Purgatory breathed with unease.
I could feel it in the soil beneath my feet—trembling, not from fear, but anticipation. The vault at its furthest edge pulsed hotter than ever. Once sealed in a dome of obsidian quiet, now it cracked in streaks of red light, each one spidering outward like veins beneath scorched skin.
Lucifer's chamber.
The last of the Triad.
The spear-bearer.
The silent judgment.
The vault whispered again—not yet—but it didn't feel like a warning anymore.
It felt like a countdown.
Ashbourne stood at my side, impassive, but the sigil on my hand twitched. A second line on the mark—Lucifer's portion—had begun to flicker faintly, like embers swirling before the storm.
"Can you feel him?" I asked quietly.
Ashbourne didn't answer with words. But the temperature dipped, and the Gravewalkers lining the ridge behind us shifted uneasily. Even they, born of shadow and scythe, feared what slept beneath that sealed dome.
Ashbourne:His awakening is not like mine or Lilith's. He does not serve. He obeys only strength.
I nodded, my throat dry.
And what happens if I'm not strong enough?
The vault gave no answer.
Back in the waking world, the Guild Council was already foaming at the mouth.
I sat across from Arielle in a cramped, overheated chamber deep beneath New York's Zone-3R Field Guild. Darrin's death still hung over everything like soot, but the topic had shifted from mourning to politics.
"You weren't even registered," the official spat. She was a narrow-faced woman with a badge that marked her as an S-Rank liaison, but she barely felt like a D. Bureaucrat, not brawler. "You entered a C-Class dungeon under forged clearances. One man died. Do you know how bad that looks?"
I shrugged. "Better than it looks for the Warden of Silence that showed up in a C-Class dungeon. You think that's normal?"
"You shouldn't have been there to see it at all."
"Neither should the Warden."
The woman's face flushed.
Arielle stepped in. "He wasn't just a witness. He awakened. And he completed the dungeon."
"Allegedly," the liaison snapped.
I slid a small data chip across the table—one of the guild trackers we pulled from the site, time-stamped and logged.
Official clearance: Elijah Voss. Unranked turned F-rank. Dungeon completed. Core shattered.
"Ownership," I said flatly. "According to Article 14 of the Surge Treaty, if a dungeon is completed by an unclaimed agent, that agent becomes its sole holder. Guild claim overrides are only honored on class S and above."
The liaison's lip curled. "You've done your homework."
I smiled.
Sarcastic.
But calm.
"There's more," Arielle said. "We analyzed the energy signature from the Warden. It wasn't native to that dungeon. It was tethered."
The woman's gaze sharpened. "Tethered?"
"Dropped in."
She went quiet.
Then finally: "Even if you're right… this won't be uncontested."
It wasn't.
Two days later, the Midnight Crown showed up.
An elite C-to-B rank guild from downtown Brooklyn. Not top-tier, but influential, and they'd been eyeing Dungeon AX-33 for expansion. They filed a challenge—one backed by the System Council's Arbitration Clause.
If they could clear the dungeon at a higher rank or within a more efficient time frame, they could legally steal it.
That was the risk of being an unregistered upstart.
It was also the first chance to make a name.
They came armed.
Six members, all seasoned.
I met them at the edge of the dungeon gate as the space around the rift flared.
"You the unranked rat that slithered into this place before we could set a flag?" the leader asked. His name was Blaise—flame-type tank, B-rank. The kind of guy who grinned too much before a fight and never stuck around for the cleanup.
I didn't answer.
Just stepped aside and let him through.
"You'll be watching the timer then?" he asked, nodding toward the system anchor.
"Something like that."
He smirked.
His team vanished through the portal.
I watched the rift for a long time after.
Then I opened the system interface and tapped the ownership clause.
[Primary Claimant: Elijah Voss]
[Challenge Request by Midnight Crown – Accepted]
[Outcome Pending: Dungeon Timer Active]
[Reputation Penalty for Failed Defense: 15%]
[Reputation Gain if Defender Prevails: +25% | Sub-Claim Access +1]
The System wasn't just about power.
It was about presence.
About trust.
And I was about to see if mine could hold.
That night, I returned to Purgatory to clear my thoughts.
Ashbourne stood in the central chamber, arms folded. The Gravewalkers behind him had grown in number. Six now. One bore horns, another spectral chains. All of them different. None of them as they were before.
I began to wonder if I was still the summoner.
Or the observer.
The ground pulsed again—this time from beneath the central circle.
A new platform had risen—low, carved in runes, identical to the one I'd seen briefly in the Deep Crypt.
At the edge of it stood a statue.
Not of Ashbourne.
Not of me.
But of a figure cloaked in feathers and obsidian, spear in hand, head bowed.
Lucifer.
And on its pedestal were the words:
"He is not born. He is called."
The next morning, I stood on the rooftop of a half-burned apartment complex near 49th and 10th, watching the sky bleed purple above the skyline. The System had etched new signals into the air—guild tags, updates, shifting global data that flickered like stars. Most ignored them.
I didn't.
"Wasn't expecting to find you up here."
I turned.
He hadn't changed much. Maybe a little taller. Leaner. The scar on his chin was new.
"Isaiah?" I asked.
He gave me a crooked grin. "Nice to know I'm still recognizable."
I stepped forward, surprised by how relieved I felt. "You're alive."
"Contrary to popular belief."
We clasped forearms like we used to. Isaiah was one of the few from the orphanage I had no bad blood with. Smart. Steady. He'd always been better at keeping the peace than starting a war.
"You awakened," I said, already sensing his mana.
"Three years ago. Tier E, support class. Utility type."
I raised a brow. "Support? You?"
"Turns out amplifying environmental variables and reading aura patterns is more valuable than punching things."
"Huh."
He leaned on the ledge. "I heard about what happened. The dungeon. The claim. The Warden."
"News travels fast."
"Especially when you resurrect a legendary summon and complete a volatile dungeon solo."
I hesitated. "You came looking for me?"
"Not exactly."
I looked at him.
He grinned. "I came looking for us."
That night, Isaiah followed me into Purgatory.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't waver.
He looked at Ashbourne, and Ashbourne looked at him, and the tension nearly made the air freeze.
Then Ashbourne bowed.
Just once.
To my surprise… Isaiah bowed back.
"Alright," he said, cracking his knuckles. "So what do we call ourselves?"
I frowned. "What?"
"You said you wanted to build something. A group. A team."
I didn't remember saying that.
But maybe I had.
I looked at the Gravewalkers behind Ashbourne. At the cracking vault. At the swirling storm that hadn't quite begun.
Then I looked back at Isaiah.
And I said it.
"The 7 Souls of Purgatory."