Stepping onto the second floor of the Black Cathedral was like plunging into the lungs of a sleeping leviathan. The transition from the collapsing chaos of the first floor was abrupt and disorienting. Behind him, the roar of falling stone and the thunder of cascading debris still echoed faintly, but here the air grew unnaturally still, heavy with centuries of accumulated arcane residue. Beaumont's twin hovering light orbs responded instantly, flaring brighter and pushing back against the oppressive gloom. Their warm golden-white radiance, still tinged with the fierce amber of his active earth mana, illuminated a reliable sphere of roughly twenty meters ahead and around him. Beyond that boundary, the corridor dissolved into impenetrable blackness, as though the dungeon itself resented being observed.
Beaumont pressed his large, calloused hand firmly against the shallow gash on his left ribcage. The cut from the spiral blade still stung fiercely, blood seeping through the torn fabric of his tunic and tracing warm rivulets down his side. With practiced efficiency, he reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a slim glass vial filled with pearlescent green healing potion. He bit the cork free, tilted his head back, and drank deeply.
"Glurp… glurp…" The thick liquid went down with audible swallows. Almost immediately afterward, a loud, ungraceful burp erupted from his chest. He winced, wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm. "That wasn't tasty at all," he grumbled, voice echoing slightly in the vast corridor. "I really wish they could make these potions sweet. Something with honey, berries, or even a hint of vanilla. Everyone would love it for the taste instead of forcing it down like bitter medicine."
He released the pressure on his injured ribs and exhaled slowly as the potion began its work. The wound knitted together with a warm, tingling itch that spread through torn muscle and skin. Beaumont closed his eyes, tilting his head back in quiet appreciation. "There we go," he murmured. "…Oh, I love this sensation." The restorative magic felt like cool spring water soaking into sun-baked earth, gentle waves of relief that eased pain and fatigue alike. For a few precious seconds, he allowed himself to savor the healing, the subtle glow of the potion visible beneath his skin as it accelerated natural recovery.
Yet even as the physical wound mended, a deeper, more insidious weariness pressed upon him. It wasn't the honest burn of overworked muscles or the sharp ache of battle. This exhaustion was continuous and pervasive, seeping into his bones, clouding the edges of his mind, and dulling the once-roaring river of his mana. His thoughts moved sluggishly, as if pushing through invisible molasses. The mental strain was new and concerning.
"What is this?" Beaumont muttered, hazel eyes snapping open with renewed alertness. He scanned his surroundings. The second floor mirrored the first in its oppressive darkness but felt distinctly different, wider arches rose higher overhead, carved with eroded motifs of coiling serpents and twisted humanoid figures that seemed to writhe in the flickering orb-light. The flagstones beneath his knee boots were smoother, almost polished by time, yet heavily veined with iron deposits that his Magnetite Pathfinder sensed as faint, pulsing metallic threads in the stone.
He raised both hands to his temples, fingertips pressing lightly against his fair skin. "My thoughts are tingling. To ordinary eyes it would feel strange, but…" Warm amber sigil circles bloomed around his eyes, rotating with intricate, slowly spinning runes. He channeled a focused thread of earth-affinity mana through his optic nerves and perceptual centers, activating Appraisal.
The world transformed in an instant.
Where before there had been only shadows and vague shapes, his enhanced vision now revealed vast, invisible currents of magical energy rippling and flowing through the entire floor like a thick, contained gas. These suffocating waves pressed against him from every direction, lingering, swirling, and deliberately hostile. The suppression magic was everywhere, a pervasive field designed to drown out foreign mana, exhaust the spirit, and crush intruders under relentless arcane pressure. His Tremorsense, layered with the Appraisal boost, painted an even clearer picture through the stone itself: every inch of the floor, both walls, and the ceiling was saturated with layered trap matrices. Complex lattices of glowing runes, pressure triggers, mana-reactive sigils, and mechanical kill mechanisms stretched as far as his boosted sight could penetrate dozens of meters, perhaps hundreds, covering the entire length of the corridor in overlapping deadly patterns.
"Would you look at that," Beaumont breathed, a mix of awe and dark amusement in his voice. "This whole place is flooding with mana." He spread his powerful arms wide, as if embracing the malevolent architecture. His gaze swept forward to where the corridor had appeared empty moments before; now he saw magic traps layered densely across the entire stone floor to the distant end. "Ahhhh," he exhaled in a low, appreciative tone. He turned his head to the left wall, then the right, both surfaces were equally saturated with concealed mechanisms. Finally, he looked upward. The ceiling, too, was a minefield of collapse runes and projectile arrays.
He released the Appraisal spell, the amber sigils around his eyes fading back to normal. A low, genuine giggle escaped him, the sound rich and resonant in the heavy air. "You really aren't joking this time, are you? No matter which route I pick, it's completely full of traps."
Beaumont brought his hands together in a precise casting gesture, palms touching, fingers interlaced in an ancient earth-mage mudra. His voice dropped into a focused chant. "Earth Resonance!"
Deep amber light erupted from the soles of his boots and sank rapidly into the bedrock far below. The spell rooted him like an ancient, unyielding oak, drawing upon the literal crushing weight and timeless geological stability of the terrestrial mantle beneath the floor. He felt the anti-magic suppression frequency clash violently against his resonance, then dissipate harmlessly downward into the earth like rainwater draining through fertile soil. The mental fog lifted almost immediately. His thoughts sharpened to a razor edge. His mana flow steadied and surged once more, the suffocating pressure reduced to a mere background hum.
"Well now," he said, rolling his powerful neck with a satisfied pop. He launched into a quick series of stretches to loosen his imposing frame. First, a deep tricep stretch on each arm, muscles flexing powerfully beneath his tunic. "If this were an average warrior, you would've had them. Even most mages might have suffocated and died from the mana suppression within several minutes." He moved fluidly into wide arm and shoulder circles, then deeper chest and shoulder stretches. A loud joint crack echoed through the corridor like a punctuation mark. "You've got tricks, dungeon… but you need more than that to stop me…"
Man, I really need to stop talking to myself, the thought flashed through his mind, carrying that same flicker of vulnerability from the first floor. The admission of potential loneliness still lingered at the edges of his exhilaration, but he shoved it aside with practiced ease.
"It's my turn now."
Beaumont eased forward two confident steps, planting his boots firmly on the iron-veined stone. His broad-shouldered frame settled into a powerful spell-casting stance, knees slightly bent for stability, core braced like forged steel, arms outstretched with palms facing downward toward the floor. Concentric amber sigils spun rapidly around his wrists and forearms, feeding a growing, controlled torrent of mana deep into the bedrock.
He began to channel, his deep voice resonating through the stone itself as he intoned the ancient words of power:
"Roots of iron, bones of stone,
Shatter the vault, reclaim the throne.
Deep earth waking, iron blood breaking,
Rise, O Forest of the Dead!
FERRO-SYLVAN PAROXYSM!"
(0–3 Seconds)
The temperature in the corridor plummeted dramatically. The air turned freezing cold, carrying an intense metallic tang mixed with the sharp, acrid bite of ozone, as though lightning had struck inside a vast iron foundry. The entire dungeon floor began to vibrate violently beneath Beaumont's feet. Fine cracks spiderwebbed outward from his position in every direction, glowing first with a dull molten orange, then shifting to a cold, metallic silver hue as the fundamental composition of the ancient stone rapidly converted into dense, raw iron ore. The transformation spread like an unstoppable contagion fissures widening, the ground groaning and protesting as its very nature was rewritten by his overwhelming earth magic. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. The light orbs flickered and then burned brighter, their golden-amber light reflecting off the newly metallic surfaces in dazzling, hypnotic patterns.
Beaumont's hazel eyes burned with intense focus and wild, exhilarated joy. He could feel the immense power surging through every fiber of his being, the dungeon fighting back with its suppression field yet ultimately yielding before his superior affinity and raw determination.
(3–6 Seconds)
Massive, jagged spikes of petrified wood, black as the deepest charcoal, each trunk thicker than the foundations of ancient towers punched upward through the fracturing floor with cataclysmic, earth-shaking force. Thick veins of raw, heavy iron ore spiraled around the trunks like living metallic arteries, pulsing with inner silver-orange light. The air filled with distorted wails and grinding screeches as stone and iron tore violently against one another, throwing off deadly showers of razor-sharp rock and metal shrapnel that ricocheted off the walls with sparks and whining impacts.
The iron-veined trunks branched out aggressively in all directions, slamming into the dungeon's support walls, remaining sections of floor, and the ceiling with devastating momentum. The immense upward pressure completely pulverized centuries-old masonry. Cracks raced ahead faster than the eye could follow, propagating through every layered trap matrix that Appraisal had revealed. As the spell reached its violent crescendo, the overloaded iron veins ruptured in a chain reaction, triggering the dungeon's own defensive mechanisms in panicked, uncontrolled succession. Arrow volleys, flame engulfing, lightening chain arc, binding vines, poison gas, dark flames and several traps fired into solid stone, blade launchers were crushed mid-cycle, and collapse runes detonated before their intended targets could arrive.
Then came the explosions in consecutive, overlapping detonations that rocked the entire second floor in a rolling maelstrom of pure destruction. Shockwaves and thunderous soundwaves erupted outward, shattering everything in their path. Massive sections of floor, walls, and ceiling disintegrated into rubble and twisted iron. The entire dungeon level collapsed inward with a deafening, apocalyptic roar, transforming the once-trap-laden corridor into a ruined, metal-choked crater that stretched from one end to the other. Dust and debris billowed outward in a choking, swirling cloud, but Beaumont stood resolute at the epicenter, his amber sigils flaring protectively around his powerful form like a divine aegis.
The residual waves of the cataclysm brushed through his clothing and chestnut hair like a triumphant gale. He threw both arms high into a dramatic, high V-pose, head tilted back, a wild, booming laugh erupting from deep in his chest.
"What an art!" he roared into the settling dust and devastation, his light orbs circling him dramatically in celebration. The exhilaration surged through him like a second potion, washing away the last lingering traces of mental exhaustion. For a glorious moment, the subtle loneliness that had flickered earlier felt utterly distant, replaced entirely by the pure, primal joy of dominating a worthy, living challenge.
He lowered his arms, breathing heavily but still grinning from ear to ear, and began advancing with renewed vigor through the newly created path of utter devastation toward the end of the second floor.
Deep within the fifth floor, reconstruction had only just been completed.
The vast chamber sprawled before her, gloomy yet meticulously prepared. Freshly laid stonework gleamed under the soft, steady glow of newly installed lanterns mounted at precise intervals along the towering walls. Massive pillars rose at regular intervals throughout the space, each one crowned with snarling gargoyle statues that seemed to watch the empty hall with eternal, predatory vigilance. The air still carried the faint, clean scent of worked stone mingled with residual enchantment residue from the recent construction spells. All that remained were the final touches; furnishings, decorative interior installations, and the careful placement of ambient magical fixtures. The familiars had been temporarily dismissed, leaving only Agatha to oversee the finishing details.
She moved with graceful, measured steps across the polished floor, her arms folded neatly beneath her chest as she observed every minute detail with a critical yet satisfied eye. She paused at the left-end pillar, leaning her back comfortably against the cool, smooth stone and folding her arms more securely. A slow, satisfied smile curved her lips.
"It's better than okay," she murmured softly, voice echoing lightly in the grand space. "They got everything right this time. It's way much better than the previous one."
All thanks to yours truly.
She allowed herself a quiet, indulgent moment of self-praise, the smile deepening into something almost smug and self-assured. "Hmph. The sun already set over hours ago. I need to change into something more relaxing this evening." Her right forefinger tapped thoughtfully at the bottom of her lips. "Should I wear the Midnight Velvet Bodice with the Sheer Over-Skirt?…"
Suddenly—
"Critical Report! Critical Report! Critical Report!"
Agatha's head snapped upward, her posture shifting instantly. "Huh?" She sighed, pushing off the pillar with fluid grace. "What is it now? Don't tell me the second core is about to give out. I knew it would come to this eventually, that sphere must be sucking a lot of power." She paused briefly, a flicker of genuine regret crossing her refined features. "Maybe I should have helped earlier."
"It's not about the core, Lady Agatha," Aid replied, its voice calm, mechanical, yet laced with unmistakable urgency.
"Ohh, 'Lady Agatha'?" she repeated, her tone shifting playfully into one of mock awe and exaggerated sweetness. "Well, if it's not about the core, then what is it then?" She said in a sweet, almost teasing tone.
"DUNGEON COLLAPSE IMMINENT!
Floor 1 Status: 89% Destroyed (Stability: 11% | Status: environmental hazard, Inhabitable, beyond repair).
Floor 2 destruction rate is accelerating. Current collapse: 91.0%, 91.5%, 92.0% (+0.5%)…"
Aid paused for a fraction of a second. Agatha had gone completely still, tension radiating through her entire posture as she stood straight and alert, no longer leaning casually against the pillar.
The system continued:
"Danger: Floor 2 structural damage will reach 100% in exactly 16 seconds."
"Aid, what's going on? How is that possible?" she demanded immediately, her voice sharp and commanding.
"Intruder advancing to the third floor."
Agatha's expression went stoic in an instant.