"Kill him," my voice is heard by everyone outside the mountain. It isn't a loud or menacing war cry, but instead a quiet, subtle whisper. An infallible order given out by a confused core, stuck in her grief.

  On my command, everyone who was hidden and waiting in the shadows of the trees attacks. Waves of wolves spring from the darkness and rush the soldiers as Trixie and her pack lead the charge on the army's right flank. From the shadows to their left, Webster and the Willies appear. Behind them are a horrifying number of arachnids, drooling venom and hissing as they rush forward. From behind the King's army, the trees and everywhere else wolves and spiders don't occupy, Lila and her oversized Bats appear, preventing anyone in the invading army from fleeing.

  If that was all they had to deal with, some of the invading army might have made it out alive. Unfortunately for our aggressors, shadows are everywhere in the forest. Not only are monsters hidden in areas unseen by their human eyes, but so too are Assassins concealed beneath their very feet. The center of the army had already collapsed before the monsters hit the outer perimeter.

  At least the men trying to hold the line are able to try and fight back. Any soldier unfortunate enough to find an Assassin in their shadow didn't have the luxury of worrying about where they should have been positioned.

  They were already dead. A discordant symphony of snapping bone and gurgling screams. Trixie, a whirlwind of obsidian fur and glinting fangs, led her pack in a frenzied dance of carnage. Each lunge a brutal ballet, throats ripped open with savage precision, warm crimson blooming against the cold, iron-grey of their uniforms. The ground, once pristine, became a slick canvas of blood and mud, painted with the dying spasms of the vanquished.

  From the shadowed periphery, Samantula's silhouette moved with terrifying grace. Her multi-faceted eyes, gleaming like malevolent jewels, registered every panicked twitch, every desperate gasp as more arachnids swarmed. Spider legs, sharp as obsidian shards, punched through hardened breastplates as if they were paper, the sickening crunch echoing through the chaos. Venom, potent and swift, coursed through the soldiers' veins, their bodies convulsing in grotesque, puppet-like tremors, a macabre testament to their artistry.

  Above, the black sky from Light's Grand Skill darkened further. Not with storm clouds, but with a living, swirling vortex of bats. Lila, a figure of evolutionary grace, commanded her aerial legion with silent authority. Each dive a calculated strike, talons hooking into exposed necks and limbs, lifting screaming soldiers into the suffocating embrace of the sky. The victims, dangling like dolls against the moonlit backdrop, were then released, their final screams swallowed by the wind as they plummet back to the blood-soaked earth.

  And then, there are the shadows. Unseen, unheard, my Assassins move like wraiths, their presence a chilling premonition of death. A flicker of movement, a whisper of steel, and another soldier crumples, a crimson stain blossoming on their throat, their eyes wide with the terror of an unseen foe. They're everywhere and nowhere, a phantom army dismantling the invaders from within. Silent blades a constant, agonizing reminder of their predicament.

  The army, now a fractured mob, flail against my family, their cries lost in the cacophony of slaughter. No reinforcements arrive, no banners rally, there's only the chilling certainty of a merciless annihilation. The invaders not merely being defeated; they're being systematically erased.

  The weakness of the army, compared to the impassive King who leads them, is a strange irony. He, the architect of this bullshit venture, merely watches as his army is torn asunder. Their formations, once rigid, are now a chaotic mess, their ranks dwindling with terrifying speed. Soldiers decapitated, ensnared in silky webs, poisoned, clawed, bitten, and hurled through the air like ragdolls, my family’s merciless efficiency is a horrifying spectacle.

  Dungeon Mist, a sprawling mist of crimson miasma consumes the fallen, their bodies burning from within, their blood merging with the red haze that hangs heavy over the killing field as remains are absorbed into the ground. Smoke, thick and acrid, drifts towards the sky, Dragons, here to play their role, begin to gather, circling overhead like predatory gods. For now, their aid is unnecessary, the enemy numbers are dwindling faster than my points during a Land Acquisition spree.

  The King, encased in some type of barrier, remains a figure of indifference, his expression no longer furious. He offers no intervention, no commands, and no flicker of emotion as his troops are butchered. Even his three personal guards, their faces impassive, stand motionless, their weapons sheathed, their presence an unsettling testament to the King's callous disregard.

  The Eyepatch twins and the robed man, their features sharp and watchful, remain rooted to the spot, their attention fixed on the King. It's only when I attempt to rise, despite my missing limbs, that their eyes snap to me. A ripple of surprise, a flicker of something akin to fear, crosses their faces. But what happens next shatters their composure, leaving them gaping, their faces etched with disbelief.

  A jolt of blue light, not a blinding flash, but a soft, ethereal glow, erupts beside me. And then, she's there. Another me. Identical in every way, down to the smallest hair, but whole, uninjured, and perfect.

  There's no tearing of space, no ripple in the air, no surge of mana to explain her arrival. She simply exists, a sudden manifestation. Eyes closed, face serene, yet the presence is undeniable, radiating a quiet power. A power that makes the air crackle with unspoken questions, a power that has frozen the very breath in the throats of those who witnessed her arrival.

  My world narrows, the vibrant clash of battle fading into a dull hum. My vision, a fractured mosaic of pain, clung to the three small figures huddled before me. The triplets. Their tiny forms, still and broken, a testament to their futile defense. They were only level 1. They'd shielded me, a desperate act against a force that shattered them like glass. A wave of nausea, thick with grief, washes over me.

  They're gone.

  My gaze, heavy with the weight of unshed tears, shifted to the King. Aldus. The architect of this carnage. A raw, animalistic rage clawing its way up my throat, a burning desire to obliterate him, to erase him from existence. If my glare was a physical weapon, he would have been reduced to ash already. But my body is dying, a husk, and the venom in my eyes is all I have left.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  Then, nothing. Until Abi 2.0 opens her eyes, a mirror of rage. My new body, a vessel of hastily-created life, inherited my fury. "How dare you?" The words rip from my throat, a growl that echoes the storm brewing within.

  I channel that power surging through me, a torrent fed by the dungeon's raw energy, by my family, and most of all, by the sight of my dead triplets. I focus, compressing the chaotic energy into a single, blinding point. A sphere of pure mana, devoid of elemental affinity, but burning with the intensity of a newborn star. It pulses in my outstretched hand, a beacon of wrath.

  The light intensifies, growing denser, heavier. Yet, remaining contained, a miniature sun refusing to expand. I pour more power into it, an endless stream fueled by my burning desire for vengeance. The air around it crackles, the very fabric of reality beginning to warp and bend under its immense pressure.

  Suddenly, the sphere begins to draw in power from beyond, a hungry void consuming everything around it. The air swirls, a vortex of energy spiraling into the incandescent core. The light fades further, replaced by an absolute, terrifying blackness. A perfect sphere of nothingness, a singularity of pure, unbridled power. A promise of annihilation, a silent testament to the price of their lives.

  King Aldus, sensing the imminent threat, doesn't wait. He obviously knows better than to passively receive an incoming attack. He unleashes another torrent of his demonic energy, a black, writhing mass of corruption, directly at me, the perceived source of his impending doom.

  This time, however, a shield of impenetrable darkness materializes before me. A wall of shadows, as thick and unyielding as the void itself, intercepts the King's attack. It absorbs the full force of the demonic onslaught, remaining unbroken, a testament to its power. More than that, it even went a step further. Instead of shattering, dispersing, or deflecting, the mass of demonic energy was swallowed whole by the wall of shadows, devoured by the encroaching darkness, leaving the King aghast, his face a mask of bewildered terror.

  From the tower above, the remaining Assassins, their faces grim and determined, had come to my aid. They moved with a silent, coordinated precision, casting the same skill in unison.

  Cloak of Shadows.

  Normally, it was a simple skill, a mere veil of darkness around the caster's body. But my high-level Assassins, masters of their craft, have elevated it to an art form, creating a vast, impenetrable blanket of darkness to protect me. The sphere of magic I hold is no longer a ball of light, but a void in space, a dark singularity of raw power, a promise that anything it touched would be erased from reality.

  As the cloak recedes, Light steps forward, his eyes gleaming with a fierce determination. He activates his Grand Skill, a culmination of his mastery, a power born from the shadows.

  Night's Embrace.

  The sun, as if fleeing a celestial predator, vanishes from the sky, chased away by the unseen hand of the God of Water. The moon, a cold, silver disc, takes its place, illuminating the killing field with spectral light. The faux night sky, a canvas of stars, offers one final boon, another buff to the already potent array of enhancements applied by my dungeon.

  On top of my Mist, which grants a 20% boost to attack and regeneration, and the collective might of Talia's Tavern, The Syndicate, The Mage and Adventurers Guilds, each contributing their own potent buffs to health, attack, defense, magic, and speed, Light's new skill amplifies them all. It boosts all active bonuses within range by a further 25%, extending its influence to every ally, regardless of alignment, a testament to the unity forged in the face of overwhelming darkness.

  .

  .

  The King, his composure shattered, stammered questions at his generals, their faces as blank and bewildered as his own. The sudden, unnatural shift from day to night, the utter failure of his demonic magic, had thrown them into disarray.

  Then, a keening, high-pitched scream erupted from the void within my grasp, a sound that seemed to tear at the very fabric of reality. With a mental command, a single, silent "Get out of the way," I sent my forces reeling back, creating a clear line of fire. Whispering a single, venomous word, "Die," I unleash the singularity.

  Space itself fractured, reality warped and twisted as the concentrated power was released. The ground before the King and his generals was ripped away, swallowed by the beam of encroaching nothingness. "Danil!" the King's voice, a desperate, ragged cry, echoes through the distorted air. The robed man, Danil, reacts instantly, teleporting the King and his entourage away, a desperate leap into the unknown. But even teleportation offers only a fleeting respite. They're still within the confines of my dungeon, still within the reach of a void.

  The attack, however, doesn't stop like most do. It isn't just a projectile; more a force of annihilation, an unstoppable wave of pure, unadulterated destruction. It tears through the forest, leaving a swathe of barren land in its wake. It surges across the countryside, ignoring the curvature of the planet, rising like a vengeful spirit. Ripping through the ashen ruins of the elven home, a final, cruel reminder of the King's tyranny, the beam sliced through mountains as if they were made of paper. Continuing its ascent, it pierced the atmosphere, leaving the planet behind.

  And then, it hit the moon.

  Not a crater, not a scar, but a gaping, black hole, a chunk of the moon simply gone, erased from existence. The void, its work done, faded into the vast, indifferent expanse of the galaxy, leaving behind a stark, unsettling testament to its power, a dark wound etched into the very face of Tironia.

  Not that I care.

  I only want revenge.

  The King hasn't got far as Marie, the wily-old Space Mage, erected a closed-circuit teleportation field the moment he and his army entered my territory. The King's Space Mage, Danil, will still be able to move them about with short jumps, but they won't be able to escape my dungeon so easily.

  They are not, however, attempting to escape. King Aldus, Danil and the Eyepatch twins appear in the eastern forest. They aren't alone for long though as me and my Assassins are right behind, leaving Trixie and the others to finish off their army.

  "Now!" Aldus’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the stillness. The Eyepatch twins, their eyes gleaming with an unholy light, begin their incantation. Their hands moving with a practiced, unsettling precision, weaving arcane energies into a terrifying tapestry.

  A rent tore through the fabric of reality, a gaping maw in the air. It wasn't the clean, precise portal of a Space Mage, but a grotesque, pulsating wound. An entrance into nightmare, a gateway to a realm of pure, unadulterated terror.

  The portal wasn't a doorway; it was a chasm, a vast, writhing expanse of chaotic energies. Flames, a sickening blend of purple, crimson, and black, lick and writhe around the edges, forming a macabre frame. Through this monstrous aperture, a landscape of pure horror unfolded.

  We're granted a glimpse into a desolate, alien world. A crimson sky, devoid of sun or moon, hangs heavy over a barren, ashen desert. And in that desolate wasteland, they swarm. Demons. Not the tamed, controlled entities Aldus commanded, but raw, untamed horrors.

  Their forms a grotesque mockery of life. Tentacle-like appendages squirm and pulse, bony spikes jut from pallid, grey flesh. Their eyes, cold and empty, burn with a primal hunger. The air stills in their malevolent presence.

  The sheer, overwhelming number of them is staggering. They carpet the landscape, a sea of grey flesh stretching to the horizon. The first demon, its head a mass of writhing tendrils, catches sight of the portal. Its form jerking, a primal scream echoing across the wasteland, a signal to its brethren.

  A ripple of movement spreads through the demonic horde and a wave of grey bodies surge forward. They sprint, claw, and fight, a frenzied mass driven by an insatiable hunger for the world beyond. Their snarling cries, a cacophony of bestial rage, filling the air.

  The sheer scale of the demonic horde is sickening. They easily outnumber Aldus's original army threefold, and that's just what I can see. Who knew how many horrors wait beyond the horizon unleashed upon my dungeon by the King's desperate gamble?

  He should have just died!