With Sanjay now committed to the elite raid team and the castle's inner gates looming as the next great trial, the remaining members of Stopgap Mercenary found themselves in an unfamiliar state:
Waiting.
The sensation was almost unsettling.
For a guild forged in constant motion—contracts back to back, emergencies stacking without pause—stillness felt unnatural. The courtyard that had only hours ago been a battlefield slowly transformed into something resembling a living camp. Fires crackled in iron braziers set into broken stone. Weak wards hummed softly along fractured walls, their faint glow pulsing in slow, steady rhythms.
The tension did not vanish—far from it.
But it loosened.
Settling into a wary calm that allowed people to breathe again.
Smoke drifted upward, carrying the scent of scorched stone, blood, and medicinal herbs. Somewhere, metal clinked softly as armor was removed piece by piece. Low voices murmured—short exchanges, clipped reports, reassurances offered without sentimentality.
For Stopgap Mercenary, this pause was rare.
Dean leaned against a half-collapsed pillar, polishing the edge of his treasured sword with slow, deliberate movements. Each stroke was careful, almost meditative, as if the repetition anchored his thoughts. The sword was merely a tool he rarely used—he relied on his abilities far more—but it had saved lives today.
Perhaps even his own.
And he treated it with the quiet respect of someone who understood that tools were partners, not possessions.
Mary sat nearby, her shield laid flat on the stone floor. She tightened straps, replaced cracked bindings, and tested the weight with short, controlled lifts. Her arms trembled faintly—not from weakness, but from exhaustion she refused to acknowledge aloud.
"Still holding?" Dean asked casually.
Mary snorted. "It's uglier, but it'll do. Same as us."
Nearby, Afee stood guard near one of the outer archways, massive arms crossed as he scanned the ruins beyond the courtyard. He had not sat down once since the battle ended. His presence was less about vigilance and more about reassurance—an unspoken promise that nothing hostile would reach the camp unnoticed.
Fiqq argued quietly with Gee over ammunition allocation versus potion reserves.
"I'm telling you," Fiqq muttered, gesturing with a half-empty magazine, "bullets don't regenerate."
"And neither do organs," Gee shot back calmly, counting vials as he spoke. "If we're hit again like that, I'd rather have people bleeding slowly than dying instantly."
Fiqq scowled, then sighed. "Fine. Split it fifty-fifty. But if I run dry—"
"Then I'll keep you alive long enough to complain about it," Gee replied without looking up.
Nisha sat cross-legged near a brazier, eyes half-lidded, hands resting lightly on her knees. To an outside observer, she might have looked calm—even detached.
In truth, her mind stretched outward in thin, careful threads, brushing against the edges of the environment. She skimmed the psychic residue left behind—fear, pain, lingering hostility embedded into the very stone.
Listening.
Waiting.
Ensuring nothing approached unseen.
They spoke little about Sanjay leaving with the raid team.
Not because they were unconcerned—
but because they trusted him.
And because, deep down, each of them understood something unspoken:
If something awaited inside the castle that required Sanjay's strength, then it was better he faced it now—prepared—than be caught unready later.
The alternative—
that he remained behind while others confronted what he could not—
was unthinkable.
Beyond the Stopgap camp, the wider reinforcement force moved into its next phase.
Scouting.
The Great Dungeon—this vast, hellish world beyond the Gate—was too large, too layered, to approach blindly. Jagged ruins sprawled for kilometers. Underground networks branched into unknown depths. Entire sections of terrain shifted subtly over time, reshaped by demonic influence and unstable mana flows.
Survivors from the first expedition could be anywhere:
Trapped.
Hiding.
Wounded.
Or already dead.
Every hour wasted meant another life slipping beyond reach.
Fifteen scouting parties were formed.
The largest contingent came from the Murim Union.
Ten teams, each composed of roughly twenty members, spread out in disciplined formations. Their members were primarily A-ranked and B-ranked superhumans—strong enough to survive prolonged contact with demonic threats, yet numerous enough to cover wide territory.
These teams moved with practiced efficiency, sweeping ruins, tunnels, and fractured terrain in expanding arcs around the castle outskirts.
Murim doctrine emphasized survival over heroics.
They advanced cautiously, scouts moving ahead while rear guards watched flanks and escape routes. When resistance grew too heavy, they withdrew without hesitation. When signs of demonic concentration appeared—ritual markings, abnormal mana density, mass movement patterns—they marked the area with sigils and moved on.
Their mission was information—
not conquest.
The remaining five scouting parties were… less uniform.
They represented coalitions, independent guilds, and desperate alliances from smaller nations—groups that lacked the sheer manpower of the Murim Union but compensated with creativity, mobility, and, in some cases, audacity.
One such team numbered nearly a hundred members—a loose but determined coalition from several smaller nations that had poured everything they had into the expedition. Their goal was ambitious: to chart as much of the Great Dungeon as possible and stake a claim in whatever knowledge or resources might be found.
They moved loudly.
Visibly.
Banking on numbers and layered defenses to deter attacks.
Others were far smaller—ten, twelve, sometimes as few as seven—built around speed, stealth, or specialized abilities. These teams avoided direct conflict whenever possible, skirting danger rather than confronting it.
Teleportation bursts.
Gliding techniques.
Shadow-walking abilities.
Short-range dimensional folds.
They traversed dangerous ground quickly, mapping paths and marking hazards for those who would follow.
They relied not on strength—
but on contingency.
And then—
there was the smallest team of all.
Five members.
When word of their deployment spread through the camp, reactions were mixed—disbelief, curiosity, even a hint of unease.
Five people—
venturing into a realm that had already shattered an entire expedition?
Yet no one voiced an objection.
Because the team belonged to Ultimatum.
And because two of its members were S-ranked superhumans.
They moved without ceremony, slipping away from the main camp while others were still organizing supply packs and route markers. There were no banners, no dramatic farewells—just five figures disappearing into the broken landscape as if they had always belonged there.
This unit was known internally as Jury.
A separate arm of Ultimatum, answering directly to Sky Fist.
Their mission was simple in wording—
if not in execution:
Locate survivors of the first expedition and extract them if possible.
Leading the group was Hanzo, the Red Ninja.
S-ranked.
He moved like a ghost even when standing still, his presence difficult to pin down, as though the world itself struggled to remember where he was at any given moment.
Hanzo specialized in close-quarters combat.
But his true terror lay in his ability—
Exchange.
With a single thought, Hanzo could swap his position with that of someone he envisioned clearly.
Friend or foe.
Near or far.
The only requirement was intent.
It made him nearly impossible to corner—
and devastatingly effective at rescuing those trapped beyond reach.
Beside him walked Abdul, the Living Calamity.
Another S-ranked.
Where Hanzo was quiet, Abdul was oppressive.
He radiated a subtle wrongness, a sense that something fundamental decayed in his presence.
His ability, known simply as Rupture, caused anything he touched to rot, fracture, and collapse within seconds—flesh, stone, metal, even magical constructs.
Abdul spoke little.
Most things did not survive long enough to hear him speak.
The third member was Alan, the White Zero.
An A-ranked superhuman—
on paper.
In reality, he stood at the upper edge of A-rank, his combat capability brushing dangerously close to low S-rank.
Within his line of sight—
powers failed.
Not weakened.
Not disrupted.
Disabled.
Alan's presence turned superhumans into ordinary people, demons into flesh and blood, and monsters into beasts that suddenly remembered fear.
He was the equalizer.
The one brought in when overwhelming power needed to be stripped bare.
Trailing slightly behind was Rune Master Shuri, her satchel clinking softly with etched stones, scrolls, and half-formed sigils.
Shuri was a support-type superhuman, but her mastery of runes bordered on the arcane. She could reinforce structures, suppress hostile magic, lay traps that reacted to specific energies, and even stabilize damaged Gates—at least temporarily.
Finally, there was Lisa, the Pinpoint.
A-ranked.
Quiet.
Essential.
Lisa's ability allowed her to locate anyone whose face she knew, regardless of distance, terrain, or interference—
provided they were still alive.
In a dungeon as vast and hostile as this one, her power was nothing short of priceless.
She walked between Abdul and Hanzo, not because she was weak, but because the arrangement made sense.
With Hanzo's mobility and Abdul's lethality, it was almost unthinkable that harm could reach her—
unless a Demon Lord itself chose to intervene.
And if that happened…
No scouting team in existence would be safe anyway.
Lisa closed her eyes briefly as they moved, focusing, letting the noise of the camp fade behind her.
Faces rose in her mind.
Members of the first expedition she had studied carefully before departure.
Some were blurred.
Some sharp with lingering fear.
One presence tugged faintly.
Then another.
Her breath slowed.
Her expression tightened.
"I have a direction," she said softly.
Hanzo inclined his head.
"Lead."
The team shifted instantly.
No hesitation.
No wasted motion.
They moved.
And the world seemed to bend slightly to let them pass.
Across the Great Dungeon, the other scouting teams fanned outward.
Each carried their own risks.
None possessed S-ranked protection—
but many excelled in speed.
Enhanced legs pounded cracked stone.
Short-range portals flickered open and shut.
Shadows swallowed entire squads before releasing them miles away.
These teams would suffer losses.
Everyone knew that.
But they would also find paths.
Safe zones.
Fragments of truth.
Pieces of a greater puzzle that no single force could uncover alone.
Back at the camp, Dean watched the last of the scouting parties disappear beyond the ruins.
He exhaled slowly.
"Hope they're fast," he murmured.
Nisha opened one eye.
"They are," she replied quietly.
A pause.
Her gaze shifted—just slightly—toward the distant horizon.
"And they're not alone out there."
Far beyond the ruined courtyard—
beyond broken cities and shifting terrain—
something moved.
Not quickly.
Not violently.
But deliberately.
As if acknowledging new pieces placed upon a board.
As if marking them.
One by one.
And deep within the Great Dungeon—
as hunters began to search and survivors struggled to endure—
fate shifted.
Quietly.
Inexorably.
Toward something waiting—
in the dark.