The silence was deafening.
Rem stood motionless, his sword lowered, his breath heavy but controlled.
The air in the dungeon felt different now — lighter, cleaner. The oppressive weight of corruption had vanished, as if the space itself had finally exhaled after holding its breath for far too long.
Before him, only dust remained where Asrahoth had once stood.
It was over.
But even in its death, there was something left behind.
In the center of the room, where the Adaptive Nightmare had drawn its last breath, the cocoon lay.
Dry. Brittle. A husk of what it once was.
Yet it still pulsed with power.
Rem's gaze sharpened as his System's tab flickered to life in front of him.
[Would you like to absorb the soul of the Adaptation Nightmare?]
He stared at the message, his fingers twitching slightly.
A soul like this… It was different from the others.
Something unnatural.
Something forbidden.
