CHAPTER 152: 152. YOU’RE TRASHIER THAN ME!!

The underground was pure darkness.

Not the comforting kind that flickers gently with the hum of old wires and the occasional sputter of malfunctioning holograms — no, this was oppressive. Suffocating. A void so absolute it made the air feel heavier in your lungs.

The floor beneath our feet wasn’t metal or tile — it was jagged, uneven, like the carved-out belly of a long-forgotten cave. It felt... wrong. Like we had stepped into something not meant to be found.

Art’s voice broke the silence, his usual theatrical tone lowered but still laced with that familiar dramatic flair. "Isn’t this too dark? Like—what kind of psychological torment was going on here? Is this some twisted jail cell or the waiting room of hell?"

I muttered, my voice flat, but my words stumbled like my mind was still clawing through repressed memories. "I don’t know... I don’t want to know. This place... it’s reminding me of the cellar at Everhart Valley..."

Art’s entire body jerked toward me, his voice urgent, almost pleading. "Brother—please. I’m begging you. Do not get into your maniac mode. We are sneaking, remember? Stealth mission, no raging, no destroying walls with unknown curses written in blood. Save the crazy for later."

I exhaled sharply, pressing my fingers to my temples like I could squeeze the images out of my skull. "Alright... alright. I hear you. I’ll behave. No promises if this place starts whispering shit, though. This whole setup reeks."

He groaned with exaggerated suffering. "Fiiine. At least you’re honest about it... can’t ask for more."

From there, we fell into silence. No witty banter, no jokes. Just the sound of our footsteps echoing faintly through the hollow, haunted air. The deeper we went, the colder it felt — and not temperature-wise, more like the kind of cold that slithers up your spine and whispers, turn back.

Eventually, we reached a dead end.

Not a wall — no. A door.

A massive slab of black metal, or maybe stone, or something far stronger. It stood tall like a monument to finality. Featureless. No carvings. No locks. No symbols. Just a void molded into the shape of a door.

I side-eyed Art. "So... what now? Do we go in? Or wait for the others? This feels like a boss chamber. What if Rank ★★★★ monsters pop out like party favors?"

Art squinted at the door, then scratched his cheek before shrugging. "The others are upstairs, combing every hallway and broom closet. I came down because I’m too slick to waste time up there. They don’t know I brought you with me, by the way or that you are here. Hell, I didn’t know you were here either. I just happened to notice you sneaking around while I was looking for ’distractions.’"

I raised an eyebrow. "You are the distraction."

He grinned. "Exactly. And you’re welcome."

I nodded slowly, then looked back at the door. "Still... this door. I’ve got a bad feeling."

He nodded, but gave me a confident thumbs-up. "Relax. If shit hits the fan, I’ll open a portal so fast you’ll think we blinked into heaven. When your boy Art’s around, you’ve got premium escape options."

I eyed him. "You being here makes me even more cautious. What if you pull some stunt and suddenly we’re up against eldritch horror number nine?"

He put his hand dramatically over his heart. "I would never. Fine if you think so lightly of me I will be normal."

’Why are you saying like it’s a bad thing?’

I sighed and grabbed him by the neck, pulling him down for a noogie. "Stop being such a headache, man. Just be the chill, dramatic, wine-swirling narcissist I know and tolerate."

He adjusted his tousled hair and struck a pose like he was in a photoshoot. "Now that’s the homie I know. Let’s go."

We dapped up and pushed the door open together, bracing for the worst.

What greeted us wasn’t chaos.

It was worse.

Pitch blackness with occasional light from a huge hologram blanketed everything inside. But within that void stood figures. Dozens. Silent. Still. Like statues that might breathe if you blinked.

But our eyes were drawn immediately to two central figures at the far end of the room.

One of them stood dignified, and familiar — black hair, average looks, but cloaked in luxury. The kind of regal attire that screamed authority and power. His presence was like a polished dagger — refined but deadly.

Beside him was the woman.

Silver-white hair, lifeless green eyes. Her skin was scaled — not like a lizard, but like tarnished silver molded onto dead flesh. Her entire body radiated stillness... not calmness, but the finality of a corpse. Her face — once beautiful, maybe — was now void of humanity.

She wasn’t alive.

Not really.

Not anymore.

Art inhaled sharply beside me. "That’s... Heinau. King of Opalcrest. And that woman beside him..."

His voice cracked.

He whispered her name.

"...Isn’t that Aunt Liana?"

I squinted at the woman in the room—the one with the silver-white hair and soulless green eyes—and asked honestly, without a hint of irony, "Who’s Aunt Liana again?"

Art looked at me like I’d just spat on sacred ground.

His jaw dropped, and he pointed a shaking finger at me like I’d just committed blasphemy of the highest order. "Brother... You are trashier than me. You don’t know her? That’s your fucking future mother-in-law, you dimwit!"

My brain stalled. Future mother-in-law...? Ah.

Oh. Oh.

"Ahh..." I scratched the back of my neck, doing my best not to look completely dense. "So that’s Amelia’s mom? Right, right. My bad—I genuinely forgot."

Art didn’t let it go. In fact, he doubled down.

His arms flailed like he was trying to fan the flames of disbelief. "Forgot?! You forgot her?! That’s your future mother-in-law, dude! What is wrong with you? I was expecting a little tact, maybe even a fake ’Oh no!’—but no! You’re just like, ’Oopsie, who dis?’"

He clutched his head like he was personally offended. "Damn, bro. You really are trashier than me."

I sighed and smacked the back of his head. Lightly. Just enough to restore balance to the universe.

"Stop being overdramatic. It was just a—uh—a..."

I faltered.

What was it, exactly?

"A what?" Art raised a brow, voice dripping with faux horror. "A tiny lapse in memory? A simple mistake? Bro, just say you’re the worst. Save us both the trouble."

I sighed again, this time long and heavy. "Okay, okay. I get it. Shut up already."

But before I could launch another verbal grenade his way, something else grabbed my attention.

The static haze in the room—the fuzzy, erratic flickering from the busted hologram system—suddenly stilled. Like someone hit a switch.

It stabilized.

And then it displayed a figure.

A man.

Chained to a wooden board, limbs splayed out like a sacrifice. His hair was ghostly white, his eyes a sharp, piercing crimson, dulled only by fatigue and blood loss. His body was riddled with wounds, but he wasn’t dead. No—he was alive. Barely.

Just as I was about to force my sluggish memory to recall who the hell that was, Art nudged me and muttered under his breath, "That’s Kane. Amelia’s father. In case your moronic brain forgot that too."

I gritted my teeth and bonked him again. A bit harder this time. "Alright, alright, quit rubbing it in. I know I’m bad with faces. Especially the ones I haven’t visited in, like, what... years?"

Art groaned like he was about to file a formal complaint. "Note to self: make you attend at least one family dinner a year. Maybe tattoo people’s names on their foreheads for you."

I shrugged. "I’d rather commit social suicide than attend those hellish reunions. You know me—I’m an introvert. Human contact’s not on the top of my to-do list."

He rolled his eyes. "Introvert my ass. You’re just antisocial with extra steps."

I didn’t argue.

He turned serious after a beat, his usual swagger fading just enough to let concern peek through.

"I’m heading back up. Gonna gather the others and get them here fast. You stay. Guard this place. Don’t let them take her."

His tone left no room for interpretation.

"If they do..." he added quietly, "everything we’ve worked for crashes down."

I nodded once, firmly. "Got it. Be quick. There’s too many of them."

"[Creation: Portal]," he muttered.

A shimmering blue rift opened up in front of him like someone had sliced open reality with a blade of light. Without another word, he stepped through—and vanished.

And I was alone.

Well, not alone. The room was full.

Full of silhouettes. Still. Silent. Cold.

But somehow none of them reacted when we entered. None had noticed the door creak open. No turning heads. No whispers.

That made me suspicious. Real suspicious.

I narrowed my eyes, keeping them trained forward.

And that’s when I saw it.

The man—King Heinau, Art had said—grabbed the woman by the hair and jerked her head backward, forcing her to look at the hologram. At Kane’s chained body.

But something was off.

He didn’t touch her.

His fingers never clutched her hair—no real contact. They just hovered.

Barely there.

Yet her body moved anyway. Reflexively. Instinctively. Like she’d been broken long before this moment. Like her body obeyed even the threat of pain.

That wasn’t discipline.

That was trauma. Deep-rooted. Programmed.

My blood ran cold.