Quinn's metal gauntlet remained buried in the adventurer's blood-matted hair, fingers locked like iron hooks at the root. He held Rolan just high enough that the man's boots dragged and scraped against the cold flagstones, producing a dull, uneven grind that echoed through the chamber. The sound carried strangely in the dungeon too clear, too deliberate as if the structure itself wanted it heard.
He hadn't bothered to wipe the blood off.
It clung to the segmented plates of his gauntlet in thick, dark streaks, pooling in the joints, slipping between the seams. Every slight adjustment of his grip forced more of it free, droplets falling in slow, heavy taps onto the stone below.
Rolan barely resembled the man who had entered the dungeon.
His body hung wrong shoulders uneven, spine slightly twisted from the beating, limbs slack in a way that suggested more than exhaustion. His armor had been partially crushed inward, the metal warped where Quinn's strikes had landed. Beneath it, flesh had followed the same pattern—brutally disorganized, as if the structure of his body had been rewritten through blunt force.
His face was worse.
The left side had collapsed inward, cheekbone shattered, the skin split open in jagged lines. Blood coated everything thick across his jaw, dripping from his chin, soaking into his collar. One eye was swollen shut entirely; the other, barely open, trembled as it struggled to focus.
A faint, wet rasp escaped him.
He was breathing but only just.
Rate closed the distance between them at a measured pace, boots striking the stone with quiet authority. There was no urgency in his movement, no visible concern. His gaze remained fixed on Rolan, calculating, detached—like a craftsman assessing a damaged tool rather than a dying man.
He stopped a few steps away.
"Have you forgotten," Rate said evenly, his voice cutting through the chamber with precise clarity, "we needed him to clarify this dungeon for us?"
He turned his head slightly toward Quinn, though his eyes did not fully leave Rolan.
"How," he continued, "are we supposed to understand a word he'll be saying even if he agrees to?"
Quinn didn't answer immediately.
For a moment, he simply stood there, still holding Rolan aloft, as if considering the question in a literal, mechanical sense. Then his grip shifted slightly, adjusting the angle of Rolan's head, exposing more of the damage.
"I apologize for that," Quinn said at last, tone flat, devoid of defensiveness. "It clearly skipped my mind."
He tilted his head, examining Rolan's condition with clinical interest.
"I did make sure not to kill him."
There was no irony in the statement.
To Quinn, the distinction was sufficient.
A soft, uneven sound broke through the exchange.
Camilla.
She stood a short distance away, her posture relaxed, one hand lightly resting against her side. Her cloak hung loosely around her, hood pulled low enough to cast her face in shadow but not enough to conceal the curve of her smile.
She was giggling, it came in small, breathy bursts barely restrained, slipping out every time another drop of Rolan's blood hit the floor. Each impact seemed to trigger it anew, her shoulders giving the faintest tremor as she tried, and failed, to contain her amusement.
It was not the laughter of relief. Nor the laughter of nerves. It was wet. Delighted.
The way a child might laugh at a crushed beetle fascinated by the way it twitched.
"You couldn't even keep tabs on just a simple task the captain gave to you," Camilla said, her voice lilting with mock disappointment. "What a flaw."
She tilted her head slightly, the motion slow, almost playful.
Then she sighed.
"If I was given such a task," she continued, a faint, cheeky smile forming beneath the shadow of her hood, "it would have been done splendid."
The word lingered in the air self-satisfied, deliberate.
Quinn turned his head toward her.
The motion was slow.
Controlled.
"Flaw?" he repeated, his voice dropping slightly, the word flattening as it left him. "Do you even know what that word means?"
He shifted his stance, still holding Rolan with one hand, his other arm lowering slightly as if preparing to move.
"Specifically," Quinn added, "you're the only flawed person among us here."
There was no escalation in his tone.
No anger.
Just a statement delivered with the same weight as a measured conclusion.
Camilla's smile faltered for the briefest moment.
"…."
She drew in a breath, shoulders lifting slightly as if preparing to respond.
"That's probably enough."
Rate's voice cut cleanly between them.
Yet it stopped the exchange instantly.
His eyes remained on Rolan.
Unmoved.
"Bulk," Rate said, his tone shifting back to that same measured cadence, "did you bring the brain worms with you?"
Bulk, who had been standing slightly behind and to the side, shifted his weight.
The large man glanced around himself reflexively, as though the answer might somehow be found nearby, then shook his head.
"I didn't," he said. "I never thought it'd be of use on this dungeon mission."
There was no embarrassment in his voice. Just simple acknowledgment. Rate exhaled slowly.
His hand rose to his face, fingers pressing lightly against the bridge of his nose as he rubbed the space between his eyes.
A small, controlled gesture.
"Seems we're out of options then," he said.
His hand lowered.
And then he extended his right arm toward Rolan.
The motion was deliberate. Decisive.
As his palm turned outward, something began to form. Darkness but not the absence of light. This was something denser and heavier.
It gathered first as a faint distortion around his fingers, like heat warping the air. Then it thickened threads of oily violet weaving through the space between his knuckles, coiling, twisting, layering over one another in slow, deliberate patterns.
The temperature in the chamber dropped.
Subtly but noticeably. The air grew heavier.
Each breath felt thicker in the lungs, as though something unseen had begun to settle over them all.
The energy carried a scent, faint but unmistakable. Old soil turned long after burial.
And something else beneath it, the echo of oaths.
Broken ones.
"Hold him steady, Quinn."
Quinn adjusted his grip immediately.
Rolan's body jerked slightly as he was repositioned, his head forced upright. His neck trembled under the strain, muscles barely responding, barely holding.
His one functioning eye shifted, locked onto Rate. There was no fear in it, only hate. Unyielding.
Even now.
Rate stepped closer, the dark energy around his hand thickened further, tendrils curling between his fingers, stretching outward before snapping back, as if testing the boundaries of their containment.
Then he pressed his palm against Rolan's face.
The reaction was immediate.
Rolan's body convulsed.
A sound tore from his throat not a scream, not fully. Something wetter. More broken. A sound dragged through blood and damaged lungs.
The energy sank in, not like fire or lightning.
It seeped like oil forced into cracks. Bone fragments shifted beneath the skin.
Audibly.
A grinding, wet series of clicks and scrapes as shattered structures were forced back into alignment not by precision, but by insistence.
The left cheekbone moved first.
A jagged piece pressed inward, then snapped outward with a sharp, sickening crack, forcing itself back into approximate position. The skin above it stretched, then split further before beginning to pull together again not smoothly, but unevenly, like fabric stitched without care.
Rolan's breathing hitched violently.
The orbital socket followed.
Collapsed fragments pressed outward, reshaping under the pressure of the invading energy. The eye swollen, nearly lost twitched as the socket reformed just enough to support it.
The eyelid fused, crooked. It left a narrow slit through which the eye could open barely.
Teeth shifted next.
Several had been knocked loose, some completely displaced, now they realigned.
They slid back into place with wet, clicking sounds, scraping against one another. Two remained out of line jutting at slight, unnatural angles that would never sit properly again.
Blood slowed.
Not because the damage was undone but because it had been forced closed.
The dark energy cauterized as it worked, sealing ruptured vessels with a heatless burn that left behind blackened traces beneath the skin.
The left side of Rolan's face...It wasn't restored.
It was rebuilt but crude.
The skin took on a rough, puckered texture in places thickened, almost bark-like where the magic had overcorrected. Other areas remained torn, held together by nothing more than the pressure of the reconstruction.
It looked half-melted.
A ragged, bubbling inhale that caught halfway through, forcing his chest to jerk as he tried to complete it.
He tried to spit, the motion was weak, uncoordinated.
What came out was pink foam, dribbling down his chin, mixing with the blood that still clung to his face.
But he remained conscious. Rate did not remove his hand immediately.
The energy continued to flow thinner now, more precise. Strands of it slipped deeper, threading beneath skin, along muscle, around bone.
Then they changed. The dark energy extended.
Not outward, from Rate's palm, thin tendrils began to form needle-like strands that pressed into Rolan's body at specific points.
Neck, jawline, temple, collarbone. Each one embedded itself with quiet precision, slipping beneath the surface and anchoring there.
Rolan's body stiffened, the tendrils held.
Not tightly but absolutely.
Every vital point they touched became fixed, stabilized not in the sense of healing, but in the sense of ownership.
Only then did Quinn release him. Rolan did not fall.
He remained suspended.
Held upright by the dark, invisible network now threaded through him. His head sagged slightly, but not fully.
His eye still barely open, shifted again. And fixed once more on Rate.
Breathing shallow.
Rate leaned in close, his voice low and calm in the way a man might speak to a horse he was about to shoot. The dungeon corridor stretched ahead like a throat of black stone, lit only by faint, pulsing runes that flickered along the walls like dying veins. The air tasted of ozone, somewhere deeper, something mechanical clicked once, then fell silent.
"We paid good coin to our intel," Rate said. "They mapped every adventurer's branch before they turned in their reports. Let's see if your words are worth more. Mind you, I can tell if you're lying to me."
He didn't wait for an answer. The questions came fast, each one a blade.
"Floor one carried heavy traps, I say it was unpredictable. Same goes for this floor as well." Rate paused, letting the silence press down on the suspended man. "So I want you to clarify: is there anything else besides the magic traps on this floor?"
Rolan's ruined mouth worked, lips split and swollen. His voice came out slurred, wet, like he was gargling glass. "Why… don't you crawl back to your organisation for help, you bastards!"
Rate's eyes never warmed. Through the dark energies he wielded, he twisted the invisible vise around Rolan's body. The captive hung midair, limbs locked, nerves burning as if every inch of him had been dipped in molten wire. Rolan's body screamed without sound at first; then the scream tore free, raw and animal.
Rate grunted, staring straight into the man's one good eye. "I suggest you cooperate. There isn't much choice for you either."
Bulk shifted behind them, massive shoulders rolling under scarred plate. "Acting tough isn't going to do him much good," he rumbled.
Camilla turned her head toward the big man, a playful tilt to her smile. "Could it be he's acting tough because of me?" She batted her lashes once.
Quinn just glared at her, gauntleted fist tightening at his side.
Rate eased the dark pressure. Rolan's body sagged an inch, breath sawing in and out. The captain's voice stayed flat, almost bored. "What hidden traps linger on this floor? Our reports said this floor possesses magic death traps. The runes feed on living mana. Step wrong and they drink you dry from the inside. But they also said there's a safe path along the eastern wall where the current dies every third minute. Confirm it!"
Rolan's breath hitched. He grasped at the air like a drowning man. A flicker of defiance crossed his bloody face. Fifteen full seconds ticked by, Rate counted them in silence before the captive finally spoke.
"All over… this floor," Rolan rasped, "aside from the entrance and the end of it… it's all layered with traps. The walls and even the ceiling that's covered in darkness." He dragged in another wet breath, ribs creaking. "There's… there's no secret path or whatsoever. From the report, there was never any indicated safe path."
Camilla let out a delighted little squeal from her perch on a broken pillar. She clapped her gloved hands together, the sound sharp and childish in the gloom. "Ooooh, he's lying so pretty. I can taste it on the air. Can I cut him? Just a little finger? Please, Captain?"
Rate ignored her completely. His dark-energy hand tightened on Rolan's jaw, forcing the fractured bones to grind together with a wet pop. He held the man's gaze for a long, merciless beat.
"Anything else?" Rate asked.
Rolan's single working eye watered blood. "Magic suppression… to hinder mages."
Rate released the jaw with a small shove. He turned on his heel and started walking back toward the center of the entrance hall. Rolan levitated behind him like a broken kite, dragged along by the same dark tether. The rest of the Eclipse squad fell in step.
"Alright," Rate said, voice carrying easily. "We'll proceed as planned."
"Seriously!" Camilla blurted.
Quinn's voice was a low growl. "You believed everything he just said?"
Rate didn't break stride. "There's one thing for certain, he's not lying."
Silence stretched between them, thick as the dust on the flagstones. Rolan's good eye flicked toward the corridor ahead, calculating, desperate.
"What about the information on the floor after this one?" Quinn asked.
Rate stopped. He turned slowly, cloak whispering around his boots. "He's not getting away if that's what you're worried about. He'll tell us when we get there." He flicked two fingers of his right hand forward. The dark energy disbanded with a sound like snapping cables. Rolan crumpled to the floor. His face was a grotesque patchwork bone where it should have been smooth, black scar-tissue where the dark magic had forced the pieces back together. One eye wept a steady trickle of blood. His lips were split to the gum line, teeth jagged and crimson.
"Quinn you get to keep an eye on him." Rate ordered.
Rate studied him a long moment. The partly healed scars pulsed in time with Rolan's ragged breathing.
"Bulk," he said quietly, "prepare the Magic Neutralizer. We've idled too long on this floor."
"Understood." Bulk immediately swung the huge reinforced box from the center of his back. Metal clasps hissed open. He began assembling the artifact with practiced, heavy movements, thick fingers surprisingly deft among the crystal components and rune-etched plates.
Camilla skipped closer to where Rolan lay tangled in the iron vines. The clinking of hidden metals and iron followed every steps, her cloak fluttering like the wings of a delighted crow. She crouched low, tilting her head until her face was inches from his. "He's so honest when he's helpless. I love it." She smiled wide enough to show every tooth. "Be warned, I've got my EYES on you." She made a two-fingered gesture, pointing at her own eyes, then at his, then back again, slow and theatrical.
Rate straightened, cloak settling around his shoulders. He stood only a few inches from where the first visible magic trap shimmered in the stone ahead, a faint lattice of violet light. He stared deep into the second floor's maw, eyes narrowed against the gloom.
"No excuses this time, Quinn," he said without turning. "We move in after Bulk is done."
Rolan rasped one last broken promise at their backs, voice shredded but still venomous. "You Eclipse bastards… I hope you die screaming down there."
Quinn's armored boot caught him in the ribs once, hard enough to fold the man over like cheap parchment. The sound of cracking bone echoed down the magic-lit corridor like a promise of more to come. Rolan coughed wetly, spitting a bright arc of blood across the vines.
Quinn grabbed the back of Rolan's ruined armor and hauled him upright with one effortless yank, setting him on his knees like a broken doll propped for display.
Rate didn't even glance back. His gaze stayed fixed on the corridor, on the pulsing traps that waited like living things. The squad moved with the quiet efficiency of people who had done this dance before too many times to count.
Camilla lingered a moment longer beside Rolan, humming a little tune under her breath. "You know," she whispered, "I really was hoping you'd lie more, i like it when they lie. Makes the cutting so much sweeter." She traced one gloved finger along the edge of a vine near his throat, not quite pressing hard enough to draw new blood. "But you were such a good boy, weren't you? Spilled everything like a cracked jug. Almost disappointing."
Rolan tried to spit at her. The effort only sent another ribbon of blood sliding down his chin. "You'll… get yours," he wheezed. "All of you."
Camilla giggled, the sound bright and wrong in the heavy air. "Oh, I do hope so. I really do." She straightened and twirled once, cloak flaring. "Captain! He's still got some fight left. Maybe we should keep him after a job well done, just a little longer. Makes every mission more entertaining."
Rate's voice drifted back, calm as ever. "Save it, Camilla. We need him alive and coherent for the next level. Playtime comes after we clear the suppressors."
Bulk grunted in agreement as he fitted the final glowing crystal into the Neutralizer's frame. A low hum rose from the device, the air around it shimmering like heat above a forge. "Thirty seconds," he announced. "Then we're good to push."
Quinn rolled his shoulders, armor plates clacking. "You really trust that intel, Captain? The part about no safe path?"
Rate finally turned his head, just enough for Quinn to see the edge of his profile. "He wasn't lying about the traps. I felt it in his pulse. The fear was real. The rest… we'll test it the old-fashioned way. One foot at a time."
Camilla clapped again, softer this time. "I love the old-fashioned way. Especially when it involves screaming."
Rolan's head lolled forward, breath shallow. The iron vines kept him upright, but his body sagged against them like a puppet with half its strings cut. He muttered something too quiet for the others to hear, maybe a prayer, maybe another curse. It didn't matter. The Eclipse squad had already moved on.
Bulk finished the last adjustment. The Neutralizer pulsed once, bright and steady, casting hard shadows across the group. "Ready," he said.
Rate nodded. "Good. Quinn, keep our guest comfortable. Camilla, an eye out and nothing else. I'm sure you can manage that. Bulk, you're on point with the Neutralizer. I'll take the center."
He took one step toward the corridor, then paused. The violet lattice of the first trap winked at him like a hungry eye.
"Got something to say captive?" Rate asked without looking back.
Rolan lifted his head with obvious effort. Blood dripped from his chin onto the stone. "Go to hell," he whispered.
Rate's mouth twitched, the closest thing he ever came to a smile. "We're already there. Might as well keep walking."
Quinn gave Rolan's shoulder a rough pat that was more warning than comfort. "Get moving already, eye sour."
Camilla in a cheeky tone. "I hope the captain gets to keep you after, then we get to play more."
The squad moved forward as one, clinking sounds ringing after Camilla's boots on the flagged floor. Behind her, Rolan followed with Quinn right behind him. The group with the help of their hovering light orbs walked through the darkness as Bulk clears and neutralize the traps ahead of them.
The corridor waited.
And somewhere ahead, the traps began to stir.