Save Azhog, the Leader of Bazhura Tribes!

The cold, unforgiving stone of Elanor's throne pressed into my flesh, a stark contrast to the heat still lingering between my thighs from the night's…ritual.

The air hung thick with the scent of Elven musk and something else, something darker, the metallic tang of blood barely masked by incense.

Sylvana, her emerald eyes shadowed, sat beside me, the silk of her elven robes whispering against the stone.

Red stained her cheeks, a blush that spoke volumes of the night's intensity, a night that had left her breathless and vulnerable.

Elanor, her fiery hair a cascade of molten copper, knelt before me, her gaze lowered, a queen dethroned, her pride shattered.

The silence screamed louder than any word could, a testament to the forbidden magic we'd woven together, a potent, dangerous tapestry of ecstasy and power.

It was a silence heavy with the weight of our shared transgression, a silence punctuated only by the ragged rasp of my own breath.

I held the red key aloft, the System's cold, metallic surface a stark contrast to the heat thrumming in my veins.

"The red key is mine," I said, my voice a low growl, savoring the power it represented, the power over these women, over this conquered kingdom.

Elanor remained motionless, her silence a testament to her broken spirit or perhaps, a lingering echo of forbidden pleasure.

The shift in her, from wild predator to trembling captive, was almost…amusing.

Sylvana cleared her throat, a delicate sound against the backdrop of our shared secrets.

"Alstair," she whispered, her voice laced with a weariness that belied her elven grace. "The remaining elves… they await your command."

The words hung in the air, thick with the stench of defeat and the faint hope of a new dawn.

My morning's orders echoed in the cavernous space: a swift survey of the palace, a count of the survivors—those few who hadn't been sacrificed to Elanor's dark ambitions.

The thought sent a chill down my spine, despite the heat still coursing through my blood.

"They know Elanor is defeated?" I demanded, my gaze locking onto Sylvana's.

She nodded, her eyes mirroring the gravity of the situation.

"They await your word, Alstair. They see you... as their savior."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

Savior?

My only salvation lay in reaching the 1111th floor, in obtaining the holy water that would save my family, not these broken, defeated elves.

But their fate, like Elanor's, rested in my hands.

It was a burden, a heavy crown upon my head.

I turned to Elanor, my gaze piercing her soul.

"Your elves surrender. Understand, this is the end of your reign. The end of your clan." My voice was devoid of compassion, hardened by the weight of my own ambitions and the intoxicating power of the night's rituals.

Elanor's surrender hung in the air, thick and cloying like the scent of burnt magic.

Her voice, a rasping whisper, lacked the defiant fire I'd expected.

"Yes, I admitted my defeat," she breathed, the word tasting of ash and despair.

That wasn't the rebellious elf warrior I'd anticipated; that was a broken thing, stripped bare.

My gaze shifted to Sylvana.

The icy glitter in her eyes, usually so bright, was dimmed, replaced by a chilling stillness.

My words, a low growl, sliced through the silence. "Your business with her isn't finished, is it? Go on. Have some conversation for your unfinished business."

The weight of unspoken betrayals and traumatic past pressed down on Sylvana, heavier than any mountain.

Sylvana's response was a venomous hiss, "You won this, Alstair. You should be the one to punish her."

The air crackled with unshed tears and simmering rage.

But I met her gaze, unwavering, my red key – the key to the next level of this hellish tower – glinting under the flickering torchlight.

"I said it's yours, Sylvana. Deal with her. My goal on her is only to secure the red key" The finality in my voice was a hammer blow.

Sylvana hesitated, her face a battlefield of warring emotions.

The sight of Elanor bowed before her, a broken image of her former self, triggered something primal.

Elanor's shame hung heavy in the air, thick and acrid.

Sylvana's voice, when it came, was a weapon of ice, each word a carefully aimed dagger."Until this moment, I have fought for Lythandor. Even when Vorgruth nearly shattered me, I craved a warrior's death, a Lythandor's death! But you, Elanor… your betrayal… it cleaved me in two! Do you know how many nights I cursed your name, your insidious act that hurled me into the abyss of the 444th floor?"

Sylvana moved, a predator stalking its prey, until she stood inches from Elanor.

A single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek before she brutally wiped it away, her resolve hardening like steel.

"That forbidden spell… it twisted you, it turned you into a monster, but I know you were forced. Forced…" Her voice cracked, but she pressed on.

My curiosity, a burning ember, flared for seek clarity to Elanor. "Forced? Who forced you?"

Elanor's confession was a ragged whisper, a confession that chilled me to the bone. "Vulwin Lythandor… the true leader of Lythandor, the one battling Azhog on the 999th floor… he forced me."

Sylvana's voice, stripped of all emotion, delivered the final, devastating blow. "Vulwin Lythandor… is our father, Alstair."

The stench of decay, a cloying sweetness mixed with the metallic tang of blood, clung to the air.

Sylvana and Elanor's faces, etched with a history of unspeakable horrors, were a canvas of fear and despair.

Their eyes, twin pools reflecting the abyss of their shared trauma, locked onto mine.

"So, the monster, Vulwin Lythandor, your father, forced you into using that… that abomination of a spell?" My voice, though meant to be calm, cracked.

The sheer inhumanity of it clawed at my throat. "Why? How could a man do that to his own daughters?"

Elanor's voice, a brittle whisper, shattered the oppressive silence. " The holy water in the Eleventh Hundredth and Eleventh floor, Alstair. It is said it can give you immortality. Unfathomable power. Everyone craves it, especially the vile orcs and ambitious elves. He needed it… had to have it."

Tears, hot and uncontrolled, streamed down her face, each one a testament to her broken spirit.

A shudder wracked her body, a physical manifestation of her agony. "When Lythandor arrived at the Six Hundredth and Sixty-Sixth floor…Vulwin found that… that curse, that spell of manipulation. He twisted it, implanted it in my very soul to become a weapon. A tool for his twisted ambitions. He left us to guard this floor, while he ascended…but he knew…he knew what it would do to me." The words choked her, a torrent of anguish and self-recrimination.

I saw the madness flickering in her eyes, the scars of his cruelty seared onto her soul.

He knew the price, the terrible, soul-crushing price of his ambition.

Sylvana, her face a mask of controlled grief, reached out, her touch a lifeline in the swirling vortex of Elanor's torment.

"He wanted this floor secured, Alstair. No orcish hordes to disrupt his climb. He sacrificed us…for his own twisted glory." Her voice, though steady, held a tremor of suppressed rage.

Elanor's body convulsed, a desperate, silent scream trapped within.

Sylvana held her close, a desperate attempt to contain the storm raging inside her sister.

"Elanor," Sylvana's voice was soft, but carried the weight of untold burdens, "Our past is a tomb. We can't dwell there, festering in the shadows. We are Lythandor. We will survive this. We will move forward." She gently wiped away the tears that continued to fall, a testament to the deep chasm of their shared trauma.

"Sister… I…" Elanor's voice was choked with sobs, a torrent of remorse and pain. "Forgive me…"

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the unspoken.

The weight of their pain pressed down on me.

Yet in the embrace of the sisters, a fragile spark of hope flickered – a testament to their resilience, their refusal to be broken entirely.

My purpose here was fulfilled. The Sixth Hundredth and Sixty-Sixth floor was secured, though scarred.

Now, my gaze hardened.

The Ninth Hundredth and Ninety-Ninth floor awaited.

Vulwin Lythandor and the brute Azhog.

The reckoning, the red key, was at hand.

However, the final floor I had to reached is the 1111th floor.

It means it will be another goddamn venture to achieve red key.

This time, at the 999th floor.

Remembering the ritual to get that red key, the sickening familiarity of it all clawed at my gut.

Unless… unless it came from the supple hands of a sexy elf.

That might be… bearable.

"Sylvana, tell the palace elves I'm descending to the 999th floor. Now." The red key, a cold, slick weight in my palm, felt like a promise of more torment.

Sylvana and Elanor's eyes, twin pools of emerald fire, were locked on me, a silent intensity that hummed in the air, thick as the incense burning nearby.

The scent, usually calming, now felt cloying, suffocating.

"What?" I demanded, the silence a suffocating pressure.

"May we accompany you?" they breathed as one, the words echoing the sudden shift in the room's temperature, a chill that snaked down my spine.

My frown deepened, a bitter line etched across my face.

"Don't play silly. Vulwin waits on the next level. You don't think I believe you're simply going to pay your father a visit, do you?"

Their gazes met, a silent conversation flickering between them before their eyes returned to mine, dilated, pleading.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the frantic drumming of my own pulse, a frantic rhythm echoing the growing unease in my chest.

Finally, they nodded, a slow, deliberate movement.

Elanor, her voice steel-edged, broke the suffocating tension. "We understand the chaos, Alstair. But we, the Lythandors, renounce Vulwin and his vile ambition."

Sylvana's words, formal and precise, yet laced with raw emotion, sent a jolt through me. "Vulwin, our father, may be displeased, but his greed and disregard for our dignity forced our hand. We, Sylvana and Elanor Lythandor, pledge our allegiance to you, Alstair, the Zeta's cursed bearer."

The formality was a mask; the desperation shone through.

I leaned back, the cool smoothness of the throne a stark contrast to the burning questions in my mind.

"Spare me the fairy tale. You want something. What is it?" My pragmatism was a shield, protecting me from their unexpected devotion.

They rose, their movements a sinuous grace that amplified the tension.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, they approached, until their bodies were pressed against mine, their breasts brushing against my hands.

The scent of their skin, of elven magic and something wild and untamed, overwhelmed me.

Elanor's whisper brushed against my ear, a breath of ice and fire.

"Shall we… persuade you further, Alstair?" Sylvana's voice, equally low, was a silken caress against my other ear. "We will do whatever you command, if you will only allow us to join you on the 999th floor."

My mind reeled.

Their beauty was undeniable, a potent weapon.

And their power… their combined magical strength would be a considerable asset.

But their sudden, seductive devotion felt like a venomous snake coiled around my heart.

What twisted game were they playing?

I couldn't fathom it, yet the desire to trust them gnawed at me, a dangerous, intoxicating hunger.

"One requirement from me," I ground out, my voice a low growl barely concealing the primal throb of arousal clawing at my lower body.

Eleanor and Sylvana exchanged a look, their eyes dark pools reflecting something ancient and unsettling.

Minutes stretched into an eternity, the silence thick with unspoken power, before their gazes finally snapped to the red key clenched in my fist.

Their touch was feather-light, yet it ignited a firestorm.

Elanor and Sylvana's hands enveloped mine, their fingers stroking the cool metal, a current of raw mana surging from them, electrifying me.

The key pulsed, the energy blooming outwards, weaving itself into shimmering threads that coalesced into a screen of pure magic.

The images that flickered into existence were visceral, horrifying: a tapestry of monstrous carnage, elves and orcs alike butchered for possession of the cursed key.

The stench of blood, the screams of the dying, filled my senses, a phantom echo of a brutal history.

"We must strengthen the threads," Sylvana whispered, her voice laced with a dangerous allure as she gently tugged my hand, drawing it towards my groin.

Their movements were deliberate, precise.

They knelt, their bodies pressing against my legs, their hands cupping the warmth that exploded between them.

The heat was intense, unbearable, a searing tide against which my will shattered. The air crackled with power, thick with the scent of their intoxicating perfume, as their faces were inches from mine.

"What...what are you doing?" I gasped, the question lost in the maelstrom of sensation.

The magical projection sharpened, resolving into clearer images, each frame a brutal testament to the key's power.

"Not yet, Alstair," Eleanor murmured, her breath hot against my skin.

The word was a caress, a promise.

Her eyes, smoldering with something primal and hungry, met mine.

Their combined breathing was a rhythmic pulse against my flesh, a frantic symphony of arousal.

I could no longer bear it.

I thrust the key into my pocket and reached for them, my fingers burying in their silken hair.

It was an act of surrender, not defiance, and their scent filled my lungs, an intoxicating brew of magic and desire.

Minutes bled into an eternity.

Then, the projection solidified.

The image was crystal clear: a hulking orc, muscles rippling under scarred skin, a tribal symbol branded onto his chest, the red key dangling from a thick chain around his neck.

Azhog.

The Bazhura warlord.

The sheer brute power radiating from the image was enough to make my body tremble.

So, I can conclude that the red key holder in 999th floor is Azhog.

As I observe the air, it crackled with arcane energy, a palpable hum vibrating through the stone floor.

Eleanor and Sylvana, their eyes blazing with unnatural light, wove a shimmering thread of mana – stolen, brutally ripped, from the flow of mana red key of the 666th floor's key.

It pulsed, a malevolent artery, revealing the location of the 999th floor's owner: Azhog.

The image, a fleeting phantom conjured by their forbidden skill, flickered and died, leaving a chilling emptiness in its wake.

The thread snapped.

Sylvana and Eleanor, their breath ragged, rose.

A faint of sweat taste clung to the air, a testament to the exertion.

They knelt before me, their eyes – pools of glacial fire – fixed on my face.

"It is done, Alstair," Sylvana's voice, low and precise, cut through the silence. "Good," I rasped, straightening my sweat-stained trousers.

The scent of iron and ozone filled my nostrils.

"Azhog awaits. The 999th floor is next."

Eleanor's gaze burned with a fierce, unsettling hunger.

"We accompany you, Alstair." Her voice held a note of challenge, a barely concealed threat.

The Lytandhor conflict – Vulwin's shadow – loomed, a specter between us.

But these two elves, masters of the Obsidian Magical Sword, were a force to be reckoned with.

"Very well," I said, my voice hardening. "But the 999th floor's key is mine. Mine alone. The 1111th floor awaits – and nothing, not even these two, will stand in my way."

Their nods, curt and cold, were chilling in their obedience.

"Thank you, Alstair," they breathed, their voices a single, chilling whisper.

I rose from my obsidian throne, a shadow against the cavernous chamber.

The weight of power pressed down on me, heavy as the stone beneath my feet. "Those elves… Sylvana mentioned they wait."

My words were a guttural growl. Sylvana, her movements fluid and deadly, offered a chillingly serene smile.

"I will attend to them, Alstair." The memory of her delivering my message, her voice a silken blade, sent a shiver down my spine.

With Eleanor as our unlikely ally, her past transgressions – and their potential for future mayhem – hung heavy in the air.

But there was no time for hesitation. "We go together," I commanded, striding towards the palace doors.

"Yes, my king," they responded in unison, their voices echoing with unsettling reverence.

I paused, a cold knot forming in my gut.

"King?"

The word tasted like ash.

Sylvana bowed, her explanation precise and chilling. "In times of alliance, the elves choose a leader. Eleanor and I have named you king."

The title felt strange, yet the power it implied tasted deliciously intoxicating.

"Call me Alstair," I commanded, resuming my march.

"Yes, king," they repeated, their voices a low, rhythmic hum that vibrated through the silence.

"Whatever," I muttered, a sigh escaping my lips.

But even as I dismissed the title, the weight of their choice, their silent obedience, settled upon me, a heavy, undeniable cloak of power.

The scent of impending war hung heavy in the air.

***

The time to use the red key toward 999th floor had come.

After give a speech toward the remaining elves outside 666th floor palace, they are understand and willing to obey my command on staying here and focus on repairing the damage of the war that had been initiated.

But before I go on my venture toward 999th floor, I took Robe of Elf and Shoes of Elf from System's inventory.

>Robe of Elf Equipped!

>You activated new spell: Invisible!

>Shoes of Elf Equipped!

>You activated new spell: Air Walk!

>Active Skill:

Lightning Bolt Gaia Endowment Divine Thunder Fire Storm Mana Drain Ice Javelin Frost Bite Return to Earth Magical Magnification Invisible

>Passive Skill:

Fire Pillar Mana Regeneration Health Regeneration The Eye of Sorcerer Air Walk

The glyphs of my Sorcerer stats burned into my retinas – two new spells, a crimson tide unleashed by the Elf Robe and Shoes.

These weren't mere incantations; they were an important for game changer in the 999th floor.

The air crackled with anticipation, a tangible hum against the cold stone of the chamber.

Behind me, Elanor and Sylvana, their own Elf regalia shimmering like captured starlight, mirrored my readiness.

A chill, sharper than the dungeon's damp, snaked down my spine.

"Before we descend," I said, the red key – a shard of malevolent ruby – burning in my hand, its heat mirroring the fury in my gut, "let me be clear. Vulwin Lythandor awaits. If you impede my path, if you dare to restrain me from achieving my objective… you become my enemy. And in battle, loyalty is a luxury I cannot afford. I will obliterate anything that stands in my way." My voice, a low growl, resonated with the unshakeable certainty of a predator.

Their bows were unexpectedly swift, almost servile.

Sylvana, her eyes glittering with an unsettling mixture of devotion and something darker – ambition, perhaps? – purred, "We will not disappoint our king."

Elanor, her face a mask of strained obedience, echoed, "My loyalty is yours, king."

The scent of their fear, faint but present, mingled with the metallic tang of blood – my own, a phantom taste from past battles.

Their fealty was a fragile thing, a gilded cage built on fear and ambition.

The polished surface of their devotion hid a razor's edge, a potential betrayal as sharp as any blade.

"I have warned you," I repeated, the red key pulsing with an infernal light as I activated it.

The dungeon floor trembled beneath us, a prelude to the carnage to come.

The 999th floor beckoned, and with it, the chilling certainty that I walked a path paved with broken trust and shattered lives.

>Utilized Red Key!

>The Gate of 999th floor had been opened.

A crimson maw of magical energy ripped open before us – Elanor, Sylvana, and I. We plunged into its blinding heart, the air slamming into us like a physical blow; no solid ground beneath our feet.

The Air Walk spell flared, thrusting us instantly into the sky, the 999th floor of the Abandoned Tower a dizzying distance below.

Above, a deceptively serene blue sky mocked the carnage unfolding beneath us.

The clash of steel, the guttural roars of orcs, the screams of dying orcs and elves – a symphony of war ripped through the quiet.

Our invisibility spell, thankfully pre-cast, cloaked us in shadow as the battle erupted.

Hundreds – no, thousands – of elf and orc warriors locked in a desperate maelstrom.

Below, a blinding green light sliced through the chaos.

The elves' magical swords, each a blazing emerald comet, carved a swathe through the orcish ranks.

Axes, maces, and hammers shattered like kindling against their deadly grace.

The orcs, their advance relentlessly broken, were forced into a desperate, chaotic defense.

At the heart of the orcish rout, I saw Azhog.

His body, a tapestry of scars and fresh wounds, screamed of brutal combat.

His left arm was a mangled ruin, yet a ferocious, defiant glint burned in his eyes.

Even from this height, his raw, untamed battle-lust was palpable, a tangible force that threatened to shatter the very air.

And there, dangling from his neck, was the red key – its crimson gleam a stark contrast to the crimson tide of blood staining the battlefield.

My red key.

Leading the elf charge, a towering figure clad in gleaming white armor – Vulwin Lythandor, Sylvana and Elanor's father.

His resemblance to his daughters was undeniable, but the cold fury in his eyes, the merciless precision of his dual magical swords, spoke of a warrior honed by countless battles.

He was a whirlwind of lethal grace, each swing a death sentence, each parry a mockery of orcish strength.

His assault was a butchery, a systematic annihilation of Azhog's forces.

The orcish barracks, sprawling across a nearby hill, looked like festering sores on the landscape.

Stealing the key now?

Suicide.

The battlefield was a maelstrom of death and despair, a sea of blood and broken bodies.

A chilling thought struck me.

Should I unleash the full fury of Divine Thunder upon this bloodbath?

The choice… it burned like acid in my soul.

Obliterating them from the sky – a tempting, brutal efficiency – but the risk of pulverizing the red key, a risk I couldn't afford, gnawed at me.

Sylvana's voice, a fragile whisper against the thrumming tension, cut through my thoughts. "King, I await your instruction."

Impatience, a burning coal in my gut, flared. "My first order? Call me Alstair."

The name, a stripped-bare declaration of intent, hung between us.

Sylvana's stammer, a choked "B-but–," was swallowed by my curt interruption. "Sylvana, I'm waiting."

The word waiting itself felt like a cold, hard pressure.

Her hesitant, "O-okay… Alstair," was a victory, a crack in the armor of her ingrained obedience.

Even Elanor, her usual composure fractured, showed a flicker of understanding in her wide, apprehensive eyes.

The scent of fear, sharp and bitter, mixed with the metallic tang of the air.

"Good. This mission… I've wrestled with it. You may disagree, but Azhog needs saving. Vulwin's butchery… it must be stopped. Securing the red key is top priority." My voice, I knew, was raw, edged with a desperation I couldn't fully mask.

A long, heavy silence stretched between us, broken only by the erratic thump-thump-thump of my own heart.

Elanor and Sylvana exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them, a whirlwind of loyalty, fear, and the crushing weight of betrayal.

Finally, Elanor nodded, the movement slow, deliberate, a confirmation born of grim acceptance. "We understand your decision, Alstair. We will help."

Their agreement, a cold comfort.

There was no joy in their acquiescence, only the chilling awareness of what it meant: fighting their own father, the tyrannical leader of Lythandor, for a desperate gamble.

But a surge of certainty, a jolt of icy confidence, coursed through me, a palpable confirmation from the System itself, a cold, digital whisper in my mind,

>Quest Activated: Save Azhog, the Leader of Bazhura Tribes!

The Dragon Scepter throbbed in my hand as I unleashed Magical Magnification, a blinding flare erupting from its tip.

The stench of sweat and fear, thick as a shroud, rolled off the Elf warriors. Sylvana's shriek cut through the air – a silver blade slicing through the din – "Alstair! They see us!"

The whisper of a thousand drawn bows, the chilling *thunk* of arrows nocking, sent ice through my veins.

Elanor's voice, tight with dread, was a counterpoint to Sylvana's panic.

"Vulwin's elite. They're equipped to pierce our invisibility. These aren't just archers; they're hunters."

Even cloaked in shadow, the searing heat of their magical arrows already singed my skin.

Sylvana and Elanor, two incandescent furies, retaliated with a storm of shimmering, razor-sharp magical swords.

The clash was a symphony of destruction – the screech of steel, the explosive crackle of magic, the sickening thud of arrows shattering against the blades.

But it was a desperate defense, a frail wall against a tidal wave.

Hundreds of arrows, each a miniature sun, hurtled towards us – a blazing, lethal rain.

The air vibrated with the force of the onslaught.

The magical swords, Elanor and Sylvana's defiant creations, exploded in a shower of sparks and fading light, their valiant sacrifice a stark testament to their courage.

Sylvana threw herself before me, a shield of defiance against the incoming storm. Elanor, mirroring her selfless act, formed a second line of defense, her face a mask of grim determination.

Their loyalty, a burning brand on my soul, fueled my response.

Cowardice was not an option.

With a guttural roar, I unleashed Mana Drain, the spell augmented by Magical Magnification, ripping the very lifeblood of magic from the Elf warriors.

Their arrows and blades vanished into nothingness as their mana was devoured.

The sudden, agonizing silence that followed was more terrifying than the previous barrage.

I dropped the invisibility, revealing myself, Sylvana, and Elanor – three figures bathed in the spectral glow of residual magic.

I could feel Vulwin Lythandor's gaze, a physical weight pressing down on me from the sky, fueled by a venomous hatred amplified tenfold by his realization that the sorceresses fighting alongside me were his daughters.

Then came Azhog's bloodcurdling war cry, his voice a physical blow that shattered the paralysis of the Elves.

A wave of Orcish fury – a terrifying tide of muscle, rage, and crude power – crashed over the depleted Elf lines.

The elves, stripped of their magic, scattered like chaff before the Orcish onslaught, fleeing Bazhura's barracks under a hail of brutal, close-quarters violence.

The scent of blood, sweat, and impending victory filled the air.

Despite those elf elite's mana power had drained, but Vulwin's blight-green blades still throbbed with malevolent power, a sickly green luminescence that pulsed even as its intensity dimmed.

The air itself crackled with the residual magic.

Vurlwin was a whirlwind of motion, a green blur slashing through the orcs, his desperate lunge for Azhog's red key a testament to his frenzied determination.

I felt the thrum of a potent strengthening spell still clinging to him, a desperate gamble fueling his reckless advance.

The tide had turned, yet Vulwin's attacks, fueled by rage and magic, remained a lethal threat.

Azhog, a tapestry of scars and bleeding wounds, had no chance against that furious assault.

Looking at this severe condition, for the sake of securing the red key, I dove, a falcon plummeting from the sky, already weaving the incantation for my Magical Magnification.

Time was a razor's edge, slicing thin with each passing heartbeat.

Even at my speed, I knew I couldn't reach Azhog in time.

But hope, a fragile ember, still flickered.

Gripping the Dragon Scepter, I unleashed the Return to Earth spell, magnified a thousandfold, and the world seemed to buckle under a sudden, crushing weight. Gravity became a tangible force, a physical blow.

Vulwin, poised to cleave Azhog's throat, was slammed to the earth with the force of a collapsing mountain.

The ground trembled.

A guttural roar, choked with rage and pain, tore from Vulwin's lips, "Damn you, cursed-bearer! Damn skeleton slave!" His armor groaned, cracking under the strain as the strengthening spell fractured.

He struggled, a desperate heave, only to crumple again under the crushing weight of my magic.

The orcs, poised to attack, were held back by Azhog's silent command – a look of grim understanding passing between them.

The air was thick with the coppery tang of blood, the stench of sweat and fear, and the sharp scent of ozone from my spell.

Vulwin, the true enemy of this accursed 999th floor, knelt before me, his gaze burning with hatred.

His face, contorted with fury, reddened as he saw Sylvana and Elanor, their forms silhouetted behind me, a silent declaration of their allegiance.

The weight of his betrayal, his desperate gambit, settled heavy in the silence. "Zeta's apprentice," he snarled, his voice raw. "I smell it, sense it! Why would any human follow that cursed… fool?!"

I leveled ten Ice Javelins, their frost-laden tips glittering menacingly. "Even if I am the cursed-bearer," I said, my voice casual yet laced with icy steel, "look who's bending the knee, Vulwin."

His anger, a palpable force, threatened to tear the very air apart.

This was it.

The inevitable battle, a clash between duty and loyalty, between a curse and a father's desperate love.

The battle for Lythandor's future began.

And despite his daughters, despite everything, I would face him for saving my family.