As my glacial mount surged across the tundra, the air grew thick with a clashing dissonance of energies. The clean, biting cold of the 2nd Floor was being suffocated by a heavy, oily pressure that made the skin crawl.
"Arthur..." Melchior's voice resonated from the ring, sharper and more alert than usual. "I sense an ominous demonic energy weaving through the mana signatures ahead. But there is something else, something piercing through the dark. A divine energy."
I narrowed my eyes as the ice mount galloped onward. Divine energy. In our world, we simply called it 'Holy' energy, the natural antithesis to the corruption of the Abyss. My mind raced, connecting the dots of the recent days. I remembered the harrowing news reports from England, the Level-Break that had turned the city into a slaughterhouse. If the demonic influence was here, then the tragedy in England wasn't just an anomaly; it was a prelude.
Before I could finalize my hypothesis, the mount reached the edge of a wide, snowy basin. With a silent command, I let the ice hand dissolve back into the permafrost, and I landed softly on a ridge overlooking the battlefield. I stayed low, positioned far enough to avoid the stray projectiles but close enough to witness the carnage.
Below, a fierce skirmish was in full swing. One side was a highly coordinated adventuring party, their formations shifting with professional grace to cover every angle. But the centerpiece of their defense was impossible to miss. Amidst the swirling snow stood a woman with long, radiant golden-blonde hair that reflected brightly under the Floor's light.
I activated [Red Demon's Eye], but the screen flickered with "ERROR", the level gap was still a wall I couldn't climb. However, I didn't need a system window to recognize her. Every news outlet in Europe had been shouting her name for the past week. She was the 'Saintess of Amsterdam,' the hero of the English Level-Break: Jean D'Arc.
She was a Paladin, a legendary Rare Class. Unlike standard warriors who specialized through training, Paladins were 'Awakened,' possessing a soul-bound affinity for both steel and the heavens. With every swing of her heavy claymore, a shockwave of pure Holy energy rippled outward, cleaving through the darkness. She was a tactical nightmare for her enemies, an all-rounder who could lead a charge, tank a colossal blow, and heal her allies in the same breath.
But her opponents were the true cause for concern.
Opposing the Saintess was a group of humans clad in black-and-red coats, their faces obscured by ornate masks. They moved with an unsettling, fluid synchronicity, and most disturbingly, they were commanding the local ice monsters as if they were trained hounds. My gaze locked onto the crest embroidered on their shoulders: a Nine-Headed Dragon.
My blood ran cold. In all 104 of my VR accounts, the followers of the Nine-Headed Dragon, the 'Demonic Humans' who worshipped the Abyss, never appeared before the middle floors. To see them active here, on the 2nd Floor, meant the timeline of the Tower's "Reality" was accelerating at a terrifying pace. These were zealots who sought to dismantle the Tower from the inside, serving as the vanguard for demonic incursions.
"Those demons..." Melchior muttered, his voice dripping with ancient disdain. "They are the ones who devised the spell that allowed my subordinates to roam beyond the 'Hall of Deprived.' What are they plotting here?"
The puzzle pieces snapped together with a sickening click. The massacre on the 1st Floor, the vampires being lured out of their sealed region, and the devastating Level-Break in England... it was all them. They weren't just clearing floors; they were orchestrating chaos to weaken the Tower's structural integrity.
I looked back at Jean D'Arc. She was fighting with a desperate, holy ferocity, her blade a beacon in the storm. If these cultists were here, they weren't just trying to clear the floor. They were after something else.