Episode-933
Chapter : 1865
"Wait for me, Uncle," Lloyd whispered into the darkness. "I’m coming to return your memories. In person."
He stepped forward, vanishing into the shadows, heading straight for the heart of the sanctum to finish what the mindscape had started.
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Ben stumbled, but he didn't fall. His heavy metal boot caught on a raised cobblestone, sending a jarring shock up his prosthetic shin. His internal gyroscope—the magical balance system he had jury-rigged into his own limbs back in the Ironwood forges—was lagging. It whirred with a sickly, grinding noise, correcting his posture a millisecond too late. Ben slammed his shoulder against the cold, black wall of the corridor to stay upright, leaving a smear of oil and blood on the polished obsidian.
He was alone. The Mirror Fold trap had done its job, peeling Lloyd away. Ben was isolated in the dark, left to fight through the belly of the beast by himself. He didn't feel fear; he felt a surging, indignant fury.
"Sloppy work, General," Ben hissed to the empty air, his voice echoing with a jagged edge. "Getting separated in the first five minutes? I expected better spatial awareness from you. If you've managed to get yourself killed already, I'll never forgive the waste of my time."
He checked his own status, his internal monologue cold and clinical, the mind of a Major General assessing a damaged unit. "Left arm: servos stripped. Right eye: cracked lens. Mana reserves: below ten percent. Spirit: Sloth... idling. I'm fighting a war of attrition with half a deck."
He looked back down the hallway. Behind him lay the broken, twisted bodies of twelve Shadow Knights. He had killed them all, but it had been a messy, brutal brawl that had cost him almost everything he had. His armor, once the pristine, jagged pride of his own independent craftsmanship, was now a wreck. The chest plate was caved in where a warhammer had struck him. His cloak was shredded ribbons.
But the worst damage was to his pride. He was running on fumes, forced to lean against a wall like a common drunkard. He hated the vulnerability. He hated that he wasn't currently standing over Rubel’s corpse.
"Just a little further," he growled, forcing his legs to move through sheer, stubborn will. "The signal is coming from the end of the hall. Rubel is there. And I don't care if I have to crawl across the finish line, I’m claiming that blood-debt."
He reached the end of the corridor. Massive double doors made of green iron stood before him. They radiated a cold, sickly heat. Ben didn't bother checking for traps. He didn't have the patience for finesse. He simply gathered the last dregs of his gravitational mana, leaned his weight against the doors, and shoved with the raw force of a man who refused to be stopped.
With a groan of rusted hinges, the doors swung open.
The Inner Sanctum was vast. It was a circular chamber carved directly out of the bedrock of the Abyss. Green torches lined the walls, casting long, dancing shadows that looked like grasping claws. The air here smelled terrible—a mix of ozone, old blood, and something sweet and rotting.
In the center of the room sat a throne made entirely of white bones fused together. And on that throne sat Viscount Rubel.
Ben stopped, his single eye narrowing in disgust. The man sitting there was Rubel, but he was also... not. The Rubel that Ben remembered was a scheming, arrogant noble who wore fine silks. This creature was a monstrosity. Rubel had undergone a horrifying transformation. His skin had been replaced by plates of black, insect-like armor. His hands were no longer human; they were long, clawed gauntlets that dripped with a black oily substance.
Rubel looked up as Ben entered. A cruel, lipless smile stretched across his face.
"Ah," Rubel said. His voice echoed, sounding like two stones grinding together. "The nephew arrives. I must admit, I am impressed. For a cripple to defeat twelve of my Shadow Knights... you are more stubborn than I thought."
Ben hefted his lance, resting it casually on his shoulder despite the screaming pain in his joints. "Save the villain speech, Rubel. It’s pathetic. The city is dead. Lloyd shut down the grid. Your trap failed. I'm just here to take out the trash before the smell gets any worse."
Chapter : 1866
"Failed?" Rubel laughed, standing up. He stood nearly eight feet tall now, looming over Ben. "Lloyd shut down the lights, yes. But he didn't shut down me. Beelzebub gave me more than just a city, Ben. He gave me evolution."
Rubel took a step down from the dais. The stone floor cracked under his weight.
"Look at you," Rubel sneered, pointing a claw at Ben’s trembling legs. "You are a mess of scrap metal and desperation. You tried to fix your broken body with steel, but you are still just a human underneath. And humans break."
Rubel raised his hand. The shadows behind the throne began to move. They swirled and bubbled, rising up like a fountain of black sludge. The sludge took form, twisting into a massive, multi-headed hydra.
"I don't need to fight you with a sword," Rubel said, his green eyes gleaming. "I just need to accelerate nature."
"Corrupter Art: Cloud of Decay."
Rubel snapped his fingers. The shadow hydra opened its many mouths and exhaled. A wave of heavy, grey fog rolled across the floor toward Ben.
Ben didn't panic. He analyzed the threat instantly. "Chemical oxidation agent," he muttered, his battle IQ identifying the mana-signature. "Accelerated entropy. He’s trying to trigger a systemic failure."
"Spirit: Sloth," Ben commanded, his voice hard. "Absolute Stasis."
A sphere of heavy, grey light expanded around Ben’s body. This was his true power—the ability to freeze causality, to halt the flow of time and reaction within a specific space. He intended to freeze the fog before it could touch his frame.
But he was too low on mana. The grey sphere flickered, weak and porous. The fog washed over him, bypassing his exhausted defenses.
The effect was instantaneous and agonizing. The fog didn't burn his skin. It attacked his metal.
Ben roared in fury as his prosthetic limbs seized up. The high-grade steel of his arms began to turn orange. Pits formed on the smooth surface. The gears inside his elbows ground to a halt as rust ate through the lubrication.
"My legs!" Ben gasped, his knees locking.
With a loud snap, the internal strut of his left leg shattered under his own weight. Ben collapsed to the floor, hitting the stone hard. He tried to push himself up, but his elbows were fused shut by the rapid oxidation. He was trapped in his own body, a prisoner inside a suit of armor that was rapidly turning into a solid block of rust.
Rubel walked closer, the sound of his heavy footsteps echoing like a death knell. He stopped a few feet away from where Ben lay, his face pressed against the cold stone floor.
"Pathetic," Rubel spat. "Your father, Kyle Park, was a fool. He spent his life playing with hammers and anvils, thinking that 'Iron' was the strongest element. He didn't understand that everything rots, Ben. Even iron. Even you."
Ben glared up at him from the floor, his teeth bared in a snarl, his single eye burning with a fire that no curse could touch. "My father was twice the man you are, you parasitic piece of trash. And I’m going to show you just how 'rotten' I am."
"You can't even stand," Rubel laughed, raising a massive, clawed foot to crush Ben’s skull. "Say hello to him in Hell."
The shadow of the traitor’s foot fell over Ben. Ben closed his eyes, not in fear, but in absolute, lethal concentration. He wasn't praying. He was calculating the yield of the mana capacitors in his right arm. If he couldn't move, he would detonate his own limb and take Rubel’s leg off with him.
I am not dying like this, Ben thought, his mind a fortress of cold rage. I am the Ironwood Sovereign. If I go down, I'm taking the mountain with me.
The heavy boot of Viscount Rubel hovered above Ben’s head, pausing for a second to savor the kill. That second of arrogance was the only grace Ben received.
In the darkness behind his closed eyes, Ben didn't see his life flash before him. He didn't see Lloyd coming to save him. He saw a forge.
He saw the forge at the Ironwood estate, years ago. He saw his father, Lord Kyle Park, standing shirtless in front of a roaring furnace. Kyle was holding a piece of raw, ugly iron with tongs.
"Look at it, Ben," his father’s voice echoed in his memory. It was a warm, rough voice, like gravel tumbling in a dryer. "It looks useless, doesn't it? It looks like trash."