Death Knell

A sharp hum sliced through the air.

The five-meter-tall boss monster let out a low, bone-rattling growl. Its massive jaw opened again, and the space around its maw distorted—pulling in energy from the dungeon itself. A glowing orb began to coalesce, crackling with raw power like a star being born in its throat.

Philip's eyes narrowed.

"I need five minutes!" he shouted. "Just five minutes! I'll prepare my strongest attack—buy me as much time as you can!"

Without hesitation, Maria stepped forward. Her strides were calm, deliberate. She came face to face with the towering monster like a queen challenging a dragon. She was no ordinary mage. No fragile glass cannon standing at the back lines hurling support spells.

She was the fifth-ranked mage in the entire Androlis Sovereign Zone. Not because of her raw firepower, but because of something far rarer—far deadlier.

She carried the bloodline of the Isenelle Clan.

A lineage so unique, so powerful, that in every generation, only one bearer of the Isenelle bloodline could awaken. One hunter, born with a divine-tier defensive energy that could defy the laws of destruction.

And for a new Isenelle to awaken?

The previous one had to die.

Maria was the third generation's sole inheritor of that sacred power. A living wall between death and survival. Her very presence distorted the battlefield—deflecting, nullifying, resisting. Her magic did not blaze. It refused.

She stood firm, wind swirling around her as her aura ignited. The orb in the monster's throat grew larger, brighter—pulsing with imminent doom.

And Maria?

She smiled darkly, cracked her neck, and raised her hand.

"Come on, you ugly bastard," she whispered under her breath. "Let's see if your power can break the defense of an Isenelle."

Maria slammed the base of her staff into the dungeon floor. Cracks spread beneath her feet as power surged up through the ancient runes engraved along the staff's shaft. Her eyes gleamed with dangerous focus.

"Absolute Ice… Infernal Flame…"

She spun the staff once over her head.

A shockwave of frozen mist exploded around her, frosting the very air. At the same time, crimson fire burst from the staff's head, burning so hot that it warped the space around it. The polar elements howled as they spiraled upward and then shot forward—intertwining like twin dragons, twisted and wrathful.

The massive energy orb that the boss monster had fired barreled toward her like a black sun, shrieking with destructive force.

Maria roared as she stabbed the staff forward.

The twin elemental spells collided with the incoming orb.

BOOOOOOOOM!

The dungeon lit up like a star had just gone supernova. Fire and frost detonated in a blinding sphere of raw power. The shockwave turned solid stone into molten slag, then froze it mid-drip. Blazing winds and icy fangs lashed everything within a hundred meters.

Then—silence.

When the smoke cleared, Maria stood in the center of the devastation, unharmed… but nearly bare.

Her reinforced battle attire had not survived the blast.

The enchanted coat was completely destroyed. Her skirt was gone. Only her black undergarments—a lace-patterned bra and matching panties, slightly burned at the edges—remained intact. Steam coiled from her exposed skin as embers floated in the air like the aftermath of a meteor strike.

Her hair flowed loosely down her shoulders, disheveled by the explosion, and her grip on the staff remained unshaken.

She raised her eyes slowly, glaring at the monster as if daring it to try again.

No shame.

No fear.

Just raw, unyielding defiance.

Behind her, one of the male hunters choked, wide-eyed. "Holy... fuck…"

Maria did not even turn around. She rolled her neck and lifted the staff again, shoulders flexing with cold confidence.

"Focus. If I can take a hit like that and still stand," she spoke loudly, "you sure as hell better not drop dead before Philip finishes his move."

The monster with four pairs of black wings growled, a deep guttural sound that echoed throughout the dungeon like a death omen. Its eyes—glowing red with murderous intent—locked onto Maria. It had clearly understood her provocation.

And it did not like it.

With a sudden snarl, the beast launched itself forward, the ground beneath its feet cracking under the explosive force of its sprint. The air trembled. Its wings flared wide behind it, a blur of shadow and pressure, and it charged at Maria with inhuman speed to engage her in brutal close combat.

Before it could reach her, two figures stepped in with blades drawn.

The two swordsmen—excluding Philip—rushed forward, their movements synchronized by instinct and years of combat experience. Their blades gleamed with mana as they intercepted the beast mid-charge.

Steel clashed against blackened claws.

"Do not touch her, you ugly bastard!" one of the swordsmen growled as he ducked under a sweeping claw, then drove his sword into the beast's leg.

The monster snarled and backhanded him into a stone wall with a sickening crack, but the second swordsman leapt high and slashed across the monster's face, drawing a thin, flickering line of blood.

It roared and retaliated with a spinning kick—so fast it cleaved through the wind like a blade—but the hunter rolled under it, barely avoiding the strike. He thrust his sword upward into the monster's underarm, but it only flinched briefly, like swatting away an insect.

Maria stood behind them, staff in hand, chanting quietly to cast a support spell around the swordsmen. Her eyes remained sharp, never blinking.

They were stalling.

Because Philip was preparing the kill.

He stood at the back of the battlefield, motionless, as if frozen in meditation. A gust of unnatural wind coiled around him. His breathing was steady, his aura pulsing like a heartbeat.

He raised his sword in front of his face—the tip pointed to the ceiling—and slowly dragged it across his open palm.

Blood spilled.

He did not wince.

The crimson droplets smeared over the blade, and instantly, the sword reacted.

It glowed—a dangerous, vibrant red—like liquid fire infused with rage. Faint blood runes emerged along the blade's length, pulsating with every beat of his heart.

The dungeon itself seemed to still.

Philip whispered, his voice cold and deliberate, barely audible over the fighting behind him.

"O blood that binds, O wrath unchained—

Let the thousand lives I severed rise again…

Bloodforged Thousand Severance—Release!"

The sword ignited.

Scarlet energy exploded around Philip, engulfing him in a storm of phantom blades—thousands of shimmering arcs dancing in the air like death itself had manifested. One by one, those ethereal blades vanished into the crimson aura that enveloped his sword, feeding it with an overwhelming power.

His body glowed with crimson aura.

Step by step, Philip walked forward, calm and composed, until he came to stand beside the two battered swordsmen still catching their breath. Dust clung to their armor, their shoulders heaved with exhaustion, and blood trickled from several minor wounds.

Without looking at either of them, Philip spoke, his voice level yet filled with lethal intent.

"I should stab it in the heart, right?"

Neither of the swordsmen answered. Not because they doubted him—but because they simply did not know. How could anyone be sure what would kill a monster like that?

Philip grinned.

"Oi... you fucking ugly bastard!"

His voice rang out across the chaotic battlefield, slicing through the tension like a blade through silk.

The monstrous boss turned its head, its glowing crimson eyes narrowing. It understood that voice.

It was a challenge.

With a guttural ROOAARRRR, the creature thundered toward Philip. Each footstep crushed the ground beneath it, craters bursting open under the sheer pressure of its monstrous weight. Its massive fist came down like a hammer, shattering stone and air alike as it slammed into the earth where Philip stood.

A cloud of dust erupted.

But Philip was no longer there.

"Over here, asshole."

The monster's head whipped to the right—and there he was. Philip stood several meters away, his entire body wrapped in that hellish crimson aura, his sword glowing like a weapon forged in pure hatred.

And then—

They clashed.

The monster roared and lunged again, its punches coming faster, sharper, more violent. It kicked, clawed, and spun—each attack a brutal storm of raw power. But Philip moved like a ghost, weaving through the assault with minimal movement, deflecting and countering with blade arcs that screamed through the air.

Steel kissed flesh.

Every time Philip slashed, the monster's skin tore open, spraying black blood like ink across the ruins of the battlefield. Wounds opened across its chest, legs, and arms—its skin no longer invincible. Philip's sword left burning crimson trails with each strike, the phantom blades embedded in his technique bursting forth and carving deeper.

Chunks of stone and metal debris were launched into the air from the force of their movements. The dungeon quaked, unable to contain the fury of their battle.

And then it happened.

With a roar of fury, Philip spun midair, his crimson sword slicing through the monster's left arm.

SHRRRRRKKKK!

The severed limb flew off in a wide arc, crashing into a distant wall with a dull, wet thud.

The beast howled, staggering back. Its balance faltered.

Philip did not stop.

He followed up with a whirlwind slash, jumping upward, flipping midair, and striking across its wings. With one precise sweep, two of the monster's massive black wings were torn from its back.

Feathers soaked in blood rained down.

The monster screamed. A sound of rage and agony so deep it cracked nearby stone pillars.

Philip landed, sliding across the ground with one knee down, panting—but smiling.

The monster turned toward him, now visibly weakened, staggering, dripping blood, fury still burning in its eyes.

Philip stood.

Then ran.

He launched forward like a missile, dodging one last desperate swing from the beast. His body blurred from speed. With a powerful leap, he shot upward—straight into the air, soaring above the monster's massive head.

He flipped the sword downward.

His crimson blade pulsed.

With one final shout, Philip descended like a meteor—

"Bloodforged Severance—Final Piercing!"

The sword plunged into the monster's chest, piercing through its scales, bones, and finally—its heart.

A radiant explosion of blood-red light erupted from within.

The beast trembled once. Then twice.

And collapsed.

BOOOOM!

The lifeless body of the winged monster crashed against the stone floor with a deafening thunderclap, sending shockwaves that cracked the very ground around it.

Smoke curled from its body.

Silence followed.

"That's it?" Maria exhaled and chimed in, a strained grin tugging at her lips. "It died, right?"

Philip exhaled sharply, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "I hope so," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

But just as the hunters exhaled in relief, something shifted in the air.

The monsters that had been watching from the edges of the dungeon—twisted beasts with hollow eyes and deformed limbs—began to stir. They had remained still until now, silently witnessing their boss's battle from the shadows. But the moment they saw their leader fall, they stepped forward—slowly, hungrily, ready to descend upon the weakened hunters like a swarm.

However, their advance came to an abrupt halt.

As if a chilling presence suddenly passed over the dungeon, every single monster froze in place.

Their snarling mouths hung open.

Their claws hovered mid-air.

Then they stepped back—just a single step—eyes flicking around nervously. It was as if they sensed something worse than death lurking nearby.

The hunters noticed the hesitation. A few exchanged glances, but with their nerves frayed and their focus still on survival, no one questioned it.

Philip paid no mind either.

Cautiously, he stepped toward the massive corpse. Its charred wings lay folded beneath its bulk, and the hole in its chest was still smoldering. Gripping his sword tightly, Philip planted one boot on the creature's torso and yanked the blade free.

A sickening squelch echoed through the dungeon.

But in the very next breath—something went horribly wrong.

From the gaping wound in the monster's chest, small black tendrils of lightning—thin, crackling, like living threads of death—suddenly lashed out and stabbed into Philip's chest.

His eyes widened.

He jerked back instinctively, trying to dodge, but the tendrils had already sunk deep into his flesh.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then, inside his mind—he heard it.

A bell.

Soft… and yet so loud it echoed like a command from some ancient realm.

And a whispering voice—faint, distorted, unintelligible.

Philip's entire body seized up.

Then—

His eyes burst.

Blood spurted from the empty sockets as he crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been violently cut.

"PHILIP!!" Maria screamed.

The others shouted too, panic rising, but before anyone could reach him—

More of the black lightning tendrils erupted from Philip's chest, dancing like serpents, and shot forward—straight into the team leader's torso.

He gasped. His hands clawed at his chest as the same bell tolled inside his head. His knees buckled.

Blood burst from his eyes. And just like Philip—he dropped, lifeless.

One by one, the nightmare unfolded.

The black tendrils tore out of the team leader's body and shot into Maria.

Her body flinched violently.

Her bloodline, the divine-tier defense of the Isenelle Clan, ignited automatically in an attempt to resist the invasion. The glowing sigils on her skin flared—but were shredded like paper.

She gasped.

Her eyes widened in horror as she heard the bell chime inside her head. Her mouth moved, as if trying to scream something—anything—but no sound came.

Her eyes exploded in a fountain of blood.

Her body hit the ground.

Then the healer fell. Then the remaining swordsmen. All of them.

Each time, the tendrils tore from the previous corpse and launched into the next closest target. The bell tolled again and again—like a death knell for every living being in the dungeon.

The two porters stood frozen in place, shaking. One of them, the chubby boy, tried to run.

But it was too late.

Black lightning ripped into both of them.

Mike—the thin, nerdy porter with round glasses—staggered as the tendrils burst into his chest. His body seized and shuddered.

And like all before him, his eyes exploded in a shower of crimson.

But something strange happened.

As his body collapsed, the tendrils inside him twitched.

They didn't flee as they had from the others.

Instead, they hovered briefly…as if noticing something… they slowly turned—toward his thigh pocket

Inside it, his smartphone.

The lightning-like tendrils slithered forward and sank into the device.

The screen flickered to life.

A faint glyph glowed across the screen—a symbol no one had ever seen before.

Whirrrr—click!

Then the screen turned black again.

That was it.

Silence returned to the dungeon.

The hunters, who were meant to stall for thirty minutes after defeating the boss and escape the dungeon, were all dead.

None of them made it out alive.

The dungeon stood still—quiet again. Except this time, it was not because the danger had ended.

It was because everyone was already dead.