Havoc held still, the edge of his scarlet blade angled toward the hulking beast. He had read the spawn's violence—its next strike plain as day. The barbed mace would come crashing down, seeking to pulp his skull into shapeless ruin. If it missed, it would swing right—but Havoc would be at its left. The Thirsty Strike would carve through its thigh—muscle, bone, and sinew. The battle would end in a single breath.

Birds chirped their morning song as the day-sun peeked above the horizon. The beast growled low and guttural, its muscled arms twitching with anticipation. Soldier-ranked power radiated from its frame—suffocating and unruly, poised to drown all in its path. But its might would break against the one who would not fall.

As a feather drifted from the sky, its vibrant hues shimmering in the dawn light, the battle began—and ended—in a single breath. Havoc's blade carved through the beast's tendons, dropping it to its hands and knees. Crimson steel flashed again, cleaving through its neck, and the creature slumped to the ground, flesh crackling from bone as its form decayed.

'Masterful work, boy,' Franklin said, as he clashed his hand on Havoc's shoulder.

'You know, you didn't need to act alone,' Anton added as he joined Franklin by the glowing remains of the slain Dungeon-Spawn.

It was not pride or mistrust that drove Havoc to contend with the beast alone—though he could not say he had much confidence in his present company. Instead, it was the need to grow stronger. He had been tempered like steel in the crucible of the Dungeon-Cell, his strength exceeding anything expected of a Servant Inheritor. But it was not enough.

Alone, the Seer was a terrifying adversary, her power and foresight eclipsing his own. Yet she would not be alone when he finally reached the Temple—her two disciples would be at her side.

And what did he hope to achieve? She had orchestrated a symphony of ruin, conducting every rise and fall within her measure. Against such a force, he felt powerless.

But that would not stop him.

Link by link, she had bound him in chains cast not of iron, but of fate. But he would break free of those fetters—and he would live to tell the tale.

As for how such a feat would be accomplished? He was not yet certain. But he knew the first step...

'It's fine,' he said, settling cross-legged before the glowing remains. 'Unless we come across something I can't handle, I'd prefer to fight alone.'

'That's all well and good,' Franklin chirped, his gaze drifting to the corpse of the Dungeon-Spawn. 'But as we're working in consort, it's only fitting that we proportion the spoils.'

'They're mine—every kill,' Havoc shot back, his tone ironclad, leaving no room for compromise.

'Now, boy, you must be reasonable,' Franklin retorted, circling around to meet Havoc's glare, his tone laced with insistent greed.

'They're yours,' Anton interjected, gripping Franklin's shoulder and pulling him back with a firm hand.

Dismissing the ongoing quarrel as distant noise, Havoc closed his eyes, drawing the spawn's volatile power into his being. Strength coiled through his muscles, taut and brimming, as the boundaries of his Core stretched and expanded. When the bones of the spawn crumbled to dust, he rose to his feet, more formidable than before.

The morning's events recurred over and again, his blade cleaving flesh and bone, slicing through gaps in shell and exoskeleton alike. With fervid intent, he pitted himself against the fiends scattered across the mountain passage, carving a bloodied path toward the trail's end. It was as if the Dungeon yearned for his growth, each battle tailored to test his limits. Challenging, yes, but never beyond his reach. And by night of the sixth day, his Core thrummed at capacity—the peak of his Servant Inheritance.

Within him, dualistic Harmony surged—two opposing forces entwined, swelling to measureless bounds inclined toward the inexhaustible. Through the favour of his Heritage, honed on the wheel of continuous battle, his prowess had been tempered to a lethal edge.

It's still not enough, he silently griped.

Concealed within a narrow space beside the mountain wall, Havoc slowed his breaths, waiting for the flock of blight-feathers to abandon their hunt. Their razored talons scraped against the rocky ground as they scurried from boulder to ledge, searching for the meat they had glimpsed from above.

Champion-ranked spawns. Havoc did not entertain the hope of contending with them—that was not their purpose. Though still new to the world of Inheritance, he had adapted quickly. His growing insight told him what the blight-feathers were—a blockade to endure, not foes to confront.

Having suffered beneath the Dungeon-Cell's unending trials, he found it difficult to accept the realm's truth, but he could not deny it: the Dungeon was fundamentally fair.

He understood why Cells were coveted resources among noble households. Harsh and unyielding, yet steeped in the Dungeon's will—a will that burned with the desire for growth. Quick to discard the unworthy, yet to those who earned its favour, the Dungeon always offered a path forward. And if one found themselves held in place, there was a reason for that as well.

So he waited, choking down a heave at the coppery tang of iron and rot wafting from the blight-feathers' foul breath as they scurried past his narrow refuge, tar-black sludge oozing from their slick, rubbery wings.

With only his thoughts for company, Havoc let his mind wander. At a guess, he had spent a little over two months inside the Forest of Desire—a time that was fast approaching its end. When he emerged from the Cell, his world would be changed. For good or ill, he could not yet say.

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He was more powerful now, and whatever the future held, it would lie beyond the borders of Stone Garden's slums. Anticipation and trepidation churned in his gut at the thought.

Will I join a guild?

Even a street rat like him knew the gains that came with membership in a prestigious guild, though his true education on the subject had only begun under Ugly's guidance.

Among humans, five great guilds stood above all others, each tied to one of the five great human settlements, ruled by a noble household whose head bore the title of Lord—an Inheritor of unfathomable might.

As a citizen of Stone Garden, Havoc knew the Crest Household as the city's ruling elite, their branch families and allied houses woven into the city's fabric. Even Lord-Mayor Kaine, as he had learned, was tied to the Crests by blood.

Yet their dominion extended far beyond Stone Garden. The Crests' domain stretched across the entire eighth floor of the Dungeon, with lesser nobility stewarding the settlements within their reach. While tribes of other races made their homes within the eighth floor, and some colonies fostered greater diversity, the floor's expanse was largely human territory.

I'll need to leave the entire floor, he thought, the weight of Aaron's threat pressing heavily on his mind.

His thoughts drifted to his sister. Long had she toiled to keep their stomachs from empty, taking on as many posts as the day allowed, while he laboured without end. Yet even together, they could barely scrape by.

It was during one such assignment that she had caught the eye of the bastard he killed.

To him, she was an easy mark—like a rod to lightning. No standing, no power—they only had each other. And what did a man like him have to fear from vagrants like them?

Quite a bit, as it turns out, Havoc thought, his lips curving into a smirk as he recalled his frenzied strikes within the teahouse walls.

Of all that had happened that day, his only regret was the spoiled décor—shattered pots, broken chairs, and blood staining the floors Hurricane had polished to a gleam.

Maybe the Vanguard?

As a subject of the Settled Floors, Havoc had only heard whispers and rumours of the Vanguard Territories. When humanity first entered the Dungeon, the races that preceded them had already claimed the first three levels of this cosmic plane. He knew the tenth floor was home to the Selenarians' capital city—a place of power and mystery—and from Naereah, he had learned that they held sizeable numbers within the third level as well. As for the other races' domains, his knowledge was scarce.

Yet within the Vanguard lurked a race feared above all others—the Vorgath. Whispers of their existence slipped through the cracks of civilization, carried like warnings on the wind.

Unlike others who sought safety within fortified settlements, the Vorgath thrived in constant battle. To them, war was not a means to an end—it was their purpose. Believed to cast out all who failed to Inherit, theirs was a society forged from strength alone. No weak bloodlines persisted, no failures were spared. Theirs was a race of warriors shaped by battle, their bodies hardened by the Dungeon's trials, their eyes alight with the hunger of predators who knew no fear. To most, they were demons—the embodiment of violence and strength unbound.

They were not the only ones to hold settlements within the perilous terrain. From what little he knew, allied guilds had established border towns and fortifications deep below the Settled Floors. Yet the nature of the Vanguard was to bring civilizations to ruin. No settlement could persist indefinitely within its expanse—the Dungeon would never allow it.

Where civilization took root, cataclysms would follow. Inevitably, any settlement within the Vanguard would face desolation—no stone placed on stone was ever left standing. The only question was how or when.

Ugly had told him of a mobile city—a construct of metal and steam, its iron legs bearing down upon rough terrain as the metropolis wandered the twentieth floor. None knew its origins, though it was believed to be a Remnant possessed by an unknown Lord.

For most others, survival meant constant migration. When the cataclysm fell, they scattered like leaves before a storm, but when the land settled, they returned to rebuild—drawn by treasures too precious to forsake, no matter the cost in blood and lives.

We can make it work, she'll have me to protect her, he thought, weighing the challenges of fleeing with his sister beyond the House of Crest's reach.

Barely registering the blight-feathers' beating wings and sputtering wheezes betraying their mounting frustration, he turned his thoughts Edgar Grace.

As a high-warden of the Guild of Enforcers, he was pledged to neutrality. The Enforcers being among the great guilds, under his protection, even the mighty House of Crest could not act with complete impunity.

Yeah, but nothing comes without a price, Havoc thought bitterly.

He could not say what Graceless would demand in return, but it would be no small charge. Though mighty enough to hold land within the Settled Floors, and even holding within the Vanguard, of the five great guilds, the enforcers were known to be the weakest, the guilds under their banner constantly assailed by enemies on all sides.

On the surface, it was dark guilds, criminal clans, bandits, pirates, and abyssal sects that harried their ranks. But as Ugly had once told him, their true enemies dwelled in high places. The nobles tolerated the Enforcers, but they did not want them—schemes cloaked in shadows, always lurking, waiting to unravel their ranks.

'Prolly made some sense back in da time, ya know?' Ugly had said, his tone rough with grievance. 'Now, dem buggers do little else but badger folks like us. Don't do everythin' fairly—hold my 'ands up to dat. But next ta da shit dem nobles pull? You's lookin' at a freakin' saint.'

The irony was not lost on Havoc that the very same group tasked with his execution might yet become his salvation.

Will I need to join one of their chapters?

It was not unlikely. He was an Inheritor of extraordinary potential—he doubted Graceless would pass on the chance to conscript him into their ranks.

Just what I need—more nobles.

A guild might swell their numbers with the low-born, but their leadership was indubitably comprised of the upper-class. He did not doubt that even among a group claiming impartiality and fairness as their core tenets, there was no escape from hierarchical predilection, corruption, and vice.

Still, to stand against fate and the order of the world, he would do well to secure allies—if only for a season.

The thought lingered like a bitter taste on his tongue, broken only by the thunderous beat of countless wings. Peering out, he watched as the flock withdrew. Exhaling a breath he had not realised he had been holding, he waited until the last of the fiends vanished beyond the skyline.

Sliding loose from the jagged stone, its rough edges scraping against his palms, he peered into the distance. There, rising against the horizon, stood the Temple of Desire—within its domed ceiling, he would cast his first strike against the chains of fate.

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