The Roots of Mother

The mechanical hound, whose ocular sensor had shone a calm green while regarding Bennett's party, now cast a chilling crimson glare toward the elven expedition.

A red targeting beam swept across the chests of the elves. Unlike Bennett and his companions, however, none among their ranks carried an authorized access pass.

"Scatter!"

Bang!

The firearm mounted atop the robotic hound belched fire. Roxell, who had been targeted first, hurled himself aside with blinding reflexes. The stray round merely tore a gaping hole through a piece of innocent laboratory equipment behind him.

Bang! Bang! Crack!

The automated mount swiveled fluidly, seeking its next mark, but every subsequent shot struck empty air. The scene was playing out entirely differently from what Bennett had witnessed back at the Abandoned Headquarters. Possessing physical faculties far superior to ordinary humans, the elves pushed their heightened senses to the absolute limit, evading the incoming ballistic trajectories by hairs of an inch.

"Destroy that gun first!"

Crouched behind heavy cover, the elven archers seized fleeting windows between bursts to loose their arrows. Though arrows were widely considered inferior to modern firearms, the hands drawing these bows belonged to elite elven marksmen. Each shaft struck the mechanical hound's chassis with kinetic force surpassing that of heavy pistol rounds. Recognizing the immediate hazard, the machine abandoned its stationary firing stance and initiated evasive maneuvers, skittering across the floor to dodge incoming fire.

A sharp mechanical click echoed through the hall.

The weapon switched from semi-automatic precision fire to rapid burst mode.

Rat-tat-tat! Crack-crack!

"Gaaah!"

The machine's first victim was an unnamed male elf. A burst ripped through his torso, spilling bright blood as he collapsed to the linoleum. Though the wound was not immediately fatal, it would turn deadly without swift medical intervention. Sensing no further threat from the fallen combatant, the robot dog swiveled its barrel toward a new target.

Spying an opening, another elf darted out from cover to drag his wounded comrade to safety.

In that exact fraction of a second, the turret spun one hundred and eighty degrees.

Crack-crack!

"Guh..."

Two successive rounds punched cleanly through the rescuer's heart. He pitched forward, slumping directly atop his fallen kin to form a gruesome stack of corpses.

Watching the slaughter, Roxell roared in fury. "Do not break cover to save the fallen! That thing is baiting you!" Glaring fiercely at his remaining expedition members, he shouted, "What are you standing around for?! Bring it down!"

"Burning Breath!"

A torrent of searing flame erupted from the elven mage's staff, shooting forward in a straight, concentrated pillar that refused to disperse. The robotic dog sprang backward in a nimble arc, clearing the fiery cone before switching its weapon to fully automatic fire.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

A crushing wave of suppressing fire washed over the chamber, vastly outpacing the previous salvos. Heavy caliber slugs battered the surrounding research apparatus into scrap, forcing the elves to duck behind whatever solid barricades remained. Though arrows and elemental spells peeked out from behind cover to retaliate, the rapid spray of lead kept the defenders ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pinned and threw off their aim.

The robotic sentry swept the room like an iron broom, bullets ricocheting wildly until several rounds punched through a sealed containment unit along the wall.

Psssshh-shhhk!

Dense white vapor began to vent violently into the room.

The elves paid the broadcasted warning no heed—the lone member of their squad capable of comprehending the Dungeon Language had just taken two rounds to the chest.

With a dull mechanical thump, the robot dog leaped atop a cluster of heavy research consoles, securing the high ground to broaden its firing angle. Shell casings rained down like hot brass hail as continuous automatic fire raked the hall from above.

"Argh!"

Yet another elf took a bullet to the shoulder. With the vantage point shifted overhead, the angles offered by low cover were swiftly shrinking.

"Binding Briars!"

A tangle of mana vines sprang from the consoles, ensnaring the hound's hind legs and throwing it off balance. The machine swayed, suspended mid-stride as its servos whined against the magical coils.

"Now! Shatter the cannon!"

The elves did not squander the opening. Bolstered by elven spiritists, arrows whipped toward the machine's optical sensors and articulated joints with terrifying velocity, accompanied by a barrage of flaming spheres hurled by the mage from all directions.

The trapped machine refused to go down meekly, snapping its barrel to intercept the incoming projectiles. While ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠its point-defense gunfire succeeded in detonating the physical arrows in midair, bullets proved incapable of dissipating dense spheres of condensed mana, which swallowed the lead and continued on their destructive course.

The elves would have destroyed the robotic sentry right then and there—had interference not arrived.

Pffft.

The lead fireball vanished into thin air, snuffed out as if it had never existed. The robot dog dropped flat against the consoles to evade the residual heat, while the remaining fireballs detonated harmlessly when struck from the flank by sharp iron bolts.

"Crossbow bolts?"

Roxell's gaze whipped around the moment he realized the ammunition was not elven craft. "It's the humans! Watch your flanks!"

An elven archer reaching for a fresh arrow turned in alarm, only to find Kyle already looming over him, a longsword raised high overhead. The archer frantically attempted to notch an arrow, but it was already far too late.

Slash—

Kyle's mana-coated blade cleaved cleanly through the wooden riser and the archer's torso in a single diagonal stroke. A nearby elven swordsman let out a guttural cry of rage and lunged at Kyle.

Crack-crack-crack!

Spotting the warrior breaking cover, the robot dog tracked the motion instantly and fired a rapid burst. Riddled with holes, the elf collapsed onto the tiled floor, his face twisted in agony.

Before the survivors could regroup, Edgar barreled into their flank like a rampaging juggernaut, his reinforced shield battering them off their feet.

"Damned vermin...!" Roxell gritted his teeth, his eyes flashing with lethal fury as he snapped an order to his mage. "Focus entirely on eliminating that machine—look out!"

Sensing a projectile hurtling toward him at impossible speed, Roxell snapped his blade up in a desperate reflex.

Clang!

"What is this?!" Roxell's eyes widened in sheer disbelief as a tremendous shockwave traveled up his arms, the staggering kinetic recoil nearly wrenching the hilt from his grasp.

The bolt he had just deflected thrummed with a distinct, potent energy. According to the foundational laws of combat, imbuing raw energy into a loose projectile was considered an impossible feat—unless one had attained the realm of a Master. Yet the person firing from the dark was clearly no Master. Had an actual Bow Master fired that shot, Roxell's sword would have been pierced through before he could even raise his guard, if not vaporized along with his upper torso. Having served beneath the High Table, which commanded the greatest concentration of Bow Masters on the continent, Roxell knew that terrifying gulf of power all too well.

Boom! Crash!

Parrying a rapid succession of empowered bolts, Roxell shoved his mage behind a reinforced pillar. By tracing the glowing trajectories slicing through the dim corridor, his sharp eyes pinpointed the marksman's coordinates.

"There you are!"

Dropping low to the ground, Roxell propelled himself forward like a released spring, sweeping his blade in a lethal arc.

Sss-craaack!

A blazing crescent of emerald aura cleaved cleanly through the consoles and the intervening space, reducing the metalwork to slag. But Bennett was already gone. Reappearing along another firing angle, Bennett unleashed a continuous volley of infused bolts from his repeating crossbow. Having already anticipated the flank, Roxell had shifted into a tight defensive guard.

Thud-thud-clang! Clatter!

Weaving between nimble evasions and crisp deflections, Roxell held his ground. The alien psionic energy coating the bolts gnawed at his emerald aura like acid, but it was not enough to shatter his guard entirely. Having shed every trace of arrogance, Roxell treated his human opponent with deadly seriousness. Lowborn though he was, this ranger was no ordinary mercenary.

"My turn!" Roxell snarled.

The enchanted earring hanging from his lobe flared with bright radiance, causing dense mana to coalesce into a shimmering boundary around Bennett. Sensing acute danger, Bennett triggered Flash Sprint to break away, but—

Thump!

He collided hard against an invisible, solid wall, his momentum broken as he stumbled backward.

"What?"

It was defensive ward magic cast by the elven earring—except inverted to cage the target inside rather than protect the wearer. It was a spatial trap designed for containment.

"Die!" Roxell sneered maliciously, lunging forward to thrust his aura-clad longsword through the invisible barrier to impale the trapped ranger.

Yet right at that pivotal threshold, the strength drained out of Roxell's limbs, and his knees buckled violently beneath him.

"Wh-what is this...?"

Carried forward by his own momentum, Roxell tumbled across the floor, thrashing like a landed fish. His muscles refused to respond. Desperately attempting to force himself upright, he found his nerve endings completely unresponsive. The airborne toxins that had seeped into his lungs were paralyzing his nervous system from within. He tried to gather mana to purge the venom, but the poisoning was already so severe that he could not even hold his focus together.

Across the room, the rest of the elven expedition was suffering the exact same fate, paralyzed and choking on their own saliva.

Meanwhile, the humans moved through the haze with complete impunity, their faces sealed beneath modern filtration masks.

"Y-you bastards... what did you do...?"

"You should've used the front door," Bennett replied calmly.

Leveling the Shooting Star squarely between Roxell's eyes, Bennett squeezed the trigger.

Thwack!

The steel bolt punched cleanly through the elf's soft brow. With an expression of hollow shock frozen on his face, Roxell slumped limp, drawing his final breath.

Bennett closed his eyes for a brief moment as the perceptual boundaries of the world seemed to expand around him. The sensation was familiar, yet carried a subtle difference from before—perhaps a natural consequence of heightened senses unveiling layers of reality previously imperceptible to the naked eye.

"Bennett-nim, the targets have all been confirmed dead," Kyle reported, stepping through the thinning smoke.

"How is the machine?"

"Not in great shape, I'm afraid."

Bennett crossed the room toward the research platform. Surrounded and subjected to focused fire by the elves, the mechanical dog ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was battered almost beyond recognition. While holding off the machine to buy time against Bennett's squad, the elves had evidently tried to destroy or disable it by force; barbed arrowheads jutted from its plating, and jagged gouges carved by sword aura scarred the chassis. Armor plates hung loose, exposing bundles of severed wiring and scorched internal mechanisms.

"The firearm, however... appears to be intact," Kyle noted.

Remarkably, despite the extensive damage sustained by the chassis, the rotary gun and its ammo drum mounted up top had suffered little more than minor scuffs. Bennett cracked the latch on the drum to inspect the magazine feed. The expansive drum was nearly empty, holding a mere five or six rounds. Unlike the compact handgun ammunition they had salvaged earlier, these cartridges were long, thick, and heavy.

It appeared to be an earlier generation compared to the 3rd-generation model guarding his sister Bella back home. Yet an odd inconsistency stood out: while this older 2nd-generation unit was equipped with pre-programmed vocal prompts, the cutting-edge 3rd generation lacked any voice synthesis capabilities at all.

"Let's pack it up for now," Bennett decided.

"Will that be safe?" Kyle asked with slight hesitation. "It seems rather different from the one back at your estate..."

The 3rd-generation pet had yielded instantly the moment Bennett flared his psionic energy, but this model had displayed no such submissive programming. There was a genuine risk it might turn hostile the instant power was restored.

"As long as we secure its access pass and security codes, it should be fine," Bennett said calmly. He stored the deactivated mechanical hound into his Sub-space Pouch, intending to sell the scrap to Dwarven artisans for research and reverse-engineering.

'Come to think of it...'

Bennett suddenly recalled the pending level-up rewards he had put on hold after parting ways with the white-haired woman. The moment he turned his thoughts toward the deferred choices, a luminescent interface manifested before his vision.

The decision was not difficult. Discarding Kangaroo Legs—which had shown up yet again—and the questionable utility of Thigh Muscle Reinforcement, the only sensible pick was Ancient Elven. While elves predominantly communicated in the continental common tongue these days, rare knowledge was always valuable in the field, far outclassing the alternatives.

A torrent of linguistic knowledge surged into Bennett's consciousness, causing his eyelids to flutter. The syntax and grammatical structures were entirely distinct from the modern common tongue. It contained complex phonetics that human vocal cords struggled to produce, along with words whose contextual meanings shifted radically based on inflection. Had he encountered the script without the system's imprint, he would have dismissed it as indecipherable scribbles.

"Bennett-nim."

"Yes?" Bennett opened his eyes, filing the newly acquired knowledge into order.

"We haven't finished scouring all the bodies yet, but we've already secured three Sub-space Pouches."

"Three?"

While Bennett had been absorbed in his interface, the party had systematically stripped the corpses of valuables. The two Drake Family squads had been carrying one pouch each, and the elven team had possessed a third. Given that spatial storage bags were extraordinarily expensive luxury items essential for high-tier dungeon expeditions, this haul alone made the skirmish immensely lucrative.

Bennett picked up the elven Sub-space Pouch and unfastened its drawstrings. Inside lay basic provisions, dried leaves favored by elven palettes, spare weapons, and light defensive gear. While distinct from sturdy dwarven metallurgy, elven equipment carried significant market value among high-end collectors. Sorting through the miscellaneous sundries, Bennett's fingers brushed against a rolled parchment nestled in the bottom corner.

"The High Table?"

Unlike the dwarven kingdoms that mirrored orthodox human political structures, the elves were governed by the High Table, a supreme council composed of elder nobility who deliberated upon key foreign and domestic affairs. Embossed boldly at the center of the scroll was the official seal of the High Table: a stylized engraving of the World Tree, radiating an imposing presence that left no doubt regarding its origin. Though merely an inked seal, a faint, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠refreshing forest fragrance seemed to waft from the parchment.

Beneath the seal lay lines of elegant, alien calligraphy—the ancient elven script, indecipherable to ordinary humans and even modern elves who lacked formal classical education.

The High Table could never have anticipated that an ordinary human scavenger would casually read their confidential dispatch.

'A Superpower Development Drug? Missiles?'

Bennett's eyes narrowed as he digested the directive. On the surface, the document read like a standard, cold operational order between conspiring factions. Yet an uneasy itch crawled along the back of his neck. Something felt deeply unnatural, like an essential detail deliberately masked from sight. Bennett had learned through a decade of blood and close calls never to ignore his instincts; brushing aside that subtle prickle of intuition had nearly cost him his life on more than one occasion.

After a brief hesitation, Bennett channeled his perception, activating his vision.

The golden seal of the World Tree stamped upon the parchment sharpened under his enhanced gaze. His focus, initially drawn to the majestic foliage, suddenly shifted toward the background.

Faint textures that had appeared to be the coarse, natural grain of aged vellum began to align into purposeful geometry. They were not fibers of dried reed—they were micro-inscribed lines woven with meticulous, covert intent.

The threads converged, bleeding into one another until a horrific hidden sigil manifested across the parchment.

It depicted gnarled, bloated roots coiling like serpents around the trunk of the World Tree, constricting the sacred timber in a slow, suffocating death grip. A withered, grotesque rotten husk rose behind it, blotting out the light. As if in frantic agony, the faint forest scent of the World Tree flared for a brief instant before being thoroughly drowned out by a sickening stench of damp decay and rot.

'...What in the hell is this?'

Staring at the horrific title that completely swallowed the authority of the High Table, Bennett slowly swallowed the bitter bile rising in his throat.