Chapter 218: Unstoppable…

The shadow wolves didn’t hesitate.

One lunged forward, claws crashing into a reinforced rib cage, and ripped straight through it. Another snapped its jaws shut around a skull, crushing it instantly. Even these sturdier skeletons were torn apart as easily as the rest, their supposed durability meaning nothing in the face of SS Rank power.

The wolves tore through them without slowing.

Bruce walked behind them, eyes calm, aura steady, advancing as if this dungeon were nothing more than an inconvenience along his path.

A clean march.

A clean harvest.

Shadow and bone collided endlessly ahead of him, and the dungeon itself seemed to recoil as Bruce Ackerman pressed deeper, unbothered, unstoppable, and already done wasting time on fodder that refused to stay dead.

The shadow wolves continued their advance.

They moved like a living tide of darkness across the dungeon world, sweeping through fractured landscapes and warped terrain with merciless precision. This place was not a mere corridor or chamber. It was a self-contained domain, a distorted world stitched together by dungeon laws.

Jagged plains of blackened stone stretched ahead, broken by skeletal forests and ruined structures half-swallowed by bone.

Everywhere they went, the undead ceased to exist.

Claws carved through skeletons in wide arcs, pulverizing ribcages and shattering skulls as if they were made of brittle clay rather than reinforced bone. Each strike carried overwhelming force, clean and decisive, leaving nothing behind but scattered fragments that littered the terrain like debris after a storm.

Bone dust filled the air, drifting across the battlefield in pale clouds. The hollow scraping sounds that once dominated this world were cut short almost as soon as they began, replaced by sharp cracks and dull impacts as some skeletons were reduced to fragments mid-charge. Some undead barely managed to raise their weapons before being destroyed. Others were torn apart the instant they manifested from the ground.

Bruce walked at the center of it all.

His pace never changed.

He advanced steadily across the dungeon world, eyes calm, aura contained yet absolute. The wolves surged ahead of him, spreading out naturally to cover the vast space, carving a clear path through fields of undead with brutal efficiency. They didn’t overextend. They didn’t waste motion. Every leap, every swipe, every bite was calculated for maximum destruction.

Undead emerged from every direction.

They rose from cracked ground, clawed their way out of bone-filled marshes, poured down from elevated ruins, and streamed in from distant ridges like a pale flood. Numbers meant nothing here. The shadow wolves adapted instantly, splitting and regrouping with flawless coordination. Some wolves charged forward to erase incoming waves, while others swept the flanks, ensuring nothing slipped through.

It felt less like a battle, and more like harvesting.

The undead tried to swarm. Tried to overwhelm through sheer quantity. Tried to drown the land in bone and rusted weapons.

It failed.

Again and again.

Bruce’s presence weighed on the dungeon world itself. Even without actively exerting pressure, the land felt subdued, its mana currents sluggish and distorted, as though the dungeon instinctively understood that something far beyond its control had entered its domain.

Then the revivals began again.

Behind him, shattered bones trembled across the terrain.

Fragments slid over cracked stone and ash-covered ground, pulled together by unseen forces. Skulls rolled uphill against gravity. Spines reassembled piece by piece. Limbs snapped back into place with disturbing precision as hollow mana surged through reconstructed frames.

The undead stood again.

Bruce sensed it but didn’t look back.

“Pointless,” he murmured quietly.

He released more shadow wolves to hold the line behind and kept moving. The wolves in the front kept forcing, smashing, clearing their way forward.

Some revived skeletons staggered to attack Bruce from behind, the Wolves Bruce ordered to hold the line moved and the undeads were torn apart again without mercy. Some were destroyed multiple times, rebuilt, shattered, rebuilt, shattered, each cycle ending as quickly as the last.

It didn’t slow them down.

If anything, the wolves seemed to grow more fluid, more refined. Their movements became cleaner, sharper, as if the endless slaughter was nothing more than sustained training. Shadowy auras thickened around their bodies, coiling like living smoke as they advanced across the land.

They crossed ruined districts filled with collapsed bone towers. Vast plains littered with remains. Hollow valleys where undead poured in from every direction, only to be erased moments later. The scale of the dungeon became clearer the deeper they went. It was a world designed to drown intruders in attrition.

Bruce ignored it.

Elite undead appeared again, larger frames, denser bones, faint runic patterns glowing along their spines and skulls. Some wielded massive bone cleavers, others carried jagged spears reinforced with dark mana, their presence clearly superior to the fodder they replaced.

The wolves met them head-on.

A reinforced skeleton raised its shield just in time to intercept a charging wolf.

The shield shattered on impact.

The wolf’s claws punched through both shield and torso, tearing the elite undead apart in one fluid motion. Another elite swung a heavy cleaver with brutal force, only for a shadow wolf to snap its jaws shut around the weapon arm, rip it free, and crush the skull under a single paw.

The difference in power was absolute.

Bruce observed calmly, awareness already stretched far ahead, probing deep into the dungeon world. Something was wrong, not the revivals, not the numbers.

Something deeper.

The mana ahead was twisted, agitated in a way that went beyond simple necromancy. There was instability in the flow, layered with something sharp, volatile, and painfully familiar.

He continued forward.

The terrain shifted again, opening into a vast expanse where the sky above the dungeon world darkened unnaturally. The undead density thinned, not because there were fewer of them, but because something ahead was drawing everything toward it.

Then.

Bruce slowed.

The shadow wolves halted instantly, spreading out around him in a wide perimeter.

Ahead, the dungeon world opened further, the land sloping downward toward a distant region saturated with violent mana. A strange, eerie shriek echoed intermittently across the open space, high-pitched, distorted, carrying pain, rage, and something dangerously unstable.

It cut through the constant noise of destruction and shadow like a blade.

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly.

That mana.

That presence.

His breath caught for half a second.

One word escaped his lips, quiet but heavy.

“Sophie…”

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