The resting days were over, and the time had come for Aethyr to resume his exploration. His preparations were meticulous; every detail had been accounted for. His armor, forged from the finest dragon scales, radiated an otherworldly luster. Each scale shimmered faintly, as if imbued with ancient magic, while intricate runes etched into its surface pulsed with a faint, eerie glow. The armor combined the sleek efficiency of modern design with arcane craftsmanship, a blend of technology and magic that seemed to transcend mortal ingenuity. His arsenal, including a magical spear crackling with ethereal energy, marked him as a warrior forged by the gods themselves.
As he emerged fully equipped, Aethyr’s appearance commanded awe. His friends and the masters who had trained him stood in silent acknowledgment. This was more than a farewell—it was a moment of respect and recognition. Aethyr had earned his place as a figure of legend.
At the gates of the dungeon, scholars and guards awaited him. Their curiosity was evident as they watched the young warrior stride forward with purpose. After a brief exchange, they opened the gates, granting him entry to the depths. Aethyr didn’t hesitate. He descended directly to the 50th floor, where Silkara’s resting place lay.
Kneeling before the shrine, Aethyr paid his respects to the fallen. His tribute was silent but heartfelt. Afterward, he pressed onward, entering the unexplored 51st floor. His habits kicked in immediately—mapping every corridor, taking detailed notes, and collecting samples of anything unusual.
The monsters inhabiting these levels were mostly undead—restless spirits bound to decaying flesh. For Aethyr, their presence posed no significant threat. Thanks to his mastery of holy and purifying magic, the undead were manageable adversaries. However, they were not to be underestimated. These creatures moved like humans, fought like seasoned warriors, and did not falter despite grievous wounds. Even decapitation wouldn’t guarantee their demise; only by capturing or purifying their souls could they be truly defeated.
Aethyr’s training under Master Grandir proved invaluable. With high-tier soul magic, he could trap and manipulate the souls of his enemies, turning their essence to his advantage. Jorugumo’s skill, Soul Siphon, allowed him to infect and assimilate these souls into his own. Aethyr was now a Weaver of Souls, commanding a growing horde of undead thralls.
Master Asphir’s tutelage in black magic had also enhanced his abilities. Aethyr could now control the undead, bending their will to his own by fusing their essence with his soul and desire. Over time, his thralls grew into a force of 50 workers and guards, enabling him to catalog and explore floors 51 to 60 with remarkable efficiency.
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Walking among his undead minions, spear in hand, Aethyr’s glowing armor cast an ominous light in the dungeon’s shadows. Occasionally, hostile monsters attacked, only to be obliterated by his horde. He even found himself enjoying the challenge. When a massive undead horde emerged to block his path, he grinned like an excited child.
"Let’s get some new friends! Yeeeeaaa!" he shouted, leading his thralls into battle.
By the 71st floor, five days had passed. Aethyr rested, having achieved an unprecedented pace—ten floors in less than a week. This was only possible because of his undead army. As long as he could maintain his mana flow, his thralls would remain under his control. However, the Weaver of Souls skill came with a cost. The constant mental strain threatened to overheat his mind, and losing focus could result in catastrophic consequences—fainting, losing control, or worse, becoming prey to his own minions.
To mitigate this, Aethyr devised runes that severed the connection between himself and his undead thralls if his concentration faltered. These runes also triggered a purification spell, causing the thralls to explode in holy light, ensuring they couldn’t turn on him.
Meanwhile, in the distant land of Stormhavn, a storm brewed—not of nature but of schemes. Merodach, the malevolent wizard and self-proclaimed greatest sorcerer of the age, fumed with jealousy. Seated in his dark tower, surrounded by grimoires and arcane relics, he seethed over Aethyr’s growing success.
"He must not be allowed to succeed," Merodach snarled, slamming his staff into the ground. "Aethyr’s progress threatens the balance of power. If he aligns himself with the other side, it could tip the scales irrevocably, robbing Vargath of his rightful claim to the title of Tribeking."
Vargath, however, remained pragmatic. "Enough of this paranoia, Merodach," he said, his voice calm yet firm. "Aethyr’s work benefits Stormhavn. His reports bring knowledge we can use, and I will not dishonor myself with underhanded tactics. If the boy emerges, he will have earned his place."
But Merodach was not so easily deterred. "You may have your honor, Vargath, but know this: the moment Aethyr resurfaces, he will not be the same. Mark my words, the dungeon will either break him—or I will."
In the shadows of his tower, Merodach began weaving a sinister spell. His eyes glinted with malice as he muttered incantations, summoning forces from the abyss. Whatever his plan, it would be a curse designed to strike Aethyr at his most vulnerable moment.
As Aethyr rested on the 71st floor, surrounded by his thralls, a faint ripple of dark magic passed through the dungeon. He didn’t notice it, but the undead paused momentarily, their glowing eyes flickering as if sensing something. Far above, in the tower of Stormhavn, Merodach smiled wickedly.
"Let the Weaver of Souls play his games," he whispered. "By the time he realizes what I’ve done, it will be too late."
Unaware of the shadow gathering against him, Aethyr prepared to continue his journey. But the dungeon’s dangers were no longer confined to its depths. The true threat now came from above, where schemes of darkness and jealousy festered in secret, waiting to strike.
