Rhys's teeth clenched. His vision blurred from the blinding light. His muscles felt like they were tearing apart. The Warden's hammer pressed down, burning like a small sun. The air itself was melting.

His mana started to crack under the pressure—splitting, breaking—until Puddle's voice hit him hard in his mind.

Anchor through me, Master. Don't break. We hold together.

Rhys growled through his teeth. "Then let's end this."

He pushed everything he had left into the Ruinous Darkness Blade. The weapon screamed, its edge twisting with light and shadow. The Heartfire inside him burned hotter, wild and alive.

The Warden faltered for just a second. That was enough.

Rhys roared. "Vertical Slash—Origin Break!"

He twisted his sword, throwing the hammer's power off balance, then swung upward with all his strength. The strike ripped through the Warden's body from waist to crown.

The armor split clean down the middle.

Flames and frost burst out like twin beasts—one red, one blue—clashing above them in a storm that swallowed the world.

The explosion threw Rhys across the forge. He hit the ground hard, rolling through fire and ice until the world flipped upside down.

Then—silence.

When the smoke cleared, everything was different. The forge was gone. The walls, the floor—melted into smooth steel that reflected everything like a mirror.

At the center knelt the Warden, broken and burning from the inside. Its hammer was gone. Its body was cracked open, molten light leaking through every seam.

It looked up at him. No words this time—just a faint rasp, like the last breath of something too old to die properly.

Rhys walked forward, step by step, fury still burning in his chest. His cloak was half gone. His blade was shaking in his hand, glowing like a dying star.

The Warden's chest split open. The Heartfire floated out—no longer wild, just pulsing steady, like a heartbeat that refused to stop. It drifted toward him.

Rhys grabbed it, fire flooding into his veins. It didn't feel holy. It felt real—hot, heavy, alive. The same heat that had nearly killed him now burned quietly in his hand.

He glared down at the broken giant. "You tried to turn me to ash." His voice was low, rough. "But I'm still here."

The Warden's body began to fall apart, its pieces turning to glowing ash that drifted into the air.

Rhys didn't look away. He stood there until nothing was left but the echo of his own breath.

Puddle's voice came softly from inside him. "Master… we lived."

Rhys looked at his sword. The once-broken blade now pulsed with veins of red and blue light. Steam curled off it like breath. It felt heavier, sharper, alive.

"Yeah," he said. "We're still breathing."

The floor cracked beneath his boots. A stairway of glowing metal opened up, leading down into the dark.

Puddle whispered, "It's open. The forge wants you to go deeper."

Rhys tightened his grip on the sword. "Good. I'm not done yet."

He stepped forward, the sound of his boots echoing against the steel. Behind him, the ashes of the Warden drifted upward, fading into the air like ghosts of a war that refused to end.

The stairway pulsed faintly beneath his feet, each step alive with heat and heartbeat. As Rhys descended, the glow above faded, swallowed by a deep hum that resonated through the metal walls. It wasn't just sound—it was memory. Every strike, every scream, every forging breath the Warden had ever made still lived in the steel.

Puddle's tone softened, almost awed.

"This place… it remembers every weapon ever born here."

"Then it remembers every failure too," Rhys murmured, fingers brushing the mirrored wall. Images flickered across its surface—echoes of battles long past. Knights. Monsters. Flames that never went out. Each vision burned for a heartbeat before vanishing into black.

At the bottom of the stairs waited a circular chamber. Unlike the forge above, this one was silent—no molten rivers, no thunderous heat. Just stillness. The air was cool, almost cold, yet Rhys could still feel the weight of the Heartfire pulsing in his chest.

In the center stood a pedestal, its surface etched with the same runes that had once flared across the Warden's armor. Upon it rested a single shard of crimson steel, shaped like a fang, floating above the stone.

Puddle's voice lowered. "That's… a remnant. The Warden's Core."

Rhys approached slowly. The shard turned toward him as if it sensed his presence. The moment his fingers brushed it, a surge of visions struck—blinding and sharp.

He saw the Warden before it was a guardian—a blacksmith bathed in divine flame, forging weapons from the souls of fallen heroes. He saw the moment it was bound, chained to guard the Heartfire for eternity. Its purpose had twisted, and when the gods vanished, it remained—alone, burning.

The vision faded. The shard trembled, then melted into liquid fire that ran up Rhys's arm, fusing into the veins beneath his skin. The markings of his Soul Fusion shifted, new sigils forming over his hand and down to the blade.

[ You have obtained: Core of the Death Flames ]

— Soul Fusion limit expanded.

— Elemental Control: Death Fire unlocked.

— Passive: True Death – Anyone killed by the user cannot be revived by necromancy or any resurrection art.

"Damn… it was here," Rhys muttered, staring at the blackish-red flame flickering in his palm—the Flames of True Death, a nightmare-level weapon against any undead boss. During the coming Dead Apocalypse, this power would be invaluable.

"Hehe, and I got an unsealed chest here too," Rhys said with a grin, tossing the flame lightly in his hand. "Now, if I remember right… my next plan is to get the True Book of Necromancy."

He remembered the legend clearly—the book once belonged to the very first Lich Dragon, the pinnacle of all beings who had mastered death itself. The dragon had perished long ago, but its legacy still lingered in that forbidden tome—the True Book of Necromancy.

Reaching it wouldn't be easy. The area was guarded by divine holy entities—supreme wardens forged to seal away anything tied to death. Only the purest light or the truest death could pierce that sanctum.

Rhys clenched his hand around the Death Flame, its heat whispering against his skin. "But now… with the Flame of True Death, I can finally enter."

He looked toward the darkened path ahead, a faint grin spreading across his face. "A rank five dungeon, huh? Perfect. Time to gain some massive EXP."

Rhys walked deeper into the silent forge, the Death Flame hovering beside him like a living ember. The mirrored metal beneath his boots gradually turned darker—first grey, then black—until it looked like cooled volcanic glass. The air thickened with ash and the faint hiss of magma veins pulsing below the surface.

"I guess this was a hidden floor," Rhys muttered, glancing around. "We must've somehow bypassed the entrance earlier."

Puddle pulsed faintly from within his chest, its tone wary. "The mana density here is… higher. Almost like the forge's core was buried under this level."

"Then it's worth checking," Rhys said, cracking his neck. "The deeper it goes, the stronger the keepers."

He stepped through a corridor lined with ancient runes, each glowing faintly red as he passed. The symbols pulsed in rhythm with his own heartbeat, reacting to the Death Flame's aura. By the time he reached the next chamber, the temperature had risen sharply—heat radiating from molten rivers cutting through the obsidian floor.

Then he saw it.

A massive figure stood at the center, half-buried in stone, as if carved directly from the mountain itself. Its entire body was made of glowing black rock, with molten cracks running through it like veins of lava. When it moved, the air trembled.

Its voice rumbled like an earthquake.

"Another mortal comes to steal the strength of this forge?"

Rhys raised his sword, the Death Flame curling along its edge. "Not steal," he said coldly. "Claim."

The giant's molten eyes narrowed. "Bold words… for flesh."

Without warning, the creature stomped forward. The ground split, and magma surged up in a ring around them. Its fist drew back, glowing white-hot as it swung down at Rhys like a meteor.

Rhys barely shifted his stance, magic flaring across his armor. "You talk too much."

The punch hit—and Rhys blocked it with his sword. The impact exploded outward, molten shards flying like shrapnel. His boots dug into the metal floor, cracks spiderwebbing beneath him. The pressure was immense—this thing's strength felt even heavier than the Coldforge Warden's.

But he wasn't the same as before.

The Death Flame flickered up his arms, black-red fire merging with his mana flow. His veins glowed faintly as he grinned.

"Let's see how you handle death itself."

He twisted his sword, and the blackish-red fire burst outward—consuming the giant's molten fist in one sweep. The creature roared, pulling back, but the fire didn't die. It clung to the rock, burning deeper and deeper, eating not just its body—but its essence.

"The Flame of True Death," Rhys said as he stepped forward, eyes cold. "Doesn't care how solid you are."

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