Chapter 65: [FINAL STAND]

“Are you crazy?”

Caelen’s voice cracked like a whip through the dust-choked chamber, molten veins searing brighter across his fissured skin.

His usual sharp grin was gone, carved into a grim, hard line—as though Eli had just demanded he slit his own throat.

Eli’s lips trembled once, but then pressed into a thin, stubborn curve. “Yes. I mean… no?”

The word left him steady, firmer than he felt. His ribs still ached with every breath, his legs quivered like brittle glass, his lungs burned like hot coal—yet his voice refused to betray it.

For a beat, silence hung thick between them. The priest loomed above, its titanic form unmoving, rosary beads swaying slow and steady like a pendulum of death.

Watching. Waiting.

’I don’t get why he’s acting like this is reckless. He hasn’t exactly been worried about my safety this whole time. He literally threw a dagger at me.’ Eli’s jaw tightened, bitterness flaring. ’And it was his brilliant idea to make me bait in the first place. This is basically the same thing—just with more steps.’

Caelen finally exhaled, a low hiss between grit teeth, molten eyes narrowing. “You’re really not like your file at all.” His voice dripped suspicion, sharp enough to cut. “Are you actually suicidal?”

Eli’s chest jolted—but his face stayed calm. He wasn’t about to remind Caelen that joining him in this dungeon had already been suicide.

Two hunters, against a boss in what’s supposed to be an A-Class gate? Madness from the start.

’Also, what is it with S-Class hunters and calling me suicidal?’

“Maybe,” Eli said instead, his voice even. His gaze flicked up at Caelen. “But you’re not like you seem from your interviews or raid videos either.”

That hit. Caelen stilled. The molten fissures across his skin pulsed faintly—hesitation, like a vein of magma waiting to erupt.

Then a laugh slipped free. Rough, humorless, edged with something darker. “Hah. You’ve got more bite than I thought.” His head tilted, his grin returning—sharp, dangerous. “But you’re right. Still…” his molten eyes bored into Eli, unblinking. “You haven’t seen everything yet.”

Eli’s brows furrowed. His throat dried. “…I don’t think I want to?”

Caelen’s smirk curved deeper, but his voice dropped low, dark—like a secret whispered at the edge of a blade. “Oh, you definitely don’t. And if you ever do—” His gaze locked, molten gold piercing straight into yellow. “—I’ll have to kill you.”

A chill swept Eli’s spine. This wasn’t his Danger Detection. This was something else. Instinct. Certainty.

Caelen wasn’t bluffing.

But Eli didn’t flinch. His lips pressed thinner, his voice cut iron. “Then let’s finish this now. Before we run out of time.” He inhaled sharp, ragged. “There’s a three-second delay. After every swing. That’s our window. If we time it right, you won’t get injured again. And we’ll guarantee victory. I can handle this.”

The chamber seemed to still.

Caelen watched him—silent, gaze weighing him like a scale. The air vibrated with molten tension, the priest’s shadow hanging heavy above.

Then Caelen sighed, a slow roll of his shoulders loosening muscle and tension alike. His glow dimmed, settling into something resolute.

“Fine.” He extended his weapon. “Then take this.”

Eli froze. His heart stuttered in his chest as the blade came closer.

An S-Class weapon. Forged only for Caelen. A blade birthed from materials dragged out of nightmare dungeons. The kind of weapon hunters wrote legends about.

His hand trembled as he reached for it. The moment his fingers curled around the hilt—

CRACK.

His knees nearly buckled. The weight was crushing. More than steel, more than stone—it was like trying to hold the density of a mountain compressed into a single edge.

His wrist shook violently, the weight dragging his arm toward the ground as if to snap bone in half.

“Tch.” Caelen’s brows knitted instantly, molten eyes narrowing. His voice cut sharp. “Careful. You’ll break your arm before you even swing it.”

Eli gritted his teeth, muscles burning as he shifted both hands onto the hilt. His shoulders screamed under the strain, tendons pulled taut like wire ready to snap. But slowly, painfully, he forced it steady.

“I can handle it,” Eli rasped, sweat cutting lines through dust caked on his face. His yellow eyes blazed sharp, unyielding. “I have to.”

Caelen didn’t blink. He didn’t even look at Eli. His molten gaze stayed locked on the weapon in Eli’s trembling grip.

Then—his lips tugged upward, into that same sharp-edged smirk. Half amused. Half cruel. “I wasn’t worried about you.” His voice dropped smooth, teasing, molten light flaring faint across his jaw. “I was worried the sword would break after falling out of your slender arms.”

Eli’s jaw dropped. His grip faltered for a second.

’Is he actually serious right now—you know what, never mind.’

He dragged a ragged breath into his lungs, steadying both the weight of the blade and the fire rising in his chest.

The priest’s shadow shifted above them. The rosary swayed. The countdown ticked.

Eli clenched his jaw, lifting the sword higher despite the burn shredding through his muscles.

“Then let’s end this.”

Caelen gave a single, sharp nod before turning on his heel. His molten cracks glowed faintly as he strode away, boots grinding through rubble and powdered stone.

His back was broad, unyielding, carrying a steady confidence as he walked straight toward the ruined entrance of the priest’s chamber.

Each step echoed—through shattered gargoyle husks, through the splintered remains of walls. He didn’t glance back.

He didn’t need to.

Eli’s chest tightened.

His fingers clenched harder around the hilt of Caelen’s sword, veins straining in his arms as the absurd weight threatened to drag him down.

His muscles trembled, sweat trickling down his temple.

Still, he pulled his shoulders square and forced his legs forward, each step echoing with stubborn resolve.

The priest towered above, its face frozen in that grotesque smile, eyes fixed solely on him. The rosary swayed lazily in its hand, each bead large enough to crush his body whole.

The plan was simple.

Eli would draw it. His mind would focus on it, taunt it, make it swing both arms at him—weapon and bare hand alike.

That way, Caelen didn’t need to divide his attention anymore.

He could conserve every drop of his burning power until a single, perfect moment came—the instant he could detonate his golden Aurora Drive and tear the priest apart.

But for that to happen… Eli had to survive.

He had to keep both hands locked on him.

’It’s insane. I can barely dodge one of its swings, and now I’m baiting both?’ His grip whitened around the blade, sweat slick against steel. ’But if I hesitate, Caelen won’t have the chance. This is the final stand. No more gargoyles. No more stalling. Either we end this here… or we die here.’

His breath shuddered out, chest heaving. He lifted the blade higher, dragging it into position.

“Alright,” he muttered under his breath, eyes burning upward at the priest. “Come at me.”

The smile on the priest’s stone-carved face stretched, as if answering his challenge.

Its rosary shifted. Beads clinked together like chains rattling from hell.

Eli’s heart lurched. His Danger Detection screamed.

And still, he planted his foot forward.

’God, if I die again, I swear, I’m seriously going to have some words with you.’

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