The acrid smell of burnt flesh still lingered in the cramped underground chamber, mixing with the metallic tang of blood and something else—something that made Lucas’s skin crawl with its wrongness.

He crouched beside the corpse of what had once been called a Devil, its twisted form now nothing more than charred meat and blackened bone.

The Undertaker’s practiced eyes swept over the remains with clinical detachment, cataloguing details that would have sent lesser men fleeing.

“I see, so it’s a sacrifice…” Lucas’s voice carried the weight of someone who had seen too much darkness in his young life.

His gaze shifted to the old man and boy standing awkwardly near the chamber’s entrance, both trying not to look directly at the grotesque scene. “Great prosthetics, though. I didn’t even know they were fake until you told me.”

The praise felt hollow in the oppressive atmosphere, but Lucas meant it.

Matthias’s craftsmanship was extraordinary—the wooden limbs moved with such natural fluidity that even his trained eye had missed the telltale signs.

The boy, Mud, shifted uncomfortably under the attention, his artificial fingers flexing in what might have been nervousness or habit.

“So, you never heard of these beings called Devils and Devil summoners?” Lynn’s voice cut through the tension, his Minstrel persona slipping slightly to reveal something harder underneath.

Lucas straightened, wiping his hands on a cloth that came away stained with substances he preferred not to identify.

The chamber’s torchlight cast dancing shadows across his youthful features, making him appear older than his years—a common affliction among those who served in Arbalest’s darker operations.

“Why do I need to?” The dismissive tone was carefully calculated, born from genuine experience rather than arrogance. “Are they even that much stronger than normal demon beasts to start with? I’m guessing you already know about the ancient beings sleeping deep in the Strife Zone. Those stupid Devils are probably either killing each other to get stronger or getting killed by sleeping animals or ancient beings. How strong can these devils really be?”

The words hung in the stale air like smoke. Lucas gestured toward the charred remains with casual contempt, but his eyes never stopped scanning the chamber’s shadows.

Years of training under Arbalest’s most dangerous operatives had taught him that overconfidence was often the last mistake an agent ever made.

“Woah! What a pompous thought you just had!” Lynn’s exclamation carried genuine surprise, though whether at Lucas’s dismissal or his reasoning remained unclear.

“I’ve seen a beast that sleeps and is also an Archaic being beat up Master Claude.” The admission came with a weight that settled over the chamber like a funeral shroud.

Lucas’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper, forcing the others to lean closer. “It’s not hard to think that there are plenty of other monsters stronger than these… things. No one in Arbalest can beat Master Claude in a one-on-one fight, but that creature could beat him up like he was a toy.”

Matthias felt his breath catch.

The legendary Cloud King, defeated? The same man whose reputation had spread across continents, reduced to a plaything by some slumbering horror?

His wooden hand unconsciously moved to rest on Mud’s shoulder, a protective gesture born from seven years of caring for something precious and fragile.

“Once you see power like that, you can’t be proud anymore,” Lucas continued, his young face etched with memories too heavy for his age. “Not to mention the unknown Dragon God, who can easily destroy a region like Fittoa in the blink of an eye just by using summoning magic…”

The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop several degrees. Even Lynn, for all his mysterious confidence, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the underground air.

“Huh, now that you say it…” Lynn’s response was thoughtful, calculating. Behind his bardic facade, gears were turning.

“Minstrel, I thought you were the same person as Master Claude, but it looks like I was wrong.” Lucas’s voice sharpened, taking on the edge of someone accustomed to interrogation. “Or you just don’t know enough about how the world is changing…”

The accusation landed like a physical blow.

Lynn’s carefully maintained persona flickered, revealing glimpses of something far more complex underneath. “Wow, I have no idea what you meant by that…” The words were light, but his eyes had gone cold and calculating.

“I see. You had another plan besides helping this couple.” Lucas stepped closer, his movements fluid and predatory despite his youth. “I wonder why you’re really helping them.”

The Undertaker’s suspicion was a tangible thing, filling the chamber with tension thick enough to cut.

Behind him, his security detail shifted subtly, hands moving closer to weapons.

The message was clear: no one left Arbalest operations without permission.

Lynn felt the walls closing in—literally and figuratively. The narrow chamber suddenly felt smaller, the shadows deeper.

His mind raced through escape routes and contingencies, weighing options with the speed of someone accustomed to rapid tactical assessment.

“Well, since you know nothing about devils, we’ll leave!” Lynn announced with forced cheerfulness, spinning toward the chamber’s exit. “Thank you, Undertaker, for the information!”

The movement was smooth, practiced—but not quite fast enough to mask the subtle preparations he was making.

His feet shifted to better support a quick dash, his weight distributed for maximum acceleration.

Years of performing in hostile crowds had taught him to read dangerous situations and react accordingly.

“Mr. Lucas, what do you mean by this?” Matthias’s voice cracked slightly, betraying the fear he’d been trying to hide. The old craftsman had hoped to avoid exactly this kind of situation—powerful people with competing agendas and the willingness to use violence to achieve their goals.

“Since when can someone leave Arbalest whenever they want?” Lucas’s question was deceptively casual, but his posture suggested otherwise. His hand rested near a concealed weapon, and his eyes never left Lynn’s form.

“That’s rude.” Lynn’s performance was masterful, his voice carrying just the right mixture of indignation and hurt feelings. “Don’t you want to take care of your own business? I’ll leave quietly, so do yours.”

But even as he spoke, he was calculating distances, timing, the number of opponents between him and freedom.

The chamber’s layout burned itself into his memory—torch positions, structural weaknesses, potential improvised weapons.

“Minstrel, the deal is still on the table…” Lucas’s offer carried undertones of threat wrapped in silk.

“Okay, okay.” Lynn threw his arms up in theatrical frustration, his voice taking on the petulant tone of someone unfairly cornered. “You still want to get paid, even though you didn’t give me the information I asked for? How stupid…”

The performance was convincing enough that Matthias felt a flicker of sympathy for the mysterious bard.

But Mud, his enhanced senses picking up subtleties others missed, detected the calculated nature of Lynn’s emotional display.

The boy’s artificial eyes tracked micro-expressions and body language with mechanical precision.

For Matthias and Mud, the unfolding drama was both fascinating and terrifying.

The old craftsman had spent years in academic isolation, avoiding exactly these kinds of dangerous political entanglements.

Now he found himself trapped in a chamber with operatives whose casual references to continental-level threats made his carefully ordered world feel impossibly small and fragile.

Mud, despite his artificial nature, felt excitement coursing through whatever remained of his original nervous system.

This was like the stories Lynn had told during their journey—powerful figures maneuvering against each other, secrets and alliances shifting like sand dunes in desert wind.

But experiencing it firsthand was overwhelming, the reality far more intense than any tale.

The boy watched security personnel whose mere presence spoke of deadly competence.

Men and women who moved with the fluid grace of apex predators, their casual alertness suggesting violence was always just one decision away.

Even Matthias, despite his own considerable abilities, seemed diminished in their presence—a master craftsman reduced to irrelevance by the proximity of professional killers.

Lucas muttered something inaudible, his fingers moving to tap a discrete earring-like device.

The gesture was so subtle that only the most observant would have caught it, but Lynn’s trained eyes missed nothing.

Communication equipment meant backup, coordination, escalation—all things that made escape increasingly unlikely.

“I just got a message from C.” The code name rolled off Lucas’s tongue with practiced ease. “He’s in Millis right now, and we need information on Metastasis Calamity survivors. You do know what we need to know about them, right?”

The shift in conversation was so abrupt it left Matthias reeling.

One moment they were discussing devils and ancient threats, the next they were negotiating intelligence on disaster survivors.

The old man felt like he was watching a game whose rules he barely understood, played by people whose stakes were measured in lives and nations.

“Of course, but most of them should have died already.” Lynn’s response came too quickly, too smoothly—the words of someone who had been expecting this exact question. “Do you really want to save all of them?”

“We’ll do what we can. Just say the words, and the people in Millis will take care of it.” Lucas’s offer carried the weight of institutional power, resources that could move across continents at a moment’s notice.

The casual reference to mobilizing assets in distant kingdoms sent chills down Matthias’s spine.

Who were these people? What organization commanded such reach? And why was a boy barely old enough to shave speaking with the authority of someone who could deploy international resources?

“Sure, give me ink and paper.” Lynn’s agreement was swift, professional—the response of someone settling into familiar territory.

The requested materials appeared with suspicious speed, suggesting this underground facility was better prepared for intelligence gathering than its crude appearance might suggest.

Lynn settled onto a makeshift table, his movements taking on a different quality—less bardic flourish, more focused precision.

As Lynn began writing, the chamber filled with the soft scratch of quill on parchment.

But this wasn’t casual correspondence.

His hand moved with the confidence of someone accessing vast networks of information, piecing together fragments from sources scattered across continents.

The Minstrel network wasn’t just entertainment—it was intelligence gathering on a scale that rivaled national operations.

Matthias watched in fascination as Lynn’s expression shifted, revealing glimpses of the analytical mind behind the bardic facade.

This wasn’t just someone with good stories—this was a professional intelligence operative using cover identity to gather and disseminate information across political boundaries.

The implications were staggering.

How many seemingly innocent performers were actually agents? How much of the world’s information flow was controlled by shadowy organizations masquerading as entertainment guilds?

Minutes passed in tense silence, broken only by the whisper of writing and the occasional crackle from the chamber’s torches.

Finally, Lynn straightened, extending the completed document toward Lucas with professional satisfaction.

“Here. Everything I could piece together from Minstrel networks and Troubadour reports. Missing survivors, suspicious noble connections, likely locations where displaced persons might have been… redistributed.”

Lucas scanned the document rapidly, his expression shifting from skeptical attention to genuine surprise. His training allowed him to process intelligence reports with practiced efficiency, but several names on Lynn’s list made him pause. He drew lines through more than half the entries—information he already possessed—but his reaction to the remainder was telling.

“Are you sure about this?” The question carried weight beyond simple verification. Some accusations, once made, couldn’t be taken back.

“What? You think religious people can’t do inhumane things?” Lynn’s response was sharp, cutting through any illusions about institutional virtue.

“Sigh… things are going to get bad…” Lucas’s admission carried the weariness of someone who had seen too much corruption in institutions that should have been trustworthy.

“I told you it would be hard.” Lynn’s voice held satisfaction—not at causing problems, but at having his intelligence validated by someone with access to independent verification.

“Okay, I assume you know where else you can find information about the Devil summoner you mentioned.” Lucas shifted topics with the fluid ease of someone accustomed to managing multiple intelligence streams simultaneously. “I could ask the ancient being from Arbalest, but that would take time. The fastest way to find out about summoned beings is to ask an expert…”

“Oh, yeah… I forgot about him!” Lynn’s excitement seemed genuine this time, breaking through his careful control. “We should ask the best summoner in the world!”

“I’ll go with you as payment for helping us.” Lucas’s offer carried the weight of organizational backing. “Wyverns will get us there faster…”

The casual mention of military-grade transportation sent another chill through Matthias.

These people didn’t just have information networks—they had logistics capabilities that could move across continents at will.

Meanwhile, high above the Strife Zone’s dangerous terrain, two figures rode a powerful wyvern through air so thin it burned their lungs with each breath.

The Dragon King’s castle loomed ahead, its impossible architecture defying conventional understanding of physics and engineering.

“What is Eureka?” Reida’s confusion was understandable—the word carried implications far beyond simple exclamation.

“I mean, I know how to get to places faster!” Claude’s explanation was cheerful, but his mind was already working through tactical approaches to what would likely be a challenging infiltration.

“Oh, an idea…” Reida’s acceptance came with the easy familiarity of someone accustomed to her grandson’s unconventional thinking.

“Sure, let’s go to the Lapu… oops, I mean the Flying castle!” Claude’s slip was telling—references to knowledge that shouldn’t exist in this world, fragments of incarnation memories surfacing at inconvenient moments.

Reida followed his lead without question, her trust in his judgment absolute despite the obvious danger they were approaching.

The Dragon King’s reputation was legendary, his power sufficient to reshape continents on a whim. Approaching his stronghold uninvited was either brave or suicidal, depending on perspective.

The castle’s scale became apparent as they drew closer. What had seemed reasonably sized from a distance revealed itself as truly massive—a floating city rather than a simple fortress.

Its walls stretched beyond normal sight, disappearing into cloud cover that might have been natural or artificially generated.

Bang!

The collision was jarring but not entirely unexpected.

An invisible barrier surrounded the castle, preventing unauthorized approach with enough force to stop their wyvern’s forward momentum completely.

The creature recovered quickly, its trained responses keeping them airborne despite the sudden obstacle.

“Woah, as expected of a Barrier God.” Claude’s admiration was genuine, tinged with professional appreciation for superior craftsmanship.

“Yes, there’s a barrier around the castle that keeps unwanted visitors from getting in. What kind of mana source do they use?” Reida’s question revealed her own expertise—few people would immediately recognize the power requirements for maintaining such extensive defensive measures.

“I want to know that too. This information could help us in the future, maybe even provide a way to contain the monsters that will emerge from Dungeon manifestations.” Claude’s response carried implications that extended far beyond their current situation.

Following the castle proved challenging. Its apparent slow movement was deceptive—the massive structure actually moved faster than their wyvern’s normal cruising speed.

The altitude also created problems, thin air making breathing difficult and forcing their mount to work harder for less effective wing beats.

The cold was brutal, cutting through their clothing with winds that carried the bite of high-altitude ice crystals.

Their wyvern’s breathing became labored, visible puffs of vapor marking each exhale as the creature struggled against increasingly hostile conditions.

Finding entry points wasn’t simple, but Claude’s experience in Millis had included extensive barrier magic training.

His incarnation memories provided additional theoretical knowledge, fragments of understanding from multiple lifetimes of magical study.

More importantly, his enhanced perception could detect subtle variations in mana density that others might miss.

“Oh, I see, that’s how it works…” Understanding dawned as his mana radar revealed the barrier’s construction. Like all magical defenses, it had stronger and weaker points—not flaws exactly, but areas where the power distribution created opportunities for careful exploitation.

Claude guided their wyvern toward a section where the barrier’s mana patterns showed subtle instability.

Not weakness exactly, but areas where the defensive matrix was stretched slightly thinner to maintain coverage over such a vast area.

“It’s rude, but I don’t know how else to contact him.” Claude’s apologetic tone didn’t entirely mask his anticipation. “We don’t really know how to reach the Armored Castle properly, so breaking in should be okay, right, grandma?”

“Well, I don’t think they’ll kill us immediately upon seeing us…” Reida’s response carried the casual acceptance of someone accustomed to dangerous situations.

Their approach was reckless by any reasonable standard, but both were practitioners—individuals who had achieved their current power levels through calculated risks and bold action.

Caution had its place, but sometimes situations demanded direct action regardless of potential consequences.

“Let’s gooo! Mana Drill!”

The technique was crude but effective, concentrating mana into a spinning penetration tool designed to breach magical barriers through focused application of overwhelming force.

It wasn’t subtle, but subtlety wasn’t always the most effective approach.

BAM!

The impact resonated through both the barrier and their own bodies, magical feedback creating sensations like being struck by lightning while falling down stairs.

But the technique worked—a hole appeared in the previously impenetrable defense, large enough for their wyvern to pass through before it could self-repair.

They were through, diving toward the castle’s landing areas with the exhilaration of having accomplished something theoretically impossible.

Behind them, the barrier sealed itself, but they were already inside its protective embrace.

Now came the challenging part—actually meeting with a Dragon King who might not appreciate uninvited guests, regardless of their intentions or methods of arrival.

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