Chapter 167
The wagon was quiet for a long while, the only sound the faint crackle of the enchanted lamps and the occasional clink of Bonnie's spoon in her half-finished bowl of soup. Vaenyx purred softly in Daniel's lap, but its warmth could not soften the truth burning behind his eyes. Finally, Daniel exhaled and sat straighter, his gaze lifting to meet the people who had chosen, despite everything, to follow him.
"I can't keep pretending this is the same Tower it once was," Daniel began, his voice steady, though it carried the faint tremor of someone bearing far too much. "I thought… if I followed the rules, if I treated it as I designed it, as a test of growth and survival, it would remain what it was meant to be.
But my very presence changed it. The gods saw me, and they broke their own rules to reach us early. That's why so many of our people lie dead or broken. That's why the battles are no longer what they should be. And for that… I ask your forgiveness." His hand tightened on Vaenyx's fur, and for a moment, silence thickened like stone.
Charlotte, usually bright and filled with hope, leaned forward, her voice trembling. "You don't need to apologize, Lord Rothchester. Without you, we'd already be gone. But… what do you mean, change strategy? What are you planning?"
Daniel looked at each of them, Emma's sharp eyes, Mary Kaye's watchful calm, Natasha's hard resolve, Jacob's measured stillness, Bonnie's warmth, Charlotte's fragile courage. "I mean escalation," he said plainly. "The Tower's difficulty is no longer what you expected. It has increased because of me. The Administrator won't stop. Drasklorn the Glass City, the fourth city we're headed toward… it will not be the city you read of in old records. It will be harsher, twisted, designed to bleed us dry. The Administrator will ensure that."
Natasha's jaw clenched. "Then we'll bleed it back. If the difficulty rises, we rise with it."
Jacob, calmer, added, "But rising blindly is death. You're saying you intend to change how we fight, how we move, to escalate before the Tower escalates further."
Daniel gave a slow nod. "Exactly. I need one day. Just one. There's a theory I need to test. If I'm right, it might" he paused, weighing the risk of hope in his words, "speed up the clearing of this quest. If I'm wrong, then I'll bear the consequences. But I won't wait for the gods to move their pieces again. This time, I will move first."
Mary Kaye leaned forward, her scholar's voice heavy with caution. "And if your escalation forces the Tower to answer even harder? You're talking about rewriting its rhythm. Do you truly believe you can wrest control from the Administrator?"
Daniel's lips curved, not into a smile, but into the faint shadow of defiance. "I don't believe. I know I must. If we're already pieces on their board, then I'll become the piece they can't predict, can't control. The cog they thought was broken… but which will grind their whole machine into dust."
The group exchanged glances, their unease and loyalty woven together. They had followed him through despair and loss already, and now he was asking them to follow him into something greater, darker, and far more uncertain. And yet, in that silence, none of them stepped back.
The wagon fell into silence after Daniel's words, though it was not the silence of dismissal; it was the silence of thought, heavy and drawn out, the kind that pressed into each person differently. Charlotte looked down at her clasped hands, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came; she swallowed her fear, remembering how close death had come for her in the last battle.
Natasha's eyes burned, her instinct urging her to challenge, to demand more answers, but even she held back, realizing that her sharp tongue would only betray the truth she already knew: Daniel wasn't reckless. He was desperate to protect them. Jacob's calm expression remained unshaken, though in his stillness was a silent acknowledgment: Daniel's plan wasn't just a gamble; it was a shield. And Mary Kaye, who lived for questions, held hers tightly to her chest, because even if she could not unravel the reasoning of gods, she could see the reason in Daniel's eyes.
They all had their reasons not to speak. Some out of loyalty, others out of fear, and some out of a quiet understanding that this wasn't about whether his strategy was dangerous. It was about survival. Daniel's intent wasn't to gamble their lives recklessly but to save them from what none of them could endure: the unwanted twists of the Tower and the sudden intrusions of godlike enemies that didn't belong on the early floors.
The fight against the undead horde alone was nearly unbearable, millions of shambling corpses with numbers so vast they blotted the horizon. It was difficult enough to think of pushing through that tide without collapsing from exhaustion, let alone imagining facing more beings like the archdemon they had just barely survived.
Daniel broke the silence himself, his voice low but resolute. "You all know this quest is already cruel. To cut through or avoid millions of undead is already beyond what any guild should endure. But if the Administrator keeps moving pieces down from the upper floors, if stronger, smarter enemies descend on us before we're ready, we won't last. None of us will. That's why this burden is mine. I will make sure the path ahead is clear. I will take the weight of the changes and twist the Administrator's rules back on themselves if I must. But you " his eyes moved across them all, "you will be the ones to finish this quest. To clear it. That much I promise you."
His words carried not arrogance, but finality, as though he had already carved the oath into stone. It was not a plea for their faith; it was the unyielding conviction of a man who had decided that if the game itself was breaking, then he would be the one to break it further, on his terms, until his guild had the chance to live.
None of them replied, not in words. But the look in their eyes, haunted, weary, and yet unwilling to turn away, was answer enough.
The next morning carried a strange weight with it. The guild members awoke to find Daniel gone, but not in secrecy; his absence felt deliberate, as though his silence itself was an answer. The night before, his words had carved their resolve into stone. He hadn't needed to say goodbye. They all understood: the path was his to pave, but theirs to walk.
When Daniel opened the transfer gate toward Lúthien, the shimmer of runes bent around the archway like ripples on water. Stepping through, his gaze immediately caught the sight of thousands preparing to deploy. Armored soldiers, merchants with wagons, and engineers carrying crates of steel and stone all converging toward the massive transfer archway at the city's heart.
And there, standing before them, Imgrim Bouldergrove spotted him. The dwarf's eyes widened with a mix of awe and relief. He surged forward, planting himself before the army and bellowing in his gravelly voice:
"Hold your march! Our master has returned!"
The command halted the thunder of boots. A thousand pairs of eyes turned toward Daniel. The silence was almost crushing, reverence heavy in the air.
Daniel stood still, his cloak stirring faintly in the morning wind, his expression unreadable. But as his gaze lifted, he caught sight of what had become of Lúthien.
The city was unrecognizable.
Where once there had been scattered homes and hastily raised barricades, now tall towers of stone and glass pierced the skyline, standing sentinel-like against the heavens. Massive buildings loomed, each over twenty-five feet tall, their foundations spanning entire blocks of land. The architecture was strange, foreign even, fusing traditional dwarven stonework with elven grace and human ingenuity, all unmistakably influenced by Daniel's void-space designs.
Then realization struck him.
The people who had once lived under his protection in the void, cradled safely away from danger, were here now. No longer shadows hidden in his domain, but inhabitants of towering structures that pulsed with life. From the balconies and high windows, children's laughter spilled out. Banners of guild insignias hung across streets alive with trade. Smiths hammered steel, bakers opened stalls, and voices of vendors filled the air.
The void gave rise to a new type of social structure based on the influence of the library, which housed all of Daniel's innermost thoughts and discipline. The current caregivers shared new books that they knew would help shape the people who were temporarily living in the void, and as a result, the city of Lúthien stood tall, alive, and defiant against the Tower's challenges.
Daniel's eyes narrowed as the truth settled in. His people had outpaced even his expectations. They were no longer waiting for him to guide every step. They were building, evolving, becoming.
And yet, as he stood before them, he knew the weight of their progress lay on his shoulders. The Tower administrator's hand would not remain idle after such a development.
Imgrim dropped to one knee, slamming a fist to his chest.
"My lord… you see it now, don't you? This city stands because of you. Your vision, your shield, your trials… we've made it real."
The army behind him echoed the motion, kneeling as one. Thousands bowed their heads in reverence.
Daniel said nothing at first. His gaze lingered on the vast transfer arch, the towers, and the lives that pulsed here because of his decisions. For a moment, his mind weighed the truth: every step he took twisted the Tower's rules. Every move escalated the game.
But looking at them now, he felt a flicker of resolve harden into something sharper.
"…Then I must make sure that everybody survives," he murmured, almost to himself.
The weight of his vow carried into every kneeling soldier, merchant, and citizen within earshot. The army held its breath, waiting for his next command. Daniel's eyes swept over the rows of armored men and women, noticing details he had never allowed himself to before. The scars. The bandaged limbs. The tired but unbroken eyes. These were not faceless soldiers; they were survivors, pulled from the brink and kept alive within his void.
Raising his voice, Daniel commanded with quiet authority:
"Remain where you are. I would know who stands before me."
A ripple of unease passed through the front ranks. The silence stretched until Daniel fixed his gaze on the man nearest him, a soldier who had stepped slightly forward when Imgrim halted the march.
"You," Daniel said, voice low but carrying the weight of expectation. "State your name, rank, and affiliation."
The soldier hesitated, his hands trembling as he reached up to unclasp his helm. When he pulled it free, his face was young, far younger than Daniel expected, no more than twenty summers, with soot-streaked cheeks and a scar slashing across his jaw. His eyes, however, were unwavering. He bowed deeply, lowering his head with reverence before answering.
"I am Eryndor Kael, Captain of the Third Watch, sworn to Lúthien. Once, I was a soldier of the southern provinces… until the Tower broke us. My lord, you saved me. You gave me a place when I had nothing. I fight now not for a nation or a crown, but for this city and for you."
A murmur rose among the soldiers, approval rumbling in their ranks.
Daniel studied him, his expression unreadable, though within his mind the truth was sinking deeper: these men and women no longer belonged to fractured kingdoms or lost homelands. They belonged here, to Lúthien, to the society born from his void, molded by his disciplines, stories, and will. They were bound together not by blood, but by survival and belief.
"…Kael," Daniel said, the name rolling with quiet finality.
"Then you and your people are no longer remnants. You are the shield of this city."
The young captain's eyes widened, and he struck his chest with a trembling fist. "Yes, my lord!"
The army erupted in a unified roar, a vow echoing across the square, shaking the very air around the transfer arch. Banners trembled, and from the towers above, civilians leaned out, cheering the name of their leader, the one who had carried them through void and ruin.
Daniel stood in silence, the air of Lúthien thick with the echoes of devotion, yet his thoughts turned inward, calculating, assessing. Staying within his void had not merely been a refuge it had been a crucible. Time itself bent differently there: one day outside stretched into twenty-four within, and by leaving them there for nearly twenty-two days, he had given these people seventeen months of unbroken training, discipline, and shaping under his unseen hand. What had once been wounded remnants and scattered souls were now a honed fighting force, tempered by hardship, knowledge, and the relentless grind of his design.
With a sweep of his assessment skill, the truth unfolded before him. One hundred and eighty warriors stood at attention, each clad in high-quality armor gleaming with enchantments born of the War Forge, each bearing weapons forged not only of steel but of purpose. They were no longer ragged survivors, every man and woman here could stand against a knight in single combat and hold their ground.
Their ranks had been molded into precision: twelve squads, each composed of twelve, arranged with care to balance strengths and weaknesses, healers and fighters, vanguard and support. No unit was incomplete; no squad was a loose collection of individuals. Each was a cog in a greater war machine, their movements sharpened into instinct, their unity reinforced by months of drilling within the timeless halls of his void.
And each squad bore a name, a banner, and an identity tied directly beneath his insignia , not kingdoms of old, nor the broken emblems of their past allegiances, but symbols forged anew under his shadow. The Ashen Blades, hardened in attrition. The Stonebound , immovable in defense. The Silent Veil, masters of ambush and subterfuge. Others too . each title whispered pride and fear in equal measure.
They were not just soldiers; they were his legacy made flesh, heirs of his doctrine, the discipline and knowledge drawn from the library he had left to guide them when he could not. and the one that made happen was Ai-caretakers of his library within the void space.
And as Daniel's eyes lingered on them, a darker thought coiled within his mind: they were ready, ready to be cast into the storm of the Tower. But readiness was not survival. The administrator's hand was already turning, reshaping the Tower's difficulty to punish his interference, to bend the rules against his will. What he had built here was not an army of game pieces, but living souls who would bleed when struck, who would die if his calculations failed. That was the weight he carried now , and the burden that would only grow heavier when the gates to Drasklorn opened.
Daniel's voice cut through the murmuring air of Lúthien, steady and cold, carrying the weight of command.
"Vaenyx separate."
The mighty beast that once seemed a singular being obeyed without hesitation. Darkness rippled outward as the three cores of its essence tore free, shedding their unified form. First came Vaelith, the black serpent. His obsidian scales shimmered like molten glass caught between shadow and fire, each ripple of muscle betraying ancient strength.
As he slithered forward, his molten-gold eyes locked on Daniel, their gleam sharp as a blade yet softened with reverence. His massive body coiled once, then collapsed into a haze of black smoke. From that haze stepped a tall man clad in shadow and steel, broad-shouldered and regal, kneeling before his master. His raven-dark hair spilled over a brow marked with a thin gold circlet, eyes still carrying the slit pupils of his serpent form, unblinking, unwavering.
From above, Nyxiel descended, her wings carving silence through the air. The horned owl landed with deliberate grace upon Vaelith's shoulder, those fathomless pools of midnight in her eyes staring as if through Daniel's very soul. Her feathers dissolved into a thousand threads of silver light, weaving seamlessly into the figure of a tall, ethereal woman. Her hair flowed like silvered moonlight, streaked with ink-black strands of her plumage, while small curved horns crowned her temples, glowing faintly like stars struggling to break the night. She too bent the knee.
Then, through the mist at the edge of the courtyard, Kitsune emerged. Her nine tails swayed hypnotically, ember-glow tips flickering like dying suns, her stride feline, deliberate, taunting. When she reached him, her vulpine muzzle curled into a smile that knew too much, sharp, sly, and intoxicating.
Fire rippled across her fur, parting like petals of a burning flower until what stood before him was a woman of elegance and dangerous beauty. Her tails folded inward, flames dimming as she bowed low, her smile fading into solemn respect.
The three knelt as one, shadows and moonlight and fire bound by his command.
Daniel's gaze swept over them, his expression unreadable.
"Return to your established groups," he ordered, his tone like stone grinding against steel. "Prepare. You will join the hunt. The three remaining cities, Drasklorn, the Glass City. Feyrath, the City of Petals. Merfleur, the City of the Silent Bells. They will fall. Four days' march apart, but none will remain untouched. The path must be cleared."
The courtyard stilled, every soldier present catching the undertone in his words. This was not merely conquest; it was necessity, inevitability.
Without waiting for more, Daniel opened a transfer gate and stepped through. The shimmering arch swallowed him whole, and when he emerged, the sprawling grandeur of Rothchester Mansion rose before him.
The moment his figure appeared, two shapes rushed forward, the Duke and Duchess Rothchester, their refined composure breaking into raw humanity as they wrapped their arms around their son. The soldiers behind them, banners raised and weapons at the ready, froze in solemn silence at the sight. For a heartbeat, the battlefield seemed far away.
"Daniel…" the Duchess whispered, her voice trembling, burying her face against him as though to confirm he was real. The Duke's grip was firm, proud, a silent oath that no matter what storms approached, their bloodline stood unbroken.
And then a smaller figure broke through the air of command and ceremony. Melgil. Her footsteps pounded the courtyard stones as she bolted from her chambers, tears streaking her cheeks. Behind her, fifty female warriors in light battle gear formed a protective arc, their armor gleaming, while a hundred knights bearing the Rothchester emblem sat astride warhorses, shields raised and swords gleaming in the morning light.
She didn't slow down. She didn't bow. She simply crashed into him, sobbing openly as though the weight of weeks of dread had broken free.
Daniel caught her, his arms steady even as his body bore wounds still aching from the last battle. Slowly, he bent and pressed his lips against hers, a kiss that silenced the courtyard's whispers and even stilled the restless stamping of warhorses.
"I missed you deeply, Melgil," Daniel murmured against her hair, his voice low but cutting through the air with finality.
Her sob turned into a shiver, half relief, half terror, as the man she loved stood at the center of armies and oaths, holding the world's fate in his hands.
The courtyard's reunion did not last long. Duty pressed down heavier than the warmth of embraces, and soon the Duke, Duchess, Melgil, and her assembled warriors were drawn into the great council hall of Rothchester Mansion. The air shimmered faintly as Daniel raised his hand, casting a hidden veil, an opening to his void space. He masked the transition with a simple gesture, yet the truth was far from ordinary. Daniel knew the administrator's eyes could pry into every corner of the Tower, but not here. Not within his void. This was his sanctuary, untouchable, unalterable. No god, no watcher, no administrator could trespass into its dominion.
"Step through," Daniel said quietly, the edges of his voice sharp with unspoken urgency.
The Rothchester knights and Melgin's sworn women entered first, their boots falling into silence as the reality around them shifted. The surroundings dissolved, replaced by a horizon so vast it seemed endless. Rolling plains of dark silver grass swayed under an otherworldly sky. Towers of light and black stone pulsed in the distance, their spires piercing the heavens. And at the center, looming over them like the bones of a god, stood the War Forge Castle, its gates alive with molten fire and shadow.
Not one soldier spoke. Helmets tilted upward, jaws slack beneath steel. The air vibrated with mana, alive and tangible, so dense that even the most seasoned knights felt its pressure.
Then they saw them.
The Void-trained army.
One hundred and eighty warriors clad in blackened steel, their weapons forged from alloys no known smith could name, stood in disciplined formations. Each bore the insignia of Daniel's crest burned into their gauntlets, the mark of loyalty that could not be broken. Behind them, the colossal doors beneath the War Forge opened, and another phalanx emerged, blades gleaming like falling stars. The ground itself seemed to quake beneath their synchronized march.
Imgrim Bouldergrove, the younger brother of the chieftain of the War Forge, stepped forward and bowed, his voice echoing through the hush that had fallen over the vast chamber.
"My lord… they have been waiting. Their oath is bound to you."
The words stirred the stillness like an iron hammer striking stone. Behind him, Siglorr Bouldergrove—broad-shouldered, his presence both welcoming and sharp as tempered steel—approached with the measured stride of one long used to carrying command. A faint smile curved his face as he stopped before Daniel, the weight of pride and caution mingling in his eyes.
At Siglorr's side stood two figures. One was his son, Olmar Bouldergrove, tall and serious, his hand never far from the hilt of his war axe. The other, an unexpected presence that drew subtle glances from the surrounding warriors, was his adopted daughter, Elaria Syrune.
Elaria smiled and wave at Melgil, both both ran and hug each other at they always treat each other as siblings , and they are both found of Daniel one as a love and the other as a older sibling
Aa the same time, the assembled War Forge warriors, scarred, iron-marked, and bound by oaths, shifted in silence, their eyes drawn not to Siglorr, not to Imgrim, but to Daniel himself. On their hands, the dark markings of loyalty gleamed faintly in the dim light, each symbol etched into their flesh like living proof of their bond to him.
The warlord, the void-bearer, the unhinged cog that no god's plan could restrain—stood now before those who had already chosen him.
The Rothchester knights shifted uneasily. Many glanced to their Duke, who stood rigid but silent. The Duchess's lips parted as though to speak, but she stopped herself, her eyes fixed on Daniel. Melgil, however, could not still her voice.
"Daniel… this" She gestured at the impossible scene before them, her hands trembling. "This is no army born of men. This is…" Her words failed, replaced by the weight of awe and dread.
Daniel stepped forward, his cloak dragging across the silver grass, his gaze sweeping across both armies.
"These are the remnants of those who chose to stay within my void. Time here runs differently. They trained for seventeen months while only days passed outside. They became what they needed to be. what I needed them to be."
The Duke finally spoke, his voice stern though his eyes betrayed unease.
"And now you bring my men here, Daniel? Do you mean to bind them to this… realm as well?"
Daniel shook his head.
"No father. please understand my reason ,they will remain themselves, free to seek their own fate. but they must fight beside these warriors as equals. The Tower has changed its rules because of me father . The challenges ahead will not be the ones foretold. If we fight fractured, we will die. If we fight together, there is a chance."
Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of molten fire from the War Forge. The soldiers shifted, the enormity of Daniel's words sinking in.
Then, Daniel raised his hand again, and the void's wind curled inward, closing them off from the Tower's gaze entirely. The atmosphere shifted, lighter somehow, though still heavy with responsibility. He looked directly at Melgil now.
Her eyes, red from weeping, burned with something sharper. Fear. Not of what stood before her, but of him, of losing him. She reached for him despite the presence of her warriors, fingers clutching the fabric of his sleeve.
"You're building something bigger than yourself, Daniel. Bigger than all of us. But tell me… how long until it swallows you whole?" Her voice cracked, her lips trembling. "How long before you're gone again?"
The soldiers behind her bowed their heads, giving her space though they heard every word. Even the Duke and Duchess looked away. This was not the plea of a warrior, nor the question of a leader. This was Melgil's raw truth, the wound of five years' loss reopening before their eyes.
Daniel looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then back at the armies waiting in silence. The weight of both worlds pressed on him, and for once, his stoic mask slipped.
"…I don't know," he admitted, his tone low and heavy, yet more honest than any command he had given. "But I will not stop, not while you're here, not while they're here. I'll carry this burden, even if it tears me apart. That is the only promise I can give you."
The void itself seemed to still at his words, as though listening.