CHAPTER 69: RUINS

The air carried the faint stench of rot mixed with lingering ash. The ruins of Vakrops stretched before Aria, not lifeless, but bound in a state between.

Shattered spires rose like broken pillars through streets of stone. Collapsed halls murmured faint echoes as figures drifted and staggered through the wreckage—skeletal soldiers, gaunt hounds, formless shades gliding through archways. The city lay unsettled, refusing silence.

Aria stepped onto the cracked stones without hesitation. This was no ruin abandoned—it was a dungeon unending, the city itself still breathing with its old curse.

Fenric’s words came to her: "The Grimoire lies in the chamber beneath the throne."

She considered them without outward reaction. How would he know? The thought passed quietly, unanswered.

The broken palace loomed ahead, its gates bowed beneath rubble. Dozens of the dead gathered there, faint light stirring in their hollow sockets.

Aria adjusted her breath. Entering would draw all of them. She did not linger on the risk.

A thin haze spread from her form, dark and weightless. The Death Mist slipped along the stones, cooling the air, touching the senses of the wandering dead. Their movements faltered, hunger dulled, instincts lost in the haze.

She moved low, soundless, a trace within shadow. Step by step she passed deeper into the city, her course set toward the throne chamber where the Necro-Archmagus’s Grimoire rested.

Aria’s steps slowed as the broken avenue bent toward a massive structure. A door of corroded black steel, its surface carved with faintly glowing runes, barred her path. Even from a distance, she felt its weight—not just of metal, but of ancient warding. No force would ever move it.

She paused and drew a slim volume from her satchel. Unlike some forgotten relic, this was a printed Guide to the Ruins of Vakrops, a common handbook published by the Adventurers’ Association for those who sought to plunder the undead-haunted halls. She had picked it up before leaving, knowing these ruins—though shrouded in rumors of a greater legacy Fenric had whispered of—were, to most, nothing more than a public dungeon crawling with wraiths and bonefiends. Adventurers came here in droves for rare undead materials, and the Association was only too glad to sell them directions.

She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the practical notes and crude sketches, until one entry caught her attention:

"The Throne Chamber lies sealed. The key is not in stone, nor spell, but in the hand of the Doorkeeper—a guardian cursed to linger. Only by claiming the key from him may one proceed."

A charcoal drawing showed a towering skeletal figure, armored in scraps of rust and regal fragments, with a single arm. The other was severed long ago, leaving his form incomplete. Yet chained across his spine hung a massive iron key, black as pitch.

Aria shut the guidebook with a calm breath. "The Doorkeeper," she said softly. Not frustration, but simple acknowledgment. This dungeon would not open for her until its rules were honored.

It did not take her long to find him. At the end of a fractured courtyard, where columns lay broken and bone dust carpeted the ground, he stood. The Doorkeeper—towering, skeletal, armored in remnants of his lost knighthood. His single arm gripped the chained black key, the other side of his frame a hollow void.

As her footsteps echoed across the ruin, his skull tilted toward her. Pale blue fire sparked in his hollow sockets. Bone ground against bone as his jaw worked, though no words came. The silence pressed heavier than any challenge.

Aria let the mist curl tighter around her shoulders. Her hand slid toward her blade.

Whoosh

The key’s dull clink against the Doorkeeper’s chained spine echoed through the ruined courtyard as Aria struck. She moved with predatory speed, her blade lunging straight for the skeleton’s exposed ribcage—aiming to end the fight in one decisive thrust.

But the Doorkeeper’s body shuddered, faster than brittle bones should move. His lone arm swung, intercepting the strike with the iron key itself. Steel rang against blackened metal, the force of the block reverberating through the stone beneath them. The impact sent sparks flying like fireflies in the gloom.

Then, with a hollow roar, the Doorkeeper countered. The key—larger than a greatsword—whipped around in his grip. Its arc was a storm wind, and when it landed, the ground cracked, chunks of stone scattering in an eruption of dust and shards.

Aria’s cloak snapped behind her as she leapt aside, the blow missing her by an arm’s length. The sheer force of it was enough to throw her off balance, boots grinding against the uneven floor. Her heart drummed once, steady, not with fear but with sharpened focus.

The skeletal knight advanced. Each step was a quake, echoing through the fractured courtyard. His sockets burned brighter, the blue flame within them flaring as if in answer to her challenge. Chains rattled with every movement, the iron links scraping bone in a sound like nails over glass.

Aria spun her blade once, adjusting her grip. The mist around her pulsed, gathering at her command, seeping into the cracks of the ruined stone. She dashed forward again, this time weaving left and right, the rhythm of her footfalls changing—baiting, testing, searching for the gap in his one-handed defense.

But the Doorkeeper fought like one who had guarded the gate for centuries. His swings were not wild—they were measured, deliberate. Each block came a heartbeat before her strikes landed, and each counter forced her further onto the defensive. The great iron key, though crude as a weapon, cut through the air with the inevitability of a falling star.

The clash resounded like thunder in the hollow courtyard, steel shrieking against bone. Aria pressed forward, her boots pounding cracked flagstones as her silver-forged blade carved low at the Doorkeeper’s knee joint. Sparks flared—iron greaves, ancient yet unyielding, deflected the edge with a metallic screech.

The Doorkeeper did not stumble. Instead, he brought the massive, rune-etched key down like a warhammer. The strike split the ground where she had stood a breath before, stone exploding into jagged fragments. Rolling aside, dust clouding her cloak, Aria rose with fury in her eyes.

She pivoted, sword whistling upward in a fluid arc. The blade met his ribcage, silver mist spiraling along its edge. Bone shattered beneath her strike, splinters scattering like deadly shrapnel. Yet the skeletal knight endured, his spine twisting unnaturally as he absorbed the blow.

Then came the roar.

His jaw unhinged in an impossible gape, and a guttural cry erupted—not sound, but pressure, a vibration of sheer will. Pale fire flooded from the hollow sockets of his skull, a tide of spectral flame that washed across the ruins. The very air grew heavy. Chains binding the monumental key rattled violently, their clamor a dirge for the countless intruders who had perished at his hands. For a heartbeat, Aria’s knees threatened to buckle. She felt it—the authority of a guardian who had barred the way since an age long forgotten.

But she did not kneel.

Mist curled tighter around her sword, shimmering like the breath of the dead. The aura of her class awakened fully—Death Soul Lord. The air chilled, frost spreading from her boots as tendrils of spectral essence spiraled upward, wreathing her in a cloak of half-seen phantoms. They whispered, their hollow voices feeding her will, sharpening her strikes.

"Not enough to stop me," she hissed, voice lost to the storm.

The Doorkeeper lunged, swinging the massive key in a crushing sweep. She met it head-on. Her blade clashed against its shaft, mist exploding outward like a shroud of wailing spirits. Sparks rained, the courtyard drowning in echoes of metal and bone.

He roared again, swinging with relentless force. She ducked beneath, thrusting her blade into his side. The impact rang like a bell, cracking vertebrae. The mist along her sword deepened, turning from silver to blackened violet as the Death Soul Lord’s essence devoured the knight’s lingering soulfire. His body spasmed, bones creaking and groaning under the unseen grip of death itself.

Chains writhed. The key flared. He lifted it again—but this time, her phantom aura surged. A tide of soul energy lashed out, invisible yet suffocating. The skeletal knight froze, caught in a storm of spectral hands pulling, dragging, breaking. His roar collapsed into silence, jaw sagging as his flame sputtered.

Aria’s eyes gleamed with killing intent. She spun, blade cutting a crescent through the blackened mist. With a final cry, she cleaved through his chest. Bone burst apart in a storm of fragments, scattering like ashes on the wind.

The Doorkeeper staggered. His towering frame shuddered before collapsing into a heap of splintered bone and rusted mail. The chains slackened, clattering to the stone. The ancient key fell free, its surface glowing faintly with eldritch light.

Aria lowered her sword, breathing hard. Mist still coiled around her like serpents, reluctant to fade. She extended her hand. The key, heavy with the weight of centuries, settled into her palm.

The whispers around her quieted. The courtyard was still.

"Gatekeeper or no," she murmured, eyes narrowing at the sealed ruin ahead, "your watch ends here."

The spectral aura faded as she sheathed her sword. Key in hand, she stepped toward the ancient door of Vakrops, her victory echoing in the silence of the forgotten dead.