The shadows surged again, thicker than before, crawling up the walls and ceiling like living tar. Nerothiel stood at the center of it all, veils fluttering without wind, its thousand faces cycling faster now.
Anger had crept into the shifting expressions, subtle but unmistakable.
"Pain anchors you," Nerothiel said softly. "Then I will give you meaningless pain."
The demon raised one elongated hand.
The dungeon collapsed inward.
Kael felt his footing vanish as the floor dissolved into darkness. For an instant, he was falling—then standing—then falling again.
Gravity twisted, directions lost their meaning. His wounded palm burned as blood streamed down his wrist, but even that sensation began to dull as the demon's power intensified.
[Skill Activated: Labyrinth of Delusion] for the demon.
The world fractured.
Kael now stood in a narrow corridor lined with doors—hundreds of them. Each door bore a familiar symbol, a memory, a name.
His chest tightened.
"…So that's your next trick," he muttered.
The whispers returned, louder now.
"Choose."
"Run."
"Hide."
"Open the door where you survived."
Nerothiel's voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere.
"Every door is a possibility," the demon crooned. "Every choice is a regret. Wander long enough, and your mind will rot."
Kael stepped forward cautiously.
The first door burst open on its own.
Inside—Yumi lay broken on the ground, bloodied, unmoving.
"You were too weak," a voice whispered.
Kael slammed the door shut, breath ragged.
The second door opened.
Selena stood there, turning away from him.
"I trusted you," she said quietly. "You never came back."
Kael's fingers dug into his palm, reopening the wound.
Pain flared.
(Focus)
He kept walking.
Door after door opened—visions of failure, death, abandonment. Each one is more precise than the last.
Nerothiel was learning, refining its illusions, pressing exactly where Kael was weakest.
His steps slowed.
His breathing grew uneven.
"…Enough," Kael growled.
He stopped walking.
The whispers faltered.
Nerothiel's voice sharpened.
"Oh? Tired already?"
Kael closed his eyes.
Slowly—deliberately—he sat down in the middle of the corridor.
The demon fell silent.
"…What are you doing?" Nerothiel asked, irritation seeping through its layered voices.
Kael exhaled.
"I keep reacting," he said quietly. "Running. Resisting. Fighting your illusions like they're real enemies."
He opened his eyes, gaze steady despite the blood loss.
"But they're not."
The corridor trembled.
Nerothiel's face twisted.
"Reality is perception," the demon snapped. "And I control perception."
Kael shook his head.
"No," he replied. "You control the stimulus."
He pressed his bleeding hand to the cold floor, smearing blood in a small circle.
"I control my response."
The whispers rose again, furious now, but Kael ignored them.
He focused inward.
On his breathing.
On the ache in his muscles.
On the memory of training—not victories, not triumphs, but repetition. Discipline. Endurance.
Nerothiel's illusions relied on engagement.
So Kael stopped engaging.
The corridor began to crack.
Hairline fractures spread across the doors, light leaking through the seams.
"What are you doing?" Nerothiel asked in panic. "Look at me. Listen to me."
Kael stood.
Slowly.
He raised his sword—not toward any door, not toward any illusion—but toward himself.
Not to strike.
But to the center.
"You feed on reaction," Kael said. "Fear. Guilt. Hope. Regret."
The dungeon shook violently now.
"And I've given you plenty," he continued. "But not anymore."
He took a step forward.
The corridor collapsed into darkness.
Kael was back in the central arena.
Nerothiel recoiled, veils whipping wildly as if caught in a storm.
"Impossible," the demon hissed. "You should be broken by now."
Kael wiped blood from his palm onto his sword.
"You made one mistake," he said calmly.
"And what is that?" Nerothiel snarled.
"You assumed I want peace of mind," Kael replied.
Astral mana stirred, unlike the explosive surges before.
"But I don't."
Nerothiel's eyes widened.
"I've lived with regret," Kael continued. "I've trained with it. Fought with it. Carried it."
The air around Kael is distorted, subtle but unmistakable.
"You tried to drown me in what I already accept."
Nerothiel screamed.
The dungeon erupted into chaos—faces exploding from the demon's form, screaming accusations, threats, lies.
"Then drown with it!" Nerothiel shrieked.
[Skill Activated: Thousandfold Echo]
The demon multiplied.
Dozens—hundreds—of Nerothiels filled the arena, each whispering a different doubt, each wearing a different face Kael recognized.
Kael closed his eyes one last time.
"…Astral Severance isn't for this," he murmured.
His mana shifted.
Condensed.
Focused inward—into his mind.
Not a physical skill.
But intent.
He stepped forward.
And spoke.
"You are not my past."
The illusions flickered.
"You are not my future."
More cracks.
"You are a test."
The astral energy surged—not outward, but through him, aligning body, mind, and will into a single vector.
Kael opened his eyes.
They burned—not with rage, but clarity.
He lunged.
Not at the nearest illusion.
But in the space between them.
His sword carved a precise arc—not fast, not powerful, but absolute.
The strike carried intent.
"Astral Severance"
The blade did not cut flesh.
It cut connections.
Every illusion froze.
Then shattered like glass.
Nerothiel screamed as its form destabilized, faces peeling away rapidly, veils disintegrating into violet ash.
"No—WAIT—" the demon howled. "You need me—without fear you are nothing—!"
Kael stepped forward and placed his sword against the demon's core—now exposed, a pulsating violet crystal where its chest should be.
"I don't need fear," Kael said quietly.
"I need to resolve."
He thrust.
The crystal shattered.
Nerothiel let out a final, agonized wail as its body collapsed inward, imploding into a vortex of fading whispers.
Silence fell.
The dungeon steadied.
Kael dropped to one knee, breathing hard, blood still dripping from his hand.
Above him, a faint system glow began to form—but Kael didn't look yet.
He clenched his fist, pain grounding him once more.
"…One more general down," he whispered.
The dungeon finally grew still.
No faces crawling across the walls.
Only Kael's breathing remained—ragged at first, then slowly steadying as the aftermath of the battle settled into his bones.
He stood alone at the center of Level 54, sword lowered, blood dried dark along his palm.
The pale violet light that had once saturated the arena faded into something softer, almost gentle, like embers dying after a long night.
Kael looked at his trembling hand.
"…I've improved a lot," he murmured.
The words surprised even him.
Just… honest.
"And my strength…" He paused, searching inward. "…No. Not just strength."
He placed a hand against his chest.
"My mental strength too has strengthened a lot."
The dungeon no longer pressed against him. The fear that once seeped into his thoughts had no grip now.
He could feel it—clearly—the difference between the Kael who had first stepped into the solo dungeon and the one standing here now.
"I'm proud of myself," he said quietly. "For this endless training. For not breaking."
As he turned to walk away, the faint glow of the arena dimming behind him, a sound reached his ears.
A cry.
Kael froze mid-step.
The sound was weak, cracked, and painfully human.
He turned back.
At the far end of the arena, where Nerothiel's core had shattered, a faint silhouette lingered—no longer a towering demon wrapped in veils, no longer a thousand-faced whisperer.
It was a man.
Or what remained of one.
He knelt on the stone floor, form translucent, edges dissolving into light. His face no longer shifted.
It had settled into a single expression—aged, weary, deeply tired. Tears streamed down his cheeks, falling through his fading body and vanishing before they could hit the ground.
He cried openly.
For a long time.
Kael could only watch in silence, a strange weight pressing against his chest.
"…After all these years," the figure whispered, voice trembling, "after seventy years…"
He laughed weakly through his tears.
"I have finally… fallen into peace."
The words echoed softly through the dungeon.
Kael didn't think.
He simply walked forward.
Each step felt heavy, not because of fear, but because of something closer to reverence. He knelt in front of the fading demon—no, the fading man—and reached out.
His hand passed through at first.
Then—faint resistance.
"Enough."
Kael gently closed his fingers around the man's hand.
It felt warm.
A human hand.
"Don't worry," Kael said softly. "You were strong."
The man looked up, eyes wide with shock.
Just tired brown eyes, filled with disbelief.
"…You," the man whispered. "You're not afraid of me?"
Kael shook his head.
"You don't feel like an enemy anymore."
The man's form flickered violently.
Then—
The dungeon dissolved around them.
Seventy years ago.
A younger man stood beneath a gray sky, holding a bundle of worn cloth close to his chest. His hands glowed faintly with magic—simple illusion spells, barely enough to entertain children.
He smiled as small figures laughed around him.
"I had a family of four," the man's voice echoed, layered over the vision. "A wife… and three children."
The scene shifted.
A cramped street corner. The man conjured glowing birds from thin air, letting them flutter and vanish. Coins clinked as passersby tossed what little they could spare.
"I raised them with my magic," he continued. "Street tricks. Small illusions. Enough to survive."
The vision darkened.
A dim room. A woman lay on a bed, skin pale, breathing shallow. The man knelt beside her, clutching her hand as healers shook their heads.
"My wife had cancer," he said, voice breaking. "Magic couldn't cure her. Only gold could buy the medicine."
The room blurred.
A bank vault.
The man stood trembling, hands glowing brighter than before, illusions spiraling out of control.
"I broke into the bank," he whispered. "Just once. I thought… if I could save her, it would be worth it."
Shouts erupted.
Guards burst in.
Magic shattered.
"I was caught."
Chapter 346
8 min read