The gate at the center of the Lobby began to shine, neither flickering nor pulsing gently like the others; instead, it burned.

  Its surface, normally a controlled swirl of blue and silver mana, intensified into something almost blinding. Light poured out of it in thick waves, spilling across the stone floor and reflecting off the polished armor of the gathered mages. The air around it trembled, and the runic arrays etched into the ground sparked erratically.

  Every mage stationed nearby immediately straightened. Hands tightened around staffs, and fingers curled around hilts. Mana flared subtly around shoulders and wrists as defensive spells were prepared in advance. They braced themselves for the impact of monsters or a horde of warped creatures bursting through in a violent dungeon break.

  The tension was suffocating. Even the spectators farther back held their breath. Then the light peaked.

  And from within the gate… only one figure stepped out. This was no horde or monstrous silhouette; it was just one man.

  Silence fell across the Lobby. He walked forward casually, boots clicking against stone as the blinding light dimmed behind him. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed—as if he had just taken a leisurely stroll instead of emerging from a destabilized dungeon break.

  He was… Mugyeol, Captain of the Twelfth Moon of the Night.

  His presence alone altered the atmosphere. A few mages instinctively shifted their stance, recognizing him immediately, while others whispered his name under their breath.

  “What do you want?” Oman asked coldly.

  He had not moved from his spot leaning against a stack of reinforced supply crates, but the laziness in his posture was deceptive. This time, his amber dagger was already drawn. The blade glowed faintly with a warm golden hue. It had been forged from a legendary tree spoken of only in myths; ancient texts claimed that the tree had once been planted by a god, its wood infused with divine remnants. The dagger’s edge was unnaturally sharp, capable of slicing through mana barriers as if they were fabric.

  Oman’s grip on it was loose, but ready.

  Mugyeol did not even glance at the dagger. He ignored Oman entirely at first, scanning the gathered mages with a faint smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

  “Aww,” he said mockingly, spreading his arms slightly. “Aren’t you guys the stars of the kingdom?”

  His tone was laced with a mocking sense of amusement and ridicule. He tilted his head, clicking his tongue softly. “So sad that you guys are part of that lame loser’s underlings. Pfft, Nova, what a piece of shit.”

  A few mages stiffened at the blatant insult toward the High King. Mana flared instinctively from one of the younger ones before a senior mage placed a firm hand on his shoulder, silently restraining him.

  Mugyeol sighed dramatically, rolling his shoulders as if bored. Then he began rambling, pacing slowly across the stone floor as though this were a casual gathering rather than a potential battlefield. He talked about irrelevant matters, politics, the waste of talent in the kingdom, and how blind loyalty was pathetic.

  Oman’s eyes narrowed slightly. The arrogance in Mugyeol’s voice was not loud; it was worse. It was confident.

  “If you guys were with us,” Mugyeol continued with a lazy grin, “he

  His gaze finally flickered toward Oman—brief and challenging.

  The air between them tightened. The gate behind Mugyeol hummed faintly, still unstable. And the Lobby, already on edge, felt seconds away from erupting.

  Mugyeol laughed.

  It was not loud or explosive, but sharp enough to scrape against nerves.

  Before anyone else could respond, Jester stepped slightly forward, voice controlled, attempting civility.

  “So what is your purp—”

  Oman cut him off instantly.

  There was no patience in him. No tolerance left to spare.

  “The fuck is your problem? I will not ask again, what. The. fuck. Do. You. Want?”

  Each word was deliberate. Measured. Spat out like something bitter.

  He swung the amber dagger loosely around his finger, the motion casual, almost playful, yet every person in the Lobby knew that blade could carve through reinforced mana like paper. The gesture was a warning.

  Mugyeol watched him for a second.

  Then he chuckled again.

  “Hah, funny.”

  He straightened, tilting his head slightly, deliberately mimicking Oman’s cadence.

  “Well just a few days ago. We. CLEARLY.”

  He raised his hand and gestured in front of him, as if the word itself were suspended in the air, bold and undeniable.

  “Told you guys that we do NOT want interference with our work and still. One of your guys brutally killed our environment and soldie—”

  “That’s not what happened. It was an accident.” Crow interrupted firmly.

  There was no hesitation in Crow’s voice.

  In Crow’s ‘mind’, there was only correction.

  Mugyeol’s expression snapped instantly.

  “Fuck you mean ‘accident’?”

  The amusement vanished. His tone sharpened.

  “Our men were killed.”

  The accusation hung there.

  Blunt. Heavy. Intentional.

  Anyone with half a brain could tell he was twisting the narrative. The facts did not align with his version. The so called massacre had not unfolded the way he described it.

  But he did not care.

  He never cared about the truth.

  he thought, though it never showed on his face.

  This confrontation was calculated from the start.

  He had expected Nova’s response.

  Expected the reinforcement.

  Expected Oman.

  Mugyeol knew exactly who Nova would send to handle the disturbance. Oman was predictable. Hot blooded. Proud. Easily provoked if insulted correctly.

  So he chose his words with precision.

  He insulted the king.

  He mocked their loyalty.

  He fabricated outrage.

  Every sentence was bait.

  Every pause was intentional.

  He wanted Oman to swing first.

  He wanted the Nova kingdom to appear as the aggressor.

  If a fight broke out here, in front of witnesses, in front of officials, in front of unstable dungeon gates, he could easily claim that the Twelfth Moon of the Night had been attacked without cause.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  And that would justify retaliation.

  A bigger one.

  Mugyeol’s lips curved faintly again.

  The tension thickened, but this time it was not chaotic.

  It was deliberate like he was pulling the string.

  And he was waiting for it to snap.

  Jester had predicted this.

  From the moment the gates began destabilizing, from the moment reports of manipulated dungeon breaks reached her ears, she already knew this confrontation was inevitable. Mugyeol was not here for negotiation. He was here for spectacle.

  She had personally sent a message to Nova.

  A detailed one.

  Clear. Direct. Urgent.

  But it was never heard.

  Whether it was intercepted, ignored, or buried under bureaucracy did not matter now. The result was the same.

  So Jester took matters into her own hands.

  Her expression remained composed as she stepped forward, voice cutting cleanly through the charged silence.

  “That doesn’t mean you can just control all sixty of our dungeon gates. It was just a coincidence. We can’t even control where the gates go to.”

  Her tone was firm, not emotional. She spoke as someone presenting fact, not pleading.

  Mugyeol did not even look at her.

  Not because she was irrelevant.

  But because she had already ruined his preferred script.

  He had wanted Oman to explode first. To charge blindly. To make the Nova kingdom look reckless and violent.

  Jester’s intervention shifted the balance.

  Mugyeol thought, irritation flashing through him for only a fraction of a second.

  Because of her, the situation risked stabilizing.

  And that meant his opportunity would vanish.

  So he made a decision.

  If they would not ignite the spark, he would.

  “There is no coincidence,” he said flatly.

  And then—

  [The Grasp of Death]

  The incantation was spoken without flourish.

  The ground beneath the Rank SS mages cracked open.

  From below, a massive skeletal hand erupted upward, its fingers long and jagged, bursting from stone with violent intent. It reached immediately for the strongest among them, aiming to seize, to crush, to immobilize before a counterattack could form.

  Several mages reacted instinctively.

  Oman did not bother wasting time with defense.

  He ignored the skeletal hand entirely.

  Instead, he activated his movement skill.

  In a blink, he vanished from where he stood, the dash propelling him forward in an extremely short burst of speed that distorted his silhouette. He reappeared within striking distance of Mugyeol, dagger already aligned for a lethal thrust.

  No warning.

  He aimed for an opening at the torso.

  For a split second, Oman believed he had it.

  But Mugyeol’s body moved in a way that was almost unnaturally fluid.

  He executed a Layout Vault.

  [A/N: A layout vault is a flip with a straight, unbent body throughout the entire flight phase. I couldn’t find a better word to describe the action so I wrote Layout Vault. Layout Vault is mostly an action described in gymnastics.]

  His body flipped backward in a clean arc, completely straight from head to toe, rotating with precise control. Oman’s dagger sliced through empty space as Mugyeol passed over him mid air, avoiding the strike by mere inches.

  He landed lightly behind Oman.

  Balanced and prepared.

  Before Oman could even pivot his body to guard his blind spot, Mugyeol moved.

  There was no wasted motion.

  He stepped in close and drove the end of his staff down hard into Oman’s leg.

  It was not just a slash.

  Nor was it a shallow strike.

  Rather, it was a precise, concentrated jab that sent a violent surge of pain shooting straight through bone and nerve.

  Oman’s muscles spasmed involuntarily.

  A sharp, furious hiss escaped his teeth as his knee buckled for a fraction of a second. The affliction was not meant to cripple permanently. It was meant to interrupt. To humiliate. And more importantly, to destabilize.

  Oman’s inner feelings took over for a short moment.

  Pain flared hot and immediate, spreading upward in jagged pulses.

  Mugyeol twisted the staff slightly before pulling back, a faint smirk ghosting across his face as if he had merely tapped a training dummy.

  Across the battlefield, Jester remained still.

  Composed and focused.

  She had not rushed in. She had not reacted emotionally. Instead, her hands were already moving through a precise sequence of sigils, mana threading between her fingers in disciplined patterns.

  She knew her usual skills would not scratch Mugyeol.

  Not even a single bit.

  So she reached deeper.

  Mana gathered around her, condensing with intent rather than spectacle.

  A few steps away, Crow and Gyo were struggling.

  They had been a second too late.

  A single miscalculation.

  And now the skeletal hand had closed around them, trapping them within the grasp of the conjured spell. The bony fingers tightened, mana locking around their limbs like iron restraints.

  “Damn it!” Gyo gritted out, trying to force a burst of energy outward.

  Crow’s jaw tightened. “On three.”

  They synchronized without further discussion.

  [Face of Mischievous Luck]

  The activation was subtle.

  Then the change was immediate.

  From within the massive skeleton hand, faint wailing echoes emerged. Ghostly figures began slipping through cracks in the bone, phantoms peeling away from the spell’s structure as if the magic itself were being sabotaged from inside.

  Bit by bit, the skeletal construct weakened.

  Its fingers fractured.

  Its wrist split.

  The entire hand crumbled rapidly until nothing remained but scattered fragments and drifting dust.

  Crow and Gyo landed back on the stone floor, breathing hard but standing.

  As for Mugyeol—

  He was just about to yank his staff free from Oman’s leg, preparing to follow through with another strike.

  Then his vision blurred.

  There was no warning.

  No chant.

  Not even an announcement.

  Jarim moved with brutal efficiency.

  His battle axe cleaved cleanly through Mugyeol’s neck in a single, decisive arc.

  The sound was sharp and final.

  Mugyeol’s head separated from his body instantly.

  For a split second, there was silence.

  His body remained upright before collapsing heavily onto the stone.

  Jarim lifted the axe back onto his shoulder as if he had merely chopped firewood.

  He spat on Mugyeol’s corpse.

  “Stay down.”

  Oman exhaled sharply, gripping his injured leg while forcing himself upright.

  “Ah, thanks old man,” he muttered, irritation and fury still simmering in his voice. “That was fucking annoying.”

  Relief began to settle across the group.

  It was short lived.

  Mugyeol’s severed head twitched.

  Then, before anyone could process what they were seeing, it dragged itself unnaturally toward the headless body.

  Flesh reconnected.

  Bone fused.

  Skin sealed as though time itself had reversed the damage.

  Within seconds, Mugyeol’s eyes snapped open.

  His body jerked upright.

  Jarim reacted immediately, swinging his axe again with lethal intent.

  But before the blade could connect, an invisible barrier flared into existence.

  Jarim was violently repelled backward, his boots skidding across the stone as he was thrown several meters away by unseen force.

  “Shit,” Crow breathed.

  Right then—

  Jester completed her spell.

  Her eyes opened sharply.

  She raised one hand forward.

  [Terramorphic Impact!]

  A single card levitated into the air before her.

  Small.

  Innocent looking.

  Then it expanded instantly, enlarging to the size of a massive sigil suspended above the battlefield.

  The air shifted.

  The ground trembled.

  From the enlarged card, a colossal fist formed entirely of compacted stone and fractured rock. Countless smaller stones compressed together into one monstrous construct of raw force.

  It descended without hesitation.

  The impact was catastrophic.

  The stone fist slammed directly onto Mugyeol, crushing down with overwhelming weight and explosive momentum. The shockwave rippled outward, cracking the floor beneath him and blasting debris in all directions.

  Mugyeol’s body was launched backward with violent force.

  He was hurled across the Lobby like a ragdoll, unable to stabilize himself midair.

  And by sheer miscalculation-

  He collided directly with the unstable dungeon gate he had emerged from.

  The impact triggered a distortion.

  Space warped.

  The gate flared violently.

  And in an instant, Mugyeol vanished, pulled back through the very ‘dungeon gate’ he had used to enter.

  The light flickered.

  Then stabilized.

  Silence fell once more.

  Only this time, it was heavier.

  Because none of them were foolish enough to believe he was finished.

  “O shit, should we enter?” Oman asked, eyes locked onto the dungeon gate.

  The portal shimmered faintly, unstable but no longer violent. Its surface swirled slowly, as if nothing significant had just happened.

  “We can’t let him escape,” Crow snapped back immediately.

  He did not hesitate. He stepped forward, intent clear in every stride. If Mugyeol regrouped inside and returned with reinforcements, the consequences would be catastrophic.

  Crow thought grimly.

  But before he could reach the gate—

  Light descended.

  Not from the portal.

  From above.

  (A/N: I will sometimes call a Dungeon Gate, a portal because it makes more sense in certain situations)

  It poured down in a clean, overwhelming brilliance that forced every single one of them to shield their eyes. The air itself felt heavier for a second, charged not with hostility but with authority. Pure authority.

  When the glare faded and their vision cleared—

  He stood there.

  Sungho.

  The legendary monarch of the Central Region.

  The one whose name alone silenced rooms.

  The one whose power was spoken about in lowered voices, as if even mentioning it too loudly might summon him.

  Rank SSS.

  A rank that no other rank could surpass.

  There were no theatrics in his posture. No exaggerated display of mana. He did not need it. His presence alone bent the atmosphere around him. Calm. Absolute. Untouchable.

  “No need, my children,” he said evenly.

  He extended one arm outward toward the dungeon gate, palm facing it.

  The gesture looked simple.

  But the implication was unmistakable.

  You will not move past me.

  And no one even considered trying.

  “I need all of you to help the citizens at the Central City Wall,” Sungho continued, his voice firm yet controlled. “It seems the OEPMO tricked Nova into thinking that this was the real crisis.”

  His gaze shifted briefly toward the gate, and there was unmistakable disgust in his expression.

  “This was just a decoy. The real crisis is at the wall. Around two dozen dungeon breaks have exploded. My partner measured them ranging from rank C all the way to SS.”

  The weight of those words settled heavily.

  Two dozen.

  At the wall.

  Where civilians lived.

  Where evacuation routes were limited.

  Where panic could spread faster than monsters.

  Oman clenched his jaw.

  Crow exhaled slowly, frustration flickering across his face before discipline returned.

  Jester’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  They had been baited.

  And they had taken it.

  Sungho turned without another word, already moving toward the exit of the Dungeon Lobby. He did not rush. He did not need to. The others followed almost instinctively.

  No one argued.

  No one questioned.

  When a Rank SSS monarch spoke, you obeyed.

  Crow followed first, then Gyo, then Jester, their movements sharp and purposeful. Oman limped slightly but forced himself forward regardless, refusing to show weakness.

  Jarim was the last to move.

  He paused.

  Just for a second.

  He turned his head and looked back at the exact gate Corvian had entered earlier.

  It looked normal now.

  Harmless.

  Silent.

  But Jarim knew better.

  He did not speak the words aloud.

  He simply bowed his head briefly and offered a silent prayer for all the mages still trapped within unstable gates.

  Then he turned away.

  And followed the monarch toward the real battlefield.