A Proposal

Tzarek was the one to speak first. "We're looking for information on powerful individuals in the area. Anyone new in the last few months?"

One of the Durnokh, half-hidden in the dimly lit room, sneered. "Sure. 10,000 Durcell, and I'll give you a list of names. 100,000 Durcell if you want to know their strength."

Tzarek's expression darkened. The price was absurd. It was outright extortion, even by Durnokh standards. He was about to argue when Draeven spoke instead. "Forget it. Just tell me where Slark is. I have something to offer." The moment his words left his mouth, the entire room changed.

Every Durnokh in sight melted into the shadows, disappearing instantly. All except for one. The bartender. Unlike the others, the bartender was dressed in formal attire—a sleek black suit, clean, well-fitted. No visible weapons. But Draeven knew better. He knew that among the Durnokh, the ones who carried no weapons were often the most dangerous.

The air grew thick. A heavy, oppressive weight settled over the room as Tzarek and Vek'tal instinctively tensed, their bodies preparing for combat. 

The bartender finally spoke, his voice emotionless. "Draeven, the new Ashborn. The one with a vendetta against his own kind. Why are you looking for our Warden?" His eyes… they were sharp, dissecting, peeling away every layer of Draeven's being. It was as if he could see through every lie, every intention. 

Fear crawled into Draeven's chest, but he forced it down, clenching his fists. He wasn't even a fully-fledged Ashborn yet. He had no official rank, no real power to back him. But he needed this. Once his trial was over, he'd be locked into the system, forced to work in assigned squads. If he wanted to lay the groundwork for his plan, this was his only chance. "Yes," Draeven said, his voice steady despite the pressure. "I have a proposal."

"A proposal..." A slow, eerie grin spread across the bartender's face, but there was no warmth in it—only something cold, something hungry. "Are you telling me that you—a fledgling Ashborn—have something that the entire Durnokh race wants? That you can accomplish something we cannot?"

The last word came with a shift in the air. Killing intent exploded from all sides. Draeven felt it coil around him like a thousand invisible blades, pressing in, watching, waiting. Tzarek and Vek'tal dropped to their knees under the weight of it, gasping as the sheer presence of the Durnokh warriors threatened to crush them. And the worst part? The Durnokh weren't afraid of the consequences.

If they killed Draeven here, they'd likely be punished. But with how valuable they were, that punishment wouldn't be anything severe. A slap on the wrist at worst. After all, in Nephirid society, the weak had no value. Only the strong had the right to exist. The weak existed to serve the strong.

Draeven gritted his teeth, a deep hatred flickering in his molten eyes. But he held his ground. "One cannot succeed alone," he said. "You had no one on the inside before. But with me, we can cooperate—to both our benefit."

SWOOSH!

The suffocating pressure condensed, slamming down all at once. Tzarek and Vek'tal hit the floor, struggling to even lift their heads. Draeven staggered but refused to fall. Then, cold metal touched his obsidian skin. At first, he thought it was just a dagger. But no. He felt it. A subtle, deadly vibration coursed through the blade, sending an unmistakable message. This was no ordinary weapon. This was something that could kill him. "Say it child, if I find it interesting than we can talk, if we cannot than you will lose your head here."

Draeven gulped. He couldn't feel any presence behind him, but he knew the threat was real. The voice sounded like it came from an elder, filled with warmth, but he knew the weapon would cut through his hardened obsidian skin like butter. And even though he could regenerate, losing Tzarek and Vek'tal was out of the question. There was no way they'd be spared. 

"Hear me out…" Draeven began narrating his plan in complete detail. He made sure to highlight each part that would interest the Durrok, especially the Nephirid Kingdom's current weakness. The Ashborn warriors were strong but few in number. Their vast territory left them stretched thin.

***

Meanwhile, back at the ruins, Elvira opened her eyes as the magic circle dissipated. "My beloved, I have an idea, but… it's risky."

"What kind of risk?" Ben asked, his back pressed against the cold concrete wall. He had tried everything. Even using his Blockify Pickaxe—only for it to trigger a massive spark an inch away from the wall, sending him flying backward. He tried multiple times, each attempt ending the same way. In the end, he had no choice but to sit and wait for Elvira to finish.

"Well… either I open this vault door, nothing happens, or it triggers some kind of alarm."

"Just go for it, then. Not like we have any other choice," Ben replied, pushing himself up before walking to her side. At the same time, he ordered the Krell scouts to spread out, positioning them to the left and right in preparation for combat. His creature creation system remained open before his eyes. If the trap was too much, he was ready to dump resources to counter it.

So what if it was far stronger? He'd just summon hundreds of Krell soldiers if he had to.

"Alright, I'll start." Mana began gathering at Elvira's palm, then shot toward the vault as she adjusted the mana frequency. The shifting energy formed a sound—almost musical.

Ben frowned the moment he heard it. 'This sound… it feels familiar. Where have I heard this before?'

The tune lingered in the air. At first, the notes were light and playful, bouncing in a rhythmic pattern that felt almost… nostalgic. 

Doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo.

Ben's brow furrowed. The melody climbed in a familiar pattern, each note stacking on the last with a crisp, cheerful ring. It was fast, energetic, almost like— Doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo. His eyes widened slightly. 'No way.' But before he could finish the thought, the room reacted.