Chapter 12: Journey To The West [3]

I didn’t go back to the Evans estate.

In fact, I never planned to.

The knights were exhausted—wounded in both body and spirit—so I let them return on their own. I handed them a sealed letter to deliver to my father.

In that letter, I wrote that one of our men had died while escorting me to the Draken Duchy, and that I, as the Young Master, had ordered full compensation to be given to the fallen knight’s family.

Yes, you heard right—while escorting me to the Draken Duchy.

Not a word about going outside of the North.

Not a single mention of the snowstorms, the beasts, or the lie I told to escape the duchy.

It was a secret. One that couldn’t reach my father.

That’s why I gave strict orders to the Knight-Captain and the rest of the escort team:

Say nothing about the North. Nothing about the deception. Nothing about what really happened.

And if they decided to open their mouths…

Then they’d face the consequences of disobeying an Evans.

That part was left unsaid. But everyone understood.

After parting ways with them, I only took four knights with me—including the Knight-Captain Darion. The ones I could trust. The ones who knew how to keep their heads down.

And now?

Right now, I’m riding a damn camel through the burning desert.

The West.

Beautiful from afar, brutal up close.

It had been nearly three hours since we entered the edge of the so-called endless desert, the sun hanging like a torch above our heads. My cloak clung to my back, soaked in sweat. The sand beneath us shifted constantly, like it was trying to swallow us whole.

But finally…

Finally, I could see it.

Faint outlines in the distance. A cracked stone pillar jutting from the sand. The tip of what looked like a ruined archway, half-buried by time.

That was it.

The path I’d been searching for.

The route to the artifacts.

“Young Master…” Darion’s voice broke the dry silence beside me, gravelly and tense.

The sand stretched endlessly in every direction, shimmering under the brutal afternoon sun. Darion’s eyes scanned the horizon carefully, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“This part of the desert is dangerous,” he said, narrowing his gaze. “The Sareth Dunes have a bad reputation. Bandits roam freely, and desert wyrms—massive ones—tunnel beneath the sand. You won’t see them coming until it’s too late.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow and readjusted the cloth around my face. Sand had found its way into every fold of my clothes, every corner of our equipment. The wind howled low, carrying both heat and warning.

“Captain,” I said with a half-smile, “don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few ragged bandits and overgrown lizards.”

Darion’s brow twitched at that.

“It’s not just that,” he muttered. “These lands… they’re cursed. Old stories say the dead still walk here. The locals don’t even whisper the name of the dunes at night.”

I chuckled, even if part of me was already regretting this route.

“Come on, Captain. There’s no such thing as walking corpses and ancient curses. That’s just drunk merchant talk to keep kids from wandering too far.”

He didn’t laugh.

I glanced at him again. His hand hadn’t left his weapon.

He meant it.

“There’s truth in some old stories, Young Master,” Darion said, his voice low. “The last patrol we sent through here a year ago vanished. No bodies. No gear. Just gone. And the caravan that followed after swore they heard voices whispering beneath the sand.”

I know what he’s talking about, after all that was one of the challenges that Protagonist’s party face while on the way to get those artifacts and relics.

I know and I wasn’t trying to remember that part, it still gives me creep whenever I thought about that Chapter while playing the game.

But this idiot just mad me remember those creepy secen.

I swallowed hard, looking ahead at the sunburnt ridges and the cracked skeleton of a long-dead tree, half-buried in the dunes.

“Keep your men close,” I said finally. “And double the watch at sundown.”

Darion gave a short nod, his eyes still fixed on the dunes.

—

It’s been few days since we switched the camels and entered the deeper parts of the

Sareth Dunes.

Thanks to my game knowledge, we managed to avoid bandits groups and desert wyrms.

On the way Darion gave me quite suspicious gaze.

Why? Because I was the one guide here and under my guide we were unharmed till now.

He was probably suspicious of how I have such knowledge these parts Sareth Dunes.

But I wasn’t going give him an answer he wants.

Anyway, We finally arrived.

The wind had died down, and the desert had gone eerily quiet—as if even nature was holding its breath.

Before us stood the remnants of an ancient structure, half-swallowed by time and sand. Cracked stone pillars leaned against each other like drunk men, and a broken staircase led down into darkness. You wouldn’t even notice it unless you were looking for it. Which, thankfully, I was.

…And at the same time system notification started to appear before me.

[The Nameless Sovereign’s Rest]

[Long before the rise of the Western Empire, this land was ruled by an ancient people who thrived amidst the unforgiving wilderness.]

[Buried beneath these sands lies their greatest monarch—his name erased by time, his legacy buried in silence.]

[You have discovered the resting place of the Nameless Sovereign. Secrets, trials, and forgotten relics await within.]

[ You have encountered a hidden dungeon — “The Nameless Sovereign’s Rest.”]

It had been a long time since I saw one of these familiar system prompts.

That distinct blue-glow message, floating lightly in the corner of my vision, was a reminder: this world might look like a romance simulation from the surface… but underneath, it was an RPG through and through.

And true to its nature, dungeons like this were scattered all over the continent.

Each one hid relics, rare items, or elixirs that could enhance your strength—tools for the protagonist’s growth arc.

But this one? The Nameless Sovereign’s dungeon wasn’t a turning point for the main story.

It held a solid artifact—useful, but nothing game-breaking.

Which made it perfect.

Because I wasn’t the protagonist.

I was someone who needed any

advantage I could get.

“Young Master—hold up,” Darion said, sharply extending his arm in front of me.

His eyes narrowed as he scanned the path ahead. “Stay behind me. Something’s off.”

I tugged gently on the reins, bringing the camel to a stop.

That’s when I heard it.

Clank. Clank.

The unmistakable rattle of metal against bone.

From behind a jagged sand dune ahead, they emerged—half-buried skeletons wrapped in ancient, torn cloth, wielding rusted weapons that still gleamed with faint malice.

Undead.

A classic signpost for dungeons like this.

“Ambush!” one of the knights shouted, drawing his sword with a sharp ring.

I didn’t hesitate.

“Destroy them all!” I commanded.

With trained precision, the four knights surged forward, blades flashing in the dying sunlight. Sand scattered under their boots as steel clashed with bone. One skeleton’s arm was severed instantly; another shattered under a hammer blow to the skull.

As chaos erupted ahead, I leaned back slightly in my saddle, watching the fight with a calm exterior.

Honestly, moments like these made me appreciate the perks of nobility. One word from me, and trained fighters moved without question.

But I hadn’t brought them here to watch them earn glory.

I had a different plan.

While their swords kept the undead busy, I quietly dismounted.

Dusting the sand from my cloak, I circled around the battlefield, eyes scanning for it—the entrance.

A collapsed mound of stone.

A half-circle formation buried under the sand.

There—at the base of the ruin—was the shadow of an archway, just like in the game.

A hidden stairwell.

This was it.

The entrance to the Nameless Sovereign’s Rest.

I crouched low, heart pounding slightly as the sound of battle echoed behind me. My boots sank into the sand with every step.

Now or never, I thought.

With one last glance over my shoulder, I slipped into the darkness.

Let them handle the skeletons.

I had a tomb to raid.

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