“How?”

"How, you ask?" I asked Cleon, hovering above my sword, then spreading my arms wide. "Simple, really," I declared, reaching for the crown floating above my head. "I am no monarch."

In that moment, something appeared—or rather, something that had always been there revealed itself. Since the moment I activated it at the beginning of this fight, Tharazuul, the Rotten Beholder had remained dormant. The summon, both eldritch and demonic, had slipped into an ethereal state, undamageable and nearly invisible. It was easy to ignore, a shadow hidden from sight. But now, exiting its dormancy, the eldritch monstrosity that had been following me regained full visibility, allowing Cleon to witness its true horror once again.

"I am Arianna, Archon of Heresy, the Bane of the Living, Breaker of Souls, Eldritch Among Abominations." The words rolled from my tongue like a curse.

Tharazuul's countless small eyes blinked open, and soon after, the massive central one followed. All of them fixed on a shuddering Cleon as I reached into the wide mouth Tharazuul opened for me.

"I am the Hand that Commands Death Manifest."

"What have you done?" Cleon asked, horror twisting his voice, as if he instinctively knew.

"Just what needed to be done," I declared, activating [Death Manifest] the same way I had invoked [Echo of Agony] and [Blood Oath]—through Tharazuul, like one might channel magic through a staff. As I did, the monstrosity trembled from the overload, and something unspeakably foul began to coalesce in my hands. When it was done, Tharazuul crumbled, spent and broken.

I stared at what it left behind. I had witnessed countless horrors, but this—this was unlike anything I had ever encountered.

Its wickedness wasn’t in its appearance or smell: it was merely a crimson orb, seething with immeasurable power—power that eclipsed even Cleon’s strongest attacks. What made it truly abominable was its very origin, the vile process by which it had been created.

With [Death Manifest], rather than simply gathering experience from my kills, the ability allowed me to harvest the essence of those deaths and shape it into a curse—one that bypassed every known defense by directly draining HP, SP, and MP. In other words, this orb was an amalgamation of every soul I had claimed in the Umbryan capital.

"What have you done?!" Cleon repeated, his voice a cry of utter horror and despair. I couldn’t blame him. I hadn’t expected this reaction from myself either, but here I was.

Gently stroking the orb, I asked Cleon, "Can you hear their pleas too? No? Because I do. I hear them all." I sighed, watching my fatigue percentage spike rapidly.

Casting curses, hexes, and jinxes had always come with a boon—they didn’t consume much MP. In terms of actual damage, that made sense. But the fatigue costs were usually minimal, which made it easy to abuse. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my fatigue percentage climb ridiculously high because of a curse or hex. It was always my cryomantic abilities or my use of ice magic that drained me the most. But today, using [Death Manifest] to create this vile thing, I watched my fatigue percentage climb into the eighties, just like that.

It made sense, considering the sheer number of souls I’d refined—enough to overload Tharazuul. But the mental burden that came with this thing left me in a far different mood than the one I’d expected when this moment came.

The voices screamed in unison, an additional weight urging me to end this battle here and now.

"I hear all of their cries, and there’s one that keeps asking me if what I did was worth it. How about we figure that out?"

Cleon, foreseeing my intent and having a reasonable assumption of the might condensed in that little red orb, turned his back and ran for his life.

The sight elicited a feeble chuckle from me. "Run, little mouse. Make this all the more entertaining," I declared, following.

He was fast—faster than I’d ever seen him. I struggled to catch up, but I took it calmly. While the distance between us widened, I was also shrinking the size of the Obsidial Tree enclosing us. Ultimately, the distance he ran was irrelevant. He would soon be stopped by the sigil’s prison properties.

Upon arriving at the sigil’s edge, he looked back and finally understood. I hadn’t manifested the Obsidial Tree to stop outside interference or to shield myself. The moment I summoned it, it had been to ensure he would never escape me.

Realizing that mere brute force wouldn’t suffice, Cleon transformed one of his sigils into a greatsword, one that shone with blinding light. Drawing on massive resources, he unleashed a reality-bending attack, shattering my barrier.

I winced at the sight. I’d hoped it would hold better than that, but I knew I was expecting too much from the Obsidial Tree after splitting so much of its resources. Still, a wince was the extent of my bitter reaction, because the moment Cleon took to unleash that attack was enough.

Just as he had reforged his sigils, I summoned a spiritual bow then reforged the red orb of condensed evil into an arrow. I notched it onto my bowstring, its energy pulsating like the heart of a dying star. Screams and cries echoed, dragging me back to that foul place once again.

The air crackled, thick with power as I aimed at Cleon. The sky itself seemed to recoil, the clouds parting as if to escape the cataclysm I was about to unleash.

Cleon made yet another dash for his life, only to be violently stopped once again by another layer of my Obsidial Tree—one I hadn’t shrunk to block him. Yes, I may not have access to the elven sigil’s revival feature, but like the elven monarch, I would always keep an Ancestral Tree ready as a last resort.

Like a scolded child, Cleon looked back at me, his face a mask of despair and fear, illuminated by the sinister glow of the arrow as I drew it back, the string creaking under the weight of impending doom.

Releasing the bowstring, time seemed to fracture. The arrow burst forward, a red comet tearing through the space between us with a ferocity that turned the air to fire. It screamed through the cosmos, a herald of obliteration, devouring light, sound, and matter in its insatiable fury.

I withdrew my sigil—destroying it myself would have been a waste of resources. Cleon, seeing no escape from what was coming, lifted his arms to shield himself, hurriedly calling his sigil into action against the absolute annihilation that awaited.

As it struck Cleon, the impact was apocalyptic. The world exploded into a symphony of red. The sea beneath him boiled as if the very depths were enraged, sending up clouds of steam and fume, while the sky crackled with raw electrical energy. Fire scorched the heavens, and darkness spread like a plague, each element amplifying the arrow's devastating effect. Everything shook—air, water, the very fabric of reality. And then, as the tumult reached its peak, everything abruptly turned black. Silence fell, a heavy, oppressive blanket following.

As the chaos subsided, I scanned the surrounding expanse, coming to a fishy realization. No level-up chime, no influx of experience points, and most notably, none of the skill acquisition I had anticipated. It was clear: Cleon had not perished in that attack.

Peering down into the tumultuous sea, my suspicions were confirmed. From the frothy waves emerged a figure—Cleon's, battered and significantly diminished. The attack had shattered his sigils, a fact that brought a grim satisfaction. He clung to a makeshift little platform, his form a grotesque tapestry of injuries: limbs missing, skin melted away to reveal bone in grotesque patches.

The notification of his healing skill flashed before me, sparking an instinctual rush from me in his direction. However, his attempt at recovery was abruptly cut short. Something had interrupted his spell, and there was only one reason I could think of—and that brought a wicked smile to my lips.

Slowing my advance, I savored the moment, watching him frantically paddle away, casting fearful glances over his shoulder. His silent pleas hung in the air—not directed at me, but at his kings. Pleas that would go unanswered. I knew all too well that Goblin had every one of them securely locked away in his sigil.

Observing his pitiful attempt to escape was oddly satisfying. Cleon had long been a persistent pest, not because of any intrinsic enmity towards us Dungeon Masters—his title bore no inherent opposition to us like the Seraphims clinging to their stolen authorities did. It was just his obsession with being the "one and only" that had made him a nuisance, obstructing our mission to reclaim the Goddess's authority.

As much as I would like to claim my motives were purely out of devotion to the Goddess, I couldn't deny the personal satisfaction in seeing him reduced to this state. It wasn’t just about him being an obstacle; there was a personal gratification I felt at this sight.

Mustering enough resources to do so, the platform lifted, allowing him to gain some speed. Watching this, I readied myself to wrap this up. Just as I was about to strike, to put an end to this miserable worm once and for all, something unexpected happened.

"Huh?!"

Well, perhaps saying that "something" unexpected happened was inaccurate, as there wasn't just one thing that occurred in that moment but three—almost simultaneously.

The first was a notification appearing in the corner of my vision.

That skill—I could tell through my Identification skill—wasn't something Cleon summoned, but rather someone else. I barely had a second after coming to that realization to notice the second thing happening. Out of nowhere, I was brought into a domain. Not just any domain, but an elven domain, created by the manifestation of a sigil—an ancestral tree—that suddenly encompassed me and Cleon at its center.

Now, the question was naturally: whose ancestral tree is this? This wasn't Goblin's Solith Tree, Patriarch Farmi's Cinnabar Tree, or Aquaflora's Lunith Tree. The sigil surrounding us, about 30 meters in diameter, was white in color, but so dim it might as well have been thoroughly transparent.

Since this wasn't Goblin's, Aquaflora's, or Patriarch Farmi's ancestral tree, whose was it? I didn't get even a fraction of a second to pursue that question before noticing silhouettes in the corner of my vision—silhouettes that could answer that question.

Yes, silhouettes—because there weren't just one or two people that appeared out of nowhere, most likely thanks to that skill my Identification detected. The same skill that teleported the sigil around us had brought them here.

There weren't one, two of them, but three.

At first, my heart jumped at that observation, then jumped again at a much more alarming one—they were three men. As in men—the species. No elves among them.

Just like I could tell through my Identification skill who the Teleportation Magic skill wielder was, I could tell who among the three was manifesting that white, uncannily thin sigil. It was the same person—a human. A fucking human.

As if I hadn't had my dose of unpleasant surprises—because all of this had been unpleasant—I got hit with another. Among the three men, looking to the left of the teleportation magic wielder, onto whom my focus had immediately locked, I recognized a face that, I admit, stunned me for a second or two.

"You..." I heard Cleon react.

Cleon recognized the man—how could he not? To Cleon, he was one of his kings. Not just any king, but one of his first—King Dominic, the late third king and former head of the Evermere Kingdom.

I recognized him too. How couldn’t I? I’m the one who put "late" and "former" before his titles. I killed him. Yes, I killed him. He was the king I struck down to lure Cleon to the Voidborne Catacomb.

Two of them appraised me—Dominic and the teleportation magic user. Failing to do so, they then appraised Cleon behind me.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"What the fuck is going on?!"

I killed him. I killed King Dominic. I’m sure of it—I gained his experience points. Yet here he was, standing before me, flanked by two unfamiliar faces, exchanging glances and clearly about to do something.

In that moment, I admit I panicked and let my instincts take over. What those instincts dictated—most likely due to the only record I had of a human using an Ancestral Tree—was that nothing good could come from being trapped inside one. So, the instinct I acted on was simple: break free from this prison, no matter how harmless it felt.

I manifested spiritual swords and unleashed them—half at the uninvited guests, the other half at the ancestral tree enclosing us. My impression of the barrier didn’t lie to me. It shattered with just that. It was, as I instinctively felt, paper thin. Such a simple attack was enough to destroy it.

Satisfied with that result, I looked at my other attempt to see a less satisfying result—the teleportation magic wielder shielded by his companions' weapons.

"Tsk."

I cast a glance at Cleon, about to ask the question that, upon seeing his face, I realized the answer to. Then, as I glanced at him again—the man I killed—a certain realization dawned upon me, one that made me hesitate about what to do with Cleon, especially when I heard the three bastards speak with urgency.

"Was sollen wir tun?!"

"Es sieht so aus, als hätte sie den Kaiser besiegt!"

Huh? What language is that? That’s not human, elven, or even dwarven—huh! Wait!

I froze. My brain stalled for a moment, struggling to catch up with all the realizations crashing down on me—a critical mistake. By the time I snapped back to my senses and devised a plan of action—which, naturally, was to finish what I had started and kill Cleon—the timing was already precarious.

Still, given everything I had just realized, I still felt I was reasonably swift with it. Unfortunately I wasn’t swift enough.

I unleashed my weapons to finish the job, but Cleon—the bastard—shielded himself with an ability, merely pushing himself away from me. Determined to end it properly, I summoned my arsenal for a decisive strike. But before I could release it, the film-thin ancestral tree manifested around me, swallowing me whole into its domain.

Just like earlier, I intended to break it. But before I could do that, two notifications flashed:

"Huh!?"

Almost as instantly as the sudden ambush, I experienced a jarring shift in scenery. One moment, Cleon was within reach of my spells and blades; the next, he was gone. One moment, there was sea below and sky above. The next, the world buckled, folded, and swallowed me whole.

When I opened my eyes, I was somewhere...else.

A pale, translucent barrier surrounded me—an ancestral tree, not once but twice. The first layer resembled the manifestation of the Ancestral Tree I had just dismantled—thin, fragile, and within arm's reach. The second layer stood farther away, with enough space between them to evoke the feeling of a vast estate. Its trunk towered above me, its branches clawing outward like brittle bones straining to break free. It was much thicker—no, perhaps "less thin" is more accurate—than the smaller ersatz of an Ancestral Tree. It flickered, momentarily dimming, and in those brief intervals, it revealed glimpses of what lay beyond—an unsettling sight that was becoming impossible to ignore.

Chaos.

A world of endless storms, roiling shadows, and chaos stretched before me. A maelstrom of swirling colors, fragmented and torn like shards of broken glass suspended in a hurricane. It felt alive. It felt violent—pulsating and impossibly vast, with light that bent in ways defying all logic.

Earlier, my instincts had screamed at me to destroy the sigil in which I was trapped. But now, those same instincts warned me—at any cost—not to do so.

Though I wasn’t directly in contact with this chaos since it existed beyond the second, larger sigil—I could still feel its presence even here, within the relative safety of the sigil’s boundaries. The air was heavy and oppressive, vibrating with an energy that grated against my skin.

This was not the material world. And I could tell where this was. Anyone familiar with the intricacies of teleportation magic would recognize it. This is the Void, an empty plane only navigated by masters of teleportation arts, and I had been teleported here by one.

How?

Well, from the look of it, it seems I had been teleported here by teleporting the sigil I was just a fraction of a second trapped in. That was ingenious, I have to concede. Had I been chosen as the direct target, it’s very unlikely I would have allowed myself to be so easily teleported.

Now that question answered, here comes another one—why was I teleported here? There was only a limited number of people that could answer that question.

Upon withdrawing the sigil—the one they teleported me in—I heard them speak again, in a language I didn’t understand.

I turned my head slowly, deliberately, catching sight of the three bastards from earlier as they immediately retreated to join their friends—yes, friends—five of them, to be exact, who had apparently been lying in wait. That brought their total to eight.

"Claudiu, was zum Teufel!"

"Sie sieht doch völlig in Ordnung aus!"

"Ich kann das erklären. Sie hat den Kampf gegen den Kaiser gewonnen und war kurz davor, ihn zu töten, als wir ankamen. Was hast du denn erwartet, was ich tun würde!?"

"Sie hat gewonnen!?"

"Ja. Frag Anton."

My gaze swept over them. They were armed, tense, and poised to strike, but they didn’t attack outright. Not yet. They were talking, clearly strategizing, but not in a way I could understand.

I could feel their eyes on me, studying me like a pack of wolves circling their prey. Worse still, they attempted to defile me. Again.

I knew what this was. I’d seen clumsy bandits try to pull this on me before: an ambush. An elaborate one, I conceded, but an ambush nonetheless.

I took another breath, slow and steady, my mind calculating while simultaneously trying not to overdo it. Just a moment earlier, I got to witness how overthinking could work against me.

Let’s start with what I know. I know this is an ambush, one with plenty of preparation behind it. For who? It was either for him or me. But if I had to guess, these bastards were looking for whoever was on the losing side. Strangely, from the tone of their discussion upon wrapping me here, it wasn’t expected to be me—unless… unless I was exactly the one they expected to be here. But they didn’t expect to find me still full of vitality, at least as far as appearances go.

I see. That has to be it. That makes sense.

Now, time to ask the question—why would they want to ambush me or Cleon?

I can see the logic behind ambushing us.

However the fight went, it was bound to leave one of us dead and the other somewhat exhausted—

Wait a minute.

As my thoughts ventured into accepting that their goal was to ambush the one left weakened in this fight, I came to a certain realization—the same one I felt earlier when I decided to finish off Cleon. That realization being that these bastards were after a corpse.

After all, the first thing that dawned on me at the sight of them, and noticing Cleon's expression of utter disbelief at the sight of his king, told me that these mongrels are the ones who stole the corpse of King Dominic—who I'm a hundred percent sure I killed and left as a letter of challenge to Cleon. Yet here he was, standing there.

I would understand if he were undead—a revenant somehow, one they brought to life using the corpse they stole—but that was not the case. This King Dominic is fully alive, as if he never died. But he died. That, I could confirm.

So how?

I could only imagine these corpse-stealing bastards did something to him. But what? I couldn't tell precisely, but I could say with assurance that there is no necromantic or healing skill or ability that would bring a dead man like the dead man I left King Dominic back then back to life.

In that moment, especially as I looked at them colluding in whatever language it was they were speaking, a theory sprouted in my mind: could this be the doing of an authority? Could it be that these people are fellow reincarnates like us, people reincarnated from another world?

Those two conjectures fit so much of the puzzle. The existence of an authority could explain how "he" is still alive. I can see an authority bringing someone back to life. Wait… what if the authority didn’t just do that?

The more I looked at the one I recognized as King Dominic, the more I was certain that this Dominic is not the one I killed. He didn’t look at me the way I expected a revived Dominic would. I expected fear—and I still see that—but the fear I see in the eyes of this one is missing the arrogance and stubbornness of the third king, a trait he shared with the first king, Tristan.

The more I thought about it, the less doubt I had. I’m dealing with someone else than that good old Dom. Someone else has taken his place through something I suspect to be an authority.

As I still wondered what the right course of action was, the bastards' discourse seemed to have reached a conclusion—and for obvious reasons, I could feel this conclusion was not a good one. Not for me.

So at this point, seeing no reason not to, I pointed at King Dominic—or whoever he was now—then moved my pointed finger to the right, sliding it past the one with the teleportation magic, and stopped at the one who, despite me not understanding the language, spoke with the most authority.

"Who are you people? And what do you want from me?"

At the sight of me pointing my finger, the eight men—with the exception of the one I'd identified as the leader—recoiled as if expecting something terrible to shoot out of the said pointing finger. And to be frank, it might as well. Their involvement brought about the most basic Dungeon Master instinct in me—to kill them.

But I was reasonable enough to understand that communication might be one of the smoothest ways to secure an ancestral tree. Goblin and the others did that with the Rule and Overrule authority. Syre they had to knock sense back into him first, but ultimately it was possible to reason with him once his senses came back. So why wouldn’t I consider communication when it’s an option?

Who knows? Perhaps this—whatever this ambush’s purpose is—has a grand plan that fits our grand goal of helping the goddess. Part of me thought that. But I have to admit, the other part of me—the bigger part of me—wanted to give in to my kill-on-sight policy.

But as it stood, I had a reason that made me cling to that sliver of hope that somehow there were other fellow reincarnates out there who might have the same drive as us Dungeon Master.

"Claudiu, Anton, Michael, geht und macht ihn fertig. Holt seinen Körper zurück. Wir halten sie hier auf – vielleicht schaffen wir es, sie zu töten."

"Bist du sicher, Aur—"

"Geht einfach!"

"Ja!"

After exchanging in that language I wasn’t familiar with, he did it again.

"Crap—"

Upon seeing him manifest that paper-thin sigil once again and call forth the same skill that allowed him to teleport here, I realized what resolution they’d come to. I rushed to catch him. In an instant, I closed in on them, but I wasn’t the only one fast. They swiftly wedged between me and the trio, who, before my very eyes, vanished. Where to? I could only imagine one place—the place they abducted me from.

To do what?

Assuming they were able to make use of King Dominic’s corpse to create "him," it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think they’re after corpses—corpses of powerful humans. And what human is more powerful than Cleon? He might be at his most vulnerable state right now, and that’s why I believe they returned there—to finish him off.

The thought pissed me off. I was fine with Cleon dying, but I wanted to kill the bastard myself. I’ve sacrificed too much to just allow some randoms to steal my kill like that. Fellow reincarnate or not.

As one of my foes came swinging a double-bladed axe with clear and vicious intent, I withdrew, my murderous stare locked on them.

"I asked you a question! Or do you assholes just not speak the common language?"

"Oh, my. Forgive us, Queen Arianna of the house Talulah," the man I had pegged as the leader of my ambushers replied smoothly. "It was rude of us."

House….

"You are?"

"My name is of little importance, but you may remember me as the Mashiach’s right hand."

"Mashiach... I take it that’s not a name."

"Indeed," he replied, "a title fit for him. For he is the light in the darkness, the voice that calls all souls to their salvation. The shepherd who will lead the lost to paradise, the chosen one who walks the path for all."

Listening to the ramblings of that lunatic reminded me of those who vicariously worship the Seraphim as if they were gods. But more importantly, I came to realize that this bastard might not be the leader I took him for.

"Shepherd, huh? And what—"

Mid-sentence, I halted myself, feeling utterly fed up with this and wondering internally—what am I even doing? Is my mind getting sloppy? No…it’s not that.

I came to a realization. Regardless of whether this Mashiach—their leader—is a potential ally or enemy, from what I’ve been told and the impression I’ve gotten so far, it doesn’t sound like he would be the former. But even if he were, what of it? He wouldn’t be an equal to us Dungeon Masters?

That’s right.

I trembled in epiphany. I thought I was steeled in that resolve, but it seems I was not yet. Loyal or not, I do not want myself or my fellow Dungeon Masters to be considered the equal of any of my fellow reincarnates.

We’ve gathered five authorities. There is no reason for us to consider ourselves the equal of anyone who did less than that. If they want to be our allies, they can be—but I will never consider them my equals. If they’re not allies, then they can rot back in that place.

That’s right. I admit it. I’ve reached a point where I’ll easily accept a fellow reincarnate as an enemy to be subjugated rather than an ally. And right now staring at these people who might be from another world like we are, I was completely free of the hesitation that stopped me instantly initiating the hostilities.

I took a look at my stats to see one of the two reasons I hadn’t thrown myself at him and his friends immediately upon being teleported here—my fatigue percentage was through the roof. The other reason was their level. Though I didn’t have Appraisal, I’m good at gauging the strength of targets I set my eyes upon. Younger, I used to call that my Hexcaster intuition.

That intuition told me I’d be able to easily handle each of them individually, with each being relatively as strong as "King Dominic," ranging from level 70 to 90. While I would have had no hesitation to squabble with all eight of them, my fatigue percentage made me reluctant. Even now, with only five of them left, I still hesitated.

Would there even be a more laughable fate than dying here after all I did to survive against Cleon?

Remembering the fact that out there, three of these bastards were trying to steal my kill, I seethed with boiling anger.

Looking at the face of the one who called himself Mashiach’s right hand, how they looked at me with a certain greed but at the same time a certain fear, their grip firm on their weapon yet trembling—my patience reached its limits.

"I was about to ask you what your Mashiach wants from me, but I just realized something—I can ask him myself."

Conjuring my spiritual arsenal, I showed them I was ready for a fight.

Come on, what’s that expression? You’re the ones who chose to abduct me here.

While the numbers—be it my status, fatigue percentage, or just the number of them—were stacked against me, I’d rather die than play any part in this masquerade anymore.

Understanding my stance, one of the men—scarred, broad-shouldered, and visibly bristling with magic—stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he was the first to open hostilities, roaring like the lunatic he was.

"Fürchte weder den Tod noch die Hölle, denn der Messias hat uns den Weg ins Paradies gewiesen."

Motivated by the lunatic’s words, whatever they meant, the other men surged forward, emboldened by his fervor.