Chapter 8:
The Tyrant and the King
CLAIRE, OUR ONLY HOPE to defeat Cain, had vanished in a flash of light.
Cursed was stabbed solidly into the ground, its ice barrier enfolding everyone but me and Cain. The blade pulsed like a living organism; the barrier throbbed in rhythmic response. The barrier was still forming—it was drawing upon Cursed’s power, I suspected. If the blade left the ground, I was sure it would destroy the magic circle and take the barrier with it.
Claire’s last gift. She left it behind so I could focus on defeating the enemy. It had to stay put.
They’re in your hands, she told me.
Without her here, I was the only one with a fraction of a chance of winning, but how? He was stronger than the ifrit, an enemy that already bested me. I didn’t see a single path to victory.
Think, Rin. Think!
I had to keep thinking until I pieced together how to beat him. To buy myself time, I started questioning Cain.
“Why won’t the teleportation spell work on us?” I asked.
“I just told you. I’m the owner of this dungeon, so I modified its configuration.”
“You said ‘God’ creates dungeons. Are you saying you’re allowed to seize ownership from a god?”
“Please, young man! I’d never lay claim to all of it. I simply limited who may leave after the dungeon boss is defeated. Besides, once I eliminate everyone in this room, it will empty out. The result will be the same.”
I stayed silent.
“I can’t change a predetermined system twice. If you want to get to the surface, you’ll need to kill the owner—me—and obliterate the dungeon itself.”
So, if Cain died, the dungeon would be destroyed. That made an owner something akin to the final boss of a dungeon collapse.
I held onto a flickering hope that everyone would return to the surface alive, but the odds of managing it were near zero. As much time as I bought to let my ideas run in the background, I never came close to a winning strategy.
That wasn’t even the worst part.
“Are you kidding?!” I exclaimed.
The crater in the ground, the scorched flower field, the evaporated pond, and the broken ceiling… Like an unwinding clock, they restored themselves until the boss room was as pristine as it was when we set foot inside. I’d never seen this happen before. The flames that hovered over the palace restored themselves too, which meant once they combined, they’d transform back into the ifrit.
“You have got to be kidding me!” This was getting ridiculous.
Cain laughed, enjoying my frustration.
“I must inform you, worm, you weren’t the only one passing time,” he taunted.
“How’d the ifrit revive itself?!” I demanded.
“More tiresome questions. The little miss wasn’t the only challenger here, remember? The boss will respawn to battle any interlopers. You should know that.”
My mind rushed to deny it but arguing couldn’t help me now. My miniscule chances of winning dropped below zero if Cain and the ifrit attacked at the same time.
I grit my teeth. The ifrit suddenly roared and brought its fiery arm down, but more surprises lay in store—the ifrit wasn’t aiming for me. It was aiming for Cain.
“Blood Wall,” he said.
A thick wall of ruddy coagulated blood materialized to swallow the hit. The impact sent an explosive sound and an accompanying wave of blood through the near vicinity, but it protected Cain perfectly.
“Surprised?” Cain asked. “A boss will even turn on the dungeon’s owner once it respawns. If I were inside the palace, I wouldn’t have to deal with this…but no matter. I won’t let it get in the way of our fight. Now, bow down.”
Hundreds of threads of fresh blood shot from Cain’s hand and spun toward the ifrit. They knitted around its body and dragged it down to the ground. The ifrit, now immobilized, screeched in anguish.
“There. That should prevent any interruptions to our battle,” Cain said. “I have no qualms with allowing you to die at its hands but…well, I’d hate to waste such a perfect opportunity to taste the experience of someone from another world.”
I clicked my tongue in annoyance. The side show was over.
Cain, clad in crimson mana, threw a smirk my way. “The time has arrived for me to crush you under my heel, child.”
With those haughty words, our battle—one I had no chance of winning—began.