Once Matthias had finished basking in the warmth of the faith placed in him, he fell into a creative frenzy. His new rarity opened an entirely new tier of creatures, plants, and items he could craft. It was not difficult for him to slip into a creative fugue state. Concepts unfolded before him like blueprints written in light. Every idea branched into three more, and each branch demanded refinement. Mana pulsed in steady rhythms as he lost himself in invention.

  Meanwhile, Nefertut was holding court.

  He sat upon a throne of bone—no mere ornament, but a monument built from the remains of champions who had once challenged him. Skulls formed the armrests, their horns and fangs polished smooth by his idle touch. The ribcages of fallen titans arched overhead, forming a canopy that clicked faintly whenever infernal mana stirred. Before him hovered twenty mirrors framed in black iron and bound with chains that rattled despite the still air.

  One by one, the last twenty infernal dungeon cores became visible within them. Each and every one possessed an avatar—some hulking and bestial, others formed of smoke and screaming faces, others still appearing almost regal until one noticed the blood pooling beneath their thrones. They did not sit quietly. Claws drummed against stone. Wings snapped open and shut. One creature tore apart a goblin servant simply to have something to chew while it waited. They were not rulers by temperament; they were predators forced to share the same hunting ground.

  The only reason they were gathered at all was because none of them had been able to kill Nefertut.

  "I have grave news," Nefertut announced solemnly, his voice carrying across the mirrors like the toll of a funeral bell. "The dungeon we have come to know as Vitalmire Crucible—and its core, The Father of Monsters—has awakened the spirit of the world."

  The reaction was immediate and chaotic.

  "Then we tear the spirit out by its roots!"

  "Let it come! I will devour it!"

  "No spirit commands me!"

  "We should have slain him when he was weak!"

  "Silence."

  The word cracked like a whip.

  Nefertut did not raise his voice. He did not need to. Infernal pressure flooded the chamber, thick and suffocating. Several avatars faltered. One mirror spiderwebbed with fractures before stabilizing. Another avatar—a massive horned brute—instinctively lowered its gaze.

  "You speak," Nefertut said softly, "because you forget who broke you."

  The brute’s throne splintered as phantom chains wrapped around its limbs within the mirror. It howled once before Nefertut released it. The display was casual. Effortless.

  "Perhaps I need to remind you all why I lead this alliance," he continued, eyes glowing like banked coals.

  The other cores grew quiet—not obedient, but wary. Like rabid dogs that remembered the sting of the lash.

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  "The world spirit intends to fully awaken," Nefertut said, each word deliberate. "It intends to mold the world. It intends to give us orders. It intends to hold dominion over all land. Over all mana. Over you."

  Low growls rippled through the mirrors.

  "To that end," he went on, "she had The Father of Monsters contact me. The world spirit intends for war—a war of extermination."

  That word—extermination—ignited them.

  Flames burst behind one throne. Another avatar split into a swarm of bats that shrieked obscenities. Several began shouting over one another, proposing massacres without strategy, slaughter without coordination. They were creatures of impulse. Of hunger. Of pride.

  Nefertut allowed the frenzy to build until it reached its peak. Then he struck his staff against the floor.

  Once.

  Twice.

  The chamber shook. Mana snapped tight as drawn wire.

  "The great working that birthed us is eroding," Nefertut declared. "We are the final generation of dungeon cores. There will be no successors. No rebirth. When we fall, we are ash scattered on a dead wind."

  The effect was immediate. Rage turned brittle. Even the most anarchic among them stilled.

  "The heavens have succeeded in one of their goals," he continued, voice hard as iron. "We cannot risk the demon royal transformations. We cannot cannibalize ourselves for short-lived ascension. We cannot gamble our existence on madness. We are all that remains."

  He rose slowly from his throne, bone grinding against bone.

  "So we will do what we have always done," Nefertut said. "We will conquer. Together."

  The word tasted foreign in his mouth, but they responded to it.

  "We unite not because we trust one another," he said, "but because none of you are strong enough to survive alone."

  Snarls answered him, but none challenged the truth.

  "We attack Vitalmire Crucible. We tear down The Father of Monsters before he ascends further. He is Mythical—nothing more. This is our final window before he stands among us as an equal."

  "What of the celestial dungeons?" asked the succubus-shaped avatar, her smile sharp and hungry.

  "They turn their gaze upon him as well," Nefertut replied. "Ilvir is gone. Their unity fractures. Several cores prepare rituals to house their gods directly."

  That revelation sparked fresh outrage.

  "Let them descend!"

  "I will wear a god’s spine as jewelry!"

  "Their arrogance will choke them!"

  "Good," Nefertut said, cutting through the noise. "Once The Father of Monsters is dead, we strike the heavens while they are overextended. We break their descending avatars. We sever their footholds. We remind them why they once feared us."

  He extended his staff toward the mirrors.

  "Unleash your hordes. No restraint. No half-measures. Vitalmire Crucible will be the crucible that forges the future—or burns us all to cinders."

  His gaze hardened.

  "Hold nothing back. If you hesitate, I will personally ensure you are the first to fall."

  That threat carried no bluster. They believed him because they had seen him do it before.

  One by one, the avatars rose and roared their war cries—discordant, savage, eager for annihilation. The mirrors winked out in bursts of hellfire and shadow as each dungeon turned to mobilize.

  Silence returned to the bone hall.

  Nefertut remained standing for several long moments after the last connection severed. Then his shoulders sagged.

  The tyrant’s mask slipped.

  He exhaled slowly, the sound more weary than triumphant.

  After a time, he descended from his throne and walked toward an all-too-familiar hallway. Once he had avoided it for centuries. Now it had become a near-weekly pilgrimage.

  He had restored the corridor meticulously. The dust was gone. The air was clean. Torches burned with steady light instead of guttering in neglect. The door at the end opened smoothly beneath his touch.

  Within lay the fairy—unchanged, suspended in enchanted sleep.

  He approached quietly, the warlord replaced by something far older and far more tired.

  "Soon, my beloved," Nefertut whispered, brushing his fingers along her cheek with trembling restraint. "Soon this endless struggle will end. The gods will lose their grip. The dungeons will stop devouring one another."

  His reflection stared back at him in her glass coffin—powerful, feared, obeyed.

  Alone.

  "I am tired of ruling beasts," he admitted softly. "Tired of being the strongest monster in a room full of monsters."

  He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his forehead gently against the glass.

  "Let this war be the last," he murmured. "One way or another."