Tyrant's return: Reborn as a Good-For-Nothing Young Master

Finally, after checking on the rest of the dungeon and giving Nedrax a few more instructions—mostly about keeping the other summons from killing each other—Fenrir returned to the boss arena.

The system prompt was still waiting.

[Proceed to Floor 10?]

This time, he didn't hesitate.

"Let's see what kind of mess you've made, Zelphra."

He stepped forward.

The air shifted the moment his foot touched Floor 10.

A wave of energy rippled through him—dense, familiar, and impossibly potent. He stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing as he let the sensation wash over him.

It was his energy.

Mana signatures, deeply woven into the very floor itself. This wasn't some random battlefield. This was a place that had been touched—scarred—by his power once before.

"Nostalgic."

He muttered.

It wasn't just the mana. It was the silence. The stillness. Like the entire floor was holding its breath, aware that a ghost from the past had returned.

His ghost.

The wind whispered through the broken ruins scattered at the edge of the arrival zone. Old, ruined buildings—remnants of battles fought long ago.

Maybe by him. Maybe not. But this place remembered him.

And now it welcomed him back.

Fenrir's lips curved into a crooked smile.

'Finally, I can feel my power.'

______

Lady Zelphra stood alone in the courtyard of her estate, the edge of her blade shimmering as it cut through the air with graceful precision.

Her breath was calm, measured, in sync with the rhythm of her strikes. Every movement flowed into the next—a dance of discipline and cold elegance.

Then she stopped.

Her blade froze mid-swing.

A subtle tremor passed through the ground, almost imperceptible, but to someone like her, it was unmistakable.

A shift in the tower's energy. A disturbance on her floor. Her hand clenched the hilt of her sword a little tighter as her brows drew together.

"…Someone's here."

She didn't know how she knew it, but she did. Like a sixth sense whispering a truth directly into her bones. Something—or someone—terrifying had arrived.

Before she could process it fully, hurried footsteps approached.

"Lady Zelphra!"

She turned her head slightly as a young aide rushed toward her, out of breath and pale-faced.

"You have a high-priority call coming in. It's… urgent."

The woman said.

Zelphra sheathed her blade with a quiet shnk and headed inside without a word.

The communication chamber was already active, the large crystal screen glowing with a faint blue hue.

On the other side, a man in official uniform appeared—his face paler than usual, lips tight with unease.

"Report."

Zelphra said, arms folded.

"My lady. We've lost all contact with Floor 9."

The man said, swallowing hard.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Be specific."

"We… We went to confirm the energy signature of the boss arena. Penelopy's presence is gone. Completely gone."

The room was quiet for a moment.

Zelphra's lips parted slightly in surprise. Then her brows furrowed.

"Gone?"

"Yes. The arena is wrecked. There's no mana trace we can track. It's as if she was never there at all."

The aide's voice trembled.

"W-We think she's been removed from the system entirely."

Zelphra closed her eyes briefly and exhaled. That strange shift she'd felt earlier—it made sense now. That surge of foreign mana, the way her own floor had started to respond as if anticipating a predator.

So… Penelopy was truly gone.

"Don't panic. I'll report this to the higher-ups personally. Maintain internal order on your end. If there are any other disturbances, notify me immediately."

Zelphra said smoothly, keeping her tone calm.

The subordinate bowed quickly, clearly relieved.

"Y-Yes, Lady Zelphra."

The call ended.

She stood alone in the silence again, staring at the now-dormant screen.

'So… the ghost finally moves.'

She reached out to activate a second terminal to contact the higher authorities.

But before her fingers could touch it, something shifted inside her.

Her spine stiffened. The air around her trembled slightly.

'No… not again.'

Zelphra turned sharply, her eyes narrowing as the room around her flickered with stray tendrils of red and silver light—her unique power trying to escape containment.

It swirled chaotically, forming cracks in the invisible seal she had long ago placed around it.

She clenched her jaw and thrust her hand forward.

"I said—stay."

A pulse of willpower surged from her body, suppressing the energy with force. The tendrils shuddered and resisted, coiling around her wrist, her throat, her spine.

Her vision dimmed slightly as her body strained to suppress it.

"You belong to me. You don't get to run. Not now. Not because of someone else."

She whispered.

The power snarled inside her. Not with words, but with instinct—a raw, ancient refusal.

But Zelphra didn't flinch. She poured her will into the chains she had bound around the core of that power, reinforcing every link, crushing its rebellious flickers back into silence.

"Don't forget. I'm the one who tamed you."

She hissed.

The lights finally flickered out.

The room went still.

She was breathing heavier now, strands of hair clinging to her temple, her gloved fingers trembling faintly. But her face—her face remained composed.

Zelphra stood tall.

The storm had arrived, yes. It was clawing at her gates, howling across the tower like an omen. Fenrir Black had reached Floor 10.

But she wouldn't bow.

Not to him. Not to the past. And certainly not to the monster she had imprisoned within herself.

With a cold breath, she adjusted her collar and smoothed her coat. Then she walked to the tall windows overlooking the city of Floor 10—still beautiful, still calm.

"Come then. Let's see if the storm still remembers who ruled this place."

She whispered.

Zelphra stood at the entrance of her estate, her long coat fluttering in the wind. She turned slightly toward the aide beside her and said in a calm, firm tone.

"I'm going into town. Don't contact me unless it's an emergency."

The young woman blinked, startled.

"My lady…?"

Before she could say anything more, her personal guard, a tall man clad in dark armor, stepped forward with alarm in his voice.

"Lady Zelphra, forgive me, but that's not safe. The situation on Floor 9 is unstable, and we still don't know who or what caused it. Going out alone is—"

"I wasn't asking for your opinion. I said only contact me if there's an emergency. I won't be long."

Zelphra cut in, her eyes sharp.

The guard clenched his fists.

"Then at least allow an escort—"

"No. I need to clear my head. Alone."

Her voice was final.

Without waiting for further protests, Zelphra stepped out onto the marble path that led to the main streets of Floor 10.

Her boots clicked with precision, but her thoughts were anything but orderly. She wasn't afraid of what was out there.

What troubled her was inside—that stubborn, thrashing power, and the echo of a name she hadn't heard in years.

She needed the noise of the city. She needed distance from herself.

As she descended into the bustling heart of the town, the vibrant sounds of daily life washed over her—vendors shouting prices, the clang of weapons at the blacksmith's forge, and the chatter of townsfolk.

It was ordinary, chaotic, and exactly what she needed. But even here, amidst the noise and motion, the storm inside her refused to quiet.

The power sealed within her pulsed violently again, like it recognized something—or someone—drawing near.

Zelphra inhaled slowly, forcing composure.

'Not yet. I will keep it under control. I always have.'

She told herself.

But deep down, she wasn't so sure anymore.