The silence in the Antechamber was heavy, broken only by the ragged breathing of the three captive Rangers and the deep, rhythmic thrum of the Cataclysm-grade Dungeon Core.
The Captain knelt on the obsidian floor, his shattered knee weeping blood onto the dark stone. He stared up at the massive, fifteen-foot Naga looming over him. The creature had spoken of the King as a brother. It knew the name of the capital.
"What... what are you?" the Captain rasped, his hand instinctively twitching toward an empty scabbard. "A demon mimicking the dead? Prince Kaelen perished of the Red Fever three years ago."
Kaelen's golden eyes narrowed. Three years. Time flowed differently in the void between worlds, it seemed. Or perhaps the System had held his soul in stasis until the right vessel was born.
"Red Fever," Kaelen repeated, his dual-toned voice dripping with cold amusement. "Is that the lie Valerius spun for the court? A tragic, sudden illness taking the frail crown prince in his sleep? How convenient."
Kaelen slithered down from his dais, the heavy metallic scrape of his copper-threaded tail echoing loudly. He stopped inches from the Captain, his imposing humanoid torso casting a long shadow over the human.
"It wasn't a fever, Captain. It was a goblet of aged Rubycrest wine, laced with manticore venom. My dear brother watched me choke on my own blood on the throne room floor."
The second Ranger, a younger man with wild, terrified eyes, gasped. "Treason... he speaks treason!"
"Silence," Prime hissed from the shadows, his heavy iron spear tapping the stone floor in a lethal warning.
The Captain, a veteran of countless wars, didn't flinch, but the color drained entirely from his scarred face. The cadence of the creature's speech, the arrogant tilt of the chin, the piercing, analytical stare—it was impossible, yet undeniable.
"My Prince?" the Captain whispered, his voice cracking. "But... the scales... the Core..."
"The Gods have a twisted sense of humor," Kaelen replied smoothly. "But I did not bring you here to marvel at my new armor. I asked you a question. How fares the kingdom under Valerius?"
The Captain swallowed hard. The loyalty instilled in a Royal Ranger was absolute, but looking into the eyes of the true heir—even one housed in a monstrous shell—broke something within him.
"Aethelgard bleeds, my Prince," the Captain confessed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "For the first year, King Valerius expanded our borders. He promised strength. But the cost... he instituted the Culling Tithe."
Kaelen's metallic micro-scales bristled. "The Culling Tithe? Explain."
"He struck a pact with the Mages' Guild," the Captain continued, his voice trembling with suppressed shame. "To maintain the strength of the Royal Guard, they need massive amounts of EXP. But hunting in the Labyrinth is dangerous. So... Valerius ordered the outer villages to offer up their weak. The sick, the elderly, the prisoners. They are driven into the fighting pits under the capital, fed to captured beasts so the King's elites can harvest the System rewards."
The temperature in the Antechamber plummeted. The golden-green light of the Dungeon Core flickered, turning a harsh, angry crimson as it reacted to its master's sudden, violent surge of raw mana.
Kaelen's clawed hands gripped the edge of his obsidian throne so tightly that the dense stone cracked.
Valerius wasn't just a usurper. He was a parasite, cannibalizing the very people he had sworn to protect, using the System's mechanics to turn Aethelgard into a slaughterhouse.
"And you, Captain?" Kaelen's voice dropped to a terrifying, deadly whisper. "Do you partake in this Tithe?"
"No!" the Captain spat, a flash of genuine anger breaking through his fear. "The Rangers patrol the borders. We hunt true monsters. We do not butcher our own citizens. But we are soldiers. We obey the Crown."
Kaelen studied the man. His [High Intelligence] stat allowed him to read the micro-expressions on the Captain's face, the erratic thumping of his heart picked up by Kaelen's thermal senses. The man was telling the truth. He was disgusted by his King.
Kaelen uncoiled slightly, the oppressive crimson aura of the room fading back to a calm golden-green.
"You obey the Crown," Kaelen echoed softly. "Then it is time you remembered who rightfully wears it."
Kaelen turned his back on the Rangers, looking up at the massive Dungeon Core. "I have no use for dead messengers, Captain. I am going to heal your knee. I am going to return your weapons. And then, I am going to let you walk out of my Labyrinth."
The three Rangers stared at him in utter disbelief. Prime shifted uneasily but remained silent, trusting his Lord's grand design.
"You will return to Fortress Iron-Gate," Kaelen commanded, turning his head to look over his shoulder, his golden slit pupils glowing in the dark. "You will tell the garrison commander that the Cataclysm Core is awake. You will tell them that Bram's party is dead. But most importantly..."
Kaelen smiled, revealing rows of razor-sharp, copper-laced fangs.
"...You will tell Valerius that the grave could not hold his brother, and I am coming to collect my throne."