CHAPTER 93: CH 93: THE FINAL FRAGMENT- PART 3

The moment Fenrir made his move toward the throne, the golems reacted.

Their glowing cores pulsed faster, as if some ancient signal had alerted them to his goal. With thunderous steps, they surged forward to intercept him.

But his summons were faster.

The five elemental hamsters launched into motion, their tiny bodies darting between the lumbering golems with stunning agility.

Sparks of magic flew as one unleashed a stream of fire, another cast a wall of ice, and a third zipped through the air surrounded by crackling lightning.

Their attacks weren’t strong enough to destroy the golems, but they were enough to disorient and stall them.

At the center of the chaos, Nedrax roared in excitement and launched himself into the fray.

"Finally! A chance to cut loose!"

The little dragon crashed into a golem’s chest, sending the stone behemoth staggering backward.

With a childish grin on his face, Nedrax spun mid-air and launched a flaming breath that turned another golem’s arm into molten slag.

Fenrir sprinted forward, using the distraction to break through the outer line of defense.

"Good job."

He muttered under his breath, but he didn’t slow down.

As he pushed deeper into the arena, the terrain changed.

The path to the throne wasn’t open.

A thin web of translucent mana threads shimmered just above the ground. The air itself seemed unnaturally heavy and shimmered in waves that danced at odd angles.

Then he saw it: bombs. Dozens of them.

Hidden by illusion magic and mana-sensing barriers. Some were buried beneath the surface, others floating just above in patches of unstable air.

They hummed with latent energy, waiting for a misstep.

It was a trap—a damn good one.

"A weaker fool would’ve stepped on the first one and blown himself up. I’ve got to admit, this dungeon has taste."

Fenrir muttered, narrowing his eyes.

But while the trap might fool someone new to combat, Fenrir had fought in wars in both this life and the last.

He didn’t slow down. Instead, he reached into his inventory and pulled out a compact, custom-forged pistol made of blackened silver.

It was quiet and deadly, designed for magical reinforcement rather than traditional bullets.

One by one, he aimed and fired.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Each shot struck a bomb—detonating them prematurely while they were still out of range.

The explosions lit up the arena in a symphony of sound and fury, but they were spaced far enough away to leave Fenrir untouched.

The sound drew more attention.

The remaining golems, now aware of Fenrir’s advance, began to turn and push past the summons to chase after him.

But Nedrax blocked their path with gleeful laughter, knocking over two more with an earth-shaking tail sweep.

"Where do you think you’re going, you rocks-for-brains?"

Nedrax teased, throwing himself into their midst with reckless abandon.

One of the hamsters squeaked furiously as Nedrax’s foot came down inches from flattening him. The dragon yelped.

"Sorry! My bad!"

—but didn’t slow down in the slightest.

Fenrir glanced back and almost sighed.

Nedrax was acting like a child on a playground, not a divine-blooded dragon. But, to be fair, he was winning.

He returned his focus to the throne. It was close now—just a dozen meters away. The final fragment hovered in place like a beckoning flame.

He surged forward, gun still in hand, eyes sharp for any more traps.

But just as he was within reach—

Whoosh!

His instincts screamed.

He twisted mid-run, throwing up his left arm and drawing his sword in a flash with his right. A dark blur swung toward him from the side.

Steel met steel with a deafening clang as Fenrir blocked the attack.

The force of the blow sent him skidding back.

He narrowed his eyes.

From the shadows, a figure emerged. It wasn’t a golem. It wasn’t a monster.

It was something else entirely.

Tall, shrouded in a cloak of shadows, its features were unreadable, but its aura was suffocating—dense with power and malice.

Its weapon, a jagged halberd infused with black mana, gleamed with the promise of death.

"A final guardian?"

Fenrir growled, tightening his grip.

The figure said nothing. It simply raised its weapon and lunged again.

This wasn’t over. Not yet. The final fragment was right there—but now Fenrir had to fight for it.

Fenrir decided to be the aggressive one this time and pushed the guardian back. His sword made sparks fly as metal met metal.

However, Fenrir could tell that he was on the losing one of this attack when it came to power.

The moment Fenrir’s blade met the guardian’s halberd again, he knew. His attack hadn’t even scratched it.

The sword in his hand, blessed and reinforced, designed to cut through A-rank defenses like paper—felt useless. The guardian didn’t flinch, didn’t stagger. Not even a nick.

Fenrir clicked his tongue and stepped back, narrowly avoiding the next strike that cleaved into the stone beside him like it was butter.

"Ah... Now this... this is the tower difficulty I remember."

He exhaled, letting his shoulders drop just slightly, the edge of a chuckle slipping past his lips.

The guardian stood still, its shadowy form radiating cold menace.

Fenrir rolled his neck, still grinning. It wasn’t a pleasant smile—more tired than amused.

"That creeping sensation of hopelessness... the kind that makes you want to throw your weapon and just give up. That’s what the tower does best."

He tightened his grip on the sword.

"But unfortunately, that’s not enough to stop me."

He muttered.

The guardian surged forward once more, its halberd swinging with monstrous force, aiming to split him in two. Fenrir didn’t block this time. He didn’t parry either.

He moved with the attack—used it.

At the last second, he twisted his body and allowed the blow to clip him just enough to send him flying.

Pain flared down his side, but he bared his teeth in a wild grin as he was launched through the air, hurtling toward the throne.

Stone zipped beneath him. Wind roared in his ears.

He hit the ground in a controlled slide, boots grinding against the cracked floor of the arena. Just a few meters now. He leaned forward and threw out his arm.

The light.

The final fragment.

It pulsed gently in the air above the throne—so calm, so inviting.

His fingers brushed it—then closed around it.

A blinding pulse of golden light exploded from the fragment the moment it made contact with Fenrir’s hand. The shockwave rippled through the entire arena.

Behind him, the guardian raised its weapon again—but then froze mid-motion.

Fenrir sat up, clutching the fragment tightly in his hand, his voice low with a mocking tone.

"Tsk. Still a far cry from the real tower guardians. Those had a bit more... mental capacity. You? Just a glorified scarecrow."

Cracks began to spread across the guardian’s body.

It didn’t scream. It didn’t resist.

It simply crumbled—first into chunks, then into powder, disintegrating into the windless air. The golems around the arena followed, one by one, collapsing without another sound.

Silence fell.

Fenrir remained seated at the foot of the throne, fragment glowing in his hand.

"Guess it’s time."

He whispered, as the world began to change.