I Ascend Alone-Chapter 94: SSS-Rank Dungeon Part XVI

My fingers dug deep into the jagged abyssal cleaver. The moment I caught Tharog's weapon mid-swing, the entire dungeon seemed to stutter. The shadows screamed around us.

The force behind that blow could've split mountains. But I didn't budge.

Korthar came charging again from the front, molten fist cocked back, eyes ablaze with hatred and disbelief. Just as he closed in—

"Wrong move." I pivoted.

With a feral roar, I swung Tharog's own blade—still in my grasp—sideways in one violent arc.

Korthar's eyes widened too late.

CRACK!

The impact collided cleanly with his chest, like a meteor slam from hell. Bones snapped. Flames exploded. His body lifted from the ground like a ragdoll and hurled across the battlefield—crashing through a wall of abyssal crystal with enough force to cause a miniature quake.

BOOOOOOM!

Dust and debris billowed up. The crater left behind hissed with evaporating heat, glowing embers falling like hellish snow.

Even Tharog reeled slightly—his stance shifting from the recoil of my counterattack. His red, burning visor tilted toward me as if reevaluating everything he thought he knew about the fight.

I didn't let go of the cleaver. I tore it from his hands.

"Not so heavy," I growled, gripping the corrupted slab of steel with one hand. My shadow-covered fingers absorbing its shrieking corruption. "You just didn't know how to use it."

Maerion reappeared again from the haze, arms spread wide. Chains lashed toward me like vipers—but Fenrir intercepted them mid-air, leaping between us and tearing them apart with a sonic howl that shattered nearby stone.

Behind him, Dusk Reaver danced through enemies like a death wind, black tendrils coating his sword as he clashed with Tharog in a brutal one-on-one.

The six Elite Orcs rushed past me, hounding the stunned Korthar, blades rising high. Their chants echoed like war drums, fueled by vengeance and loyalty to the Shadow.

I exhaled slowly.

Then twirled Tharog's own massive blade, now crackling with abyssal energy corrupted by my presence.

"I could get used to this."

From my vantage, I saw it all—Raiden launching bolts of thunder through summoned constructs, Ji Seong-Ho cleaving two abyssal beasts with blinding speed, Gabriel hovering in the air, arms glowing with radiant glyphs as he conjured a binding spell that bent the terrain itself.

Alexander Graves stood in the frontline, fists covered in molten earth, holding back another mutated beast that emerged from a rift wall.

They were still pushing forward.

The battlefield raged like a storm of shadows and steel.

Thunder roared from Raiden's strikes, his constructs blinking in and out of existence as they tore into abyssal creatures with calculated precision.

Ji Seong-Ho blurred between enemies, his movement an elegant blur of martial grace and death, leaving nothing but bisected corpses in his wake.

High above, Gabriel Dela Cruz's radiant magic glowed like a second sun, his runes reshaping the terrain—gravity twisted, time staggered—while massive lances of light impaled the hulking abyssal spawn below.

On the ground, Alexander Graves remained an immovable fortress. Another S-rank abyssal creature lunged at him, its claws glowing with sickly green corruption—but Alex met it head-on, fists glowing with seismic force.

With one brutal uppercut, he shattered the beast's jaw, the ground around them splintering like fragile glass.

The national-level hunters were holding the frontline, and they were winning.

Farther back in the dungeon's midline, I fought through the keepers—the elite guard stationed before the final throne.

My summoned forces swarmed the battlefield with precision. Fenrir and Dusk Reaver clashed side by side, one a storm of primal fury, the other a blade dancing through shadows.

The six Elite Orcs screamed war cries as they overran the disoriented Korthar, blades cutting deep into his molten flesh.

Maerion had vanished again, weaving illusions and chains from afar—but my senses, sharpened by Phantom Tyrant, were locked onto his movement. He wouldn't get far.

Tharog roared, lunging for me, his jagged gauntlets glowing with molten fury. Chains snapped around us from every direction—Maerion's illusions warping the battlefield like a maze of shifting steel and shadow.

And from the front, Korthar rose again, flame pouring from the fractures in his armor, a twisted juggernaut of molten hatred.

I held Tharog's cleaver in my grip, its corrupted edge shrieking under the pressure of my will. The shadows swirled tighter around me like a storm on the edge of breaking.

"Fenrir," I commanded silently, "support the others. Aid Leon and the S-Ranks. This is mine."

The warhound responded with a rumble of agreement—then vanished into a streak of dark lightning, leaping toward the S-Rank line. Dusk Reaver followed in his wake, slicing down another Abyssal spawn as he faded into the fray.

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My six Elite Orcs let out guttural war cries, forming a wedge and surging after them—where Raiden, Gabriel, Ji Seong-Ho, and the others were locked in battle against swarms of abyssal creatures pouring from the walls and rifts.

Chains laced with illusion and silence spiraled in from above, each one threading impossible angles—meant to bind not just body, but thought.

But Phantom Tyrant surged through my veins.

I blurred between the lines of his attack, stepping through shadow and sound, eyes locked onto Maerion's flickering form. My cleaver met his threads midair—SNAP-SNAP-SNAP!—cutting them like rotted silk.

But that second of distraction was all Tharog needed.

BOOM!

He was on me, swinging a burning hammerfist down with both arms. I brought the cleaver up—

CLAAAANG!!

The shockwave ruptured the ground beneath us. Tharog's raw power buckled the terrain, the impact forming a shallow crater—but I held. My knees bent. My strength roared back through the corrupted steel.

"I said—" I growled, eyes flaring with abyssal fire, "—this blade's mine now!"

I pivoted, wrenching the cleaver sideways—its edge screaming as it bit into Tharog's side. Lava-spattered ichor sprayed across the battlefield. He staggered back, bellowing in pain.

And then, Korthar charged from the front, body wreathed in fire, one molten arm pulled back for a punishing haymaker.

I didn't dodge.

Instead, I opened my palm and activated a buried thread of the System—

"Abyss Monarch's Authority: Bind."