The World Quest notification did not just change the game; it shattered the board. In every hunter guild hall, in every royal court, in every mercenary tavern across the globe, a singular, electrifying frenzy took hold. Y'ha-nthlei.

The name, once a whispered legend, a ghost story told to frighten recruits, was now a tangible destination. The promise of an S-Rank Faction Title and a Divine-Grade reward was a lure so potent it transcended old rivalries and political boundaries. It was a gold rush, and the entire world was stampeding towards the claim.

In the command center of Asylum, the atmosphere was thick with a tension that was part excitement and part dread. On the main tactical map, icons representing dozens of major factions began to move, their projected paths all converging on a single point off the southern coast—the location of the newly risen city.

"We have to go. Now," Fenris stated, her voice a low growl of impatience. She was already strapping on her new adamantite gauntlets, the heavy plates settling into place with a series of solid, metallic clicks. "The Blade showed you the way. The legacy is ours to claim. We can't let some greedy fools get their hands on it."

"It's a trap," Selene countered, her sharp eyes scanning the frantic flow of intelligence reports. "Not a deliberate one, perhaps, but a trap nonetheless. Every S-Rank guild from here to the eastern kingdoms is mobilizing. The Titan's Bane, the Crimson Syndicate, the Iron Vultures—everyone. The Inquisition's Crusader Army is already marching. To go there is to willingly walk into a warzone with a dozen different fronts. We'll be torn to pieces before we even reach the city."

She was right. It was a strategic nightmare. But the legacy of the warrior king, the weapon the Whispering Blade believed was their only hope—that was not something Edward could afford to lose. If one of the other guilds claimed the Abyssal Core and the city, the legacy could be lost forever, buried or destroyed by those who didn't understand its true significance.

He looked at the map, at the swarm of icons moving like hungry sharks towards a single drop of blood in the water. This was not a choice. It was a necessity.

"We are not going there to fight a war with guilds," Edward said, his voice cutting through the debate with calm, final authority. "We are going there for a single objective. We will be faster, quieter, and more efficient than any of them. We will be ghosts in the middle of their storm."

He turned to his assembled lieutenants. "Fenris, Kira, Selene. You are with me. Assemble your best. Travel light. We are a strike team, not an army. The rest of The Unchained will remain here under Sarah's command. Fortify our territory. The world is about to become very chaotic, and our home must be ready."

There were no arguments. There was only a grim, determined acceptance. The Unchained, now a finely-tuned war machine, moved with a swift and silent purpose. The chosen strike team gathered at the fortress's lowest exit, a hidden sea cave where their fastest vessel, a sleek, dark-hulled submersible named the Shadowfin, was moored.

As they made their final preparations, checking their new gear and memorizing the sea charts, a sudden tremor shook the fortress. Not a physical tremor, but a ripple of immense, concentrated power that made the air hum. Every member of The Unchained froze, their heads instinctively turning upwards.

On the battlements of Asylum, Edward looked out over the vast, dark ocean. A massive shadow, vast and swift, was passing high overhead, blotting out the stars. It was a Royal Griffin, one of the largest and most powerful ever bred, its wingspan as wide as a small ship. Riding on its back, silhouetted against the moon, was a lone figure in gleaming, silver plate armor. His longsword was strapped to his back, and his mere presence radiated an aura of unwavering, holy power that felt like a physical weight on Edward's corrupted soul.

Seraphiel. The Champion of the Inquisition.

He was not heading for their fortress. He was flying south, his course set directly for Y'ha-nthlei. He did not turn his head, but Edward felt the paladin's gaze lock onto him across the miles of open air. It was not a look of hatred. It was a challenge. A silent, solemn declaration that their next meeting, their inevitable third duel, would take place amidst the madness of the Sunken City.

The race had begun.

The journey south was a tense, brutal affair. The Shadowfin, running silent and deep beneath the waves, managed to bypass the main naval routes. On their sonar screens, they saw the fleets of the world passing above them: massive, iron-clad warships of the human kingdoms, sleek elven corsairs, and crude but effective mercenary galleons, all packed with hunters and all sailing for the same destination.

The closer they got, the more chaotic the seas became. The world's factions, no longer restrained by the laws of civilization, began to clash before they even reached their destination. They witnessed skirmishes through their periscope: two rival mercenary guilds firing cannons at each other over the right of passage through a narrow channel; a brave but foolish independent guild trying to raid a massive Inquisition warship, only to be incinerated by a volley of holy fire. It was a prelude to the madness to come, a world tearing itself apart out of pure, unrestrained greed.

Finally, after days of silent, nerve-wracking travel, they arrived.

The Shadowfin surfaced in the dead of night, miles from the main congregation of ships. Edward and his team emerged onto the deck and stared. The sight before them was both magnificent and terrifying.

The Sunken City of Y'ha-nthlei had risen.

It was not a city of graceful spires or orderly streets. It was a nightmare of non-Euclidean geometry, a sprawling, cyclopean metropolis of wet, black stone that seemed to defy the very laws of physics. Towers twisted at impossible angles, archways led to nowhere, and the entire city seemed to pulse with a faint, sickly green light, as if it were a living, breathing creature that had just woken from a billion-year slumber. The architecture itself felt hostile, an alien design that hurt the eyes and frayed the mind.

Surrounding the city was a veritable armada. Hundreds of ships of every size and description crowded the dark waters, their lights like a swarm of angry fireflies. Airships, held aloft by crackling magic and whirring engines, hovered in the sky above. The air was thick with the sounds of shouted orders, the clang of steel, and the low, tense hum of thousands of hunters preparing for the greatest dungeon raid in history.

Edward's small team felt like a single drop of rain in an ocean. They were hopelessly outnumbered.

"So," Fenris said, her voice an uncharacteristically quiet rumble as she stared at the impossible city. "That's the plan, is it? We just swim over and knock on the front door?"

"The front door will be a slaughterhouse," Edward said, his eyes scanning the city's perimeter. "Every guild will be trying to force their way through the main gates. They will kill each other in droves just for a chance to be the first ones inside." He pointed to a dark, desolate section of the city's outer wall, far from the main fleet. "They are all focused on the entrance. They are not looking at the walls. We don't go through the front door. We make our own."

The plan was set. They would approach the city from the blind side, scale the sea-slick, barnacle-encrusted walls, and slip inside while the other factions were busy butchering each other at the gates.

As they prepared to disembark into a small, inflatable raft, a new sound cut through the noise of the fleet. It was a deep, resonant tolling, like a colossal, underwater bell. The water around the city began to churn.

The entrance to Y'ha-nthlei was opening. It was not a gate of stone or metal. It was a swirling, vortex of crushing, black water and shadowy, abyssal energy, a liquid maw that seemed to roar a silent, hungry welcome.

The factions, their temporary truce forgotten, surged forward. Ships crashed into each other as captains tried to gain a better position. The race had become a chaotic, desperate stampede.

Edward took a deep breath, the cold, salty air filling his lungs. He looked at the faces of his team—Fenris's grim determination, Kira's sharp focus, Selene's predatory calm. They were ready.

"Let's go," he said. "Let them have their glorious charge. We have a legacy to claim."

He led them over the side of the submersible and into the dark, churning water, their small raft a single, insignificant shadow moving against the tide, heading for the maw of madness.

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