Steadily Upgrading Everything!

Clark saw the unshakable seriousness in her eyes, the heavy killing intent rolling off her like a stormfront, and his jaw tightened until it ached.

Different scenarios flashed through his mind like lightning, each ending in blood, most of it theirs.

"I am with you."

The sudden voice from behind broke his thoughts, and he turned just in time to see John stepping forward toward Benneca, his expression unreadable.

Without hesitation, John tossed his sword back into his Spatial bag, the metallic gleam vanishing as if sealing away his intent to fight.

He wasn't an idiot.

The pressure radiating from Benneca was suffocating.

Peak of the Spirit Tree Realm.

A gap like the heavens separated them from her.

John knew it was suicide to resist. Even if he and Clark fought side by side, it would be like throwing dry twigs into a roaring wildfire, only fuel for their own destruction.

Joining her wasn't betrayal in his mind; it was survival.

If aligning himself with her meant living to see another sunrise, then so be it.

At least for now.

A flicker of guilt stirred in his chest, but it was quickly smothered by the primal instinct to live.

Clark had his pride, but John had no intention of dying for it.

If Clark refused to bend, John wouldn't strike him down, but he wouldn't protect him either.

Clark's eyes darted between John and Benneca.

The grim reality was impossible to ignore.

With a bitter snort, he spat onto the cold stone floor and shoved his sword back into its sheath.

"Fine," he grunted, forcing his back straight.

Seeing their surrender, Benneca's expression didn't shift in triumph or relief; it was as plain and detached as ever.

Without a word, she slid her dagger away and reached for the black crown.

Its surface pulsed faintly, the metal cold and almost… alive.

She placed it on her head, and for an instant, the air thickened as if the entire chamber recognized its new ruler.

"Tell him the chant," she ordered, her voice still as flat as a blade's edge.

Clark's jaw worked silently for a moment before he pulled out a small white slip and handed it to John.

Unfolding it, John's eyes ran over the inked characters, a chant, written in tight, deliberate strokes.

"In a moment, I will go and sit on that throne," Benneca said, her gaze shifting between them. "When I do, the two of you will recite this. Again. And again. If either of you stops midway…" She let the sentence trail off, her tone colder than before. "I will kill him. Treason or not. Understood?"

John took in a slow breath and let a faint, almost playful smile curl his lips. "Sure."

But inside, his thoughts were a tangled storm.

He was already running through plans, half-formed ideas, desperate contingencies.

His priority hadn't changed since the moment he walked into this cursed place.

Get out alive, no matter the cost.

After John memorized the chant, Benneca slowly stepped forward toward the throne, each step deliberate and unhurried, as though she were treading upon sacred ground.

There was a strange stiffness in her movements, hesitation, almost as if, for the first time in her life, she feared what lay ahead.

The golden throne loomed before her, radiant under the dim light, its intricate carvings catching the faint glimmer of the chamber's torches.

She stopped just short of it and stared for several long seconds, her expression shifting in ways John had never seen before.

The cold, calculating mask she always wore cracked, and something raw seeped through, longing.

It was the kind of yearning that looked as though it had been buried for centuries, finally clawing its way to the surface.

She reached out and let her fingertips graze the throne's armrest, tracing the delicate engravings as though they were old friends.

Her touch lingered, reverent, trembling almost imperceptibly.

John frowned.

Since the moment he had met Benneca, she had been a fortress, unyielding, untouchable, impossible to read.

But now… now she looked human.

Vulnerable, even. For her to drop her guard like this, the throne must have meant more to her than he could have imagined.

Across from him, Clark's eyes burned, not with curiosity, but with pure, undiluted hatred.

His jaw tightened so hard it looked as though his teeth might shatter.

His fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

The anger radiating off him was palpable, almost choking.

John glanced at Clark and felt a stab of guilt twist in his chest.

He hadn't wanted this, not the betrayal, not the shame.

Clark had trusted him, had even given him his Silent Sword… and now, here he was, standing on the opposite side.

But what choice did he have?

Quietly, he stepped closer to Clark and lowered his voice. "I'm sorry, Clark. I didn't want to betray you. But you and I both know we wouldn't last three breaths against her. This… this is the only way I make it out alive."

Clark turned his head slowly, meeting John's eyes.

His expression was a tangle of emotions, disappointment, anger, a trace of hurt, but no surprise.

He studied John for a moment, as if weighing every word he was about to say.

"You're new to the Silent Swords," Clark said finally, his tone cold but steady. "So maybe I can forgive you for not having the courage to die for your clanmates. But you should have had the courage to die for a friend. There's no honor in living as a traitor, John. Better to die loyal than breathe as a coward."

John held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

The words struck deep, but they didn't change the calculation in his mind.

He understood Clark's anger, understood it perfectly… but for him, in this moment, survival outweighed loyalty.

And no matter how much it shamed him, he couldn't deny that truth.

"Get ready." Benneca's sharp gaze swept over the two of them as she turned around, her long coat swaying slightly with the movement.

She drew in a slow, deep breath, as if tasting the air of the grand hall, and then a wide, confident smile curled across her lips. "Don't mess this up."

With deliberate elegance, she bent her knees and lowered herself onto the golden throne.

Her movements were precise, graceful, every gesture radiated the aura of a royal queen returning to her rightful seat.

She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back slightly, her head tilting as if she were already looking down on her subjects from a position of absolute authority.

Her posture was flawless, almost intimidating in its poise.

A faint gleam flashed in her eyes before she nodded toward them. "Begin. And don't stop midway," she instructed, her voice low yet commanding.

She was speaking of the chant, and the seriousness in her tone left no doubt, she wanted them to finish it no matter what happened.

Clark let out a cold snort, clearly irritated by her commanding tone.

His jaw tightened, but after a brief moment, he inhaled deeply and began chanting. It was a bitter irony, just moments ago, he had been preaching to John about dying for a friend, about loyalty above life itself.

Yet here he was, cooperating with the very woman he despised.

John glanced at Clark but didn't speak. He had known men like Clark before, brave in words when death seemed distant, but quick to yield when it came too close.

Clark was willing to die if John stood beside him, but dying alone? That was another matter entirely.

The chant itself was strange, foreign to John's ears.

It was only two short lines, easy to memorize, and before long, the two of them were reciting it together in perfect unison.

Almost immediately, the torches lining the vast hall began to flicker violently, casting distorted shadows that crawled across the walls like writhing serpents.

The air grew thick, heavy, and unnervingly warm, carrying with it a metallic tang that clung to the tongue.

The atmosphere darkened until everything around them seemed steeped in a deep, blood-red glow.

John's pulse quickened.

He didn't know where the light was coming from, whether it seeped from the walls, the floor, or the very air itself, but he didn't care.

His only thought was that he needed to get out of this place alive.

"Shina... Blu... Hazalt... Demon... King... Throne... Hazalt... Awaken..."

Their voices echoed together, blending into a rhythm that seemed to pulse through the stone beneath their feet.

Then, without warning, the ground before the throne cracked open.

A massive, ethereal hand emerged from the split earth, a skeletal hand of deep crimson bone, each finger the length of a spear, its palm easily eight feet across.

The hand drifted upward, slow yet deliberate, until it loomed over Benneca like a predator assessing its prey.

Then, in an almost gentle motion, it lowered and touched the top of her head.

The moment contact was made, a shower of red particles burst into the air around her, falling like a grotesque blood-rain. Benneca's confident expression faltered, replaced by a sudden grimace of pain.

Her body trembled, her fingers curling tightly against the armrests of the throne.

Clark's eyes widened, and in that instant, something inside him snapped.

He cut off the chant mid-phrase, his voice falling silent.

Without hesitation, he ripped his sword from its sheath, the metal singing as it left the scabbard, and charged toward her.

"Die, you bitch!" he roared, fury and defiance burning in his eyes. "How dare you think I would cooperate with you?!"

.