Unbeknownst to the chamber, another current was moving through the town—one far colder and more calculated. Not all the players were in the council hall. Some were moving in shadows in other parts of the city, tightening plans of their own.

Prince Veyron, ever two steps ahead he thought himself to be, had not left matters to chance. He introduced an ally with the same smooth courtesy of a man handing out invitations to a funeral service. "Kent Ventross," he said, inclining his head. "And this is Alfred Hall, A-ranked. Keep your eyes on them."

Kent Ventross' name became famous after his beating publicly. Ethan had bested him together with his men, Kent's face had turned a map of ruined pride; the wound hadn't healed. The memory of that defeat was a scar he kept in his hand. Veyron knew about it and used that burning scar in his favor so he could be out of the most trouble.

From his ring he drew two artifacts—small, rune-etched stones that thrummed faintly with contained mana. He handed one to Kent, and kept the other. Veyron activated his artifact and a ripple of mana unleashed from it, that ripple transformed into a thread and wrapped to each people standing near Veyron. Kent, his men, Alfred, Veyron and his servants. With this they were connected.

"Now we won't be separated in the dungeon," Veyron said, voice soft and dangerous. The mana thread pulsed once, twice, like a beating heart. "Even if you enter at different times."

Kent turned the artifact over in his hand, feeling that pulse at the base of his palm. It warmed his blood, fed the old hunger. "Prince Veyron," Kent said, "I have to aim from this artifact and activate it right?"

"Yes, thats the only thing that you need to do, rest will be handled by us, you just need to enjoy the show as your revenge is fulfilled."

Veyron's smile widened fractionally. "Good. Alfred will handle Ethan. You will handle—" he tapped the map, the rune's light reflected in the paper like a drop of oil, "—what comes next. Don't fail me."

"I won't," he said. The word was a promise and a threat at once.

Alfred Hall, who stood nearby like a lean blade, nodded once. He was A-ranked, clean-cut, and as calm as a well-polished dagger. His presence exuded competence rather than bravado—precise, efficient, and perhaps more dangerous for it. Veyron's decision pleased him. "We move when the signal comes," Alfred said. No warmth in his voice. Just a statement of fact.

Veyron's laugh was barely a breath, a dry rasp that tasted of iron. "It's a gift, Kent. A perfect opportunity to settle old scores and to ensure our narrative remains intact without any holes"

"Alfred, he is a cunning man, and very clever with words, you understand what I am saying right?" Veyron said as he recalled how he was played with words by a man barely 10th of his age. Every second he thought of it his irritation only grew.

"Yes, Prince Veyron I understand, I was trained by the Thorneveil Royalties to not even hear my victim screams, my enemy words a re just background noise to me." Alfred said with certainty.

"Good."

Their laugher echoed in empty space as their plans was formed.

---

Karl's testimony had been grudgingly accepted: the dungeon went at least three floors deep, though how many more lay hidden, none could say. That uncertainty clung to the air like smoke.

"Then it's decided," one of the older captains announced, his voice gravelly. "C- to F-ranked adventurers will remain at the walls. They'll hold the tide, keep the city from burning."

Murmurs rippled.

"And if they want to risk the dungeon for treasures?" another asked.

The captain's eyes darkened, but he nodded. "Then let them. We won't chain them. But all here know—it will be a death sentence for most."

That silenced the room. No one wanted to say aloud what the truth implied: if they forbade the weaker from entering, it would look like the high-rankers were simply hoarding all the treasure for themselves. In this world, greed was tolerated. Hypocrisy was not.

Brad leaned forward, arms folded like a fortress. "Fine then. Those who stay, will defend and those who go in, they go at their own risk. Let's not waste more time pretending otherwise."

The plan's structure took shape.

B-ranked adventurers would form the wedge, carving through the monster tide and forcing open a path to the crack. They would enter in staggered waves—different timings to scatter their landing points inside the dungeon. It was a dangerous necessity: the crack's chaotic space would dump them wherever it pleased.

"Unless," another adventurer said, holding up a rune-carved token, "you've got something to anchor your group together."

Artifacts like his shimmered faintly, weaving threads of mana between those bound by them. But they were rare and costly, and many were unwilling to spend them on uncertain ventures.

"Artifacts waste too much power," Brad snorted, pushing the idea aside. "Hands will do." He clapped his palm against the table. "You want to stay together? Then grip your comrades like your life depends on it. Because it does."

All nodded, some already looking to their neighbors, deciding who they trusted enough to walk into the maw with.

---

Finally, Ethan and Xarion were brought forward. A guild clerk set a pair of crystalline pendants on the table, glowing faintly with inscribed runes.

"These will link you," the clerk explained.

"Even in the dungeon, across floors, you'll be able to communicate. If one of you locates the boss room, call the other. Do not engage alone."

Xarion's claw tapped once against the crystal, golden eyes narrowing. "Hmm..acceptable."

Ethan twirled his pendant briefly between his fingers, feeling the hum of mana, then slipped it into his pocket with a faint grin. "Guess I get to phone a dragon if things go wrong. Not bad."

Xarion gave him a long of confusion as to what he was blabbering about.

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