The moment Denwen stepped before the gate, the overwhelming pulse of essence surged from its swirling purple surface like the pounding heartbeat of some ancient creature. The gate wasn't still—no, it quivered, shimmered, and breathed with a life of its own, calling out to him with whispers only someone tuned to the rhythm of essence could hear. Threads of violet light wove around the threshold like eager tendrils, inviting him, challenging him. The aura was oppressive and strange, not hostile per se, but ancient and watchful—as though the dungeon itself had opened its eyes and was peering into him, measuring his worth before allowing him entry.
Riven hovered to his side, no longer as playful as before. The flicker of levity in his tone was gone, replaced by something more solemn.
"Best of luck, Denwen," he said, his wings fluttering once with an audible hum. "Remember what I told you. Don't take on anything above your weight class yet—this place isn't a joke."
Denwen gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable. The crystal around his limbs shimmered faintly, responding to his unease, and without another word, he stepped forward and allowed himself to be consumed by the gate.
There was no blinding flash or violent pull—only a shift, like slipping into cold water. And then everything changed.
He emerged into a world that immediately smothered his senses.
The air was dense, thick with earthy musk and the coppery tang of raw essence. Heat clung to his skin, not from temperature but from the sheer activity around him. It was not like any dungeon he had ever seen before; it was... alive.
He stood at the edge of a massive subterranean chamber, its walls composed of slick, dark clay molded into hexagonal patterns that stretched in every direction, up and down, twisting along curved ridges like veins through flesh. Pulsing veins of essence-threaded resin lined the interior walls, casting the entire nest in a faint amber glow that rippled every few seconds, mimicking the heartbeat of the gate that had brought him here. The entire structure felt organic, not carved or built—but grown, as though birthed from the will of something monstrous.
Hundreds of tunnels branched from the central chamber, crisscrossing with perfect, almost geometric precision. Ants—if they could even be called that—moved through these tunnels and open floors in coordinated harmony, executing tasks in total silence. The Rank 1 ants were massive creatures, each nearly the size of a warhound, their red chitin glinting under the amber light as they carried hardened balls of soil, resin sacs, or odd glowing larvae that pulsed with embryonic life. Their mandibles clicked rhythmically as they worked, producing a subtle percussion that reverberated through the nest like tribal drums in the deep.
Then there were the guards.
Rank 2 ants—larger, more imposing, with thick ivory-white carapaces—stood like statues along major intersections, their serrated limbs and thickened armor exuding dominance and brutality. They moved very little, heads slowly pivoting as they scanned the tunnels, yet their presence radiated a constant warning: no unauthorized motion would be tolerated.
Denwen didn't move at first, struck by the sheer scale and symmetry of the world. It was almost beautiful in its grotesque complexity—a living labyrinth engineered by instinct and survival, an entire ecosystem that functioned like a perfect machine. He felt like an intruder, like an anomaly dropped into a system that had no place for variables.
Something else tugged at him—an absence. The silence wasn't just from the ants. It was... too quiet.
His brows furrowed slightly as he reached out with his essence. "Riven?" he called mentally. No response.
He turned his head instinctively, expecting the little winged construct to be hovering smugly over his shoulder, perhaps ready to make a joke or issue some last-minute advice—but there was nothing. Riven hadn't entered the dungeon with him. For the first time in a while, Denwen was alone.
The realization sent a chill creeping across his back.
And then, in the middle of his observation, one of the red Rank 1 ants turned.
Its compound eyes gleamed as it locked onto him.
There was a second—a beat of stillness—and then it shrieked.
It wasn't a noise he could have prepared for. The ant's shrill cry wasn't natural or insect-like—it was almost sentient, a vibrating, screeching echo that pierced the chambers like an alarm bell. The shriek bounced off the walls, amplified by the organic acoustics of the nest, and in seconds, the silent harmony of the nest shattered.
Red and white carapaces alike turned in unison. The worker ants froze mid-task, mandibles twitching, limbs tense. The Rank 2 guards lifted their heads, now fully alert, and the tunnels that had been so orderly a moment ago began to thrum with movement as more shapes scuttled forward from the deeper recesses of the nest.
Denwen didn't wait. He slid into a partial combat stance, eyes sharp and breath controlled. The shimmer of crystal began to crawl across his body like a second skin. His heart pounded in rhythm with the nest's glowing veins, his aura flaring in quiet defiance.
"Guess we're doing this," he muttered under his breath, eyes locked on the oncoming swarm.
---
The swarm responded like a living tide, a chittering cacophony rising as hundreds of crimson bodies rushed forward with terrifying unity. Their legs thudded against the hardened earth, mandibles snapping, antennae twitching violently as if driven by bloodlust. Denwen stood still, his eyes narrowed and hands raised as his essence began to churn like a maelstrom.
Crystalline light flared to life around him. With a resonating hum, his weapon took form—a magnificent construct of razor-sharp crystal, forged into a hybrid shape: the broad hammerhead gleamed with jagged authority, while the crescent axe edge curved with brutal elegance. It pulsed with power, almost alive in his grip.
He stepped forward, and the battlefield answered.
The first wave of red Rank 1 ants lunged at him, but Denwen's movement was fluid, like a predator among prey. He swung the axe-head upward, cleaving an ant in half in a single arc, its body shattering like fragile porcelain beneath the crystalline blade. Another came from the side—he twisted, pivoted, and slammed the hammerhead into its thorax. Bones crunched, ichor splattered, and the carcass was flung backward like a ragdoll.
More came. Dozens.
But Denwen was already moving. His Boundless essence flooded outward with terrifying density, wreathing his body in a halo of flickering crystal light. Each step forward was matched by an ant falling backward, broken and scattered. His axe blurred, every strike guided by a dance of violence and precision. A vertical slash cracked open three at once, his body spinning low before rising into an overhead cleave that obliterated another group in a flash of brilliant blue.
Then the ground quaked. The second wave surged from the deeper tunnels—white Rank 2 guards, nearly twice the size of their lesser kin. Their armor gleamed like bone and their mandibles looked strong enough to crush steel.
Denwen's grin widened.
"Let's raise the tempo, shall we?"
He slammed the butt of his axe into the ground. At once, his aura flared outward. A crackling sound filled the air as his next technique activated: Prism Shard Volley.
Hundreds of radiant crystal shards erupted from his body in spiraling volleys, shooting like guided missiles. Each shard twisted mid-air, bending unnaturally before piercing directly into the weak points of the oncoming ants. Cries echoed through the cavern as the Rank 2s were impaled, their reinforced armor offering no salvation. Dozens collapsed, twitching violently as the essence left their bodies.
More followed—and Denwen answered with fury.
He surged forward, axe swinging in tandem with bursts of Prism Shards. His attacks were relentless: a shoulder slam into one ant, followed by a reverse grip decapitation; then a wild downward swing that cracked open the back of a rearing guard. His brawler arts blended seamlessly with each motion—low stomps, rotating elbows, explosive knee strikes, all paired with brutal swings of his Stormbreaker-like weapon. Each motion was a flourish of death.
Blood, essence, and shattered crystal danced around him like a storm.
The nest shook as he carved his path deeper, his aura wild and untamed. Dozens of ants lay broken at his feet, their bodies littering the once pristine tunnels like discarded shells. The silence that followed was broken only by his deep, steady breath—and then, the slow rising hum of something far worse.
Denwen didn't care. His smile stretched wider, stained with sweat and satisfaction.
"Is that all you've got?"
As more ants poured from deeper tunnels and essence trembled across the battlefield, Denwen stood tall—his axe glimmering, essence raging, and eyes burning with the promise of war.