​Morning arrived at Castle Zero, but the fog outside remained as thick as ever. Dayat stood in The Heart of Logic, his eyes bloodshot from a lack of sleep. They stung every time he blinked, but he was too tense to close them for long. Beside him, Dola sat with her white cape draped around her. Her face was calm, but her hands occasionally clenched in her lap—fingers curling, nails digging into her palms.

​One by one, the others entered. Kancil came first, his hair a mess—he had jumped out of bed the moment Dayat called. Loy and Riri followed behind him, their eyes still heavy with sleep. Lunethra was the last to arrive. Her green dress was slightly wrinkled at the sleeves; she likely hadn’t slept at all. Dalgor was already in the corner near the control panel, his hand gripping a cup of cold coffee.

​Dayat didn’t sit. He stood, scanning them one by one. The room was silent, save for the constant hum of the binary panels.

​”There’s something beneath the castle.”

​Kancil furrowed his brow. “What do you mean, Brother?”

​”The roots we burned yesterday.” Dayat paused, his fists clenching at his sides. “They aren’t entirely dead. There’s a demon pulling the strings. He’s in the foundation.”

​Riri huddled closer to Loy. Her hand sought his, gripping it tight. Loy returned the squeeze without looking away.

​”WHO?” Kancil asked, his voice cautious.

​Dayat looked at Dola. She didn’t speak. She only stared straight ahead at the black walls where pulsing purple lines flickered.

​”The one who infected Lunethra’s plants,” Dayat said. “Now, he’s right beneath us.”

​Lunethra lowered her head. Her hands clasped in front of her stomach—so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

​”I’m coming with you,” she said softly. Her voice was barely a whisper.

​Dayat stared at her. “You don’t have to.”

​”I want to.” Lunethra looked up. Her eyes were red—not from crying, but from exhaustion. “This is my fault. I brought those seeds. I—”

​”It’s not your fault.” Dayat’s voice was firm. He locked eyes with her, unblinking. “But if you want to come… fine.”

​Lunethra nodded. Once. Resolute.

​Kancil stepped forward. “I’ll also—”

​”You stay here.” Dayat cut him off before he could finish. “Watch Loy and Riri. And Dalgor.”

​”But—”

​”Kancil.” Dayat looked at him. Their eyes met. “I need you here.”

​Kancil wanted to argue, his jaw tightening. But Dayat’s gaze wasn’t one of anger or command—it was the look of someone who truly needed him. Kancil nodded slowly and stepped back.

​Preparation.

​Dayat raised his hand. A purple-green light shimmered in his palm—warm, as always. The HK416 materialized in his grip. The metal was cold, the weight familiar. The magazine was fully loaded. He pulled the charging handle—click. The sound was satisfying, like a promise kept.

​He turned to Lunethra and raised his hand again. Particles of light converged, forming a Glock 19—black, sleek, and solid.

​Lunethra took it. Her hands trembled slightly. The pistol was heavier than she had imagined.

​”Have you ever used one?” Dayat asked.

​”No.” Lunethra stared at the weapon. Her finger brushed the trigger—cold.

​”Aim. Pull the trigger. That’s it.”

​Lunethra looked at Dayat, then back at the gun. “I… I don’t know if this is enough.”

​”Just in case.” Dayat watched her. “Your magic is more useful. But if things get desperate, use that.”

​Lunethra nodded. She tucked the pistol into her waist—no holster, just wedged between her dress and fabric belt. The cold metal pressed against her skin.

​Dola stood up. Her movements were slow, deliberate. Her white cape fluttered despite the lack of a breeze. She carried no weapon. Her hands were empty. But her eyes glowed a dim blue—like embers nearly extinguished, yet still capable of burning.

​”Let us go,” she said softly.

​Dayat looked at her. “Are you sure?”

​Dola didn’t answer. She simply walked toward the door.

​The stairs leading beneath the castle were at the end of the hallway, behind the control room. The door was made of black metal—the same as the castle walls. There was no handle, only a small panel beside it.

​Dayat touched the panel. His fingers pressed against the cold surface. The door slid open soundlessly—just a faint hiss, like a breath held.

​Darkness. Dampness. The smell of wet earth mingled with something rancid—like meat left too long in a humid place. Lunethra covered her nose with her sleeve.

​Dayat clicked on the flashlight mounted on his HK416. The white beam cut through the gloom, illuminating stone steps descending into the dark. The walls were rough, unlike the binary-lined walls above. No panels, no purple lines. Just raw stone. Black roots were already snaking across them—small, but numerous. They moved slowly, as if breathing. Like writhing worms.

​”Hah.” Dayat let out a breath. “Not exactly a welcoming place.”

​Dola took the first step. Her feet landed on the stone without a sound. Dayat followed, with Lunethra behind him. Her hand brushed the pistol at her waist—cold, hard, reassuring.

​They descended.

​Each step felt colder than the last. It wasn’t an ordinary chill—it was a cold that seeped into the bones, numbing the fingertips. The sound of their footsteps echoed—tap, tap, tap. The roots on the walls grew thicker. They were no longer small; now they were as thick as fingers, twisting around one another to form a throbbing black web—expanding, contracting, expanding, contracting.

​”How long has this been here?” Lunethra whispered. Her voice was small, nearly swallowed by the echo of their steps.

​”Who knows.” Dayat didn’t turn back. The light from his HK416 continued to sweep the walls. “Maybe since we first arrived.”

​”Why didn’t we know?”

​”Because he didn’t want us to know.”

​Lunethra didn’t ask again.

​They continued down. The staircase was long—longer than Dayat had expected. Twenty meters, perhaps thirty. Every step took them deeper, colder, darker. The air grew heavy. The stench of rot intensified—no longer a faint smell, but a piercing one. Lunethra breathed through her mouth, but it offered no relief.

​Finally, they reached the bottom.

​It was a massive chamber. High ceilings—maybe five meters, maybe more. It might have once been a storehouse, but not anymore. The entire room was choked with black roots. Thick. Coiling like sleeping giant serpents. All of them converged toward a single point in the center of the room.

​The Heart.

​The roots merged to form a massive lump the size of a small car. It pulsed. Rhythmically. Like a real heart. Each beat sent a vibration through the floor; Dayat could feel it in the soles of his feet. It was pitch black, but dark red veins flickered across its surface—like blood vessels carrying something that wasn’t blood.

​And standing before the heart was a figure.

​Tall. Gaunt. His body wasn’t translucent as Dayat remembered. He was more solid. More… real. His skin was a pale gray, like a fresh corpse. His eyes were solid black, without whites—two pits leading directly into the void. His smile was wide—too wide, reaching up to his ears.

​”You’ve finally come.”

​His voice crawled along the walls. It didn’t just come from his mouth. It was everywhere. From the roots, from the heart, from the floor, from the ceiling.

​Dayat raised his HK416. “You.”

​”Me.” Morbis spread his arms wide, as if welcoming guests. “Welcome to my home.”

​Lunethra stared at the creature before her. Her heart hammered—not the plague heart, her own. It beat too fast, too loud. Her hand fumbled for the pistol at her waist—cold, hard, but not enough to soothe her. “Is that… him?”

​”Yeah.” Dayat didn’t look away. “He’s the one who infected your plants.”

​Morbis laughed. His voice wasn’t loud. It was more like a hiss—like wind escaping through a narrow crack. “Not just the plants.” He looked at Lunethra. His hollow black eyes somehow felt like they were staring right through her. “This entire castle. I’ve been here since you first arrived.” He looked at his own hands—long, spindly fingers with black claws. “Didn’t you find it strange? The stench on the terrace? Your wilting plants? That was me. All of it was me.”

​Lunethra clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. “Why?”

​”Why?” Morbis tilted his head—too far, as if his neck had no bones. “Because I could. Because Lord Wabil willed it. Because this castle… is interesting.” He looked around. “Maiden technology. A human from another world. A castaway Elf. An old Dwarf. Street urchins. You are all… quite fascinating.”

​Dola stepped forward. Her eyes glowed brighter—a blue so intense it was almost white. “You are not leaving this place.”

​Morbis looked at her. His smile remained unchanged. “You are still weak, Maiden. That seal is devouring you.” He touched his own chest—right where a heart would be, if he had one. “I can feel it from here. Every time you push yourself, the seal presses harder. You cannot stop me. Not in this condition.”

​”We shall see.”

​Dayat pulled the trigger.

​Bang. Bang. Bang.

​Three shots. The sound thundered through the chamber—loud and deafening. The bullets tore through Morbis’s chest—entering, exiting, and striking the wall behind him. But there was no blood. No wound. Morbis’s body was like solidified mist—it holed for a moment, then coalesced again. Like shooting water.

​”Futile.” Morbis sighed as if bored. “Your bullets cannot harm me, Architect. I am not flesh and bone. I am the plague. I am the sickness. You cannot shoot a disease.”

​Lunethra raised her hands. She closed her eyes, feeling the mana around her—thin, but present. She called to it. Drawing it from the earth, the air, and the remnants of life still clinging to this room. Healthy green vines sprouted from the ground, lashing out toward Morbis. Quickly, they coiled around his legs, his arms, his neck.

​But before they could touch his body, Morbis’s black roots moved. Faster. Stronger. They swallowed Lunethra’s vines, wrapping around them and crushing them until they shattered. Green splinters fell to the floor, wilting instantly.

​Lunethra staggered. Her hands dropped. “I… I can’t…” Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her mana was drained—not entirely, but enough to leave her weak.

​Dola raised her hand. A blue light flared in her palm—bright, but flickering unstably. Like a failing neon bulb. She unleashed it. A wave of energy surged toward Morbis—invisible, but the air vibrated with the force.

​This time, it hit.

​Morbis stumbled. His body vibrated. But Dola also stumbled. Her hand dropped. Her breath hitched—short, fast, erratic gasps. Dayat caught her before she could fall. His arm wrapped around her waist, steadying her.

​”You’re insane.” Dayat held her close. “You haven’t recovered yet.” He could feel Dola’s body trembling—not from cold, but from sheer exhaustion.

​”I…” Dola coughed. There was no blood, but her voice was weak—fainter than before. “I can…”

​”Can what?” Dayat looked at her. His eyes met Dola’s. “You want to die? Here? Right now?”

​Dola didn’t answer. She only looked at Dayat—a look that was difficult to decipher.

​Morbis straightened up. The vibration in his body ceased. His form became solid once more. He looked at Dola, then Dayat, then Lunethra.

​”See?” He smiled—the same wide, unchanging smile. “You cannot. Lord Wabil has grown too strong. Even without fully awakening, I am enough to destroy you.”

​He stepped forward. One step. Two. The black roots around him moved—raising their tips, ready to strike. Like dozens of black spears aimed in a single direction.

​Dayat looked at Dola in his arms. Weak. Pale. Her eyes still glowed, but dimly. Then he looked at Lunethra. Her hands were shaking, but she was still standing. The pistol at her waist remained unused—the metal glinting in the flashlight’s beam.

​”Lun.” Dayat’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “You still have that gun?”

​Lunethra looked at him. Then at the pistol at her waist. She nodded.

​”Use it.”

​Lunethra drew the pistol. Her hands were trembling. Not just from fear—though that was part of it. She aimed at Morbis—at his solid body, his black eyes, his wide smile. Her finger was on the trigger. She squeezed.

​Bang.

​One shot. Too fast. Too high. The bullet hit the ceiling; stone fragments showered down.

​Morbis laughed. “Is that all?” His voice was mocking.

​Lunethra bit her lip. She tasted blood—the tang of iron on her tongue. She aimed again. This time lower. Steadier. She remembered Dayat’s words: Aim, pull the trigger, that’s it. She steadied her breathing. Her hands stopped shaking.

​Bang.

​The bullet struck Morbis’s shoulder. It didn’t penetrate. There was no wound. But Morbis stopped walking. He stared at his shoulder—there was no hole, no blood, but something was bothering him. Like an itch that couldn’t be scratched.

​”You… are bold.”

​Lunethra lowered her pistol. Her hands still trembled, but she stood tall. Her eyes were fixed on Morbis—unblinking. “I am not afraid of you.” Her voice wavered, but the words were clear.

​Morbis stared at her for a long time. His smile vanished—slowly, like melting wax. His hollow black eyes somehow looked… angry.

​”You should be.”

​The black roots around him moved in unison—lunging toward Lunethra. Dozens of sharp tips blurred through the air, ready to impale her.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep