Ned moved cautiously toward the faint glow, his breath shallow and heart pounding in his chest. As he got closer, the light revealed itself to be more than just an ambient glow—it was emanating from a contraption embedded in the cave wall. The intricate machinery looked ancient yet strangely advanced, like a door carved into reality itself. Ned stared at it, his mind racing with questions.
What is this doing here? Who could have made this?
No one could survive long in dungeons, not with the constant regeneration of monsters, let alone build something so sophisticated. His instincts screamed danger, but his curiosity gnawed at him. After a few moments of indecision, he made his choice.
"Alright, let's see what you're hiding," Ned muttered, shoving away the fake rocks obscuring the doorway.
The door creaked open, and he stepped inside, pulling it shut behind him. Darkness enveloped him momentarily before his eyes adjusted to the dim, bluish light. What he saw next left him utterly speechless.
The cavern was massive, easily larger than the boss room he had just left. Rows upon rows of enormous cages lined the walls, each containing beasts unlike anything he had ever seen. These creatures were grotesque and ferocious, their forms twisted as though nature had been tampered with. Razor-sharp claws, glowing eyes, spiked tails—each one seemed to embody destruction. The air was thick with the acrid tang of chemicals, and the faint hum of machinery filled the eerie silence.
But it wasn't just their appearances that terrified him. Ned instinctively activated Spectator's Insight, and the levels of the creatures appeared in his vision. His heart skipped a beat.
Level 100... Level 110... Level 115.
The weakest creature here was at the peak of the second awakening, levels far beyond anything that should exist in a dungeon of this rank. His stomach churned with a mixture of awe and terror.
This shouldn't be possible. Who or what could be controlling monsters this strong in a Level 15 dungeon?
Each beast was connected to a series of tubes filled with a glowing liquid. Their chests rose and fell in an unnatural rhythm, as if they were in a state of forced hibernation. The sight made Ned's skin crawl. He had stumbled into something far beyond his understanding, and every instinct screamed for him to leave.
He turned to leave, carefully retracing his steps, but a faint creak froze him in place. The door he had entered was opening again. Panicking, Ned darted behind a nearby stack of crates, crouching low and holding his breath.
A man entered. He was old, perhaps in his sixties, but his demeanor radiated a strange mixture of refinement and menace. His white hair was immaculately combed, and his piercing blue eyes glinted in the low light. He wore a tailored suit that seemed out of place in the dank cavern, but what caught Ned's attention was the bundle of dead wild wolves he dragged behind him, their bodies limp and bloody.
The man moved with an air of purpose, dragging the carcasses to the far end of the cavern where a set of tables and tools suggested some kind of gruesome experimentation. The whole area resembled a laboratory, but one designed for horrors beyond comprehension.
Ned's trembling hand activated Spectator's Insight, desperate to gauge the man's strength. The result made his blood run cold.
Level 125.
Ned's breath hitched. There was no way he could outrun, outfight, or even outthink someone at that level. He needed to stay hidden, to wait until the man left, but his gaze lingered a moment too long. The old man's head snapped toward him, sharp and deliberate.
"Hmmm," the man said, his voice smooth yet chilling. "What do we have here?"
Ned froze as those piercing blue eyes scanned the cavern. The man's lips curled into a thin smile.
"A Level 15? How quaint. Come out, boy."
Panic surged through Ned. His thoughts raced. Run? Hide? Talaria could get me to the door, but what if he catches me? Thousands of scenarios played out in his mind, each more desperate than the last. The man stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate.
"I don't like repeating myself," the man said, his tone hardening. "Come out now, or I'll find you myself. And trust me, you won't enjoy that."
Ned swallowed hard. His options were bleak. If he ran, he'd likely die. If he stayed hidden, the man would find him anyway. Steeling himself, he stepped out from behind the crates, raising his hands in surrender.
"I—I'm sorry," Ned stammered. "I didn't mean to intrude. I found this place by accident. Please, I don't want any trouble."
The old man studied him with a predator's gaze, his sharp blue eyes boring into Ned as if peeling away his very soul. It was then, under the dim light, that Ned noticed it—a tattoo on the man's neck, partially obscured by the high collar of his tailored suit. As the man shifted, the tattoo became fully visible: a fist encircled by a gear, inked in an iridescent gold that seemed almost alive, glinting faintly with every movement.
For a moment, Ned couldn't place it, his mind still reeling from the danger he was in. But then, like a thunderclap, recognition slammed into him. That symbol wasn't just a mark—it was a legend, a warning etched into the minds of every Alliance member. The Fist and Gear. Ned's heart pounded like a war drum. He realized with chilling clarity that his odds of survival had just plummeted to near zero. It was the unmistakable insignia of The Golden.