Chapter 60: The Fall of a Perfect Snare

The moment the faceless statue was destroyed, a bolt of blue thunder ripped across the sky above the ancient city.

The thunder did not roar.

It sliced.

Like an invisible blade forged from lightning, it cleaved straight through the thick, suffocating dark clouds that had hung over the city.

The sky itself seemed to split open, and for the first time since the sacrifice started, light pierced the oppressive gloom.

Within seconds, the black clouds began to disperse.

They did not drift away gently.

They recoiled.

The ominous darkness that had blanketed the ancient city retreated violently, as if swallowed by an unseen void.

Shadows unraveled, tearing apart like rotting cloth under immense pressure.

The dreadful, echoing laughter that had haunted the streets vanished instantly, leaving behind a silence so profound it rang in the ears.

Inside the city, the transformation was immediate.

Phantoms froze mid-motion.

One by one, they faded.

A mother reaching for her child dissolved into motes of pale light.

A phantom priest conducting a silent prayer vanished as if he had never existed.

Entire families, frozen in moments of false happiness, disappeared without leaving even a trace.

The ancient city exhaled.

For the first time in ages, tranquility returned.

But it was not the peaceful, thriving city the illusions had once projected.

That mirage was gone.

What remained was the truth.

Ruins.

Collapsed buildings littered the streets, their broken stones half-buried in dust and dried blood.

Cracked pillars leaned precariously, while shattered walls exposed hollow interiors long stripped of life.

The grand roads were fractured, weeds and dark stains marking where countless lives had ended.

This was the ancient city’s true face.

A graveyard.

“NOOOOOOO!”

The scream tore through the sky like a wounded beast’s final howl.

At the center of the ancient city stood a group of figures clad in thick, oversized black robes.

Their hoods concealed their faces completely, swallowing every trace of identity.

The scream had come from one of them.

The air around the group twisted violently.

Cracks spread outward beneath their feet, splitting the stone ground in jagged patterns that mirrored their emotional turmoil.

“How could this be…?” one of them muttered hoarsely. “What happened?”

No one answered.

Silence descended.

Heavy.

Oppressive.

Gloomy.

It pressed down on them like an invisible weight, enough to suffocate any ordinary mortal foolish enough to stand nearby.

Even the wind seemed afraid to move.

At last, one of the figures broke the silence.

“Do you think… this was their doing?”

“Impossible!” another voice snapped sharply. “Those bastards are occupied in another territory. They wouldn’t interfere now.”

“Then it must be the Federation.”

“That is unlikely,” a different voice rejected immediately. “They lack both the information and the courage.”

“Then who?” another genderless voice demanded, irritation bleeding through the carefully maintained calm. “Do you think months of preparation would simply collapse like this?”

Once again, silence swallowed the group.

Each of them fell into deep thought.

They had planned everything meticulously.

Every move.

Every sacrifice.

They had manipulated events from the shadows, pulling strings without ever revealing their presence.

Even the awakeners they had used as pawns believed they were acting of their own free will, growing stronger, seizing opportunities, carving their own destinies.

Fools.

Only the robed figures knew the truth.

Those awakeners were nothing more than disposable pieces on a vast chessboard.

Their deaths.

Their victories.

Their suffering.

All of it served a single purpose.

They had groomed them carefully, guiding them toward the ancient city, feeding them just enough hope to keep them moving forward.

The city itself was the final snare.

Because this was no ordinary ancient ruin.

It was a cursed land.

Summoned from the deepest depths of the Abyss by their Lord’s will, the ancient city was never meant to see daylight again.

Anyone who entered was destined to be buried within its walls, mind, body, and soul, serving as fuel for a greater ritual.

The Crimson Arc Guild.

The Silver Crest Guild.

Independent bounty hunters.

Powerful awakener parties.

All of them believed they had stumbled upon a rare opportunity through luck or skill.

They were wrong.

Every step they took had been anticipated.

But now.

The clear sky mocked them.

Anger burned beneath their disguises like a raging inferno.

Fists clenched tightly beneath heavy sleeves, knuckles whitening as they struggled to suppress the urge to unleash their fury.

Finally, when the oppressive tension reached its peak, one of them spoke again.

“I can think of only one explanation,” the voice said slowly. “Among the sacrifices… a dark horse must have appeared.”

The air shifted instantly.

No longer oppressive.

Curious.

Alert.

A dark horse.

Someone who had slipped through their calculations.

Someone strong enough, or cunning enough to dismantle everything they had built.

The group pondered in silence.

But no name came to mind.

To them, all the sacrifices were weak.

Ignorant.

Unworthy of notice beyond their usefulness.

None should have possessed the ability to interfere with the city’s core mechanisms, let alone destroy the anchor binding it.

And yet, the sky was clear.

The cursed city had collapsed.

Everything pointed to one undeniable truth.

Someone had done the impossible.

The realization was infuriating.

A bitter taste lingered in their mouths.

“We must identify this dark horse immediately,” one of them declared coldly.

The others nodded in agreement.

“And we must prepare ourselves,” another added grimly. “Our Lord will not overlook this failure.”

At the mention of their Lord, a visible shiver passed through the group.

Even hidden beneath layers of black cloth, fear seeped through.

They all knew the consequences of failure.

And they were far worse than death.

Death would be mercy.

“As long as we deliver the one responsible,” someone said cautiously, “it may ease our Lord’s wrath.”

The uncertainty in the voice was unmistakable.

No one responded.

Each was lost in their own dread-filled thoughts.

“We must leave,” another finally said. “We cannot allow ourselves to be seen.”

Whoosh!

The black-robed figures vanished in a blur, moving at breathtaking speed as they abandoned the ancient city.

They had arrived expecting to reap great rewards.

Power.

Authority.

Perhaps even ascension to the second floor.

Instead, they departed as failures.

The weight of that failure pressed down on them like an immovable mountain.

Meanwhile, at the ancient mountain, everything had returned to its grim normalcy.

The mountain’s surface was riddled with deep cracks, its once-lush trees now withered and lifeless.

From the ancient gate, a battered group emerged.

They stumbled forward, covered in blood.

Leather armor hung in tatters, shredded by claws and spears. Weapons were cracked or completely destroyed.

Some had lost arms.

Others leaned heavily on companions, their faces pale with exhaustion.

Bandages soaked in thick, dark blood wrapped shattered limbs.

Yet when they looked up.

The sky was bright.

Clear.

Blue.

A collective sigh of relief escaped them.

They had survived.

“W-We’re out…” Arin muttered weakly, collapsing to his knees as his strength finally gave out.

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