Northern sat on the throne of the Void Palace, leaning on one hand as he observed the dimly lit hall, where the ever-present azure flas danced in their usual silent rhythm.
Beyond the flickering fire stood all his summons.
Night Terror, Black Mamba, Revant, Bairan, Shard Creeper, Light of Featherstone, and the Plague of Blood.
Spirit Linen—the star's apparel—was absent. It had not participated in the battle within the dungeon either.
Northern scrutinized each of them, his gaze sharp and unyielding. He began with Night Terror.
The creature's lustrous black carapace bore crude marks, like the remnants of a vicious blade carving into tal armor. The crimson flas within his four eyes burned dimr than usual—a clear sign of fatigue, the slow process of recovery still consuming him.
Black Mamba, in contrast, had a body that adapted quickly. No visible wounds marred his form, but his right hand was missing. At the severed stump, flickering black flas danced, licking at the edges as the limb gradually regenerated.
His eyes, however, were narrowed into slits, and his face carried a dark grace—sothing wicked glead in the depths of his soul, reflecting in the glow of his gaze.
Northern curled the corner of his lips.
'I don't know what he's thinking, but I like the look in his eyes.'
Shifting his attention, Northern studied Revant. The Halfbreed Tyrant stood unbothered, cold, and without a single blemish. Compared to the others, he did not seem to have suffered any injury at all—or if he had, none that was visible.
'It's as difficult to read him as ever.'
Yet, through the Mind's Eye, Northern could discern most of Revant's intentions. Not his explicit thoughts, but fragnts—traces of intent that flickered at the edges of his awareness.
However, it worked in reverse as well. In truth, Northern had no way of knowing if Revant could explicitly read his mind. The ability had manifested through their bond—an awakening brought about by the Halfbreed Tyrant's synchronization with him. It was the sa with Link.
'Co to think of it… those abilities are categorized differently from my main ones. Could it be because they're tied to my summons? Just like how I maneuvered those copied talents for the Star Chasers?'
Northern fell silent for a mont, turning the thought over in his mind. Then, he shifted his gaze to the next summon.
'This bastard.'
Bairan when he first arrived from the battle was severely injured. Deep gashes covered his body, yet his regeneration, though a watered-down version of Northern's own, had already nded most of his visible wounds.
Unlike his usual jovial self, Bairan now wore a straight, solemn expression. Every facet of his deanor radiated deference—his gaze steady, his posture respectful as he stood before the flas, acknowledging the existence that sat beyond them.
Shard Creeper—the goat—was unhard, but noticeably taller. Which indicated it had likely ascended to a new Void rank.
'...A Whisper?'
Night Terror was an Eclipse rank of the Void. Black Mamba had reached the level of an Emanation. Revant and Bairan remained Veils of the Void. And now, the Void Goat had advanced to a Whisper as well.
Night Terror's superiority in rank also played a role in how overwhelmingly strong—and fundantally different—he was perceived to be.
Northern was satisfied with their growth. It was especially refreshing that they did not require his permission to evolve. As Void Summons, their strength was their own to claim.
And it seed that the recent battle had left its mark on them.
They were growing in ways that exhilarated him, and with how often they had been used lately, Northern was seeing a greater need to actively incorporate them into his plans. Each of them was formidable in their own right.
His gaze shifted to the next summon.
Light of Featherstone—Siegfried.
A figure wrapped in a dark ensemble, his white radiant cloak billowed subtly, like the calming tides of wind. His helt concealed his face entirely, the narrowed slits revealing nothing of the man within.
At his waist, a sword rested in its scabbard. His golden gauntlet-clad hand sat elegantly atop the hilt, his stance regal, exuding unmatched nobility.
Light of Featherstone had been far more scathed than he appeared now. Yet his recovery was absurdly short-lived. Even after enduring a brutal battle, he now looked as if he had bathed in so heavenly river—his presence perpetually radiating an almost intimidating level of divine aura.
Then, Northern's eyes fell upon the Plague of Blood—Crimson Lord.
The tallest among them.
A being of flowing blood, his form wrapped in an ethereal crimson robe, a smooth, crown-like helm adorning his head, emanating a nacing level of regality.
But Plague of Blood was also among the most gravely injured. Deep lacerations marred the overlapping armor across his torso, and though the crude nace in his gaze still lingered, it was fainter than before.
Northern leaned away from the throne's armrest, settling deeper into his seat.
It seems the battle was truly brutal…
"A Floor Twenty Boss Monster? It's baffling… What the hell is that place?"
Bairan took a step forward. Of them all, he was the most eccentric, yet he had naturally assud the role of a leader. And it seed the Sword King relished it.
His voice, steady and brimming with respect, carried through the hall.
"Master. The monster is an Apex Destroyer. However, it is empowered by sothing else. That power is shared among its minions, making them significantly more difficult to handle. Each of them temporarily growing to be Apex of destroyers themselves. We were outnumbered—and outmatched."
Northern leaned forward, his gaze sharpening.
"How is that even supposed to be possible? The mont they posses power of an Apex Destroyer, are they not supposed to turn against each other?"
"Not if order is maintained by sothing far larger and more dangerous."
Bairan's words stirred sothing in his mind.
It reminded him of what he had witnessed when battling the Floor Ten Boss Monster.
Back then, he had felt it too—that unsettling sensation. The abomination's strength had not been its own. It had been fueled by sothing else.
And if his suspicions were correct…
"...the crimson cloud."
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