Malraketh

A deep rumble whispered across the plains.

It began almost imperceptibly—like the distant growl of a coming storm. But there was no thunder, no lightning, no rain clouds on the horizon. The skies were clear…

Until they weren't.

The clouds above the dungeon shifted.

At first, it was subtle—wisps circling unnaturally. Then, as if pulled by an unseen force, they twisted inward, spiraling like a celestial vortex above the blackened stone maw of the dungeon's surface.

A heavy stillness settled over the land.

"RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGHHHHHHH—!!!"

The sound tore through the world like a divine judgment.

A soul-rending roar, impossibly deep and vast—echoing not just through the air, but through stone, flesh, and spirit.

It didn't sound like a beast. It sounded like something ancient, something buried and betrayed, woken before its time.

The earth convulsed. Cracks spiderwebbed through the soil. Trees bent under the weight of an invisible force. Rivers briefly reversed their flow as the very laws of nature faltered.

On the battlefield above, hundreds of adventurers and knights froze mid-motion.

No command was given. No retreat sounded.

They simply… stopped.

Because the roar wasn't just heard. It was felt.

A crushing weight pressed down on their chests, their skulls, their minds—like something massive had stepped into their reality and decided to look directly at them.

The younger ones dropped first. Some clutched their heads, screaming. Others collapsed into fetal positions. Blood dripped from the ears of those closest to the epicenter.

A group of mages trying to stabilize a protective barrier burst into chaos as the formation fractured, the lines of mana rejecting them violently.

Farther out, near the ridge overlooking the dungeon, Roderic felt the quake ripple through his boots. He staggered, planting his greatsword into the soil to keep from falling. Beside him, a knight coughed blood, trembling.

A scout dropped to his knees, eyes wide, whispering through cracked lips.

"W-What the hell is that…"

The roar ended.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Not the calm before a storm. No, this was the stillness after a god had opened its eye.

The monsters on the battlefield reacted first.

Dozens of them stopped mid-charge—snarling, twitching, suddenly aware that they were no longer the apex predators here.

Some of them turned, yelping, retreating back into the trees like whipped dogs. But others… others began to convulse. Eyes rolled back. Veins bulged beneath their skin, glowing with unnatural red light. They began to scream—and then charge, faster, harder, like puppets on frayed strings.

"They're going mad," gasped a cleric, backing away.

"They're being… commanded," muttered another knight.

Roderic tightened his grip. His instincts screamed at him, years of battle telling him this was no longer a fight they could win by strength alone.

He looked toward the dungeon's entrance.

He could feel it.

It was… pulsing. Breathing.

Further out, near the town of Dawnstead, the Perimeter Defense Squad was holding the final line. Led by Vice-Captain Gale Valtor and supported by the Trinity Blade and the other adventurers and knights, they had just repelled another wave of monsters when the ground jerked violently beneath them.

Gale's blade sparked as it clashed with a charging beast, but even mid-strike, he felt it.

His muscles locked. His heartbeat missed a step.

He stumbled backward, landing hard against a barricade as the tremor rolled beneath him. His men surrounded him, weapons raised—but even the strongest among them looked pale.

The wind howled unnaturally.

The clouds continued to swirl above the dungeon, casting wide shadows across the countryside. It looked less like weather and more like the eye of a storm birthed by magic itself.

"I don't like this," muttered Lena, blood running down her cheek. "This isn't just pressure. It's like something's… inside our minds."

Monsters nearby began to screech in unison, echoing the roar they'd just heard. Their bodies twisted unnaturally, as if reshaped by some unseen architect.

The sky flickered with black lightning, and the air itself began to hum—a low, vibrating tension that set teeth on edge and made hearts race with dread.

The tremor reached the town two seconds later.

A low boom rolled through the earth, subtle yet undeniable. The cobblestones trembled. The wooden signs swayed. Windows cracked in rhythmic patterns, like glass flinching at the roar's memory.

Inside the guild hall, a crystal orb used to monitor dungeon stability flared—first white, then orange, then a pulsing, bloody red—before it exploded. Shards flew across the room like shrapnel. Screams followed.

Staff hit the floor, one casting a warding spell seconds too late. The room flooded with residual mana backlash.

Garrick, the guildmaster, stared at the smoking remains of the orb. His lips moved, but no words came out at first.

And then, in a whisper that silenced the room.

"…This is no longer a dungeon break."

Back at the dungeon frontline, Roderic recovered, glancing across the battlefield as the wave of mental pressure ebbed.

The monster horde had gone unnaturally quiet.

No screeches. No charge. Just silence—and then the slow, unified sound of clawed feet dragging forward, eyes glowing red, marching toward the defenders with deadly coordination.

"It's like they're being… feared," a knight breathed in horror.

Roderic gritted his teeth, lifting his blade.

"This is war."

And somewhere deep below, a silver-haired girl prepared to face the end.

The silence was unnatural.

The miasma that once choked the chamber like a living fog had now receded, sucked entirely into the crimson-pulsing dungeon core—which no longer hovered in stillness.

In its place now stood something else.

Malraketh.

A name that did not belong in mortal tongues. A thing that should have never existed.

Where the dungeon core had once hovered now stood a nightmare sculpted from fear and madness.

Towering over the chamber like a mountain clad in molten armor, Malraketh's grotesque body was a horrific synthesis of jagged obsidian plating and sinewy flesh, stitched together by glowing lava-veins that pulsed with corrupted energy.

Four arms extended from its torso—two massive obsidian blades, jagged and pulsating with heat, and two clawed limbs that dragged the floor like scythes. Across its massive shoulders, spines jutted out like broken swords stabbed through skin.

And in the center of its chest—embedded deep within a gaping, armor-framed cavity—was the fused dungeon core, beating with a deep crimson light like the exposed heart of a dying star.

Belle's breath hitched.

This wasn't just the boss of the final dungeon floor.

This was the dungeon incarnate. A fully awakened anomaly.

"No… this thing isn't a guardian anymore," she muttered, her voice trembling with quiet realization. "This is the dungeon itself. It's alive."

Behind her, a soft cough broke her focus.

She turned sharply.

Kai lay crumpled near the collapsed wall, blood smeared across his tunic, eyes barely open beneath furrowed brows. His body was slick with sweat, skin too pale, but his chest still rose with effort. The miasma might have receded, but its damage lingered like poison in his veins.

Belle knelt beside him, her fingers trembling as she reached toward his heart. Silver sparks danced along her fingertips as she activated her Aura Sense, her pupils narrowing with focus.

Life—dim, but there.

She pressed her palm to his chest, exhaling in relief.

"You're still in there…" she whispered. "You're still fighting."

A flicker of flame appeared at the edge of his lips—a small puff, barely visible. Even unconscious, his magic had not abandoned him.

"Just stay here," she whispered, brushing a lock of hair from his face. "You've done enough. Leave the rest to me."

As she stood, her eyes locked onto the abomination before her.

Malraketh hadn't moved yet—but the pressure in the air was growing heavier by the second.

The ground trembled under its weight, not from steps, but from sheer presence. Its eyes—six of them—blinked open one by one, gleaming with unnatural light. Red. White. Violet. Their gaze swept across the chamber before settling directly onto her.

A chill spread down her spine. Every instinct screamed at her to flee.

She clenched her fists.

Her silver hair caught the rising wind. Sparks of lightning flickered across her skin. The air around her shimmered, mana swirling in agitation. Fire and lightning curled together around her arms, licking her sleeves like living serpents.

Malraketh moved.

It took one step—BOOM—and the entire dungeon shook. Cracks split across the floor, light spilling from beneath the stones like blood from a wound.

Its claws flexed. Its blade-arms hummed, resonating like tuning forks forged in hell.

Belle's eyes narrowed. She could feel it now.

There was no mana flow. No elemental current.

This creature—this thing—didn't use the world's magic.

It devoured it.

Mana fled from its presence, recoiling like a frightened animal. Even her draconic energy flared erratically, flickering at the edge of control.

"This thing… it's a rupture," she murmured. "A hole in the laws of nature. A calamity born from everything this world rejects."

Malraketh raised one of its blade-arms and slowly pointed it at her.

Not in a rage—not in wild instinct—but like a being passing judgment.

The atmosphere screamed.

Cracks of red lightning tore across the walls. Pressure thundered across the chamber in waves, crushing stone and air alike. The heartbeat of the dungeon quickened, the rhythmic thud shaking her bones.

Belle stepped forward. No hesitation. No fear.

"If you're the heart of this dungeon," she said, her voice calm despite the chaos. "Then I'll be the one that stops it."

Her foot ignited.

The ground behind her exploded as she launched forward like a silver bolt of divine wrath.

Fire and lightning spiraled in her wake, a vortex of energy weaving around her arms as her aura surged—flaring in perfect harmony, fused into a spiraling spear of destruction.

She crashed into Malraketh's barrier with a deafening blast.

BOOOOM!!

The chamber shook. Light blinded the space. Dust erupted into a storm.

But when the blast faded—Malraketh stood unmoved.

The barrier had held. Not a single scratch on it.

Belle skidded backward, boots carving trenches into the stone.

It didn't even flinch…

Malraketh responded with a roar—a cataclysmic soundwave that cracked the ceiling above.

And then, it moved.

With shocking speed for something so massive, it lunged—one claw sweeping out in a brutal arc.

Belle's body moved on instinct, flipping high into the air, dodging by mere centimeters. The claw shattered the floor beneath her, leaving behind a glowing crater of molten stone.

She landed hard, sparks skidding around her boots, and dashed again before the second strike landed.

A blade-arm came down, and she met it with a parry of fire-infused force, redirecting the blow just enough to avoid being cleaved in two.

Her arms shook. Bones rattled. But she was still standing.

A breath. That was all Belle took.

Just one slow, deliberate inhale as her boots scraped against the scorched floor, the broken remnants of ancient stone groaning beneath her.

Another breath.

She centered herself. Fire flickered along her skin like a second pulse, lighting her pale features in a crimson glow. Sparks danced at her fingertips. Static crackled along her spine.

Malraketh didn't move. It didn't speak. It didn't breathe.

But it watched.

Belle exhaled.

"Don't rush, this isn't like the Sentinel fight." Her voice barely a whisper. "Observe. Learn. Adapt."

Then she launched. A blur of flame.

Her form split the air in a flash of heat—Fire Magic: Searing Lance—a spear of molten fire lancing from her hand, trailing a crimson arc toward Malraketh's exposed shoulder joint.

A perfect opening. A calculated strike.

And yet—the monster bent.

Not ducked. Not dodged. Bent.

Its upper torso folded backward, joints flexing in impossible angles, like obsidian wrapped around liquid steel. The lance cut through where its shoulder should have been—and exploded against the far wall, igniting it in a cascade of fire and shrapnel.

Belle's eyes narrowed.

That wasn't instinct. That was prediction.

She took one step back—and the ground beneath her exploded.

A black claw, wider than her torso, came down like a guillotine from above.

She threw both hands up, summoning in an instant: Lightning Veil.

A dome of crackling energy flared into being just in time.

The impact was nuclear.

Electric arcs shrieked across the room, stones shattered, and the floor collapsed beneath her from the sheer pressure. Belle flew backward like a missile, smashing through rubble, dust and flame swallowing her entire form.

Pain bloomed across her ribs. Her vision danced.

But her feet hit the ground—hard—and she skidded, crouching low, silver hair trailing sparks behind her.

No hesitation. No retaliation. Just speed.

She darted again, lightning flaring to life around her legs—a hybrid burst that turned her into a streak of flickering red and blue.

She spun mid-charge, launching a roundhouse kick infused with lightning. The thundercrack that followed shattered three nearby pillars.

Malraketh raised one arm—and caught her leg mid-spin.

Steel met stone.

Its grip was vice-like, each claw digging into her flesh through her thigh-high stocking.

Her instincts screamed.

She detonated the lightning in her leg.

The shockwave blew her free in a crackling burst, and she flipped backward in the air, sparks trailing from her limbs, landing hard in a crouch.

Blood dripped from her calf. Her breathing was heavier now. Controlled—but strained.

Malraketh didn't pursue.

It stood still. Watching. Waiting.

Like a chess master across the board.

It's not just strong. It's intelligent.

She rose slowly, wiping a trace of blood from the edge of her lips. "You're reading me."

A vibration hummed through the chamber.

She tensed.

Malraketh raised both blade-arms high—and slammed them into the ground.

The earth screamed.

Red lines etched themselves into the floor around Belle in concentric circles. The stone glowed like molten metal being branded into place. A rune. A trap.

Her eyes widened.

She launched herself skyward just as the entire platform exploded upward in a geyser of flame and stone. The explosion was a living beast—twisting, snarling, hungry.

The heat seared her boots even mid-air. She spun, redirected with a burst of fire from her heel, and landed near the ruins of a broken column.

A blur to her right. She turned.

Too late.

A claw whipped for her head.

She ducked—barely—feeling the wind slice over her scalp.

She rolled beneath the swing, came up on her feet, and struck back with a flaming palm—straight into Malraketh's chest.

CLANG.

No impact. No recoil.

The fire sank into the obsidian surface like water on lava—absorbed, neutralized.

Belle's mind raced. It's still learning. Adapting.

It had taken her fire magic—and it wasn't even phased.

Malraketh's head tilted slightly. That same eerie, mechanical grace.

Almost like it was… amused.

And then—it disappeared.

Belle's pupils shrank.

She spun—instinct—and caught the blade-arm between her braced forearms.

The force of the blow cracked the ground beneath her feet. Dust and magic erupted outward in a shockwave.

Her arms buckled. Sparks flew. She was launched backward, crashing through debris like a cannonball, embedded halfway into the far wall.

Agony lanced through her back. Blood in her mouth.

She staggered forward, her boots dragging through the rubble.

And yet her eyes burned. Unwavering.

"You're not using your full power…" She panted. "Yet you're this strong."

It had tested her elemental range. It had baited her into patterns. It had set traps—pre-placed, rune-sealed, timed perfectly with its attacks. It wasn't just fighting her.

It was measuring its opponent.

And Belle had been doing the same.

She rose fully, posture firm. Her right arm blazed with fire. Her left sparked with lightning.

Switching again. Alternating. No rhythm.

She vanished.

A streak of flame—then lightning.

She feinted high—then dropped low. Flame Drive to the left—Lightning Shift to the right—then behind.

STRIKE.

Her elbow cracked against Malraketh's spine.

A dent. Just a small one.

But this time—it left a mark.

Malraketh recoiled slightly. Only for a moment.

It whipped around, claws lashing like serpents.

Belle backflipped, landing low, panting. Bruised. Bleeding.

But smiling.

"Got you."

Fire roared in one hand. Lightning screamed in the other.

The fight was no longer a storm of chaos.

It was a dance of tactics. Reflexes. Precision.

A duel not of brawn, but calculation.

And Belle was just getting started.

End of Chapter 69