After slaying the Dark Dragon Soldier, Aphelia didn’t head straight for the stone chamber. Her senses unfurled like a net of moonlit ripples, sweeping the land. Any ward, any spell or device for surveillance or listening, would be dragged into the light.

Nero wanted the blame nailed to his “sister.” No loose threads, no careless slips.

Hmph... they did leave plenty of thorns under the leaves.

No fewer than ten hidden surveillance arrays and tools cracked at once under her precise Arcane Power, like frost webbing thin glass and snapping it. Not a whisper.

She also fed her armor to release a Dragon Roar. The ground looked storm-swept, debris scattered like broken twigs after gale. It made the ruin read as collateral, not intent.

At the same time, she found the stone chamber. “Hidden” was generous; it was only veiled by a single array, thin as paper over a window.

So simple? A mind that lays contingencies doesn’t forget its own net.

Arcane Power geysered around her, storm waves smashing the entrance array. The surge rolled through every structure inside, a tide that drowned or scrambled any watcher’s trick.

No contingencies at all? Did I overestimate them?

She smiled, a touch surprised, and walked down. The pitch-black armor folded into her ring, like night poured into a cup. The ring wasn’t Nero’s gift, but a spare Jasmine had prepared for this run.

With the Dark Dragon armor’s grade, a common storage ring would fail like brittle clay. Even a trace of its aura would shatter a lesser ring’s spatial weave.

She stowed it to avoid spooking the “prisoners” below. The ones who locked them here were the Dark Dragon Clan.

Deeper in, her boot met something slick. A metallic tang rose like rust on rain-soaked iron—too familiar to mistake.

Her heart dropped, heavy as a stone in deep water. A pure white blade slid beneath her black robe, pale as winter. She braced for the worst.

She stepped into the chamber. The stench flooded her nose like a swamp burst. In the dark, someone was eating. Chewing clicked clear, a metronome inside terror-silent black.

The chamber was small, fear tightened like a fist in a box. Every sound pressed close.

Muddy air. Dark, damp earth. Was this the crooked way’s favorite den, or had they pushed the world past cruel?

Holding that thought, Aphelia stayed wary and cast a Light spell, soft as dawn. What spilled into view made her regret bringing dawn at all.

Damn... bastards.

Even she felt her stomach turn, though she’d seen this rot before.

The last time was a cult stronghold, cut down like weeds after rain.

Corpses were heaped high. A mixed elemental pulse shimmered from their bodies, unmistakable—the mark of the Hydra Clan.

Cold stone should wear cool hues. Here, blood painted it red. Hydra blood runs vivid crimson; it stabbed the eyes like sunlight on steel.

In that pile, a small figure chewed quietly, like a clock wound wrong. She didn’t care about the scarlet pooling under her knees.

Are you... alright?

She sensed life, but its fire had grit in it, like ash mixed into flame. Something twisted had been stirred into that spark.

The small figure didn’t respond. She kept chewing, as if Aphelia were air and shadow.

Aphelia stepped closer and saw what the child was chewing. She had braced herself. Still, she sighed, breath cold as dew.

The room told the story. From the girl’s clothes, it was clear she was the one “selected” among these people. This scene had been placed by a calculating hand, chess played with bones.

Every act has a purpose. Targeting this child—who were they really pressing? If it was leverage, wouldn’t you keep the hostage intact? Driving her to the cliff’s edge like this...

The child trembled. The mechanical gnawing didn’t stop. Aphelia was still just air.

She slid away her blade and stepped in. She plucked the thing from the child’s mouth, quick as a hawk’s strike, and tossed it aside. The child flinched, then turned, blank-eyed, a sheen of liquid moving in her gaze like ripples.

It’s over. It’s okay now...

Aphelia gathered the small body into her arms, holding her like snow cupped in palms. A spell veiled the girl’s sight, gauze over a nightmare. She lifted her, ready to leave.

At the threshold, Aphelia stopped. A vast array formed in her hand like a spinning star, swelling to blanket the entire chamber.

Spatial magic—Eternal Exile.

Her voice came cold, frost on steel. War had tempered her. She didn’t rage like a green recruit anymore. She saw from a steadier height, mountain calm.

The spell sparked. A harsh scraping filled the air, like knives on shale. The chamber’s edges warped, reality bending like heat haze on a road. It held for a while. Aphelia didn’t look back. She climbed, silent, tracing old memories like finger over old scars.

When the Demon King invaded, the continent had ended its broad wars. The lords’ patchwork broke like cracked ice. Royal struggle did not.

Back then, as the so-called Hero, she was courted by every power, candle-flame swarmed by moths. Brutal strength, many factions at her back, and even a “divine oracle” from the sitting Pope.

She’d seen the ugliness of royal feuds, masks off and teeth bared. She once put a prince to the sword for it. That was long past...

But no matter the calculus, dragging an innocent child into it—her heart still burned, ember under ash.

It really boils the blood... dirty tricks.

With that thought, Aphelia carried the child out. In the passage, black armor slid over her body in an instant, night returning to night. She muted the Dark Dragon presence to a whisper.

Easy. It’s over. You’re safe...

Feeling the tremors in her arms, Aphelia remembered Lena’s care back then, warm as lamplight. She softened her voice. This time, she didn’t mask it.

A faint sob leaked from the fragile frame, like rain tapping a lantern.

Now wasn’t the time to mend everything. She hadn’t forgotten her purpose. She had to push into the heartland, to learn the Hydra Clan’s acting patriarch’s situation.

Right now, she stood at the city-facing edge of the plains, the world wide as a sea. Going deep wouldn’t be a one-day task. And the kid... she couldn’t take her the whole way, could she?

As she thought, a cry for help touched her ear, thin as wind across grass. A normal person would be startled. No one in sight, yet a plea sounded.

Arcane Broadcast, and indiscriminate at that? What rich fool does that...

She thought that because of the spell’s quirks.

As a city defense tool, it’s unmatched. Shout once, and everyone within a kilometer hears you, like a bell over roofs. With targets limited. Without limits, it carries twice farther.

In the human realm, many rich folk bought its scrolls as lifesavers. When assassins came, broadcasting rarely ended well—noise before the knife.

But this was the Hydra Plains. By the look of it, Hydra clanfolk were being hunted like deer in snow. Whatever the calculus, moving to save them came first.

Aphelia set the small body down gently, like placing a feather, and cast a simple sleep. If she couldn’t ease a traumatized child into rest, she didn’t deserve the rank of Titleholder.

A solid ward wrapped the girl and sank underground, safe as seed under soil. Once it was secure, Aphelia sent her senses out again, ripples widening on a lake. In under a minute, she traced the Arcane Power to the caster.

She rode her power into a Dragon Roar, thunder rolled through a canyon. Black wings coalesced from her pure Arcane flow, like a true Dark Dragon’s pinions. The great wings beat, and she arrowed toward the call.

Help! Someone save me!

A Hydra youth ran flat out, breath ragged as torn cloth. Cavalry chased him, teeth set, dust spitting from hooves. He was high tier, yet he couldn’t shake riders a tier below.

His wounds tore anew from the sprint. Bright blood soaked his bandages, a red waking flower. He couldn’t afford to care. A breath of slack, and those riders would cut him down with their Rune blades.