Rest

In the Outer Edges of the Nazcadania Empire...

A storm whispered through the hills outside—not the kind that screamed with thunder, but one that crept, full of secrets and biting cold. It brushed over the cliffs, rattled the dead trees clinging to the rocks, and found its way through the cracks of a forgotten border manor nestled deep within shadows and fog.

Inside, in a chamber lit by flickering candlelight, Ken Thompson sat behind a desk cluttered with scrolls, reports, and old maps that hadn't seen daylight in decades. The air reeked of old paper and burnt wax. He hadn't slept.

The walls were suffocating—bookshelves rose like tombstones around him, every spine a buried mistake or long-lost secret.

A toppled decanter lay by his elbow. The spilled wine soaked into a stack of unfinished reports, the deep red staining them like blood. His eyes, bloodshot and raw, flicked back to the same line on the report he'd read five times now.

"All guards on Floor 50 confirmed dead.

Signs of elemental interference.

Bodies frozen solid.

Artifact stability possibly compromised."

He leaned back with a groan, pressing trembling fingers to his temples. "It was stable," he whispered. "No anomalies, no distortions... it was clean."

But the cracked crystal orb in the corner disagreed.

It sat in its velvet-lined box, silent but pulsing faintly—like a slow heartbeat. Or a distant eye that never blinked.

A pale aide stood near the doorway, his jaw tight, hands clutching a scroll to his chest like it might ward off bad omens.

"Sir... should we send another retrieval team?"

"No," Ken said, voice sharp. "Seal it. Floor 50 is dead."

"But—"

"I want every mana stone pulled by dusk. And erase the names of the slaves stationed there. Burn the rosters. Burn the memories."

The aide hesitated, then bowed and disappeared down the hall.

In the silence, Ken turned his gaze back to the orb, its light faintly reflected in his glass of untouched wine.

Whatever it was down there... let it stay buried.

Back in the Dungeon — Floor 70 Rest Chamber

Magic pulsed softly in the walls, gentle and rhythmic like breath. The Rest Room was a cocoon of warmth and quiet—sacred ground between battles. Stone benches lined the chamber's edges, and an old iron brazier crackled with faint blue fire. Healing runes flickered overhead, dancing like fireflies.

Azrael sat on the floor, legs stretched out, back against cold stone. His black shirt was draped across a spear shaft, drying from sweat and blood. His torso was lean, skin marked with new bruises and faint rune-burns from the last battle.

His silver eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. The silence wasn't peaceful. It was waiting.

Across from him, Olivia lounged on a spread of salvaged blankets, her armor scattered in a neat circle. Her pale hair was damp, sticking to her cheeks, and a thin cut on her collarbone gleamed faintly as it healed—slow, but sure.

Azrael groaned. "I feel like someone rolled me in rocks and left me out to dry."

"You look like it too," Olivia replied, her voice dry.

He mock-scowled. "Rude. I helped, didn't I? Boosted your speed, lit up half the room with fire. That last kill was teamwork."

She arched an eyebrow. "Please. You flailed. I stabbed. The universe remained in balance."

Azrael sighed dramatically. "I'm wounded. Inside. Deep emotional scars."

"I'll light a candle," she said without looking up.

There was a beat of silence, then a shared chuckle.

He leaned his head back. "Y'know, I thought we were getting somewhere. Real bonding moment."

"We are," she said sweetly. "Which is why I'm betting you lose the next fight."

His brow furrowed. "Wait, betting?"

"Mmhm," Olivia said, propping herself up on one elbow. "Next floor is yours. Solo."

Azrael blinked. "You want me to fight alone?"

"I bet you can't make it through Floor 85 without crying."

His mouth opened. Then closed. "...You're serious."

"I am. Winner gets bragging rights."

"I've literally been carrying you this whole time."

"Oh, please." Olivia stretched lazily, her silhouette glowing faintly in the rune light. "You've been existing. I've been surviving."

Azrael's eyes narrowed. "And if I win?"

"You won't."

"But if I do?"

She tilted her head. "Then I'll owe you a favor."

He raised an eyebrow. "Any favor?"

"Keep dreaming," she said, laughing. "One favor. Within reason.

Azrael grinned.

"Survive first. We'll argue later."

He leaned back again, A bet. It wasn't training. It wasn't her testing him. It was a challenge, and somehow that made it worse.

"I'm going to win," he muttered.

"You're going to scream," she corrected.

"Only in victory."

Olivia closed her eyes, a smirk still playing on her lips. "Sure, hero. Just don't die before breakfast."

Azrael stared at the ceiling again, jaw set. Behind the humor, his thoughts drifted—to his brother, to the system's silent pressure in the back of his mind, and to whatever deeper horrors waited in the dungeon.

Floor 71 wasn't just a fight. It was a step closer to the unknown.

He closed his eyes and whispered, "Bring it on."

The Next Morning – Still on Floor 80

The dungeon hadn't changed. The air was still cold, the stones still hummed with magic, and the silence pressed in like a second skin.

But something had changed.

Azrael could feel it in the pit of his stomach—that gnawing tension right before a storm breaks. Maybe it was the bet. Maybe it was the way Olivia was watching him now—calm, unreadable.

He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes as Olivia slid her vambraces back onto her arms. Her movements were methodical, practiced. Efficient.

"Sleep well, fruit salad?" she asked, voice casual but edged with a tease.

Azrael stretched, his joints cracking. "About as well as someone about to be sacrificed."

"You'll be fine," she said, buckling her final strap. "Probably."

He shot her a look. "That doesn't sound convincing."

"It's not supposed to.

"You said this was about a bet, not training," he muttered, standing and rolling his shoulders.

"It is," she replied. "But that doesn't mean I'm throwing you to the wolves blind."

She walked over, holding something.

"A parting gift?"

Azrael raised an eyebrow as he took it a small dagger with a curve like a fang. The edge shimmered slightly, enchanted.

"Poison-coated. Temporary enchantment. Won't last more than a day," she said. "But you'll only need it once."

He stared at her, brows knit. "Why give me this if you think I'll lose?"

Olivia hesitated—just for a breath. "Because I don't think you'll lose."

That stopped him cold.

"I think you'll struggle,"