Crash! The Demolition Squad
Bang—!
A heavy thud echoed as the top-grade ebony desk let out a scream. Zartus clenched his fist so hard it seemed it might shatter, breathing raggedly. Blood trickled from his knuckles onto the expensive carpet below, but he felt no pain. Only one emotion burned in his blood-red eyes: an unbearable sense of humiliation.
"Aiden... that filthy half-breed bastard...!"
Today's events at the company wouldn't leave his mind. Team Leader Liliane's blatant favoritism, the awed stares from his colleagues, and above all... the Succubus Queen's own approval. All of it should have been his. Pure demon bloodline, elite of Belial Enterprise. The one destined to succeed his father at the pinnacle of the dungeon industry. That perfect narrative had been tainted by 'Aiden.'
A half-demon without horns or wings had dared steal his glory. Zartus stepped up to the massive mirror hanging in the room. It reflected a majestic figure: proud horns, sharp fangs—a perfect pureblood demon. But right now, that face was twisted hideously with rage and jealousy.
Fame won through cheap tricks and shallow gimmicks. He had to shatter it personally, show how hollow it truly was. With his resolve hardened, he flung open the door. He strode down the hall and knocked on his father's office.
"Enter."
A voice of authority came from beyond. Inside, a man sat in a chair evoking a massive jade throne. Horns far larger and more intimidating than Zartus's, eyes that seemed gentle but hid ruthless depths. He was Zartus's father, the head of dungeon-making company D&D Make: Baal.
"Zartus. What brings the son who never even greets me while living under the same roof?"
Baal asked without lifting his eyes from the documents.
"Enjoying life at Belial, are you? I told you not to go there. What is there to learn under a rival company? Tsk."
His tone carried less concern for his son than a subtle rivalry toward Belial Enterprise.
"Father."
Zartus bowed his head and spoke.
"There's... a very intriguing dungeon at Belial. Classified as D-rank, but it wiped out even C-rank adventurer parties—a dungeon that defies all common sense."
Only then did Baal look up from his papers, intrigued, fixing his gaze on his son.
"Ho, so Belial's developed some new tech, have they?"
"No, Father. It's not new technology. Just... cowardly, shallow psychological tricks. The work of someone rootless who doesn't grasp the true aesthetic of dungeons, where raw power clashes with raw power."
Zartus laced his words with as much contempt as he could muster. Baal's eyes narrowed. He hadn't missed the jealousy in his son's voice.
"So you want to crush that rootless one's creation. Using the power of our D&D Make."
Baal's tone held a hint of disdain. His son, whom he hadn't seen in ages, wanted to borrow the company's might just to oust a rival?
"Go on, then. Keep talking."
"Yes, you're right, Father. That dungeon only works on weak humans. I want to prove it's nothing but a sandcastle before true power—the elite monster units our family prides itself on!"
Zartus stepped closer.
"If we, D&D Make, conquer Belial's rising new product in a single night... what do you think would happen?"
This wasn't mere personal revenge.
"Belial's reputation crashes to the ground, and everyone remembers who truly holds power."
A golden opportunity to blunt a rival's momentum and elevate D&D Make's prestige. Zartus cleverly stoked his father's competitive fire.
"......"
Silence fell briefly. Baal stroked his chin, deep in thought. Then a feral smile curled his lips.
"Fine. We'll do it your way."
Baal's eyes gleamed coldly.
"We'll break Belial's arrogance for good. And I'll take a look at that 'rootless' method of theirs. If you're right... claiming that talent for ourselves wouldn't be bad."
"Pardon?"
"Never mind. Go prove it. Show you're superior to that half-breed."
Zartus didn't fully grasp the implication in his father's final words, but satisfaction at achieving his goal made him bow.
"Thank you, Father."
As he left the office, a cruel smile of assured victory spread across Zartus's face.
Aiden... your pathetic prank ends here.
A heavy silence settled back over the office after Zartus left. Baal stared at the door for a moment, then clicked his tongue.
Foolish boy.
Of course his son's proposal tempted him. A chance to trample a rival's new product and tarnish their reputation. No executive would pass that up.
But using it as a tool for his son's petty grudge? Pathetic. Joining a rival company only to borrow Daddy's power? Laughable.
Still, blood was thicker than water.
How much time passed? Knock knock—
"Master."
"Come in."
The family butler, Sebastian, who managed the household, entered.
"What did you find?"
Baal already knew from recent Dungeon Gallery buzz that Belial's dungeon was the talk of the town. He'd secretly ordered the butler to investigate: find out what it was.
"Belial has released 36 dungeons recently. Two show anomalies."
The butler placed two sheets of paper before Baal. They bore two dungeon names.
Starving Goblin's Ravine
Echoing Love Letter
Baal's brow twitched at the sight.
Echoing Love Letter was vague from the name alone. But Starving Goblin's Ravine reeked of a cheap, mass-produced low-rank dungeon crawling with goblin trash.
And his son—a pureblood demon, heir to the family—felt jealousy over that?
Something's off.
Baal's eyes grew icy. Two possibilities flashed through his mind.
One: Belial hid something beyond comprehension behind a goblin facade.
Two: His son was even more incompetent than imagined.
As Baal pondered, the butler added,
"One point merits close attention, Master. The buyer of Echoing Love Letter is shrouded in mystery."
"Ho?"
A buyer even the butler's D&D Make-backed intel couldn't pierce? That meant a heavyweight.
"But Starving Goblin's Ravine was bought by a mere goblin shaman, so no need to worry overly."
'No need to worry' meant 'safe to touch.' Baal caught the implication and nodded.
"Right, then. Let's poke the goblin dungeon a bit. Activate the demolition squad."
"Yes, Master."
The butler bowed and withdrew.
Baal's 'demolition squad' was an orc mercenary group. More precisely, a shadowy organization D&D Make ran covertly to check rivals. Their mission: not conquest, but destruction.
At the dungeon entrance, shrouded in thick darkness. Under moonlight, green-skinned giants gathered with thudding steps. Crude but menacing steel armor plated their shoulders. Human-waist-thick battle axes and maces gripped in their hands.
"Chwiik! This the damn goblin hole?"
Demolition leader Grunt, the one-eyed orc, spat and growled. His face was scarred from countless battles.
"Boss! Looks like a plain cave no matter how ya slice it. They called us to smash this?"
One mercenary grumbled. To them, a D-rank dungeon was barely a warm-up.
"Boss's orders! Quit yappin' and charge in! Smash everything inside! Walls, ceiling, crawlin' bugs—leave nothin' alive!"
"Krahaha! Now we're talkin'!"
"Time to show our stuff!"
Grunt's roar ignited their bloodlust. With thunderous cheers, they stormed the dungeon.
But it was eerily quiet—unlike expected. No traps, no goblins.
"Chwiik, too damn easy! Where'd the goblin scum flee to?"
Destruction was their goal. They smashed everything in sight along the corridors. Walls cracked, dust poured from ceilings like waterfalls.
They reached the deepest dead-end hall.
"Hm? What's that?"
At the corridor's end, center-stage: a red iron door. Starkly out of place amid the shabby dungeon—eerie, alien.
"Kekeke, boss room? Flashy door they got!"
Grunt chuckled, signaling his men.
"Rip it open!"
As two orcs charged with maces to smash it—
Creeeak—
As if awaiting them, the red door slowly opened on its own.
From the pitch-black darkness beyond, a woman glided out.
Disheveled hair, red mask, scissors dripping fresh blood.
"......?"
The orcs froze in confusion. Not a goblin or ogre, but a frail-looking woman?
"Chwiik... what're you? Dungeon boss?"
Grunt demanded warily. But she didn't answer—instead closing the distance to him in a blink.
Too fast for orc eyes to track.
Grunt's eye widened. In a eerie, mechanical voice, she asked:
"Am I... pretty?"
"What?"
Grunt's face twisted in bewilderment. 'Pretty?' In this situation? Some spell? Mental attack? Beyond an orc's simple mind.
Instinct kicked in: Can't understand it? Smash it.
"Shut your trap!"
Grunt hoisted his massive battle axe overhead, poised to cleave her in two.
But just before it struck her head, she vanished like smoke.
"Kheuk?!"
A chilling draft from behind. Before Grunt could turn, a gruesome crack exploded from his jaw.
Crunch—!
Now behind him, she crushed his massive jaw barehanded. Thick orc hide and bone tore like wet paper.
Slash— Blood fountained.
Demolition leader Grunt hit the floor without a scream, his huge body dead on impact.
"......!"
The witnessing orc mercenaries froze in terror.
The Red Mask gazed blankly at Grunt's corpse, then slowly lifted her head to the rest.
And repeated the question.
"Am I... pretty?"