Rivira
Bete
The blood was hot on his hands, the dying screech of the monster echoing like music in his ears.
He was finally relaxing. After a grueling, brutal dive into the Lower Floors to test the absolute limits of his body, he had declared today a rest day. His exhausted mind had rewarded him with the perfect dream: he was standing over the shattered corpse of the beast that had taken everything from him, preparing the final, decisive strike to avenge his clan. His muscles coiled, his lips peeled back in a savage grin, and he moved for the kill.
Then, his sensitive ears twitched.
A low, heavy rumble rolled through the air, vibrating against his eardrums. It sounded exactly like thunder. The dream paused, a flicker of annoyance breaking his focus. Thunder? he thought sluggishly. That's dumb. We're in the Dungeon, not up in Orario.
He figured it was just Selenia trying to prank him. She was probably standing outside his room, using some cheap magic item to nag him for oversleeping or to lecture him about the few reckless mistakes he had made during yesterday's slaughter. He didn't care. He had explicitly told her not to wake him up no matter what happened. Scowling in his sleep, Bete stubbornly ignored the noise and dove happily back into the blood-soaked fantasy, his claws aiming for the monster's throat.
KRA-KOOM!
A deafening bang, like a thunderbolt striking the earth directly beside his bed, completely shattered his dream. The pure force of it sent violent tremors ripping through the floorboards of the adventurer town.
Now, that made him pause.
Bete's eyes snapped open, his pupils shrinking into dangerous slits. An irregular spawn? he thought, his heart rate instantly spiking. Did some good-for-nothing God manage to sneak into the Dungeon?
He jolted up from the pathetic, lumpy mattress, his battlelust flaring to life. If it was a terrifyingly strong foe, he wanted to test himself against it. Throwing on his boots, he could already hear the fearful voices bleeding through the inn's paper-thin walls. The town was in total uproar. When he stepped out into the chaotic, winding streets of Rivira, the sheer volume of terror assaulted his ears. Men and women were frantically shouting, grabbing their weapons, and looking up at the cavern ceiling.
Obviously they're scared, Bete thought, scoffing as he shoved his way past a trembling dwarf. Who wouldn't panic when they hear thunder and lightning rolling inside a damn labyrinth?
Surprise was one thing, but the paralyzing fear gripping the crowds made his upper lip curl in strong disgust. They were shaking in their boots, cowering like sheep. The sight of it tasted like ash in his mouth. My clan was strong, and they were slaughtered, a dark, hateful voice whispered in the back of his mind. Yet these pathetic, good-for-nothing weaklings get to survive by crying in a safe zone?
Let them cower. He would kill the damn thing himself, hoard the Excelia, and force his way to the next Level. He had to get stronger. He couldn't afford to be weak anymore. Fueled by a bitter, self-destructive adrenaline, Bete grumbled under his breath about senseless idiots as he pushed his way past the wooden barricades of Rivira to find the source of the chaos.
But as his eyes tracked the destruction, Bete froze.
The battle-hungry smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a blank, frozen stare. What stood in front of him, just beyond the borders of the Under Resort, was equal parts fascinating and terrifying.
Due to his countless dives, Bete knew the geography of the 18th Floor intimately. He knew the huge central tree, the sprawling shantytown of Rivira, the rolling hills draped in lush forests, and the giant, crystal-clear lake that adventurers used for drinking water.
Except, the lake he remembered so vividly was gone.
It wasn't drained or destroyed. It was entirely enclosed. A colossal wall, bearing the exact grayish-white, indestructible texture of the Dungeon itself, had violently erupted from the earth. It completely swallowed the lake and a massive swath of the surrounding land, seamlessly connecting to the far cavern wall. Bete's sharp eyes widened as he tried to calculate the scale of it. It was monstrous—easily a few times the size of Orario's entire Market District.
And sitting inside that newly walled-off territory were sturdy, stone buildings.
He stared in utter bewilderment. How? The Dungeon was a living, hateful entity that actively resisted being tamed. Altering the floor to this degree should have triggered the Dungeon's full wrath. The ceiling should be raining monsters. An Irregular should be tearing the cavern apart. Yet, there was nothing. The unnatural fortress sat there, defying the very laws of the abyss.
In front of those imposing stone structures stood the cause of the thunder.
Bete squinted through the settling dust and the blinding, residual arcs of electricity. A lone figure was casually leveling the remaining forest, unleashing devastating waves of lightning that flattened ancient trees into ash and splinters.
"White Knight?" Bete asked aloud, his voice cutting through the nearby murmurs. "Is that the White Knight?"
The moment the words left his mouth, a big, heavily armored adventurer nearby snapped his head toward him. The man suddenly lunged forward, grabbing Bete by the shoulders and shaking him frantically. "Are you sure?! Is that Hedin Selland?! Tell me that's the White Elf!"
"Get your hands off me, you loud brute," Bete snarled, roughly shoving the man away and grumbling about personal space.
He ignored the anxious crowd, his eyes locking back on the fortress. There was another blinding, earth-shaking flash. The last dense pocket of the forest was instantly vaporized.
As the smoke cleared, the flattened clearing revealed even more figures stepping out onto the 18th Floor. There were at least fifty of them, all radiating the sharp, seasoned presence of Second Class adventurers, moving in disciplined formation behind a dwarf.
But Bete barely spared them a glance. Instantly, his wolf instincts screamed at him, his eyes snapping right back to the lone figure standing at the forefront of the destruction.
Hedin Selland.
The White Elf's presence alone was so vast and suffocatingly heavy that it made the fur on the back of Bete's neck stand straight up. An apex predator. A monster wearing mortal skin. His instincts told him with complete certainty that the level gap between him and that elf was a bottomless abyss. Stepping anywhere near him meant instant, undeniable death.
"SEND WORD TO THE GUILD!" the big man Bete had just shoved suddenly roared, his voice cracking with downright terror. "THE FREYA FAMILIA HAS TAKEN OVER RIVIRA! I REPEAT, THE FREYA FAMILIA HAS TAKEN OVER RIVIRA!!"
Total pandemonium erupted. An adventurer immediately broke off from the crowd, sprinting desperately back toward the entrance of the 18th Floor to carry the unbelievable news to the surface.
Bete watched in utter fascination as the frantic messenger approached the edge of the newly built wall by the lake. Suddenly, the running man's pace visibly slowed. He ground to a terrified, trembling halt, acting as if he had just run face-first into an invisible, crushing wall of pressure.
The White Elf was looking at him.
Hedin's eyes were locked onto the messenger, unblinking, cold, and utterly devoid of mercy. For a moment, a tense, agonizing silence stretched across the cavern. Nobody dared to breathe. Then, with an air of complete indifference, Hedin shifted his gaze away to the newcomers.
The oppressive weight vanished. The messenger practically fell over himself as he scrambled frantically up the path, disappearing into the upper tunnels. A collective, shuddering breath of relief swept through the terrified crowds.
But Bete didn't breathe a sigh of relief. He didn't care about the Guild or the terrifying political implications.
The terrifying display of casual dominance he had just witnessed didn't deter him—it only fueled him. The suicidal, desperate need for power clawed violently at his chest, fully overriding his survival instincts. Slowly, his lips peeled back, revealing his sharp canines in a wide, feral grin. Only one thought echoed in his adrenaline-soaked mind.
I want to fight him.
His muscles coiled. He shifted his weight, preparing to launch himself out of Rivira and straight across the destroyed forest to challenge the White Elf.
But just as he took his first step, a strong grip clamped down hard on his shoulder, jerking him to a halt.
Bete froze. He didn't even need to look back to know exactly whose hand it was.
Selenia.
-◈ -
Belit Babili
Ishtar
The crisp shatter of an expensive crystal goblet echoed through the lavish chambers.
Ishtar stood rigidly in the center of her extravagant room, the crushed parchment trembling violently in her fist. The sweet, heady wine she had been drinking pooled across the imported carpets, but she didn't even glance at the mess. Her eyes were blown wide, reading and re-reading the vile, unimaginable words scratched onto the paper until they burned themselves into her mind.
The heavy doors to her sanctum burst open. Tammuz, her ever-loyal and beautiful attendant, rushed into the room, his face pale with panic at the sound of breaking glass. "Lady Ishtar! Are you hurt—"
He didn't even get to finish the sentence before Ishtar practically collapsed against him. Tammuz caught her instantly, his strong arms wrapping around her in a protective, practiced embrace. For a fleeting second, the goddess of beauty allowed herself to sink into the comforting warmth of his chest. She breathed in his intoxicating devotion to her, letting his blind worship soothe the sudden, suffocating dread squeezing her throat.
I need to do something about this, she thought, her pulse hammering against her ribs. I have to fix this.
Slowly, the dread gave way. Having drawn what she needed from Tammuz, she pushed herself out of his arms, her eyes blazing with a freezing hatred.
"Prepare my chariot," Ishtar hissed, her voice vibrating with a cold, terrifying fury. She turned her glare onto her attendant, practically roaring the command. "I will visit the Guild! And send Aisha to me immediately!"
Tammuz bowed perfectly, utterly enthralled and not daring to question her wrath, before hurrying out to make the arrangements.
Left alone in the ruins of her spilled wine, Ishtar paced like a caged panther, her nails biting so deeply into her palms that they nearly drew blood. Her mind raced with a toxic, consuming jealousy.
How long? she thought, her breath coming fast and hot. How long is that leg-spreading whore going to keep the upper hand?!
Freya. The very name felt like a curse. The silver-haired goddess had always been a thorn in Ishtar's side, constantly looking down on her from the top of Babel. Freya already possessed the strongest adventurer in the city. She had gathered a terrifying pantheon of the most talented, beautiful, and ruthless fighters Orario had ever seen.
And now, this? She had marched her elites into the Dungeon and established a permanent base right on top of Rivira?
It wasn't just a display of military might—it was a direct dagger to her throat. The Pleasure District thrived on the desperate, wealthy adventurers returning from the middle floors. They came up to the surface exhausted, pockets heavy with Excelia and Valis, desperate to spend it all on alcohol and women just to feel alive. If Freya now controlled a secure, luxurious resting point halfway down the abyss, those adventurers wouldn't need to rush back to the surface. Freya was choking her supply line of coin and information.
Ishtar wanted nothing more than to march up to Freya right now, hurl the gauntlet at the doors of the Folkvangr, and declare a War Game. She wanted to shatter Freya's smug, indifferent composure and take everything from her. But she wasn't a fool. She knew her strength was no match for Freya. The allies she had gathered in the shadows still weren't enough to challenge just Freya's executives, let alone the rest of her Familia.
The heavy oak doors opened again, and Aisha strode into the room, her expression guarded but alert.
Ishtar didn't waste time with pleasantries. She turned to the Amazon, her eyes burning with a manic, desperate calculation. "Aisha. Send word to our operations outside the city. I want every single Level 2 and above adventurer overseeing our brothels worldwide recalled to Orario immediately."
Aisha blinked, her composure slipping into genuine shock. "Lady Ishtar, you can't be serious. If we pull all our high-level guards, it will drastically decrease the security for the girls. They'll be vulnerable to—"
"Security?" Ishtar interrupted.
She turned fully toward Aisha, letting her unadulterated hatred for Freya bleed completely onto her face. The terrifying, heavy weight of a Goddess of Night slammed down on the room. Aisha stiffened, her breath catching as the divine aura pressed suffocatingly against her skin, demanding submission.
"My dear," Ishtar said, her voice dropping to a soft, lethal whisper. "If we lose here, those girls and those brothels won't be of any use to us anyway. It is time we took adventuring seriously. If I just sit back and let Freya dictate the flow of the Dungeon, there will be no Orario left for me to entertain myself with."
She stepped closer to the Amazon, her amethyst eyes boring into Aisha's. "Someday, Freya will come for me. If we don't build our forces and make it impossibly costly for them to confront us, you will all be fucked by Freya's obsessed psychos. Do you understand?"
The unwavering conviction in the goddess's soft tone, paired with the crushing weight of her divine presence, conveyed more than enough meaning. Aisha swallowed hard, her protests dying in her throat under the command of her patron. She gave a stiff nod, turning on her heel to leave and implement the sweeping orders.
Watching the door click shut, Ishtar drew a long, steadying breath.
She would recall her forces and build her army. She would make herself such a heavily armed fortress that Freya would think twice before ever daring to attack her. She was determined to make them bleed for every inch.
But first, she needed to stop the silver-haired bitch from gaining any more power today. Gathering her silk robes, Ishtar swept out of the room and headed for her chariot, ready to tear the Guild apart until she got her answers.
-◈ -
Sacred Altar
Ouranos
The secret chamber was quiet, as it always was.
Seated on his stone throne beneath the Guild, Ouranos kept his eyes closed, projecting his prayers down into the dungeon. He was tracking the dull, violent thrum of a monster on the 61st floor when the heavy thud of knuckles against the chamber doors broke his concentration.
Instead of immediately pulling back, he let the prayer fade gradually and sat waiting in the silence.
"It is Royman, Ouranos," Fels spoke from the shadows beside the throne, the cloaked mage's voice raspy and hollow.
With a slow, heavy nod from the Elder God, the huge stone doors groaned open. The Guild Head scrambled into the dimly lit chamber, unease written deeply across his flushed, sweating face.
"What is it, Royman?" Ouranos asked, his voice reverberating the very air of the room.
Royman gulped audibly. He bowed so low his forehead practically scraped the cold stone floor. "My sincere apologies for disturbing your prayers, my Lord! Word just came from Rivira th-that Lady Freya has established a permanent base!"
Ouranos slowly opened his deep eyes, momentarily perplexed by the sudden leap in events. Seeking confirmation, he closed his eyes once more.
His vision swept over the 18th Floor. Through the veil of the Under Resort, he clearly read the auras of a high concentration of Freya-blessed adventurers, fortified behind impossibly sturdy walls. Since this was not an official Guild exploration, this had to be the base the elf was speaking of.
He opened his eyes again. "Yes, there are quite a few of them," he said, his tone indifferent. "What of it?"
Though he maintained his detached facade, Ouranos was genuinely surprised by the bold move. Yet, as his mind calculated the shift in the board, he recognized the full tactical brilliance of it. Evilus was growing bolder. A permanent, heavily armed fortress on the 18th Floor would provide a devastating advantage in the mission to eradicate them once and for all. He had originally planned to wait for Loki's executives to return from their expedition before making a move, but he deeply appreciated that Freya had not delayed in acting.
It reminded him of the older days. Zeus used to sit in this very room, drinking wine and loudly boasting about the ridiculous dreams of taming the labyrinth. If this anomaly named Max continued to support such sweeping changes, Ouranos would love to see some of those dreams finally come to fruition. He could only imagine his old friend's reaction to seeing the deepest floors fundamentally conquered.
"M-my Lord," Royman stammered, breaking his reverie. "Word also came in from the surface. Lady Ishtar is currently on her way here with her executives. She wants to meet you."
Ouranos closed his eyes for a moment. He weighed the volatile temperaments of the goddesses, deciding on the most efficient course of action to ensure the shaky peace between the Familias held together until the Evilus threat was dealt with.
"Send her in when she arrives," Ouranos finally commanded. "And send word to any other deity who appears here with grievances. Summon Loki and Freya to join us as well. I will sort this out."
Royman practically kissed the ground, weeping with pure joy and relief that the Elder God was stepping in to shield the Guild from the goddesses' wrath. He profusely thanked Ouranos, backing away toward the heavy doors.
"One more thing," Ouranos spoke.
Royman froze, instantly stiffening.
"Are the business proposals proposed by Maximus fast-tracked?" he asked, his eyes locking onto the elf.
Royman immediately began to sweat again.
"Y-yes, my Lord!" Royman squeaked in terror. "I have just approved them and sent word."
Ouranos observed the trembling elf for a moment longer, ensuring there was no deceit, before giving a slow, small nod. Terrified, the fat elf scrambled immediately out of the chamber, the stone doors sealing shut behind him.
-◈ -
Twilight Manor
Loki
The parchment of Soma's new wine roster was thick and expensive, but Loki was only tracing its edges absentmindedly.
She sighed, the sound loud in the quiet, opulent luxury of the large mansion. She missed her executives. She missed Ais. She just hoped her little Princess wasn't doing anything reckless down in the deeper floors. At the very least, Loki knew nothing fatal had happened to them yet—she could still feel the faint, reassuring warmth of her divine connection linking her to all of her children.
The heavy oak doors clicked open, and Noir walked into her chambers with quiet, measured footsteps. Seeing the older man, Loki looked up curiously.
"What is it, Noir?" She set the catalog aside, leaning back into her cushions as her familiar, foxy smile easily slid onto her face.
"I have news from the Guild, Lady Loki," he said in a grave tone.
While Noir always spoke formally, Loki's sharp ears immediately caught it: a rare, heavy undercurrent of genuine unease vibrating beneath his polite tone. Her smile faltered, turning into a slight frown as she nodded for him to continue.
"Word came from Rivira that the Freya Familia has established a permanent base of operations," Noir explained, stepping forward. "We also received an official letter from Lady Freya confirming the same."
He pulled two ornate scrolls from his coat—one sealed with the Guild's crest, the other with Freya's lavender emblem—and offered them to her.
Loki immediately snatched Freya's letter, cracking the wax and reading it while Noir stood silently by.
"Yeah, she went crazy," Loki murmured as she read the elegant, flowing script detailing how the large stone base at Rivira would be used primarily as a supply store and secondary training area. But as she reached the bottom of the parchment, a sudden, booming laugh tore from her throat, echoing off the high ceilings.
"Hey, Noir, listen to this!" she cackled, waving the parchment at him. "She's saying other Familias can also use their facilities! Especially the supplies and resting areas. How generous of the crazy witch!"
Noir raised a skeptical eyebrow. They both knew exactly what this was. Freya was establishing dominance. It was an absolute flex of power wrapped in the velvet of a polite favor, essentially declaring the Under Resort as her own sovereign territory.
Amused by the sheer arrogance of it, Loki tossed Freya's letter onto the table and picked up the Guild's missive. Let's see what the pig has to say.
The wax seal on Royman's letter was rushed. As she unrolled it, she immediately noticed the ink was slightly smudged in several places, the handwriting erratic. The mental image of the portly elf sweating profusely over his desk, terrified out of his mind, was unmistakable. Below the frantic, official report about the base, there was a heavily warded section addressed specifically to her.
Loki peeled the cover back.
As her eyes scanned the first few lines of hidden text, the letter slipped from her numb fingers.
Her foxy smile vanished. The playful, easygoing aura she always wore shattered like cheap glass, and the temperature in the room plummeted. Slowly, Loki opened her eyes. The perpetually relaxed squint was gone, replaced by the terrifying, hyper-calculating glare of sharp, vermillion irises.
Teleportation?
And all because of a single new member named Max?
She reached into the envelope Royman had provided and pulled out a sleek, metallic bracelet. The cold, heavy metal sent a chill straight up her arm. As she stared at it, the full tactical depth of what Royman had written began to unfold in her mind.
Royman wasn't just reporting news; he was begging. His letter framed the delivery of this Communication artefact as a desperate, entirely off-the-books attempt to give Loki a fighting chance to maintain the city's balance. Freya hadn't just built a base—she had utterly checkmated the Guild. By monopolizing instant transit and communication within the Dungeon, Freya had bypassed the Guild's entire logistical and economic authority. Royman was pleading with the Trickster Goddess to figure out a countermeasure.
But as Loki's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, her mind moved past Royman's political terror. She began looking at the actual board.
If Freya wanted to take over Orario, Loki deduced coldly, she wouldn't be sending me polite letters about rest stops.
With teleportation, Freya had complete tactical supremacy. If this was a power grab to topple her, the Freya Familia could have materialized inside Twilight Manor hours ago. Loki would already be in a cell. Orario would already be painted silver. But she wasn't. Which meant Freya was being genuine. She was actually trying to build a secure supply point for everyone.
And if the Goddess of Beauty was freely sharing an immense tactical advantage instead of using it to crush her enemies, it meant only one thing. There was something monumental going on. A threat so severe that Freya felt the need to heavily fortify the Under Resort and ensure the city's adventurers didn't bleed out in the dungeon.
Loki leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands as her mind raced ahead.
This is going to send violent ripples through Orario, she thought. The moment the other gods realize the extent of this, an emergency Denatus will be summoned. Mass panic.
But realistically? The lesser gods wouldn't even dream of lifting a finger against Freya. They would scream and demand answers, but ultimately, it would fall onto Ouranos to pacify the room and reassure them of Freya's intentions.
Loki glanced down at the bracelet in her hand. A humorless smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. If a greedy pig like Royman managed to smuggle one of these to me, there is absolutely no doubt Ouranos already has one in the Guild's basement. He probably has a direct line.
"Lady Loki?" Noir asked cautiously, shifting uncomfortably under the crushing weight of her leaked divine aura.
She had been silent for entirely too long. Loki blinked, reining in her overwhelming presence and letting out a long, slow breath.
"Things are not right, Noir," she said, her voice devoid of its usual playful lilt. "Finn won't be happy when he gets back and sees this mess."
She slipped the communication bracelet onto her wrist, the metal snapping shut with a definitive click.
Although Freya wasn't attacking, she wanted to know who this Max was. He was the unknown variable that had single-handedly broken the rules of the world and forced Freya's hand into this massive defensive play. Loki needed to measure him. She needed to know if he was a pawn, a knight, or a second king on the board.
"I need to talk to this Max," Loki said, her vermillion eyes burning with a sharp, dangerous intellect. "If I can figure out what kind of person he is, I can figure out exactly what Freya is bracing for."
But even as the words left her mouth, a cold spike of hesitation pierced her resolve.
Reaching out to a Familia member behind Freya's back was akin to tap-dancing on a sleeping dragon's snout. The Goddess of Beauty was notoriously possessive of her members. If Freya caught wind that Loki was sneaking around to prod at her newest, most vital piece, the fallout could be genuinely catastrophic.
Yet, what other viable option did she have?
She could always demand answers from Ouranos, but she immediately dismissed the thought. It would be foolish. The Elder God was a vault. If he knew the full extent of this—and she was certain he didn't—he would have at least prepared the major Familias for the shockwave.
Instead, he had done the opposite. Loki frowned, her mind flashing back to the last official notice Ouranos had sent her.
He hadn't warned them of teleportation or a fortress. He had only mentioned that a "big shift was happening in the dungeon," and instructed her to prepare for a "big operation" to be executed when her executives returned to the surface. And then, there was the strangest part of his message...
If you find anyone special, come to me instead of making a fuss.
That word made her pause. She traced the cold metal of the bracelet on her wrist. Special. Why would an Elder God who had overseen millennia of adventurers use such a specific, careful word? What kind of 'specialty' could anyone possess that would warrant direct, quiet intervention from Ouranos himself?
Was Max the "special" anomaly Ouranos was talking about?
Taking a steadying breath, Loki followed the method penned in Royman's letter to contact this Maximus. She channeled a tiny sliver of her will into the metal band.
Instantly, her mind was pulled back to Tenkai. The sensation was remarkably similar to the divine mirrors the gods used in the heavens, which linked to whomever they wanted to speak with using pure Arcanum. But Loki wasn't sure how anyone could possibly manage to replicate that here in Gekai. Without divine power, they would have to be phenomenally good at smithing just to forge a bracelet capable of holding such heavy enchantments without shattering. On top of that, the creator must possess the exceptionally rare 'Mystery' developmental ability, or an incredibly potent magic circle, just to safely etch the complex runes needed for it to function this smoothly.
Instead of an instant reaction, she heard a clear ping echo directly in her mind, much like a tiny silver bell being struck. It was immediately followed by a sequence of soft, rhythmic chimes. Loki listened closely, deducing that it was a multi-layered process taking multiple sounds into account to bridge the connection. As she assessed the layers, the gentle melody washed over her, its steady rhythm oddly soothing to her frayed nerves.
But just as she was deeply assessing the gentle chimes, there was a sudden ping.
The metal bracelet against her skin vibrated violently. Startled entirely out of her thoughts, Loki jolted in her seat, barely swallowing a thoroughly undignified yelp of panic. Before she could fully recover and process the bizarre physical sensation, the metal hummed with a clear, magical resonance.
"Hello? Who is this?"
A confident male voice echoed from the bracelet, crystal clear in the quiet room. Loki froze. There was an undercurrent to his voice—something steady, grounded, and deeply unfamiliar that she couldn't quite put her finger on. It didn't sound like a terrified rookie. It certainly didn't sound like one of Freya's brainwashed, obsessively devoted zealots.
It took her a second to school her expression, remembering he couldn't actually see her. "Is this Maximus?"
A brief, heavy pause stretched across the line.
"Yes," the voice answered smoothly. "I am Max."
Another pause followed, filled only with the faint, static-free hum of the magic bridging the imaginary distance between them. Loki opened her mouth to ask her first calculated question, but before she could speak, the voice beat her to it.
"Am I speaking to Lady Loki?" he asked.
Loki's eyes widened in genuine surprise. The breath caught in her throat, her mind short-circuiting for a fraction of a second. She hadn't introduced herself or given any hint. Royman was supposed to be the only one who knew she had this bracelet.
Then how?
--> Devil in a Dungeon <--
AN:
We have some first time povs! Bete, Ishtar and Loki are officially here. Not all of them are happy though. Do you think Bete would get to challenge Hedin? How did Max know it was Loki? Do you think Ishtar getting how many ever Level 2s back help her? Do share your thoughts in the comments.
Also I spent way too much time to get a better picture of the layout and size of Floor 18, it feels stupid. So for the story, when you enter Floor 18, Rivira is on the right over a cliff and the largest lake will be on the left side of the dirt path to Rivira. Hedin fenced off the whole lake to the side wall to the left, essentially making 18th floor into 2 parts. I can add the exact dimensions, but I feel that's too much. So the Freya Familia Outpost is roughly double the size of Central Park in New York City or 3 times the size of the country Monaco in Europe.
If you'd like to read 9 chapters ahead(around 45k words), support my work, or commission a story idea, visit my p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m/b3smash
Please note that the chapters are early access only, they will be eventually released here as well.
Next update will be on Tuesday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.