Chapter 18
The heroes reached the Red-Hot Hell with the same terrifying ease they’d used to kill Makkura.
I had expected the first floor to slow them down.
That was my mistake.
The moment they entered the second floor, they paused just long enough to assess the environment. The red glow of magma channels flickered across their armor. Heat shimmered around the walls. The air was thick enough to feel.
A normal party would have hesitated.
These people just adjusted their gear.
“Fire floor,” one of them said.
“Obvious,” replied another.
One of the rear casters lifted a hand, and a thin barrier of cool mist formed around the group, keeping the worst of the heat from touching them directly. Another hero drew a charm from his belt and crushed it in his fist. A faint golden sheen spread over their armor, dulling the effect of heat and pressure.
I actually felt my soul—if I still had one—sink.
They knew how to prepare.
They knew what they were doing.
The first room contained red slimes.
The heroes cut through them in a blur of movement.
I didn’t even get the satisfaction of watching them panic when the slimes burst into splashes of burning acid. Their formation flexed, each member stepping half a pace to cover the others. One of them used a spear-like spell to pin a slime to the wall while another crushed it with a hammer that glowed white-hot with sanctified energy.
“Why are they so competent?” I muttered.
Ultima answered in the pseudo-calm voice of someone trying not to make things worse. “Because they are likely elite royal-grade heroes from a nation with a dungeon-clearing tradition.”
“That is the least comforting thing anyone has ever said to me.”
They kept going.
Fire jets erupted from carved statues in the corridor. They ducked.
Heat vents burst from the floor. They hopped aside.
A collapsing bridge over a lava channel caved in behind them. They were already across before the center gave way.
I started throwing goblins, pigmen, and fire-resistant monsters at them in layered waves.
They didn’t stop.
One hero took a direct hit from a pigman’s flaming spear and used the momentum to turn the strike into a kill.
Another got surrounded by three goblins and still walked out with only a cut on the cheek.
I had built this floor to be dangerous.
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They treated it like a warm-up exercise.
The worst part was that they weren’t even arrogant.
That would have been easier to hate.
No, they were focused. Calm. Professional. Every time they killed one of my monsters, they immediately checked for the next threat. They never laughed. Never taunted. Never wasted time.
They were here to dismantle my dungeon and move on.
The Red-Hot Hell’s traps activated in sequence.
Flame jets.
Spinning blade discs.
Floor grates opening over magma.
A falling wall of heated stone.
The heroes moved through all of it with barely a pause.
One of them even commented, “This floor’s built for someone who likes theater.”
I almost broke something.
“Master,” Ultima said, “their thermal resistance is extremely high. The heat is not significantly affecting their stamina.”
“Then make it affect them harder.”
“I am sorry, master, but I cannot simply make the dungeon hotter because you are upset.”
“I hate when you’re reasonable.”
They reached the deeper chambers in less than half the time I expected.
I threw my specialized fire monsters at them next: gore trolls with molten blood, pigmen squads, red slimes in the vents, and a pack of fire-attuned hobgoblins.
The heroes actually had to work for a minute.
A minute.
That was it.
One of my goblin sages managed to blind a rear hero long enough for a second goblin to stab him in the side. That was the first real wound they’d taken on the second floor. Another hero got his shoulder burned by a lava splash. A caster lost concentration after a red slime detonated under her boots.
For one glorious moment, I thought I had them.
Then their leader stepped forward and used a holy flare skill that flooded the corridor with such intense light it turned half my monsters into ash.
I felt the damage through the floor like a pressure wave.
Not physical damage.
Humiliation damage.
By the time they reached the second boss room, they were bloodied in the same way a soldier might be bloodied after a training match: minor, controlled, and very much still in command.
They opened the door.
Kuroe was waiting.
If Makkura had been overwhelmed, Kuroe should have at least forced caution.
Instead the heroes simply split into attack lanes and charged.
My elder lich snapped out his staff and called up skeleton reinforcements. A line of flaming bones surged from the floor. Two heroes cut them apart instantly. Kuroe threw layered fire curses at them. A shield-bearing hero walked through the edge of the blast, armor smoking, and slammed his shield into Kuroe’s ribs.
I heard the impact through my link to the dungeon.
Kuroe staggered.
Then three of them were on him.
I felt panic twist through me.
“No, no, no—” I said, already calculating emergency routes.
They were actually going to kill him.
Kuroe summoned skeletal hands from the ground, trying to pin their legs. One hero shattered them with a holy burst. He cast a defensive wall of flame, but they had a water-infused blade that cut through the fire like it was mist. One of them drove a spear into his shoulder joint, and Kuroe screamed.
I froze.
He had never screamed like that before.
Ultima’s voice sharpened. “Master, their combat output exceeds expected parameters for this floor.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I noticed.”
They were close.
Too close.
One more coordinated strike and Kuroe would fall. I could feel the probability crashing around me. The party had identified his casting rhythm, cut off his reinforcement lanes, and were now herding him into a corner.
For the first time, I truly believed I might lose both floors.
Then the arena behind them shuddered.
Makkura’s voice thundered from the doorway.
“GET AWAY FROM THE LICH.”
The heroes turned—
And my second boss crashed into them from the side like an avalanche of blue flame and black scales.