After what felt like an eternity of death and fire, silence returned — but it was not a comforting one.
The last wyvern fell with a soul-cracking shriek, its flaming bones scattering across the ancient stone like shattered stars. The air stank of ozone, ash, and scorched mana. Hunters stood amidst the ruin — wounded, panting, their numbers halved, their morale hanging by threads.
Captain Veylor raised his hand. "Regroup."
What remained of the formation — bloodied A-ranks, limping B-ranks, and the three unshaken S-ranks — began to move.
Roman followed numbly, shoes dragging through the cracks in the stone, his eyes blank with the aftermath of carnage. Every step forward felt like walking deeper into the grave of the world.
They descended into a narrow corridor, the ceiling so high it vanished into darkness, the floor carved from obsidian-veined granite. Blue fire torches lit automatically as they passed, one by one, as if the dungeon itself watched their arrival.
And then…
They stood before the gate.
It was monolithic — a door at least 30 meters high, shaped like the open maw of a dragon. Its fangs curved inward to form handles of black steel, and across its surface, ancient runes shimmered with gold and crimson. The mana radiating off the door wasn't just dense — it was alive. Heavy. Watching.
"This is it," whispered Arin, awe breaking through her voice for the first time.
Captain Veylor nodded, stepped forward, and placed his hand on the gate. His aura flared, recognizing the ancient lock. The door pulsed once… then twice…
And then — opened.
A low rumble, like a titan waking from a thousand-year slumber, echoed through the chamber as the stone maw split open, parting sideways with a hiss of ancient dust and magic.
What lay beyond was not a dungeon.
It was a cathedral of death and glory.
The chamber stretched endlessly, an underground temple built for a god. Black pillars spiraled upward into nothingness, each etched with flowing golden runes and shattered divine seals. Massive chains as thick as trees hung from the ceiling, glowing faintly with magic. Beneath them…
Treasure.
Mountains of it.
Gold coins stacked higher than men, rolling across the marble floor in rivers of forgotten wealth. Glowing mana weapons floated midair, suspended in containment fields — spears, swords, even grimoires bound in dragon hide. Rare skill tomes shimmered on pedestals made of crystal. Broken staves, enchanted armor, magical rings, dimensional scrolls — all of it, just lying there, untouched by time.
The entire chamber glowed faintly with arcane light, flickering in hues of blue, violet, and dragonfire gold. It looked more like the vault of a god than a grave.
And at the very center, raised on a platform of black obsidian and surrounded by a ring of ancient bones… lay him.
The Dragon King.
The sheer size of the skeleton was mythic. Its skull alone was the size of a house, crowned by six jagged horns that curved backward like a crown of thorns. Massive wings lay folded around the ribcage, each bone plated with glistening scales that hadn't decayed. Its claws were swords. Its spine was a jagged mountain ridge. Its chest cavity still pulsed faintly, as if the soul it once housed had never fully departed.
At its center — impaled through the sternum — was a colossal scythe, jet-black with violet veins of power running through it. Its blade curved unnaturally, humming with a low, dark resonance.
Roman's breath caught in his throat. Not from awe — but from something deeper.
His knees nearly buckled.
Something about the Dragon King's presence reached into him. Like a whisper. A pull. A soundless heartbeat beneath the surface of reality.
"Do not touch anything," Veylor growled. "Not until we confirm the grave's stability."
No one argued.
Even the most greedy hunters stood in still reverence. The raw magic in the air was suffocating. The gravity around the bones of the Dragon King made their skin crawl, their souls ache.
This wasn't just a treasure room.
This was a place of judgment.
And the grave… had only just opened.
A stillness had fallen across the chamber — but not peace.
The treasure sparkled with eerie light. The broken scythe still floated in the dragon's chest. The awakened stood in breathless awe, surrounded by weapons, artifacts, and untold fortune.
Then… the air changed.
Mana began to stir. Not in waves — but in a pulse, like a second heartbeat. A deep, ancient rhythm that echoed through the bones of the earth. Blue fire flared to life in the torch sconces, then spread unnaturally to the dragon's skeleton.
Cracks of magic lightning crawled across the ribcage. The platform shuddered. The air warped, distorting like glass over fire.
The Dragon King was waking up.
His skull turned first — slow, groaning, unnatural. Hollow sockets gleamed with abyssal flame, and from deep within, a voice rumbled like collapsing mountains:
"You dare…You dare enter the tomb of the Eternal Flame…"
Every hunter froze.
"How dare you, mere peasants, tread upon my grave."
The voice exploded through the chamber.
Several B-rank hunters dropped instantly, blood bursting from their noses and ears. Mana shields shattered like glass. Roman fell to one knee, gasping. Even the S-ranks gritted their teeth, barely able to stay standing under the sheer oppressive majesty that poured off the dragon's reawakening corpse.
The scythe lifted from his chest with a horrible groan, twisting mid-air and snapping into his skeletal hand.
The Dragon King rose to his full height, wings of bone and ethereal flame spreading wide — so wide they scraped the chamber walls and whipped the air into a storm.
Then, without warning—
He attacked.
"Draconic Judgement: Eternal Flame Spiral!"
A vortex of blue fire erupted from his mouth, spiraling into the center of the hunters. The front line evaporated. Five A-Ranks turned to ash instantly. B-Ranks screamed and burned, their protective gear melting to slag.
"Retreat! Cast barriers!" Veylor screamed.
Arin shouted, "Radiant Dome of Ilunira!"A golden shield encased the survivors just in time — but the force of the next attack made it crack instantly.
The Dragon King's scythe glowed.
"Reaping Silence."
A crescent arc of black mana ripped through the room, cutting the air like space itself was being sliced. The barrier shattered. The second line of hunters fell. A C-Rank support mage screamed as his arm was torn from his body.
"He's not a boss…" Arin whispered in horror, "He's a god."
Helio roared and charged, spear drawn. "Meteor Fang: Red Flame Descent!"
He launched into the air, his spear blazing like a falling star. He slammed it down with a war cry — and hit nothing.
The Dragon King moved impossibly fast. One flap of his wings — and he was behind Helio.
"Insect."
He bisected him mid-air. Blood and flame rained down.
"Rain of Judgment!" Arin cast, dozens of golden lances raining from the sky.
"Blitz Howl — Thunder Pack Formation!" roared an A-Rank lightning user.
"Divine Chain — Bind the Dead!"
"Revival Surge! Heal all units!"
The air was thick with skill chants, mana bursts, and visual chaos. Firestorms, holy arrows, thunderclaps — every awakened pulled out their trump cards.
And it did nothing.
The Dragon King danced through it all — unscathed, unbothered. He slashed through time, bent space with his wings, and laughed as he turned their best spells into meaningless sparks.
The Dragon King raised his clawed hand.
"Rise… children of bone."
Bones beneath the treasure heaps began to stir. Ancient skeletal wyverns, drakes, and corrupted hatchlings crawled free, their eyes glowing blue.
"Let them know… why gods do not die."
Roman stared at the slaughter. He was paralyzed. He had no sword, no shield. He'd come as a porter — a forgotten background extra.