The day

[Notice: Under your support, Eira's intelligence, mentality, and critical thinking have drastically shifted and improved over the original timeline.]

[❈ Congratulations! ❈] – [Hidden Quest Complete!]

[Though it may not seem important, the overall current growth of Eira compared to the original story has drastically changed the future.]

[+100 Karma]

[Calculating Reward…]

[Unnamed Cloak]

[A cloak made of dozens of materials, including but not limited to the out casing of Cestro the Great Dragon's heart, pure vampire blood, and the feather of Zygoz.]

[A one-of-a-kind cloak made by a foolish genius incapable of making financial choices.]

[Durability: 750]

[Core Abilities:]

[Regeneration] ➙ As long as 40% of the cloak remains, it will fully regenerate within 5 minutes.

[Link] ➙ [Locked]-[To link it, feed it your blood. The bond lasts until the host's death.]

[Silence] ➙[When moving calmly and slowly, the user makes no sound.]

[Sense] ➙[A fusion of pressure from the Great Dragon, Pure Vampire, Zygoz, and others. Grants the linked user the ability to detect danger behind them.]

[Rewards Calculated!]

[Unnamed Cloak ⇮] ➙ [Ego Potential Acquired ⇮] ➙ [Name Required] ➙ [???]

[Normally, you would have the right to name it. However, given your utter lack of naming skills, a name will be given.]

[Unnamed Cloak] ➙ [Kairoth Nhalrix][Rank: Undefined – An ego artifact cannot be ranked until it is fully developed.] – [0% Sync]

[Regeneration ⇮] ➙[If 10% remains, cloak will restore with minimal mana. If over 70% is destroyed but does not drop below 10%, durability increases slightly upon full regeneration. Cannot be forced.]

[Sense ⇮] ➙[User can now control who can and cannot feel the cloak's pressure.]

[Note:]-[Most custom features added by Eira were removed due to incompatibility.]

'Huh... I don't know what to feel right now.'

Kael raises an eyebrow, expression unreadable as the final message blinks away. With one smooth motion, he slips the cloak over his shoulders—just as he pricks his finger on the edge of the inside seam, guiding a thin stream of blood onto the fabric. The reaction is immediate but silent.

A slow pulse hums from within the cloak, like a sleeping creature taking its first breath. A flicker of dark light dances across its surface before settling into stillness. Kael's heart skips—just once.

He doesn't gasp, but his posture stiffens for a brief second as the link completes. His vision doesn't change, but the world sharpens—edges become clearer, his skin tingles at the nape of his neck, and a pressure—barely noticeable, like something immense watching from behind a glass veil—coils around his back.

It's not invasive. Not hostile. Just... present.

'Eira is most definitely going to notice the changes you did to her work, system. There's no way she won't.'

His hand settles on the edge of the cloak, feeling its weight—or rather, the absence of weight. It's light. Too light. Yet somehow, it drapes like a fortress.

'And the pressure… dammit, Eira, I'm concerned. How much money did you actually use?' His gaze twitches toward the memory of the vault. 'That wasn't just my money in there. Fuck, what did you burn through to make this?'

Behind him, Leena turns slightly, her eyes scanning the rift she created—unaware, or at least pretending to be. The chill she'd felt earlier… it lingers, like a presence she can't trace. Yet it's gone, vanishing without leaving a single trace. 

"To think a dungeon master would go unnoticed." Leena exhales, stepping through the rift. Her voice, though calm, carries the weight of inevitability. "I'm sorry to say, but you're still no match for Mother. If you came here thinking you could absorb the dungeon, I'll spare you the disappointment—it's impossible. The core is tied. To her. A stranger. And myself. I've tried to understand how or why… but whatever they did, the result is the same."

The rift buzzes with restrained power behind her, humming like a heartbeat out of sync with reality. Kael lingers for just a breath longer, hand resting near his hip, eyes scanning the shimmer of the spatial fold.

'The situation's getting complicated… He has the flower already—just like the original story. But how does it end?'

With a quiet breath, Kael steps into the rift.

And everything changes.

A deep hum vibrates through the air. It presses against Kael's skin like a phantom touch, slipping beneath the surface, whispering to the bones below. The atmosphere clings like wet silk—dense as fog, heavy and unmoving.

The sensation hits him first—thick mana, thicker than anything he's felt before. Breathing becomes laborious, like pulling air through water. His steps slow; the world around him feels heavier, as if every motion demands caution, as if the space itself refuses to be trespassed lightly.

In the distance, the orb pulses.

Suspended midair, the massive sphere of water turns slowly, currents of light-blue mana swirling within like veins through a living heart. Kael's gaze flicks toward the floor, where three blood-red streams slither outward from the orb, pulsing with unnatural rhythm as they spread like the roots of something ancient and insatiable.

"This is the room," Leena says quietly, flipping through the cameras on her screen. But her focus wavers. Her brow furrows. "As I said, Mother will wake and destroy this place before heading to the Elven Kingdom."

Her voice drops, more hollow now.

"This place is her feeding ground where she absorbs the life force and essence of all the dead ones who have tried challenging this dungeon."

She pauses again, eyes scanning the surroundings. Her fingers stop moving. Her expression tenses.

'I thought he would be here…'

BOOM!

The ground shakes. A shockwave of pressure crashes through the field, sending Kael staggering back. His left wrist bends at a sick angle—without hesitation, he snaps it back into place with a dry, visceral crack.

'Holy shit… that pressure. I'm so fucking glad I use Umbra as a glove.'

Across the room, where the grasses have flattened from the blast, a figure stands—small, cloaked, headband tied proudly around its skull. A skeleton, maybe three feet tall, grips a sword nearly its own size, its bleached-white fingers clenched with the reverence of a knight at war. Its bones glow faintly under the oppressive mana, but it's the aura it exudes that stops Kael in his tracks.

It's… heavy.

Deadly.

On par with S-rank.

Kael's grin itches at the corners of his mouth. His eyes gleam as he lets his own aura press outward, sharp and precise. The mana ripples between them—his will, refined and deliberate, overlaps the skeleton's wild, pulsing energy.

The result?

The skeleton doesn't retreat.

It… vibrates.

It twitches, hopping from one foot to the other, gaze flicking between Kael and Leena like an excited child watching their favorite warriors square off. It lifts its sword with trembling anticipation and points—straight at Kael.

It nods.

Then jumps again.

Leena sighs, dragging her hand down her face. "Ugh… yes, yes, you were right," she mutters to the skeleton without hiding her exhaustion. "I was wrong. I'm sorry for questioning your judgment, Skelly."

She turns to Kael, half-tired, half-annoyed. "This is Skelly. He's… well, he's a combat freak. Masculine to a fault. All brawn, no brains. And apparently, after seeing your fight with Dúnadan, he's decided you're—what was it…"

She clears her throat, dropping into a mockery of Skelly's nonexistent scratchy voice.

"'The coolest fighter here.'"

With a solid thwack to his skull, Leena clicks her tongue and pushes Skelly back, watching him topple with a faint clatter. "I was looking for you, yes yes, I know you were triple-checking everything, and thank you for that—but I can feel it. She's about to awaken." Her voice is calm, almost too calm. She rubs her chin, muttering under her breath. "No, you can't fight him. I know I said I wanted to kill him, but I don't want either of you making a mess. He's going to die anyway when Mother awakens. And he's a dungeon master—he's not weak. He might break you."

She crouches, gently pressing a finger to Skelly's forehead. He collapses backward with an exaggerated grunt, still pointing toward Kael with reluctant admiration.

Kael doesn't move. His eyes drift upward to the streams pulsing from the orb above. A witch, he thinks, his gaze narrowing. Of course. Everything makes sense. The layers of control, the unnatural manipulation of death— he exhales slowly, his fingers twitching slightly. I shouldn't be here when she awakens. If it comes to it... I'll rift out.

"Having regrets?" Leena murmurs, suddenly beside him, her voice low, like the wind before a storm. "It's too late for that. It's time."

She raises her hand.

BOOM.

All at once, the mana on the floor flashes—blinding, furious, alive. In a single pulse, it spreads like wildfire, flooding every floor of the dungeon in an instant. Walls shimmer and distort, entire chambers twist on themselves. Stone screams as dimensional walls ripple. Several floors collapse outright, their foundations unable to endure the pressure tearing through the pocket dimension.

Then the whispers come.

Thin. Splintered. Incomprehensible.

-

"ILÚVËTHAR! Just stop it! It doesn't have to be this way!" Cora shouts over the shaking earth, her voice raw with frustration. Her grip tightens on the hilt of her greatsword as she lunges forward, slicing downward with all her weight. The impact tears through the terrain like a blade through parchment—sending a deep crack snaking across the stone, splintering the ground for dozens of meters. Ilúvëthar vanishes from the arc's reach with a single step, his cloak fluttering like shadow behind him.

"Your fa—"

Cora's words catch in her throat.

Her eyes widen—pupils dilating—as a wave crashes over her senses. Not heat, not pressure, not wind… something else.

Something wrong.

Her knees buckle.

Her blade clatters beside her as she falls forward, catching herself on trembling hands just in time to vomit onto the floor. Her body convulses. Her teeth chatter. Her fingers dig into the ground, scraping for balance as her breath shortens—shallow, useless gasps.

"Hhuaush… iugh… smiishu…"

Whispers.

Slithering into her skull.

Words that aren't words—sounds that crawl like centipedes across her brain, tapping against her sanity, cracking it like thin glass.

Her scream never leaves her throat.

Not far behind her, Baya staggers mid-run, her feet slipping as she crashes to the ground with a painful thud. "Tsk… W-what the—?" Her cocky smirk fades, replaced with clenched teeth and wide, panicked eyes. "Itto! I… can't… move—"

Itto drops moments later. His breath catches, muscles spasming as his knees slam into the earth. The veins in his neck throb, glowing faintly, as if his mana is being drained by an unseen force. His hands twitch around the hilt of his weapon before it falls from his grip.

Even the elf prince, Ilúvëthar, flinches—his smug expression flickering with something unfamiliar: doubt.

His foot slides back involuntarily.

He exhales sharply, one hand to his temple as the hum invades his bones, forcing his spine to tighten like a bowstring. The whispers… They speak directly into his blood. His mana coils in self-defense, and still it isn't enough. One leg dips, and he nearly kneels.

All around the dungeon, it is the same.

Hardened warriors drop to all fours, gasping like fish in poisoned waters. Swords fall. Spells fizzle. Screams are swallowed by the suffocating air. Even the monsters—beasts bred of curses and cruelty—reel back, crying out in feral confusion before toppling into silence.

The dungeon convulses.

Stone groans and splinters. Veins of red mana burst from the floors and walls, curling through the air like living tendrils. Entire floors collapse beneath the weight of her awakening—corridors folding in on themselves like origami before vanishing into dust. Pocket dimensions within the dungeon rupture, releasing pressure like bursting pipes, reshaping the very reality of the labyrinth.

And still the whispers come.

Soft. Cracked. Infinite.

A language never meant for ears—but now lodged within every skull.

They are not invitations.

They are declarations.

And through it all, atop his dark throne wreathed in silent vines and black-petaled flora, the Fairy prince watches.

Mirelith's golden eye glows faintly, reflecting the crumbling world with the indifference of one who has seen too much, too often. He doesn't move, not even when stone splits beneath him or when entire floors collapse into spiraling voids. He merely rests his chin on one hand, elbow propped against the arm of his throne, as if observing a scene he's watched play out in a thousand different shapes before.

Below him, the screams begin.

Dúnadan, ever unshaken, falters. His towering body trembles as whispers rake through his mind like molten claws. His knees buckle—just for a moment—and he drops to one hand, the stone beneath him cracking. He growls, digging his obsidian nails into the sides of his skull, forcing composure through sheer will. But his breath escapes in ragged bursts, sharp as blades.

Not far off, Ithiona doesn't fare so well.

She collapses entirely, her hands clawing at her blindfold as if tearing it off might silence the storm in her head. Her voice pierces the dungeon—a scream of agony, not fear. Her legs kick violently, spasming as she twists in place, her mouth open in a soundless plea.

Mirelith exhales.

A long, tired sigh. The kind reserved for duties carried out a thousand years too long.

He shifts his gaze toward the other cursed things he keeps leashed—familiar faces lost to madness, now bound to his will. They too have fallen, twitching like puppets tangled in their own strings, lost in a sea of incomprehensible sound.

He lifts his hand.

A flick.

Silent. Effortless.

The whispers dissolve like mist at dawn. Just like that, the storm in their minds clears. The air is still choking, the mana oppressive—but the voices vanish.

-

Kael feels the change first.

He has no words for it. The air bends. The ground grows too quiet. Mana no longer flows; it waits. The field doesn't sway with wind—it holds its breath.

Leena's eyes widen. She doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Only stares forward, her lips parting ever so slightly.

The orb begins to widen.

Not explode. Not crack. It opens—a slow, perfect blooming, like the petals of a flower unfolding to greet the sun. The currents inside—blue and red—spiral away, obeying the will of something ancient.

Then—

A gust.

Air rushes inward. Grass ripples outward. Trees bend. The sky overhead churns in silence as if bracing itself.

From the center of the orb, light spills.

Not bright—soft. Pale and luminous, like moonlight over calm water.

And from that light…

A hand.

Smooth. Pale. Effortlessly perfect. Its fingers are long and delicate, nails painted a natural, brilliant red, glinting faintly under the light.

It reaches outward slowly, parting the waters without resistance.

Another hand follows, then her arms… shoulders… neck…

Her form rises in silence.

Hair like liquid fire spills around her face, long and straight, cascading down her back in damp, heavy strands. Each lock gleams with a rich, unbroken red—no variation, no dullness—only a single, perfect hue, like fresh blood drawn from a vein, or the last leaf on a cursed tree.

She is naked.

Her body, still slick from the orb's inner waters, reflects the soft, unnatural glow that surrounds the chamber. Droplets roll down her skin in elegant trails, sliding from her collarbones to her waist, from her thighs to her ankles. Wherever they fall, the grass below shrivels slightly, then vanishes into dust.

Her skin is flawless.

Not pale in the way of snow or ivory, but in the way of untouched marble—pure, unmarred, without even the faintest shadow of a blemish. There are no freckles. No lines. No scars. No evidence that time or the world has ever laid hands on her. She is the body before the body learns pain.

There is not a single impurity.

Her figure is tall, slender, every movement weightless as she floats free from the orb's center. Her shoulders rise and fall with slow, steady breaths. Her breasts, stomach, and legs glisten under the strange light—defined, yet soft, unburdened by tension or need.

Her lashes, soaked but perfectly fanned, match the deep crimson of her hair. Her brows arch naturally, symmetrical and clean. Her lips, full and slightly parted, carry the color of ripe cherries—neither painted nor enhanced, but born that way.

And still, her eyes remain closed.

Her expression is neutral, unreadable. Not blank—simply untouched by emotion.

She does not shiver. She does not react. She simply floats forward, feet never touching the ground.

In this moment, she is new.

Not young—new.