Chapter 58
An unnatural tension gripped the pit as every faction held motionless, waiting for the illuminated channel to complete its circuit. The moment the final stretch filled with pale-blue light, the entire chamber went silent.
A deep rumble rose from far beneath the plaza, as though some ancient beast were stirring from an age-long slumber. The sound traveled through stone and metal alike, resonating in the bones of every creature present.
The walls of the pit began to shake. Loose rock rained down from above, striking the plaza in a staccato of sharp impacts, while the draconic runes carved into the surrounding stone blazed to life with brilliant blue light. In an instant, the vast chamber was bright as day.
At the center of the plaza, the dragon skeleton began to convulse.
Its colossal bones ground against one another with a dry, rasping sound, as though a soul that had slept for untold ages were struggling to wake.
The rotting flesh clinging to its frame twitched, and streams of dark-gold energy seeped from deep within the bones, flowing through the joints like blood before converging on the stone monument beneath the dragon's skull.
Every rune on the monument ignited at once.
Gold and blue light intertwined into a radiant pillar that shot toward the top of the pit, and when it struck the vaulted ceiling, the energy spread outward into a vast azure vortex.
The swirling gateway pulsed with raw spatial power—a passage to the outside world, slowly forcing itself open.
Every faction stared at the pillar. As the light faded, the object floating above the monument finally revealed itself.
A severed dragon claw.
The relic measured nearly twenty inches from wrist to talon. Its surface gleamed dark gold, webbed with hairline cracks left by the passage of time, yet even damaged, the power radiating from it made the air tremble.
Then its draconic pressure descended upon the pit.
Every creature shuddered. Even the Elite-ranked leaders felt an instinctive suppression rising from deep within their bloodlines, while the weaker Units collapsed outright, many able to do nothing but tremble against the floor.
"Draconic pressure... that's the presence of a true dragon!"
"It really is a relic of the Dragon Race!"
The object looked like nothing more than a broken claw, but no one mistook it for mere remains. It was a powerful artifact steeped in the strength of an ancient dragon.
Greed spread across every face in the plaza. The azure vortex overhead made the stakes plainer still: the treasure had appeared, and the gateway would carry its eventual owner out of the dungeon.
The final struggle had begun.
"Move!"
No one knew who shouted first, but the fragile truce shattered in an instant.
Rimefang, Chieftain of the Frost Sabertooths, struck first—and to everyone's surprise, he didn't so much as glance at the dragon claw. His eyes stayed locked on Fenrir, murderous fury burning in his frozen gaze. First, he meant to tear apart the enemy who had slaughtered so many of his people.
Rimefang sprang forward with a roar, his massive body dragging a blizzard in its wake. Frost sheathed his claws, and every strike released enough cold to freeze the air around him.
"You lunatic!"
Fenrir had meant to charge straight for the relic, but Rimefang cut off his path and forced him into battle. The Werewolf leader had no interest in settling their feud here—not with the dragon claw and everything it promised hanging just out of reach.
"Rimefang, have you lost your damn mind?" Fenrir snarled, deflecting another blow. "The relic is right there. Don't you want it?"
He tried to shove Rimefang aside, only to find the Frost Sabertooth far stronger than expected. They were nearly matched, and Fenrir couldn't break away.
"The relic?" Rimefang gave a cold, savage laugh. "I don't care who takes it anymore. You're dying first."
His assault turned even more vicious. Frost-covered claws tore through the air from every direction, driving Fenrir back step by step. Fenrir bared his teeth in frustration, but he had no choice except to defend himself and wait for a chance to slip free.
Just as he gathered himself to unleash his full strength and blast Rimefang away, a wave of cold blood magic struck from the side.
Lucian appeared beside him like a crimson shadow, an elegant smile on his lips and a dense sphere of blood-colored power gathered in one hand.
Vampires and Werewolves were mortal enemies. Of course Lucian would attack him now. Rimefang wanted revenge; Lucian saw a chance to remove an old enemy and a rival for the dragon claw in a single stroke.
The two leaders reached the same conclusion: Fenrir died first.
A blood-forged blade ripped across Fenrir's chest. He stumbled backward as pain exploded through him, and the wound refused to close despite his regeneration.
"Then die with me!"
Rage burned away what remained of his restraint. His aura surged, driving his combat power higher still, but fighting two Elite-ranked opponents at once pushed him to the edge of his limits.
Lucian raised one hand and gave an order without ever taking his eyes off the battle.
More than a hundred Vampires encircled Fenrir and the remaining Werewolves.
Bloody afterimages filled the plaza as claws, blades, and magic wove together into a dense net of death.
Fenrir fought with mounting fury, but his path to the relic was gone.
Then the Goblins made their move.
The hunched Archpriest straightened his back, and a terrifying aura erupted from his frail body. His personal strength had only ever reached the peak of Veteran Rank, but dozens of High Priests fed him power through a massive runic circle, forcing his aura to the very threshold of Elite Rank.
Beside him, the Goblin High Chieftain loosed a deafening roar. His thick body swelled, foul-smelling green markings crawling across his skin.
"Out of my way!"
He charged toward the dragon claw with a massive warhammer in hand, the Goblin army pouring after him like a flood through a broken dam. The Chieftain stayed at the front, and Vampires and Werewolves alike were hurled aside wherever he passed, none able to slow his advance.
High above the plaza, Lilith stayed hidden against the edge of the pit, watching the chaos unfold below. A satisfied smile touched her lips.
"Go ahead. Tear each other apart."
Her gaze swept the battlefield with predatory focus. The more savagely the leaders fought, the better. What Lilith needed most was an Elite-ranked corpse—though enough lesser bodies could also build an army capable of overwhelming almost anything.
The dragon claw tempted her too. Sorely.
But this was not the moment to move. Lilith had to wait until the native factions had bled one another dry and at least one Elite had fallen.
Only then would she have a realistic chance of entering the fray—and even under ideal circumstances, it would still be only a chance.
She had no intention of gambling her life recklessly.
Giles had shifted to the edge of the pit the moment the fighting began. He studied the battle below, then caught the hunger in Lilith's eyes.
His Lord wanted the dragon claw.
"My Lord," he said quietly, "I can take the dragon claw directly."