— Kid… honestly, I don't know what to tell you anymore. — Malaca crossed her arms, her expression serious for the first time in a long while. — Your powers… they never stop surprising me. Every time you use them, they seem to have no visible limit. It's like they're alive… growing. If even I, who've been to the capital and seen it all, feel this way… imagine these country bumpkins here.
— But my power… — I murmured, clenching my fists. — It's only good for buffing others. I don't have your axe skills… or Isbel's stealth. Or magic like that bearded old man. Damn it, I can't even spark a flame.
Malaca shook her head with a sigh.
— You're thinking about it all wrong, Fly. People from the countryside look at a buffer and see just another deadweight. A support. Someone to carry. But… to those who truly understand the battlefield… to the strong, to strategists… you're the difference between victory and annihilation. A good buffer is the engine of an army. That's worth gold… not to mention—
The sound of hurried footsteps sliced through the conversation like a blade.
Heavy. Chaotic. Desperate echoes racing down the tunnel.
Suddenly, a figure burst through the cave entrance with impossible speed, rushing past the colossus and Vrigs. A slender shadow… wounded.
She stumbled and fell face-first onto the stone floor with a dull thud. Blood spilled into the melting snow.
— Close the entrance! — she shouted, choking, spitting blood. — That thing is out there…
—Who? — Varnak asked, already on his feet, tone tense.
—JUST CLOSE THAT FUCKING DOOR! — Isbel screamed, before passing out.
The silence that followed was so dense, the sound of my heartbeat seemed to echo off the walls.
— Sir, what do we do? — asked one of the soldiers, hesitant.
— You heard her! — Varnak roared. — Close the fucking entrance!
— But sir… it's still daytime...
—SHUT UP AND CLOSE IT NOW! When she wakes up, we'll know what the hell is going on.
Everyone seemed frozen, eyes fixed on Isbel's body.
She was wrecked.
Deep gashes on her legs, lacerations along her side. Her hood had fallen back, revealing a blood-smeared face, eyes half-closed in pain. She was breathing with difficulty, as if the air of the world no longer wanted her.
— This girl is on the brink of death… — Vrigs murmured, kneeling beside her. — I don't know if the potion will be enough.
The mage pressed a crystal bottle to the scout's lips as arcane symbols formed on his fingers, triggering healing. But she trembled, as if her body itself resisted the relief.
Outside, beyond the entrance now sealed with rocks and runes, hell began.
Screams.
Not human.
Thick throats, multiple, rumbling like the growls of starving beasts.
And then… scratching.
Long scratches. Relentless.
Claws against stone.
They knew something was inside. They could feel it.
After a few hours, the noise lessened, but not enough to stop — just a truce.
— No need to worry — said Malaca, with an almost offensive calm. — This tunnel… it's like it's beyond their reach. They know we're here, yes. They feel it. Smell it. But they can't do anything about it.
She stirred an improvised pot over a small bluish flame, sustained by a circular rune drawn directly onto the rock. The steam rising from it had a smell… hard to describe. Something between burnt mushroom and wet leather.
— But… what about tomorrow? — I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. — They'll be lurking, right?
— It's never happened. — Malaca answered too quickly, like someone who's heard that question before. — In the morning, everything… resets. The creatures simply vanish. It's like they're part of a tide that pulls back with the sunrise.
She handed me a clay bowl, filled to the brim with that slow-bubbling brownish-green soup.
— Don't worry. Eat. It'll help you sleep.
— It doesn't look like something that's going to help me… — I muttered, wrinkling my nose.
— Shut up and eat. — she said, with a faint crooked smile.
My eyes, however, kept drifting. Always returning to the dark corner where Isbel lay, wrapped in rough blankets and furs, her chest rising and falling with difficulty, as if each breath was a silent struggle.
— Is she going to survive? — I asked, more to myself than to anyone.
— She will. — Malaca replied, without hesitation.
— But Vrigs said that—
— Vrigs is a mage. — she interrupted, grabbing a piece of dried meat and dipping it into the soup. — Mages don't know anything about physical endurance. He thinks everyone dies from three broken bones and a bit of bleeding. Trust me. Now eat.
I didn't argue. I raised the bowl to my mouth. The taste was… strange. Strong, bitter, with a metallic aftertaste that scraped the throat. But there was something in it — something warm, heavy, that spread through my chest with a strange sensation of… protection. Like a blanket had been stitched beneath my skin.
Night had fully fallen.
And with it, the sound.
Outside, the roars began to intensify. Twisted noises, like bones snapping inside flesh. Claws scraping stone. Something… growled. Something else bellowed. And from time to time, a heavy impact made the tunnel entrance tremble, as if someone — or something — was testing the structure.
The stone door had been sealed with effort. The tank couldn't do it alone. Three men pushed with him while Vrigs carved the locking runes, sweat pouring down his face. Even so… the wall shook. And the sound echoed inward, creeping through the cracks, trying to reach us with pure terror.
And yet… the shelter was warm.
Some kind of magic. Stable, invisible, ancient. Something that warmed the air, kept the humidity low, and drove away the cutting cold that once ruled the path. I didn't know how it worked. I just knew it existed. And for now… we were alive.
But I couldn't close my eyes.
Everyone around me seemed to be resting. Some even snored softly. Malaca leaned back with her head on her arms, the empty bowl beside her. Vrigs slept in a meditative posture, slow runes spinning around his body like tiny enchanted satellites.
All of them… except one.
Marcoriel.
Sitting apart, his body wrapped in that great feathered cloak — or was it a wing? — he left only his face exposed to the dim rune-light from the ceiling. His eyes didn't blink. Didn't droop. They watched the wall with a serene expression, but fully awake.
As if he were waiting for something.
I managed to sleep. I don't know if it was from exhaustion, or if sleep somehow overcame fear — maybe both.
When I woke up, the world still felt heavy, as if the darkness from the night before refused to leave completely.
But Malaca had been right.
Isbel was awake.
Her voice was low, raspy, but audible. Sitting near the makeshift fire, wrapped in blankets with the sharp look back in her eyes, she was speaking. And everyone was listening. Not calmly — but tensely.
A firm hand touched my shoulder. I turned slowly.
— We'd better join them. — said Malaca, her tone more serious than usual.
— No problem.
We moved to the center of the shelter. The fire's warmth cast dancing shadows along the stone walls. The runes glowed with less intensity, as if even the magic itself was uneasy.
And then I realized: the mood in there was heavy.
Not with silence — but with sharp words.
— That's impossible! — Vrigs roared, his eyes blazing with disbelief. — She has to be lying!
On the other side of the fire, with his spear still planted in the ground beside him, the cheetah growled through clenched teeth:
— My companion would never lie about this! If she says she saw it… then she did!
The air seemed to vibrate between the two. A tension that scratched at the nerves.
Malaca narrowed her eyes. Still not understanding, but clearly trying to piece it together. Until the name was spoken.
— It's a White Knight. — Isbel murmured, her voice low but filled with restrained fury. — I'm sure of what I saw.
The effect was immediate.
Malaca turned pale. Her whole body tensed, like she'd been punched in the gut. The others froze. Even the fire's flames seemed to hesitate.
Varnak stepped forward and raised a hand, asking for silence. But his expression was far from its usual composure. His eyes were trembling.
— Don't say that again. — he said in a low tone, as if the name itself might summon something.
— There's no point in lying about it, Varnak! — Isbel snapped, spitting blood with her rage. — I saw that cursed armor! The white helm, the hollow eyes… He was there. Near the third level!
— That bastard can't possibly be here! — Varnak shot back, losing his temper.
— There's no use pointing fingers about who's lying — said a voice, calm, steady… and lethal.
It was Marcoriel.
He didn't yell, didn't need to. His words came slow, deliberate, each one sharp as a finely honed blade. And even without raising his voice, his presence filled the tunnel, cutting through the confusion like fire through dry cloth.
— We need to go see for ourselves. And since I know you're all too cowardly to do it, I'll go myself. — He crossed his arms, meeting each of their eyes in turn. — So… will you trust my word, or are you sending someone with me?
Silence.
Again — but now heavier. More… final.
All eyes turned to Varnak.
Vrigs's face was tight, like he was trying to predict the outcome. The tank stood with arms crossed, not daring to speak.
Varnak kept his chin high for a moment. But then, his shoulders dropped. A subtle gesture, almost imperceptible — and yet, it was enough to show the decision had been made.
— Fine — he said at last, his voice raspier than usual. — No one leaves until you're back. But… our time is tight. You just need to confirm if it's him. Nothing more.
Marcoriel nodded.
Simple. No theatrics.
He straightened his back, squared his broad shoulders, and gathered his things. Just two leather straps across his back, and his long sword.
Then, he walked to the sealed entrance.
And opened it.
Like it was nothing.
No effort. No ritual. Just his hands. The same hands that had been curled up as he slept now pushed aside the stone wall that had taken four men to close just hours ago.
Malaca had already told me: the strength of a Molok, even a young one, is surreal. But hearing it was one thing. Seeing it… was another.
The light from outside swallowed Marcoriel, and he left. Only the sound of his steps sinking into the snow lingered behind. Nothing else.
The shelter fell silent again. But it was a different silence.
Not peaceful. One of waiting.
And of fear.
My mind was still stuck on the name that had changed the entire room. The name that, even whispered, turned faces to stone.
I looked at Malaca.
— What the hell is… a White Knight?
She looked at me with a mix of pity and concern. She knew the question would come. She just didn't want to answer it.
But she did.
— The White Knight… is a guardian of the fourth floor boss.
She spoke softly. Almost a whisper. But everyone heard.
And, strangely, no one interrupted.
Everyone knew she was explaining it for me.
— Malaca, you need to start telling this boy everything… before he ends up dying in his own ignorance. — said Varnak, the irritation clear in his voice.
There was frustration in his tone. Like even he no longer knew what was right, but understood that ignoring the obvious would only delay the inevitable.
— He shouldn't be here… — he muttered. — But if it's true, then at least let him know more about the monster that's going to try to kill him.
Malaca took a deep breath. Her eyes returned to me.
— You need to understand, Fly. The White Knight isn't just a floor boss. He's… an anomaly. A mistake. A piece out of place. He's not supposed to exist. No one knows who put him there. All we know is that he shows up on the fourth floor. Never before. Never after.
— But… Isbel saw him on the second.
— Yes. — she said. — And that's why everyone here is afraid.
Because if it's true… then nothing follows the rules anymore. Not even the dungeon itself.