Chapter 6
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 6
Though they were defeated, Bern's Subjugation Squad had reached the heart of the dungeon. Their total annihilation overshadowed the achievement, but reaching the end of the Primordial Core was a feat not seen in a century.
Furthermore, most dungeons restore themselves within two months of a failed raid. Some recover as quickly as two or three weeks. Since blood had already been spilled, the pro-raid faction argued they should commit all their forces to finish the job before the Primordial Core could recover.
Conversely, those against the raid argued that if even Bern's Subjugation Squad—one of the Empire's greatest forces—had failed, they should give up now to avoid further casualties.
Under normal circumstances, Paimore would have advocated for the raid, but this time was different.
Bern's Subjugation Squad had reached the end of the dungeon—the boss room. And then they were wiped out. According to their final transmission, forty-three members, including Bern, were still alive at that moment. They had even sent a message stating that reinforcements were unnecessary.
This implied one of two things: either they had stealthily infiltrated the boss room without clearing all the monsters along the way, meaning any reinforcements would be ambushed, or they truly didn't need backup.
It was likely the latter. To say reinforcements weren't needed meant they judged forty-three people to be enough, which suggested those forty-three were in relatively good condition.
Right. Which meant forty-three people in good shape were all wiped out by the boss.
Honestly, anyone could have deduced that much. It was also why the pro-raid faction was so insistent on reclaiming the Core. After all, there was no way the boss could be unscathed after fighting forty-three elite combatants. An unrecovered dungeon and a battered boss—what better opportunity could there be?
And Paimore knew that line of thinking had its own logic.
But.
But what if…
What if that ancient monster, the boss of the Primordial Core, wasn't heavily injured?
What if it wasn't battered at all?
What if it was a creature that hadn't taken any significant damage even when facing forty-three of the absolute elite? Then how many people would it take to defeat it? A hundred? Two hundred? Did the Empire—no, the entire continent—even have that many warriors who could rival the strength of Bern's Subjugation Squad?
Of course, this too was mere speculation. It was highly likely to be wrong, his only basis the gut feeling of an investor who had witnessed the tragic ends of countless subjugation squads. But still.
"It's just weird from the start…"
Letting out a pained groan, Paimore leaned back in his chair. It wasn't designed for comfort, and the polished gemstone ornaments embedded in it dug into his back. He didn't care. He could feel the sharp glares of several nobles and investors who disapproved of his slouching posture, but he ignored them too.
Everyone in the pro-raid faction took it for granted. They were certain that seventy-four elite soldiers had "sufficiently" ravaged the Primordial Core. They didn't doubt for a second that the forty-three survivors had fought a fierce battle with the boss, only to be defeated by a hair's breadth.
Of course they would think that. No matter how formidable the Seven Great Evil Caves were, the idea of seventy-four members of Bern's Subjugation Squad failing was a logical contradiction. Every single member who followed Bern on this subjugation was a powerhouse on par with a squad captain. They were seventy-four individuals more reliable than seventy-four hundred ordinary soldiers. That was why they had sent them without ever considering the possibility of defeat. They had chosen the Primordial Core, the worst of the Seven Great Evil Caves, because they were absolutely certain of victory.
But they lost, didn't they?
Why was no one even considering the hypothesis that the ancient monster dwelling in the Core was just overwhelmingly powerful?
They were all insane. If they let things end like this, the Imperial Family's blades would be pointed at their necks. They were willfully blind, plugging their ears in a desperate attempt to survive. Without considering the future where their heads would truly roll if the second subjugation failed, they brainwashed themselves in the heated atmosphere, believing they only needed to take one more step.
The more he thought about it, the deeper he sank into his own hypothesis.
"Even if we try again, conquering the Primordial Core is impossible."
The thought he had been mulling over slipped past his lips.
It was clearly a mutter to himself. Yet, a sudden silence descended upon the conference room. Every eye locked onto Paimore.
The silence was so profound it felt tangible, thick with dark energy—or perhaps, murderous intent. Countless gazes—a mix of incredulity, anger, and ridicule—bore down on him. In the mounting tension that felt ready to explode at any second, everyone demanded an explanation from Paimore with their heavy silence.
If he gave the wrong explanation now, in this charged atmosphere, what would become of him?
Just as he was beginning to bitterly regret his foolish slip of the tongue, a loud voice shattered the silence.
"Lord Paimore, what makes you say that? I believe it is entirely possible."
The tone was solemn, but a youthful inflection bled through. As if pulled by a single thread, every head in the room turned in unison.
A man stood proudly at the entrance, flanked by five companions.
How had they entered this place, one of the few sacrosanct sanctuaries in Riaze? Any questions vanished the moment everyone laid eyes on them.
They wore long, dark gray priestly robes, adorned with unsettling golden eye patterns. There was only one group in the entire Empire that wore such bizarre clothing, and only one that could roam freely within it.
"Why is the Imperial Magic Society here…?"
The Imperial Magic Society, 'Third Eye'.
The expressions of everyone in the room, including Paimore, stiffened. To the ignorant citizens of the Empire, the 'Third Eye' might seem like a reliable wing protecting the Imperial Family, alongside the Imperial Guard, 'Red Spear of Roa'. But the reality was far from it.
In the eyes of the nobility, they were merely the Imperial Family's dogs, or perhaps its silent vipers. Unlike the 'Red Spear of Roa', they had no chivalric code or rules to uphold; they were simply madmen obsessed with magic and truth, completely uninhibited. If the 'Red Spear of Roa' was the light of the Imperial Family, they were the darkness.
And the fact that this darkness had moved meant—
"What do you mean, 'why'? Have you ever known us to move without orders?"
The green-haired man at the front smiled faintly. Seeing that smile, Paimore was certain.
—It meant the Imperial Family had begun to intervene.
"Dungeon subjugation is a field of study in itself. One can never understand what seems impossible on the surface without challenging it directly. Especially now… when we are so close, are we not? Surely you didn't intend to let this end with a Masterpiece abandoned in the dungeon?"
The green-haired man maintained his unwavering smile. It was so artificial it almost looked like a mask of anger. He waited quietly for an answer, but no one replied. After a brief silence, he continued.
"Those of you with quick wits have probably figured it out, but our presence here… means you will soon pay dearly for your sins. Not only did you play a part in the Hero's death, but you also allowed a Masterpiece, which His Imperial Majesty cherishes deeply, to be abandoned in the enemy's lair. Yes. But to be honest, there is a great deal of deliberation going on. If everyone here dies, who will manage the Empire's numerous subjugation squads? You are all talented individuals, after all."
Then, he added, "Ah, of course, the one deliberating isn't His Imperial Majesty, but the Princess."
The laughter lacing his voice grated on their ears. Still wearing that sly expression, the man continued.
"So, we proposed a solution to the Princess. A clear answer that can save you all. Since you were just discussing it, you probably know what it is. Yes, you just need to finish conquering the Primordial Core. You just have to retrieve the lost Masterpiece, 'Tanabella'. It's very simple."
"But… who could possibly conquer a dungeon that even Lord Bern failed to…"
"Niphrim."
"…What?"
"We will deploy Niphrim."
A heavy silence fell. The reactions in the room were split. Some kept their mouths shut because they didn't understand, while others frowned as if they had heard something they shouldn't have.
"I don't think that is a very wise choice…"
"Isn't he a defective product? Riddled with issues? Even if he's usable now, I find it hard to believe that Niphrim is stronger than Lord Bern."
"Ahahaha, haha. It seems everyone… is mistaken about something. First of all, Niphrim is not a failure. He is undeniably a success. It's just that he hasn't reached the 'perfect truth' we pursue. And since this is also a field of study, identifying the cause is crucial to solving the problem. Why couldn't Lord Bern Hishultz and his companions make it out of the Primordial Core alive? Because they were weak? Because they let their guard down? Then, can only someone stronger than Bern survive the Primordial Core? Well, I don't think so."
A sudden, chilling atmosphere froze everyone in place.
"There was one crucial thing that Lord Bern and his companions lacked."
With a manic smile, the man twirled his finger. His eyes, harboring something incomprehensible to common sense, burned into their minds, scrambling their thoughts.
"And Niphrim possesses exactly what Lord Bern lacked."
With those final words, a frivolous laugh—Ahahahat!—echoed through the room. Having finished speaking, the scholar of the 'Third Eye' spread his arms wide. Faint but distinct footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond the entrance. Everyone except the scholar turned their gaze toward the sound.
Soon, the footsteps stopped at the threshold of the conference room. The owner of the footsteps, Niphrim, leaned against the doorframe with a loose, slouching posture. The eyes scanning the room's interior were chillingly cold. With blond hair, blue eyes, and a small build, he looked ordinary at a glance, but the eerie aura radiating from him was anything but.
He shook his head and swept back his long bangs, revealing a scar that covered half his face. After roughly scanning everyone in the room, Niphrim slowly spoke. A hideous voice slipped from between his hideous lips.
"You were talking about me, weren't you?"
As always, no answer came.
"Every single one of you looks anxious. Why so tense? Guilty conscience? Or were you busy talking trash behind my back?"
"Heh. What was it? Were you calling me a defective product? Wondering how someone like me could succeed where Lord Bern failed?"
A few twisted expressions were the only response he received.
"Ha. Judging by the rotten looks on your faces, I must have hit the nail on the head."
"…"
"Where did all those loud mouths go? Well, fine. If you won't talk about me, I'll talk about you. You've probably heard the general explanation, so I'll get straight to the point. You're all going to die soon."
There was no need for details.
Asking what they had done to deserve death was pointless. They had committed one major crime.
"Exactly one week from now, you will all be executed under the same charge. Since it's an order from the Princess you so deeply revere, you can figure out for yourselves if there's any room for leniency."
The point was simple.
"Well, it's not like you had a choice from the start."
To cover up the shame of the Hero's death and the loss of the Masterpiece, trimming a few small branches wasn't enough. The Imperial Family intended to cut down the thick trunk itself—the entire leadership of the Dungeon Subjugation Union.
Now that they understood what their superiors were thinking, they no longer needed to debate another subjugation. They didn't have to worry about the necks of the squad challenging the Primordial Core; they had to worry about their own.
A complete silence fell over the conference room, as if a ghost had swept through. It was on a different level from before; it felt as though time itself had stopped, with not even the sound of a faint breath to be heard. Only Niphrim laughed, the only one alive and breathing in this frozen moment.
"Well, that's how it is."
He wore a pure smile, his previous madness completely erased.
"I'll take care of it on my own. So shut up, get on your knees, and beg."
Beneath that pure smile, a whisper like a saving grace drifted over them.
"As in, 'Please deliver us.'"
* * *
"Ah-heee-tchoo!"
A sneeze utterly devoid of dignity echoed several times. He was tall, with pitch-black hair that matched his true form. Even with a generous rating, his appearance wouldn't score higher than a seventy out of a hundred. Swallow, who was wandering the dungeon in the unstable form of a human male, sniffled. The air was already damp and thick with dust, making even breathing a chore.
"What kind of physical structure is this?"
I only mimicked a human body, yet it can't even handle a bit of dust. I think I understand why humans live such short lives.
It's not because the dungeon environment is harsh. It's because human respiratory systems are pathetic.
Swallow frowned, dismissing his own biased excuses as the actual cause.
Sometimes, minor ailments are more irritating than major wounds. This was one of those times. Perhaps because the human body was so uncomfortable, he couldn't stop shuddering.