Chapter 65
Chapter 65
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 65
Chapter Title: Recruiting for the Demonic Palace's 8th Floor Conquest
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Nakcheon.
A fallen sky.
Once the idol of all those who had reached the 8th floor of the Demonic Palace.
Long ago, the man who led the Black Lion team, the greatest raiders of the Demonic Palace.
But now, he had been devoured by the Demonic Palace itself, transformed into a specter guarding the far end of the 8th floor, ensuring no one could advance to the 9th.
And that, too, only because the Demonic Palace's life-granting power barely clung his aged body together.
The sword wielded by this Nakcheon was none other than Roaring Thunder.
The synergy between the Demonic Palace's specter and Roaring Thunder went without saying.
That was why countless challengers had come for him—either to push beyond the 9th floor or simply to claim his Roaring Thunder.
Yet the results spoke for themselves: Nakcheon still lived, undefeated to this day.
Krash intended to fell this Nakcheon and claim Roaring Thunder for himself.
[It's been a while here, too.]
The voice of Crimson Garden reached Krash as it gazed out the window at Ravala.
True to its nature as an Undying One, it had apparently visited the Magicless City of Ravala before.
"Crim, you got any kin here in Ravala?"
[No. A waste of time in a dump like this.]
Krash narrowed his eyes at that.
It had been the same during the First Spirit War.
Crimson Garden seemed deeply involved in quite a few pivotal historical events.
Before his regression, he hadn't had the chance to chat with it, so he hadn't been particularly curious.
But now? Questions piled up endlessly.
"Just to be sure— you didn't have one of your kind build the Demonic Palace or anything, right?"
The Demonic Palace was the ultimate creation of a mad weapons engineer from the ancient Bazantrium civilization—a relic from an era predating even the Empire.
Though it now lay in ruins, Krash couldn't help wondering if Crimson Garden had some connection. Its response was a ridiculous burst of laughter.
[Do you think I'm meddling in everything? I just got caught up in a few incidents by chance.]
Apparently not this time.
[Though I do know one World Erosion beast was awfully chummy with that weapons engineer.]
"You're talking about the dwarf, right?"
The moment Krash said it casually, Crimson Garden froze solid.
[You damn regressor.]
Crimson Garden sounded miffed, clearly annoyed that Krash had stolen its dramatic reveal. It must have felt like a slap to the back of the head after trying to play mysterious.
Krash let out a smirk, and right then, the carriage jolted to a halt.
"We've arrived."
As the coachman's voice rang out, the door swung open.
Aliod stood there, of course.
Aliod stepped back to let Krash descend comfortably, and Krash hopped out.
Perhaps because he was in his second growth spurt lately, his height had shot up noticeably.
The carriage step, once a stretch, now felt trivial.
He'd checked in the mirror recently—his baby fat was finally starting to melt away from his face.
Krash had always hit growth spurts early.
Now, he was shedding his childish air, edging closer to boyhood.
"Bianca."
Krash, who had gotten out first, extended a hand to Bianca. She took it naturally and followed him down.
"Big."
She glanced up at the building and gave her curt assessment.
As she said, the structure before them was massive.
The Demonic Palace was an unspoken no-man's-land for both the Empire and the kingdoms.
No single side could monopolize its byproducts—the distances were too vast for the kingdoms, and even the Empire couldn't claim sole control.
To ensure equal access, they left it as neutral territory.
And from within the Demonic Palace itself, the raiders had formed a coalition to build this very place: the Raiders' Guildhall.
Krash pushed open the guildhall doors and strode inside.
A few raiders glanced their way as he entered.
Two noble youths with their liveried butler in tow—it screamed "young masters slumming it in the Demonic Palace."
The raiders quickly averted their eyes.
Even in no-man's-land, no one wanted trouble with nobles.
Krash ignored them and headed straight for the reception desk at the back.
The receptionist clocked his noble bearing at once and flashed an overly warm smile.
"Welcome. I'm Chello, attendant at the Demonic Palace Raiders' Guild. How may I assist you?"
"I'd like to get an entry pass."
"Yes, an entry pass. May I verify your identity?"
Krash casually presented the Valheim crest.
She flinched upon seeing it.
"V-Valheim."
Instantly, every gaze in the room snapped toward them.
Raiders were no slouches—they all knew the Valheim name.
As their stunned stares lingered, Aliod turned his head in warning.
The eyes scattered like startled birds.
"Ah, confirmed. Please wait just a moment."
"While you're issuing the pass, I have one more request."
"Pardon? Oh, yes, of course. What is it?"
Krash smiled slowly.
Then he added words that nearly flipped her over.
"Put up a posting recruiting a team for the 8th floor conquest."
Time to put the Valheim name to good use.
＊ ＊ ＊
The 8th floor conquest recruitment posting.
Normally, it would draw nothing but sneers.
But not this time.
The poster was none other than a direct scion of Valheim.
"A Valheim heir tackling the 8th floor?"
"What the hell's Valheim doing all of a sudden?"
The 8th floor conquests thwarted time and again by Nakcheon.
Word spread like wildfire across all of Ravala.
Most reacted with bafflement.
The Demonic Palace was one of the remnants from antiquity—not true World Erosion, but close enough.
Lesser nobles might eye its byproducts greedily.
But Valheim, whose name rang across the world? No need for them to bother.
Yet here they were, declaring an 8th floor raid.
"Going after Roaring Thunder?"
"But that's Nakcheon. Think they can pull it off?"
Nakcheon: a master-class specter, one of fewer than four digits worldwide.
Masters were commonplace in the Generation of the Sky, but vanishingly rare among Demonic Palace raiders.
Even his old teammates from back then—all but him—had succumbed to time.
Others had challenged the 8th floor in the past, but that was ancient history.
These days, the Palace capped at the 7th floor.
Sure, if the Empire or kingdoms threw their full weight behind it, toppling Nakcheon wasn't impossible.
But deploying master-class talents for that? Bad math.
What if they failed and died against a mere specter?
It'd be a massive loss of manpower—and a blow to national prestige.
No one wanted that risk.
Thus, Roaring Thunder remained firmly in Nakcheon's grip to this day.
"But Valheim?"
Long years after Nakcheon claimed the 8th floor's end.
A Valheim scion had appeared to slay him.
"Bet all the old 8th-floor veterans show up."
As expectations mounted, Krash let out a long yawn in the guildhall.
'Slower than I thought.'
Waiting for guts to kick in, maybe.
Despite the posting, no one rushed to join. Krash tapped the desk lightly with his finger.
He'd set it up for a swift descent to the 8th.
Didn't expect raiders' asses to be that glued down.
[Know what marks those teetering on the master threshold?]
Crimson Garden on the table sneered.
[They think the world grovels at their feet.]
Krash didn't deny it.
A wall stood between expert and master.
Countless spent lifetimes failing to scale it.
They stood right on the brink.
What did that mean?
They believed themselves among the world's elite geniuses.
[Blind to how true geniuses separate from the mediocrity there.]
Master ranks were far more granular than expert.
Entry, mid, high, pinnacle, mastery, zenith.
That single wall dwarfed even the leap to master-entry.
[We used to just say entry, mastery, zenith. What's with all these qualifiers now? You kids and your 'strongest under heaven' fantasies—hilarious.]
Krash shot it an exasperated look.
'Talking like that geezer again. Makes sense—they're from the same era.'
Crimson Garden often reminded him of the old man he'd once owed his life to—the one who helped him master curses enough to protect himself, now hidden away awaiting death.
'Wonder where he is now.'
Endless talk of Dragon-Phoenix Tournaments and aura in gap units—it was pure Crimson Garden.
Now that Krash was the curse expert, no real reason to meet, though.
"So, what's your point?"
[Ripe rice bends low. Unripe stalks stand too proud to bow.]
Crimson Garden stated it like obvious truth.
[So force 'em to bend.]
Force them to bend.
Krash blinked in disbelief.
"By that logic, I've just stepped into expert pinnacle."
Not long ago, he'd gotten thoroughly thrashed by Charlotte, a master-entry.
Crimson Garden scoffed at his gripe.
[Moon Yin Physique makes sustaining Flame Erosion easy, no? Lingering at that level against lesser foes—you're untouchable. Everyone knows you handle master-entry now, too.]
He wouldn't outright deny it.
But pure realm-wise, master was still distant reality. Krash scratched his cheek sheepishly.
"You said it was far off before."
[Far by my standards.]
Pure Crimson Garden arrogance.
Meanwhile, Krash spotted Bianca nodding off at the table, head drooping toward it.
She'd insisted on waiting with him, sticking by his side.
Must be sleepy.
Krash cupped her head gently and guided her to rest on his lap as he sat on the sofa.
She wriggled closer, nestling into his embrace.
"Fine, whatever. If they won't come..."
Krash shielded her from the sunlight streaming through the window.
"I'll just hunt them down myself."
Bowing heads was his specialty, after all.
So, time to pick the first target properly.
Krash skimmed the list of those who'd reached the 8th floor and made his choice.
This one.