Chapter 184: Dren’s Reality

The night air tore past them as Zane and Mira sprinted across the rooftops, boots striking stone in rapid rhythm. Below, the industrial district sprawled like a maze of iron and shadow—chimneys breathing smoke, mana-lamps flickering like nervous eyes.

Zane suddenly slowed, his gaze lifting.

“Hm… that’s—”

Mira turned toward him mid-run. “What happened, Professor Zane? Do you sense some—”

She froze.

A pressure slammed into her senses.

Not hostile. Not violent.

But enormous.

A white pulse of mana surged across the sky from somewhere ahead, washing over the rooftops like a silent tide. It passed through them without harm, yet Mira’s legs nearly gave out as her instincts screamed.

“W-what… is that…?” she whispered, breath unsteady.

Zane’s eyes narrowed, the faintest edge of seriousness replacing his usual ease.

“That was Grom,” he said. “And he’s in trouble.”

Before Mira could respond, Zane stepped in close and lifted her effortlessly.

“W—what—?!”

“Hold on.”

The world lurched.

Mana folded inward, space compressing for a fraction of a second—and then the rooftops vanished.

Both of them disappeared into the night.

Sometime before,

Grom stood at the entrance of the abandoned warehouse, hammer heavy in his grip. The structure loomed like a carcass of rusted steel and broken beams, mana-lamps long dead, the air thick with oil, dust, and something fouler beneath it all.

He stepped inside.

Darkness swallowed him.

Then—movement.

At the center of the warehouse stood two figures. One was a masked warrior, posture low and tense, holding a familiar black box in both hands. The other stood calmly before him, reaching out to take it.

Muddy pink hair. Pale skin. That same unsettling calm.

Grom’s breath hitched.

“…Dren.”

The name echoed through the hollow space.

Dren turned slowly, the corners of his lips lifting into a smile that felt rehearsed.

“Welcome back, Master,” he said lightly. “How was your little trip?”

The masked man placed the box into Dren’s hands and, without a word, melted backward into the shadows. One blink—and he was gone.

Grom’s grip tightened around his hammer.

“Stop bullshitting me,” he growled. “I know everything. The Heart. Your research. The theft. You did this.”

Dren glanced down at the box, then back up, amused.

“Oh?” he said. “Who told you, I wonder? That man Zane… or that bitch Mira?”

“DREN!” Grom roared, mana flaring violently around him.

Dren’s smile vanished.

“Or what, old man?” he snapped. “What are you going to do now?”

Grom stared at him, disbelief and fury twisting together in his chest.

“What happened to you?” he demanded. “Why did you become like this?”

Dren laughed—a sharp, hollow sound.

“Me?” he said. “No, Master. What happened to you?”

He stepped forward, eyes burning.

“You were my ideal. Cold. Brilliant. Ruthless. You worked for dwarves and beastmen first—always. You didn’t care about morality, or ’safety,’ or playing nice with other kingdoms. You were the greatest inventor Gravundar ever had.”

His voice shook with something raw.

“And then you created it. The ultimate artifact. The Heart of the Deep Forge.”

Grom flinched.

“And then,” Dren continued, “you became soft. You sealed it. You started talking about ’danger’ and ’responsibility.’ You stopped making weapons that could change the world.”

Grom shook his head. “That heart is unstable,” he said. “It can destroy this kingdom. Why can’t you understand that?”

Dren’s eyes darkened.

“No,” he said quietly. “What I can’t understand… is why you were too afraid to finish what you started.”

Dren spread his arms slightly, the white barrier shimmering before him like a mockery of fragility.

The hammer struck it head-on.

Clang—

The impact rang through the warehouse, metal screaming against something that should not have existed. The force rippled outward, dust and rust cascading from the rafters—yet the barrier didn’t even crack. It absorbed the blow as if swallowing it, the light along its surface pulsing once before settling again.

Grom’s eyes widened.

“That barrier…” he growled. “You’re already using it.”

Dren smiled, slow and proud, lifting the device higher so the glow bathed his face in gold and white. The artifact hovered beside him, its inner core spinning steadily, pressure rings grinding against one another as if forging reality itself.

“The Heart,” Dren said softly. “Or at least… the first step toward its completion.”

Grom lunged again, hammer flashing in a brutal arc. Another strike. Another thunderous impact.

The barrier held.

Mana surged violently from the Heart of the Deep Forge, flooding the space with crushing pressure. The air itself vibrated, making Grom’s bones ache and his teeth grind.

“This thing is drawing directly from its own output,” Grom said through clenched teeth. “You’re feeding the shield with infinite mana. You’re insane!”

Dren laughed.

“No,” he corrected. “I’m efficient.”

He took a step forward. The barrier moved with him, perfectly synchronized, the molten-orange runes flaring brighter as the pressure increased.

“You always stopped at theory,” Dren continued. “Always afraid of the consequences. You built a god-forged item… and then locked it away like a scared child.”

Grom’s aura flared, veins standing out along his arms as he forced more power into his muscles.

“You think this won’t destroy you?” he shouted. “That thing will tear your body apart! Even now it is tearing itself!”

Dren’s eyes flickered—just for an instant.

Then he smiled wider.

“That’s why I needed something extra,” he said. “A stabilizer. A medium that can exist between solid and liquid. Between chaos and form.”

Grom’s blood ran cold.

“…The Dawnveil Crest.”

Dren nodded slowly.

“You see?” he said. “You taught me well, Master. Light solidification. Adaptive resonance. A perfect counterbalance to infinite pressure.”

He extended a hand toward Grom, palm open.

“So now,” Dren said calmly, “do the right thing.”

The Heart pulsed.

“Give me what’s mine.”

Before another word could be spoken—

The air folded.

Space warped with a soft crack, and two figures emerged as if stepping out of thin glass.

Mira staggered forward first.

“—Master?!”

Her voice echoed through the warehouse.

Grom turned sharply, eyes widening. “Mira…? Why are you—”

Then he saw Zane.

Standing calmly beside her, coat fluttering faintly in the residual mana pressure, eyes fixed not on Dren—but on the artifact hovering in his hand.

Zane’s gaze narrowed.

“So this is it,” he said quietly. “The Heart of the Deep Forge.”

The moment his words landed, the pressure in the warehouse shifted.

Dren’s smile stiffened for a fraction of a second before widening again.

“Oh?” he said lightly. “More guests arrived already?”

His eyes flicked to Mira, amusement dancing in them.

Then to Zane—careful now. Measuring.

Mira took a step toward Grom, eyes darting between the glowing artifact and Dren’s face.

“Dren…” she whispered. “What are you doing…?”

Grom clenched his fist. “Mira, stay back—!”

Dren raised a hand, the Heart responding instantly. The thin white barrier expanded slightly, its surface rippling as infinite mana flowed through it like a living tide.

“Relax, Master,” Dren said smoothly. “No need to shout in front of guests.”

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