake lifted the foot he had planted atop the swamp beast.
Because now—in the eyes of Wake, of Storm D'gon, and Earth D'gon—the creature was rapidly transforming.
From a squat, gooey mass of sludge that resembled a slime, its body began to rise—taking humanoid form, over three meters tall.
A towering, grotesque shape of black mud, streaked with dark purple sheen. Constantly dripping. Constantly mutating.
At its chest—a glowing gray mud core, the last remnant of Mol'Tharn… though none of them knew it.
From a mere Swamp Beast, Level 30, it had now evolved—through the Swamp Deity's Inheritance—into the only known mutant variant of its kind:
Swamp King – Level 130.
Earth D'gon squinted, puzzled.
"What's going on? Is it… evolving?"
Storm D'gon raised her hand. Tiny bolts of lightning sparked from her fingertips.
"Impossible. Low-level monsters can't evolve mid-battle… unless…"
Both fell silent—because Wake was smiling.
A smirk curled across his skeletal face—encased in armor like solidified black titanium. His empty eye sockets tilted toward the newly transformed swamp creature…
Then he laughed—a low, brief, gravelly sound.
"I knew it…" Wake muttered. "In the end… this world is just a game."
"You… know what's happening?!" Earth D'gon's eyes widened.
Wake shook his head, that twisted grin still on his face.
"Nope. I don't know anything. But that reaction…?
Classic boss entrance vibes."
He slowly stood up, staring at the evolved swamp being—without a hint of hostility.
"…You look pretty strong."
He stepped forward, planting his foot into the now-formed swamp.
Or rather—onto the Swamp King, Level 130.
At that instant, a flicker of pain surged through the creature's mind. An ancient instinct stirred—not a memory, but a faint feeling…
As if it had once been crushed beneath this very foot in a different lifetime.
But it didn't understand.
It remembered nothing.
It simply let out a low growl—a reflex.
Wake chuckled and tilted his head.
"Oh? You do respond…"
Storm D'gon and Earth D'gon exchanged glances.
Neither of them understood what was happening.
All they saw was a mutated creature.
And Wake—relishing this bizarre game like an amused spectator.