Chapter 41

  Leo didn’t stop moving.

  His steps were thunderclaps, his body a blur of heat and fury.The golems kept coming, drawn by the dungeon’s commands—but they were too slow now. Too fragile. He slipped through their formations like a wildfire through dry grass, burning, tearing, rending.

  He laughed as he fought.

  Not out of joy. Not even malice.

  It was relief.

  The layers of false identity he’d worn like chains were gone, burned away by the dungeon’s challenge. Finally, something worth revealing himself for. Finally, a worthy enemy. Not humans, not Guild watchdogs, not petty dungeon keepers chasing delusions of power.

  But this dungeon?

  It fought like a living thing. It adapted. It hunted.

  And now, it was angry.

  The walls trembled again—no, breathed.

  It’s will pulsed through the stone like a second heartbeat. The air turned thick with essence, runes lighting up along the floor, the ceiling, even the very dust beginning to shimmer with latent potential. Constructs surged from the walls—new models Leo hadn’t seen before. Taller. Smarter. Armored in tiered alloys. Their eyes glowed with purpose, not just programmatic drive.

  Leo skidded to a stop in a wide chamber that hadn't existed seconds ago, the ground beneath him shifting like liquid before hardening with a pulse. Dozens of constructs encircled him.

  He rolled his shoulders, baring fangs.

  “Now this is a dungeon defense,” he muttered.

  He crouched—and leapt.

  The floor cracked beneath the force of his launch. He tore into the nearest construct - a quadrupedal construct with some sort of weapon that could shoot metal at lightning-fast speeds, maybe some kind of force magic?

  He then leaped forward, grabbing the shattered remains of a construct’s blade and hurling it like a javelin through another’s core. The room was chaos now- because this wasn't just a regular adventurer delving a regular dungeon… It was a fight between two observers.

  Leo felt it in the rhythm of the attacks, the shift in the constructs’ formations. They weren’t reacting by script—they were adapting around him, like something, or someone, was watching in real time.

  And enjoying the fight.

  Leo's grin sharpened.

  “Come on then,” he snarled. “Let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”

  A dozen construct eyes lit at once.

  And they charged.

  ___

  Far below, Ethan watched through layered eyes—one set his own, the others borrowed through the vision of his constructs, spread across multiple sectors of the dungeon. The Strategist hovered silently at his side, arms crossed behind its back, expression unreadable.

  Smoke curled in slow spirals from the core chamber’s ceiling as Ethan leaned forward, knuckles pressed against the workbench.

  He wasn’t smiling.

  The Observer moved like a Top Tier-Saint. Not Mortal Tier 6, not even close. The energy readings were off the charts—he wasn't suppressing his power anymore. Every movement was wastefully strong, every attack unnecessarily devastating.

  "That level of aggression… he’s not just testing the dungeon. He’s enjoying this," Ethan muttered.

  The Strategist inclined its head. “Correct. He is not here to clear you. He is here to read you. Evaluate you.”

  Ethan’s fingers tapped against the cold edge of the table. He had designed the gauntlet to break arrogant Gold-ranks, to be a true challenge to Jade parties but this observer..He was something else entirely.

  Still… Ethan wasn’t panicking.

  He had felt panic before. That cold, desperate scramble when Chip turned on him. When his old memories came rushing back like poisoned lightning. When he realized he’d been played from the very start by powers beyond comprehension.

  This wasn’t that.

  This was just a new equation.

  And equations could be solved.

  He watched Leo cleave apart a reinforced Sentinel with a single strike, the construct's magic-forged alloy folding like wet parchment. Ethan’s latest generation designs hadn’t been meant for this. Not yet. But Leo had forced the test early.

  So be it.

  Ethan’s core pulsed once, and the forge beneath the floor responded in kind. Deep within the secondary sector, dormant bindings clicked into place as new runes lit up—bright violet, swirling with thin threads of gold. Aethertech relays hummed to life.

  “Activate the Ascendant Trial Layer,” Ethan said calmly.

  The Strategist’s smile was subtle. “I wondered how long you would wait.”

  “It’s not about waiting,” Ethan replied, his gaze never leaving the scrying panel. “It’s about what he reveals when he thinks he’s winning.”

  As Leo finished tearing through the last of the floor’s elite constructs, the walls shifted again—less like a triggered trap, more like the dungeon itself had decided to change form. The chamber twisted inward on itself, space folding like paper, reality compressing until it snapped into something new.

  No more corridors.

  No more illusions.

  Just a wide, open arena of polished obsidian, floating over a void of swirling stars.

  Leo’s eyes narrowed.

  And far above him, at the center of the sky, a single glowing rune flared open like a third eye.

  Ethan’s voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere.

  “Welcome to the real challenge.”

  A figure stepped forward from the far side of the arena. Not a golem. Not a construct.

  A man.

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  Or something very close to one.

  Humanoid, plated in silver and black, its face was a smooth mirror, but the posture was unmistakable—alive. Intelligent. Designed.

  Ethan’s first Sapient Construct.

  It held no weapon.

  It didn’t need one.

  Leo’s eyes glinted with interest.

  “Oh?” he said, as if greeting an old rival. “You’ve been holding out.”

  Back in the chamber, Ethan leaned back slowly, the strain of maintaining so many high-level processes now pressing in at the edges of his mind like dull blades. Sweat prickled at his neck.

  “That thing isn’t going to beat him,” he admitted under his breath.

  The Strategist nodded once. “No. But it will speak.”

  Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “Good.”

  The Sapient Knight raised his head.

  And for the first time, something that wasn’t Ethan spoke with his will behind it.

  “You are not welcome here,” it said, its voice smooth, layered with harmonics not meant for human ears. “But we will let you walk away. If you answer one question.”

  Leo raised an eyebrow, bemused.

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  The construct tilted its head.

  “Who are you?”

  The question landed without force, but the silence that followed hit like a drumbeat. Even the ambient hum of dungeon energy seemed to pause, waiting.

  Leo didn’t answer right away.

  He stood there, half-lit by the swirling glow of the false stars above, his blade still low at his side. The mirrored mask of the construct reflected him perfectly—tall, relaxed, amused—but something in his eyes gave the briefest flicker.

  Interest.

  Not annoyance. Not confusion. Interest.

  “That’s your question?” he finally said, voice light. “Not ‘Why are you here?’ Not ‘What do you want?’ But ‘Who are you?’”

  The construct didn’t move.

  Leo exhaled softly and slid the blade into a reverse grip.

  “You already know I’m not some Bronze-tier brat playing dress-up. You’ve felt it. Watched it. Me pretending to be weak… was a kindness.” His smile sharpened, a glint of something ancient threading through it. “But that question… that’s dangerous.”

  Ethan leaned forward slightly, pulse steady.

  He wasn’t expecting an honest answer.

  He was watching for the reaction.

  The construct remained still, head just slightly bowed, voice calm. “You do not match known Guild records. Your aura has been disguised, manipulated, folded through multiple bindings. You do not carry the presence of a Saint forged by this world.”

  That made Leo’s brow arch. “No. I don’t.”

  A pause.

  Then, as if conceding a game of chess already lost, he tilted his head back and gazed up at the shimmering sky of the arena.

  “Fine,” he said. “Let me ask you something, Dungeon. Has anyone ever told you the truth about the system you serve?”

  Ethan’s heart thudded once.

  The construct did not reply.

  Leo turned back to the construct, tone cooling. “Do you even know what you are? What you’re becoming?”

  Ethan said nothing, but his thoughts churned—cold, electric. He was beyond the point of dismissing such remarks as taunts. Not after Chip. Not after Silence.

  Leo wasn’t just probing defenses. He was probing identity.

  And he knew more than he should.

  “Let me guess,” Leo continued, stepping forward casually. “You woke up one day, got your fancy core, started building. At first it was instinct. Maybe a helper voice or a little tutorial box. And then… the Observers came.”

  The construct flinched.

  Not visibly.

  But Ethan felt it.

  Leo grinned.

  “There it is.”

  His presence shifted again, the oppressive weight of his power leaking into the chamber like heat from a cracked furnace. The space around him bent, just faintly. Like reality wasn’t entirely sure it wanted to keep holding together in his presence.

  “You’ve been touched by them,” Leo said, eyes glinting. “But not controlled. Not anymore. That’s rare. Very rare.”

  Ethan’s hands curled into fists, jaw tight.

  “So I’ll answer your question, Dungeon,” Leo said, spreading his arms wide. “I am not a servant of the Guild. I am not a Saint born of this continent. I’m not even from this age.”

  The void behind him stirred.

  “I am Leo, and I’ve killed more gods than this world remembers.”

  Silence. Not metaphorical.

  True silence.

  The dungeon core dimmed slightly.

  Even the Strategist, eternal observer of impossible events, stood still.

  Then Ethan inhaled slowly, spine straightening, and let out a breath like steam.

  “So,” he whispered.

  “Let’s see what a god-killer does… when the dungeon fights back.”

  With a flick of will, Ethan released the seal on the final layer.

  The stars above flared white.

  And the construct lunged.

  ____

  Leo twisted sideways, and the knight's blade scraped past his ribs, close enough to shear the edge of his cloak. The force of it punched a shockwave into the wall behind him, stone fracturing in a neat, symmetrical spray.

  He didn’t smile this time.

  He stepped back, breathing in through his nose, not because he was tired—but because he needed a second.

  That thing was fast.

  Almost as fast as him.

  And the worst part? It wasn’t even the dungeon core itself fighting him. Just a construct. A construct that had evolved, adapted, adjusted mid-fight, growing sharper with every exchange. There was a mind behind it—clear, cold, tactical. It wasn’t just reading his movements. It was learning him.

  Leo didn’t let it show, but the chill that crept down his spine wasn’t from fear.

  It was recognition.

  He ducked another slash, pivoted inside the knight’s guard, and drove a punch straight into the mirrored chestplate. The impact rang like a bell—but the knight didn’t stumble.

  It absorbed it.

  Then twisted.

  Its counter-strike came from the shoulder, not the arm. Minimal telegraph. Maximum torque.

  Leo leaned away—just barely—and the blade screamed past his throat.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  He was a Saint. A mid-tier one, sure, but powerful enough to fake being weaker. Powerful enough to bluff that he was a god-killer to get people to back off.

  But this?

  This wasn’t bluffing anymore.

  He wasn’t sure he could win.

  God-killer.

  He’d said it without flinching. Let the word hang in the air like a threat, like a promise. He’d let it carry weight because people bowed to weight.

  But deep down, he knew the truth.

  He was strong. Stronger than most Saints in the southern continent. He’d killed Sages. He’d flattened a sect once by accident.

  But not this.

  This construct?It was almost as strong as him without even having access to the System that most other sapient creatures have.

  And Leo could feel it pressing harder now, pushing him into the rhythm it wanted, its blade dancing in patterns that forced him to backpedal.

  Another swing. A ripple of illusion. A pulse of something deep in the air, like a tuning fork striking reality.

  Leo’s foot slid across fractured stone, barely keeping his balance.

  This was the first time in years—real years, not memory-muddled centuries—where he felt the edges of panic brushing his lungs.

  He didn’t let it in.

  But he felt it.

  And it pissed him off.

  Not because he was losing.

  But because this… this was exciting.

  A little terrifying.

  And dangerously fun.

  His lips peeled back in a slow, wolfish grin. "Alright," he whispered, flexing his fingers. “No more games.”

  He rolled his neck once, shoulders relaxing.

  And then—

  He let go.

  The seal cracked open inside his chest. Not literal, not physical—but spiritual, ancient, primal. Mana surged to meet him, coiling around bones and blood and memory.

  Leonine Transformation—Begin.

  The air rippled.

  Then the stone beneath him shattered in a perfect circle.

  The knight stopped mid-motion.

  For the first time, it stepped back.

  Leo’s breath exhaled like thunder. Hair lifted. Muscles tensed.

  Gold began to bleed from his eyes.

  “Let’s see if a machine can bleed.”