Third POV, In the Dungeonâs Lobby:
[Warning!]
[More than sixty dungeon gates have been converted into dungeon breaks in the Dungeon Lobby. Need immediate attention!]
The announcement echoed across the Dungeon Lobby through every crystal speaker embedded in its towering stone walls. The voice was urgent and it was impossible to ignore.
Chaos followed instantly.
Merchants who had been shouting prices only moments earlier began slamming shut their stalls. Wooden shutters crashed down over display cases filled with enchanted trinkets and mana-infused weapons.
Market banners were torn down in frantic haste. The once lively hum of bargaining and laughter dissolved into panicked murmurs and hurried footsteps.
The Dungeon Lobby, normally a controlled epicenter of calculated danger, had become unstable. OEPMO had finally struck in the Central Region.
The attack was neither subtle nor experimental.
Just this morning, one of the stronger mages in the nation, a Rank S, had entered a dungeon gate for his routine practice. He was seasoned and experienced, someone who had cleared dozens of high-tier gates without issue. Like Corvian, he had stepped through expecting a dungeon.
Instead, he found a battlefield. This wasn't an enclosed instance or a fabricated environment, but a real war zone.
He managed to fight through it, locate what appeared to be the âbossâ of that space, and kill it. After its death, an exit manifested as it normally would. He escaped through it and emerged back into the Lobby, visibly shaken but alive.
His report sent shockwaves through officials. Initial questioning turned into a full interrogation as officials scrambled to verify his claims. They verified mana readings and residual energy signatures around the gate, and it took nearly an hour to confirm that his claims were not exaggerated.
The gate he had entered no longer led to a standard dungeon. It led to a break-a dungeon break inside the Lobbyâs system.
The newspapers did not hesitate.
Within minutes, printing presses roared to life. Headlines were drafted in bold, aggressive ink. Messengers sprinted across districts to distribute early editions while news stations activated broadcast crystals to spread the information faster than wildfire.
Profit thrived on fear. And fear was spreading rapidly.
Before long, the entire nation knew. Nova, the High King, was informed immediately. The King was anything but calm. Witnesses inside the palace claimed the mana in the throne room spiked violently when he received the report; windows cracked under pressure and servants fled the corridor outside.
Within the hour, five Rank SS mages were dispatched to the Central Region. Sending five of them, rather than a single representative, demonstrated the severity of the threat.
Every remaining mage stationed in the Dungeon Lobby was reassigned. Some were sent to reinforce vulnerable regions; others were ordered to escort civilians away from high-density gate zones. Anywhere that was still safe became priority ground.
The Lobby itself, once structured and organized, now felt like a ticking bomb.
Experts in arcane theory and spatial distortion gathered in front of the unstable gates. They sat cross-legged on reinforced platforms, hands hovering over complex arrays etched into the stone floor. Their eyes remained fixed on the swirling vortexes of mana within each gate.
Preparing and waiting.
Because if more gates were converted into breaks⌠the Central Region would not be the only place burning.
âWhere are those little bastards,â one of them asked, his voice thick with boredom and irritation. He was lazily slumped over one of the wooden crates, which had the purpose of a seat. The crate creaked beneath his weight every time he shifted, long fingers drumming against the rough surface as if the very air offended him with its stillness. Dust clung to his boots. His cloak pooled around him like spilled ink.
Although his appearance may make him look like a commoner, with his slightly unkempt hair and a shirt that looked too plain for a man of prestige, he was one of the paragons, a key pillar to the central region. There was something deeply deceptive about him.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Beneath the casual posture and half lidded eyes rested a power capable of shattering fortresses. Even in his slouch, there was a coiled danger, like a predator pretending to nap.
he thought, jaw tightening slightly though his body barely moved.
âShut up, lazy ass,â another mage interrupted Oman, his tone snapping like a whip, âAll you do is complain. Swallow up your pride and actually be humble.â
The second mage stood tall, broad shouldered, arms folded across his chest. The air around him shimmered faintly, heat rising in subtle waves.
He possessed the flame attribute, and it showed not only in his magic but in his temper. He was also a paragon, and the paragon of the South Region to be specific.
Although he was a Rank SS mage, he was a senior who almost became the monarch a few years past. There had been whispers that the throne had been within reach, that politics and timing alone denied him.
He was known by the people to be very humble, polite, and generous because he knew the difficulties in the countryside. (South Region) As a matter of fact, he was born under a poor farm, only able to eat bread once a week, and even had to eat rats he found in his own home for a period of time.
Hunger had shaped him more brutally than any training ever could. He remembered what it meant to feel invisible, to be small, to be dismissed.
Jarim thought, eyes narrowing at Oman.
Oman rolled his eyes dramatically. âHere we go again with the peasant sermon.â
Before Jarim could respond with what looked like a genuinely threatening surge of heat forming around his palm, a voice cut in.
âWoah! Calm down there, Jarim!â
The female voice came from behind them, light yet firm, carrying an amused undertone as if she found their aggression more entertaining than concerning. She stepped forward with an easy stride.
She did not wear the elaborate insignias of the office. She did not drape herself in the colors of authority.
She didnât have any official roles because she declined them but she was still an important figure. Interestingly, her strongest spell, (the ultimate), has been passed down from a god. The God of Trickery, to be specific.
Her name was Gyo.
There was something unsettling about her eyes. They were always calculating, always observing, and always seeing something no one else noticed. Rumors state that in terms of power, she was the weakest, but in terms of intelligence, she was almost the smartest out of the five.
Some whispered that power was not measured in brute force alone. Some whispered that if Gyo ever truly desired chaos, entire kingdoms would collapse without knowing who pushed the first domino. Although, those are just rumors
she thought with faint amusement.
Next to Gyo stood Crow.
Crow was a mysterious man who wore a black crow mask, hence his nickname. The mask was sleek and smooth, its surface polished to a dull sheen that reflected light like obsidian water. The beak curved downward elegantly, giving him a permanent expression of silent judgment. His real name is not known to anyone except Nova, the high king. That fact alone created a chilling aura around him. Secrets clung to him like shadows.
He was Gyoâs childhood friend and is also part of her dungeon raid team. Like Gyo, he also follows the path of Trickery. His movements were almost unnaturally quiet. When he shifted his weight, the sound barely registered. When he breathed, it was controlled and steady.
Crow reminded himself, fingers resting lightly near the hilt of his blade.
And finally at the very end was the smartest out of all of them. Her name is Sura, but everyone calls her the Jester.
The title was not mockery. No one ever calls it a âmock.â Her name was recognition.
Her spells are also very unique, and similar to Gyo, her spells are based on the God of Trickery. While Gyo embodied quiet calculation, Sura embodied theatrical madness. Chaos with structure and insanity with precision.
âGuys,â Jester calls out.
She was wearing a mask which covered the left side of her face. On the edges of the mask were curled golden leather and in the spot where her âhalfâ mouth should be was a creepy crimson smile. The painted grin stretched upward unnaturally, giving the illusion that she was always delighted, always on the verge of laughter.
Her uncovered eye scanned the corridor ahead, its playful glint completely gone.
âSomeone is coming.â
The shift in tone was immediate. The air tightened. Even Oman straightened from his lazy slump. Jarimâs flames flickered instinctively around his fingertips. Gyoâs expression stilled into cold focus. Crowâs posture subtly adjusted, knees bending ever so slightly, ready.
Jester, whose smile was usually big, only had her face hardened. The contrast between the painted grin and her tense eye was unsettling.
she thought.
All of them held their weapons tightly.
The chamber they occupied was lined with towering gates, each one carved with ancient symbols, each one pulsing faintly with magical residue. Most of the gates glowed dimly, dormant, quiet.
Soon enough, one of the gates shined brighter than the rest.
Light spilled outward in a growing intensity, washing across the stone floor in pale brilliance. The symbols etched into the arch flared to life one by one, humming with power. The sound was low at first, then rising, a resonating vibration that seemed to travel through bone.
Oman stood fully now, cracking his neck slowly. âFinally.â
Jarim exhaled, heat coiling up his arm. âAbout fucking time.â
Gyoâs fingers twitched as faint threads of invisible magic began weaving around her like unseen strings.
Crow tilted his masked face slightly, listening to the rhythm of the approaching steps beyond the gate.
Jesterâs eye narrowed.
And this gate was the same gate that Corvian has entered.
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