novelraw Chapter 26 : [Lord of Karna, King of the Blood-Rust Ravens]
Chapter 26 : [Lord of Karna, King of the Blood-Rust Ravens]
Chapter 26: [Lord of Karna, King of the Blood-Rust Ravens]
At the very center of the Kanna Plains stood a ring of towering white stone pillars forming a vast stone circle.
The sharp-tipped monoliths encircled a blackened temple made of igneous rock.
The igneous stone was mined from deep layers of subterranean magma.
The lord had harnessed the might of the Earth-Devouring Worms, extracting the stone from the depths and driving enslaved laborers to haul it to the surface, constructing it into the grand façade of the dungeon’s entrance.
The open ground within the stone circle was filled with tall poles, each topped with skulls and wild banners crafted from the peeled hides of those who had trespassed into the dungeon over the years.
The tattered banners fluttered in the wind, smeared with faded, filthy blood and ochre-red iron pigments, painted with the image of a wing-spread Demonic Raven.
Most of the poles had long been chopped down by adventurers who ventured into the dungeon, but some still stood—like a cruel and tender warning intertwined, proud and condescending in its arrogance.
Inside the temple, no statue or idol was enshrined.
Upon the altar’s platform lay only a massive slab of local white stone—empty, pure, plain, and so clean that the veins of the rock were clearly visible.
Some believed the white stone symbolized an ancient natural deity of the Kanna Plains.
Before entering the dungeon, a few adventurers would offer flatbread or cheap potions before the rock, praying devoutly for good fortune in their exploration.
Upon leaving the dungeon, they would sometimes place a symbolic trophy or piece of loot before it as tribute.
Others believed that the white stone symbolized Varak, Lord of the Kanna Plains—the crude idol of a Demon King—and mocked those who offered to it as fools.
Yet, such skeptics were few.
After all, no matter what, humans had to believe in something.
Behind the white stone altar stood a vast stone staircase layered with dust.
The rough rock passage was wide enough to fit more than a dozen chariots side by side, sloping down into the darkness below—toward Varak’s Karna Dungeon.
The Karna Dungeon was only of medium scale, divided into five concentric rings.
The outermost ring—the Fifth Ring—was a labyrinth of worm tunnels filled with primitive ecology.
The twisting passages looped and overlapped in chaotic, three-dimensional formations, inhabited by mutated and demonic life.
Carnivorous plants and strange beasts lurked within, preying on one another for the Demonic Essence within their bodies, forming a savage food chain.
The root-tribes of the Root-Creatures had also taken root here, laying countless primitive traps—from thorned snares to tripwire spikes, from rolling logs to poisoned blowdarts—each a crude and vicious killing device, executing slaughter with ruthless efficiency.
Yet over the years, as waves of adventurers entered and marked their paths, clearing dangers as they went, a safe passage had been carved through the Fifth Ring leading directly to the Fourth.
The Fourth Ring was the slave-labor zone.
Countless Cavern Dwellers mined and built here, forging weapons and sculptures for their lord.
Using geothermal heat and enchanted flames fueled by demonic materials, they smelted ore and refined metals.
This layer was wealthier than the Fifth—filled with temporary gold vaults, forges, and storerooms of scavenged relics from fallen adventurers.
It was a Golden Land of Fortune—provided one was bold, shrewd, strong, and perhaps, lucky.
The Cavern Dwellers were a brutal species dependent on the underground tunnels—a pale, twisted humanoid form between man and worm.
Sunlight terrified them; their eyes had regressed to near blindness.
Their sight was poor, but their sense of smell and hearing were razor-sharp.
Their huge, jagged mouths occupied two-thirds of their faces, leaving the rest squeezed into a narrow nose slit and tiny, bean-sized eyes.
Their skin was pale, thick, and leathery; their bodies, strong and crude.
In the wild, they lived in barbaric tribal societies.
But the Demon Lord had discovered them—subjugating them utterly through violence, teaching them mining, smithing, architecture, sculpture, and more advanced warfare and killing techniques.
Normally, the Fourth Ring of Karna Dungeon was heavily fortified with their traps and guarded by hordes of Cavern Warriors and shamans—even Armored War Knights among them—making it nearly impossible to breach.
Yet, for reasons unknown, when the party of 257 adventurers reached the Fourth Ring, it appeared that some massacre had already taken place.
Someone—or rather, a group of highly trained warriors—had reached the Fourth Ring before them.
When the adventurers arrived, the ground was littered with corpses of Cavern Warriors.
The blood at their sword wounds had been drained dry, leaving the bodies shriveled and decayed.
Their forged weapons were cleaved apart, their armors shattered—the metal edges glinting with a strange, blood-red hue.
By the time the adventurers passed through the ruined Fourth Ring, only 212 of them remained—a loss ratio already considered astonishingly fortunate.
With the combined might of Level-Ninth, Level-Ten, and Level-Eleven adventurers—and with their unprecedented numbers—the party successfully breached the ravaged Fourth Ring and made camp in the gardened structures of the Third.
The Third Ring lay near the dungeon’s core, beneath a vast subterranean dome.
Architecture and ecology intertwined in exquisite harmony: green vines entwined blackstone fortresses, beasts prowled between the underground forests and shrubs, and bridges linked the towering pillars that held up the dome, forming intricate multi-level pathways.
The walls and railings were carved with ornate reliefs, overgrown with vines and moss, illuminated by glowing fungi and luminescent flora and fauna that shone like stars and moons—more splendid than the palaces of human kings.
The demon race were born artists, architects, and craftsmen—pouring obsessive passion into every crafted detail.
They adored the fusion of architecture and nature, and under their direction, entire underground worlds became works of art.
Even a single sculpture, painting, or trinket, when brought to the surface, could fetch a fortune at auction, with countless noble collectors vying for demon-made masterpieces.
The Third Ring was home to human followers who had forsaken their kind for the Demon King—those who sought power, knowledge, or longevity.
They had betrayed humanity, pledged their loyalty, and were rewarded with Demonic Transformation.
In one conquered blackstone fortress within the Third Ring, nearly a hundred massive tents had been set up—it was the Adventurers’ Frontline Camp.
Above the tents hung strange frameworks draped with a layer of tough, web-like material—the silk of the spider-type beast known as the Hanged Demon—used to ward off the Demon King’s beasts that hurled boulders from above.
Around the camp stood crude ballistae and cannons—loot taken from the Cavern Dwellers’ armory in the Fourth Ring—reinforced and modified by several dwarf smiths in the party.
Piles of demonic materials were stacked throughout the camp.
The White-Shell Flower, worth dozens of gold coins apiece outside, was carelessly bundled in heaps in the corners.
The costly Organ-pipe Mushrooms were being boiled in great cauldrons by alchemists to brew potions.
The corpses of powerful demonic beasts were dismantled—the slick shark-skins of Sea Ambushers and sword-like shells of Blade Beetles tossed carelessly into carts.
High-level adventurers of Level-Seven and above bustled about, eagerly collecting handfuls of demonic materials, shouting and straining together to hoist the freshly slain carcasses of giant beasts—like ants in a marching colony hauling their prey.
Among them, one short dwarf clung to a beast’s limb, legs kicking helplessly in the air as he tried to help carry it.
Inside the central tent, a lone adventurer stood silently, resting his hand on a long spear as he gazed blankly at the map of the Third Ring drawn on the tent wall.
His armor was engraved with complex runes and cloaked in deep crimson.
His helmet concealed his face, revealing only his chin and a pair of brooding eyes.
The spearhead in his hand was a single piece of rugged flint, faintly glowing with smoldering embers.
“Augusta.” A voice called from behind him—the voice of that seventh-rank magic swordsman who always managed to cause more trouble than he solved.
What was his name again? Norman Passat? The one who had volunteered to escort the grain convoy—and had insisted on taking twenty Level-Seven-and-above adventurers along? Augusta thought.
He gave no reply, continuing to stare at the map.
“Augusta,” Norman Passat repeated, “we’re out of food—even mixing antidotes into our meals won’t last us more than a few days.”
“Thornfall Outpost and the Imperial border towns have already been drained dry by this unprecedented expedition.
They can’t gather any more supplies for now.”
“So what?” Augusta turned, his crimson cloak flaring like fire.
“You’re saying you can’t even deliver two carts of grain, you useless fool?”
“I told you before we left,” Norman replied quietly.
“I needed at least twenty Level-Seven adventurers or higher to ensure the grain convoy’s safety.
You refused.
I tried to recruit volunteers, but no one was willing to abandon their chance to plunder more valuable demonic materials and return with us—greed has already ensnared everyone.”
“So you mean to say,” Augusta repeated, “that hauling a few carts of food across the Kanna Plains—where there’s nothing but wild dogs and low-tier undead trash—requires twenty Level-Seven adventurers?”
“Yes,” Norman answered.
Silence.
“Do you have delusions of persecution, you fool?” Augusta asked softly.
“Or is it that, despite calling yourself a Level-Seven Magic Swordsman, you can’t even handle wild dogs and bone-trash anymore?”
“They had complex, cunning tactics—splitting their forces to ambush both the commander and the grain convoy guards. Our team only had five people; we were severely outnumbered…” Norman instinctively tried to explain.
Bang!
The table shattered under the slam of Augusta’s flint spear, splintered wood smoking and smoldering.
“You can leave,” Augusta said.
“We should all retreat,” Norman said quietly.
“Hunger is spreading through the camp. Most people’s stamina has started to fail. You’re a Level-Eleven Adventurer—maybe you can last longer, but the others—”
“Get out, trash.” Augusta didn’t even glance at him.
“It’s been twenty years. My parents were adventurers too—both died in Varak’s dungeon. Varak killed my parents. I’ve fought for twenty years to get here, and now the chance for revenge is right before me.”
“You can’t kill everyone just to satisfy your revenge,” Norman urged.
“We’ve already gained enough—the haul from this expedition far exceeds expectations. Each of us is walking away with hundreds of thousands of gold coins. It’s time to withdraw.”
“What’s more, if we really destroy Varak’s dungeon, there’ll be no reason for adventurers to remain in the Kanna Plains. Without the nourishment of the demonic dungeon, the rich, high-density demonic ecosystem will collapse. Every adventurer’s hunt and exploration here will yield diminishing returns. It’s overfishing—there’s a word from my homeland that means, if you catch all the fry this year, there’ll be no fish left to catch next year…”
Whoosh!
A wave of heat surged forward—the burning flint spearhead hovered less than two inches from Norman’s throat.
He swallowed the rest of his words, feeling the sweat on his neck evaporate from the smoldering heat.
“I told you to get out. I won’t say it a fourth time.” Augusta slowly drew back his spear.
“If you want to retreat, retreat on your own, coward. I won’t stop now.”
“I’ll tell everyone in camp what’s going on,” Norman replied.
“They can decide for themselves.”
“Do whatever you want,” Augusta muttered, still staring at the map on the wall.
He heard Norman Passat leave the tent, shouting in the camp about their situation—openly taking responsibility for the failed grain convoy and announcing that, if they left now, each person would still walk away with a profit of at least several hundred thousand.
“Anyone willing to retreat with me, raise your hand!” Norman called out from outside the tent.
Augusta snorted, striding out of the tent.
He saw that roughly a third of the adventurers raised their hands, another third hesitated, and the rest cursed Norman for his incompetence while continuing toward the gathering sites outside camp.
“I understand the food situation,” Augusta said, glancing around.
Everyone fell silent, turning their eyes toward the leader of the expedition—the Level-Eleven Adventurer, [Flame Lance] Augusta.
“You’re free to choose,” he said.
“Those who want to retreat, go with Norman Passat,” Augusta shouted.
“But according to adventurer law—when we breach the Second Ring and the core of the Demon King’s fortress, only those who stay will have the right to share in the spoils!”
The crowd erupted in argument.
Teammates debated whether to withdraw now or hold on a bit longer.
The treasures of the inner dungeon rings were worth more than gold—each high-grade demonic material or demon-made artifact could easily appear at an auction in the Habitable Zone.
“We’ve already earned nearly a million per head in loot!” Norman shouted.
“As long as we bring these materials safely back to Thornfall Outpost, most of us could retire comfortably in the Habitable Zone! Running out of food is a sign—it’s time to leave!”
“That’s true,” Augusta called back.
“I also recommend that you retreat. But I’ll stay. Fortune favors the brave. Those who want wealth beyond nations, those who seek ultimate power, those who pursue the ultimate truth—warriors, mages, alchemists—you may stay with me. The choice is yours.”
Chaos.
Absolute chaos.
Arguments and debates filled the camp.
After several hours of turmoil, the group split in two.
Half the adventurers continued gathering and hunting; the other half packed up their spoils and prepared to withdraw.
Of the thirteen Level-Nine Adventurers, eleven chose to stay.
Both of the Level-Ten Adventurers stayed as well.
“I suggest you leave too, Augusta,” Norman said anxiously, looking at their leader.
But Augusta had already turned and walked away.
Norman Passat sighed.
“Don’t worry, old friend. Kala-Za—‘Flame Lance’—he’ll be fine.” A familiar, gruff voice spoke near his elbow, grumbling in the harsh accent of the dwarves.
“He’s a Level-Eleven Adventurer, after all.”
“I hope so, old friend,” Norman murmured, glancing at the dwarf beside him holding a heavy war pick.
“I’m with you, long-legs Norman!” the brown-bearded dwarf laughed heartily.
“It’s about time to call it quits! I’d love to cross blades with the Demon King, but if we’ve got no food, that’s just unfair! I say, no fighting till everyone’s eaten!”
“Yeah, Buckley,” Norman said, staring absently toward the distant shadows beneath the underground dome, where the Demon King’s fortress loomed grand and ominous.
“If only everything in this world could be fair.”
“You’re thinking too much! Just dig the rocks in front of you! Keep digging long enough and you’ll hit gold—it’s only a matter of time!” Dwarf Buckley chuckled, turning away to help his team carry their loot.
Norman closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead.
When he opened them again, the young mage of his team had come up beside him.
“Uncle Norman?” she asked.
“You got scolded again for us?”
“No, not for you. This one’s my fault. I made the mistake, so I’ll bear the blame.” Norman Passat spoke calmly.
“Pack up. We’re leaving… We’ve earned several hundred thousand gold this time—you can return to the Floren Capital.”
“...Return… to what?” the young mage blinked, confused.
“I promised your mother I’d look after you, Julian,” Norman said, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
“I left the Floren Capital, traveled across lands to become an adventurer—to earn your tuition for Lunos Academy.”
“Now you’ve graduated successfully, and even earned your Silver Star Crest. I kept working to pay for your Gold Star exam—to join the Tower of Stars. You’re a prodigy, Julian. Staying here in the wastelands and dungeons is a waste of your talent.”
“The money from this expedition is enough for your Gold Star exam. You can go back to Floren Capital now. You’ve suffered enough these two years following me through these hellholes.”
“I…” Julian hesitated.
“I… I don’t want to go back.”
“Listen. This was your mother’s last wish.” Norman didn’t say more.
He turned to pack up the spoils.
“I made her a promise.”
“I want to keep being an adventurer,” came the small voice behind him.
Norman didn’t respond.
…
Half the camp emptied quickly.
Just as the silhouettes of the retreating adventurers disappeared, the ground suddenly began to quake violently.
Boom!
The retreat tunnel leading to the Fourth Ring exploded.
A massive, drill-like spiral fang slammed into the entrance, sealing the way shut—trapping the remaining adventurers inside the Third Ring of the dungeon!
“Oh, Earth-Devouring Worms.”
Augusta stood atop a fortress beside the camp, calmly watching the steel fangs that blocked their escape.
Hahahahahahaha!
Wild laughter erupted, echoing through the buildings of the Third Ring—laughter so arrogant and manic that it rang beneath the dome like thunder.
The laughter of the Lord of Karna filled the underground sky.
In an instant, hundreds upon hundreds of Demonic Ravens burst from the distant castle, swirling beneath the dome like a raging storm.
Along the high bridges between fortresses, cloaked figures appeared one after another.
Some extended clawed, insectoid limbs and rappelled down on silken threads; others unfurled giant wings and circled above the camp.
Some revealed thick, scaly claws, some displayed heavy exoskeleton armor like knights, some burrowed swiftly into the soil, and others stretched out vine-like green tendrils from beneath their robes.
Hundreds of Demonized Followers surged toward the camp!
Boom!
In the distance, the drawbridge of the inner city crashed down!
“Fry returned to the pond, the fat fish caught in the net.”
Through his laughter, the monarch in reddish-brown armor emerged from the city at the edge of the Second Ring—wearing a raven-shaped helm with a hooked beak, a skirt of armor fanned like wings, and a dust-colored cloak billowing behind him.
Upon the hooked shoulder plates perched a massive Demonic Raven crowned with feathers.
Caw!
The raven shrieked.
In both hands, the monarch held twin blades—one long, one short—black and exquisitely carved.
He crossed the drawbridge, gazing down from on high at the adventurers’ camp.
“You didn’t really think my Cavern Dweller Legion could be wiped out by a bunch of Imperial Sword Guards with Bloodsteel Swords, did you?” Varak grinned beneath his raven helm.
His twin blades clashed with a sharp clang, throwing sparks.
With a thunderous roar, the synchronized march of armored feet echoed through the gates of the Second Ring—thousands of Cavern Knight Warriors brandishing massive hammers and greatswords, striding proudly from the city.
“For the Lord of Karna! For the Lord of Karna!” they bellowed, charging toward the adventurers’ camp.