Chapter 38 - Table's Turned

Ray's breath hitched as he saw the woman's fingers hover over the holographic interface, her next action clear.

His mind screamed at him to act fast.

"W-Wait a min—" he blurted out, his voice coming faster than his thoughts.

The woman paused mid-motion, her cold gray eyes flickering to him, watching the way he tensed, the slight edge of panic in his tone.

She didn't say anything at first, instead just observed. Then, slowly, she raised an eyebrow.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice even.

Ray gulped audibly as he said, "Let me make a call first."

She didn't react immediately, but he could tell she was evaluating his words, weighing whether to even humor his request.

Finally, after a long moment, she exhaled through her nose and lowered her wrist slightly.

"You have thirty seconds," she said flatly.

Ray didn't waste a second.

His hands moved quickly as he made a call with his smartphone.

His thoughts raced as the dial tone rang in his ears.

I need to get help from Master.

I hope he helps.

After a few rings, the call connected with a faint click, followed by a low, rough voice from the other end.

"What is it?"

Hearing that familiar voice, Ray felt a wave of relief wash over him, tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

"Master, I need your help."

There was no sound coming from the other side for some time,

Then, Saint Nichole spoke, his tone edged with something between mild irritation and curiosity.

"...Go on."

Ray wasted no time.

He explained everything—his arrival in Ironhold, the dungeon, the woman in front of him trying to stop him from entering, and most importantly, the special notice restricting him from leaving the academy alone.

Nichole listened in silence, but Ray could practically feel the exasperation building on the other side.

"So," Nichole finally said, dragging out the word, "you're telling me… you left the academy."

"Yes."

"To enter a dungeon."

"Yes."

"A dungeon that is two ranks above you."

Ray hesitated. "…Yes."

"And," Nichole continued, voice growing even drier, "this dungeon just so happens to contain an ancient treasure?"

Ray swallowed. "According to the rumors."

A long sigh came through the watch. The kind of sigh that spoke volumes.

Nichole didn't respond right away. The silence stretched, and Ray could almost hear the weight of his master's frustration through the call.

Then, finally—

"You idiot."

Ray winced. "Master, I—"

"No, shut up." Nichole's tone was flat, unimpressed, and vaguely resigned. "I just woke up to my twelve-year-old disciple telling me he's trying to throw himself into a death trap."

Ray opened his mouth, then closed it.

A sharp exhale came through the call. Not quite a sigh—more like a deliberate attempt to hold back irritation.

The enforcer standing in front of Ray shifted slightly, her arms crossing over her chest. Her storm-gray eyes remained locked onto him, but now, there was something else in her gaze.

Interest.

She was listening to the conversation.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Nichole muttered, voice edged with something between exhaustion and disbelief. "Do you even understand what you're walking into?"

Ray felt the enforcer's gaze sharpen.

She was reading between the lines.

Ray forced his voice to stay steady. "...I know it's dangerous. But I can't turn back now."

For the first time, the enforcer's eyebrow twitched upward. It was a small movement, barely noticeable, but it was there.

Nichole let out a slow breath, but the irritation hadn't faded. "And what exactly made you think sneaking out alone was a good idea?"

Ray shifted his weight slightly.

"I had my reasons," he said simply.

The enforcer's lips parted slightly, but she didn't say anything. She was clearly resisting the urge to comment.

A dry chuckle came through the watch, but there was zero amusement in it.

"You sound like a runaway kid. 'I had my reasons,'" Nichole mocked. Then, his tone dropped. "Ray. Be straight with me."

Ray felt his jaw tighten.

"I need to be here," he said.

Nichole let out a sharp breath. "Tch. Stubborn brat." A rustling sound followed, like he was standing up or grabbing something. Then, his voice returned, firmer.

"Let me talk to the enforcer."

Ray blinked. "Huh?"

The enforcer's brows furrowed slightly.

She hadn't been expecting that.

"I'll talk to her," Nichole said flatly. "Give it."

Ray hesitated for a second before looking up at the woman.

She stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

Then, after a brief pause, she extended her hand.

Ray placed the phone into her palm, and she lifted it to her ear.

***

Liera Vasquez's eyes flickered with restrained tension as she gripped the phone a little tighter.

"This is Captain Liera Vasquez," she said, her tone cool and professional. "Who am I speaking to?"

There was silence on the other side,

Then, a voice came through the line—calm, slow, but carrying a weight that could crush mountains.

"Saint Nichole Schneiders."

The shift in Liera's posture was immediate.

Her fingers stiffened around the phone, her shoulders going rigid.

Ray didn't miss the flicker of surprise that crossed her normally impassive face.

Saint Nichole's name wasn't just known. It was legendary.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, quickly regaining her composure. "Saint Nichole," she acknowledged, this time with a touch more formality.

Nichole let out a tired sigh. "Yeah, yeah, formalities later. What's the issue?"

Liera straightened. "Your disciple attempted to enter a high-risk dungeon alone. Given his rank, background, and unique status, I was about to contact the academy to report his violation of safety regulations."

A dry chuckle came through the line. "Violation of safety regulations? Tch."

Ray could almost see his master rubbing his forehead in exasperation.

"Listen, Captain," Nichole continued, voice sharpening slightly. "If this were any other kid, I'd be telling you to drag him back by the collar. But Ray isn't just anyone, he is my disciple."

Liera's jaw tightened. "That does not exempt him from—"

Nichole cut her off. "No, it doesn't. And that's exactly why I can't let this slide so easily."

The temperature in the conversation shifted.

Ray's chest tightened slightly. He knew that tone.

The voice of a man who had seen too much loss.

"Warriors aren't meant to be kept in a garden," Nichole muttered, as if talking more to himself than anyone else. "I can't coddle him. If I do, he'll never become what he's supposed to be."

Liera's fingers curled into a fist, but she remained silent.

Ray held his breath.

Then, his master's tone hardened.

"But that doesn't mean I'll let him throw himself into a goddamn meat grinder, either."

Ray's stomach dropped.

"You're not going in alone, kid," Nichole said flatly. "If you want to enter, you go as a porter, No direct combat."

Ray's fingers twitched. "Master, I—"

"No negotiations." Nichole's voice was absolute. "You go with an experienced team—the best of the best. That way, even if you do something stupid, someone will be there to clean up your mess."

Liera finally spoke, her voice carefully measured. "Saint Nichole, I can't—"

"You can," Nichole interrupted smoothly. "And you will. I'll speak to the city head myself. You'll get the approval you need."

A brief silence stretched between them before Nichole asked, "And what of the dungeon's rumored contents?"

Liera eyes narrowed at his question.

Liera exhaled, choosing her next words carefully. "There was intel suggesting that it might be 'That.'"

Ray frowned. 'That'?

Nichole didn't speak right away. Then, he sighed—a deep, weighty exhale, the kind that carried an unspoken understanding.

"I see," he murmured. "Well, move forward with the procedure. I'll speak to the city head of Ironhold."

"…Understood," she said.

Ray exhaled quietly, tension unwinding from his shoulders.

Nichole's voice returned, this time directed at him. "Don't make me regret this, brat."

Ray smirked faintly. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The call disconnected with a soft click.

Liera handed the phone back to Ray, her expression unreadable.

"Your approval will come soon," she stated. "Wait here."

She turned on her heel, her sharp steps fading into the growing murmur of the gathered hunters and enforcers.

Ray remained still for a few seconds, watching her go.

His fingers curled slightly, tension building in his grip as an unspoken thought surfaced—one he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge in a long time.

The realization settled heavily in his mind, quiet yet undeniable.

Having a background is really nice.

That single thought carried more weight than it should have. It was an unfamiliar feeling, knowing that someone was watching over him, that he had the protection of a name beyond his own strength.

Yet, no matter how much comfort that should have brought, it only reminded him of something else.

Something he had lost.

For a fleeting moment, his mind drifted, his focus slipping away from the dungeon, from the enforcer.

***

The scent of burning wood filled the air. Thick smoke curled through the streets, choking the sky in dark clouds, blotting out the stars.

The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood, the acrid bite of magic burned into the very wind.

Ray's small fingers dug into the rough stone wall, his knuckles white with tension. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, chest heaving, every muscle in his body trembling with terror he could barely contain.

His legs ached from running, from stumbling through the debris-littered streets, from dodging the bodies that had once been his neighbors.

Now, they were nothing but hollow husks.

The screams had started long ago.

They hadn't stopped since.

They echoed between the buildings, bouncing off the broken walls, layering over each other in a sickening chorus. The sound of people—his people—begging, crying, shrieking for mercy that would never come.

And beneath it all, the deep, guttural growls of monsters.

He had seen them.

Through the cracks between the crates where he now hid, through the shifting haze of smoke that cloaked the burning village.

Shadowed figures, towering, grotesque, their forms unnatural and twisting.

Some crawled on too many limbs, their claws scraping against the cobbled streets, their elongated jaws parting to release inhuman screeches.

Others stood tall, grotesquely humanoid but wrong—so very wrong—their hollow eyes gleaming with cruel amusement as they hunted.

Demons.

They moved like reapers through the village, leaving trails of crimson in their wake, the bodies of men and women cut down like wheat before the scythe.

The scent of death was suffocating.

Ray pressed his trembling hands over his mouth, biting down on the fabric of his sleeve to stop the sound of his breath from escaping.

If he made even the smallest noise, if he so much as shifted too suddenly, they would hear him.

And he would die.

His body was rigid, locked in place by fear so strong it paralyzed him. But he couldn't afford to move—not yet.

Not when they were still out there.

Not when his parents were still out there.

A shuddering breath raked through his throat as he forced himself to peek through the cracks once more, searching, hoping—praying.

Mom, Dad… where are you?

Then, he saw them.

Not far from where he hid, near the village square. Two familiar figures, backs pressed against each other, breathing heavily.

His mother's dark hair was streaked with blood, strands sticking to her face, her once-pristine robes torn and burnt.

His father stood beside her, his sword clutched tightly in his grip, his chest rising and falling in sharp, exhausted motions.

But they were alive.

Ray's chest tightened.

They were still fighting.

I have to go to them—I have to help—

His fingers twitched against the stone, his body nearly moving on instinct, before a low chuckle sent ice crawling down his spine.

A figure stepped forward from the shadows.

His skin was a sickly gray, stretched too thin over a muscular frame, his elongated fingers ending in black, curved talons.

His face was twisted into something that almost resembled a grin, his hollow, pupil-less eyes glowing with eerie amusement.

A high-ranked demon.

Ray knew, even before the monster spoke, that his parents would not survive this.

That they would not win.

But he couldn't look away.

He could only watch as his father raised his sword, as his mother stepped forward, her hands curling with the last reserves of her magic.

"Stay behind me," his father murmured.

His mother didn't listen.

"Like hell," she muttered under her breath.

The demon tilted its head, watching them with something that might have been curiosity. Then, it raised its hand—and snapped its fingers.

The air shuddered.

The ground cracked.

And suddenly, his father wasn't there anymore.

One moment, he was standing, sword raised.

The next—he was gone.

There was no resistance, just gone.

Ray's breath caught in his throat, the world tilting around him.

His mother screamed.

But she didn't back down.

She lunged, magic exploding from her hands, raw energy crackling through the air like a violent storm.

The demon merely laughed.

Then, it raised a single hand.

And everything went still.

The wind died.

The crackling of flames quieted.

Even the screams in the background faded into silence.

The demon clenched its fist.

And Ray's mother collapsed.

Just like that.

Her body hit the ground in a lifeless heap, her eyes wide, frozen in a look of disbelief.

Ray's heartbeat slammed against his ribs, breath stolen from his lungs.

His hands dug into the stone until his nails cracked.

No.

No, no, no—

This wasn't real.

This wasn't real.

His mother—his father—they were just—

They were just talking to him this morning.

Just smiling at him.

His mother had kissed his forehead.

His father had ruffled his hair, told him to stop slouching.

They weren't—

They couldn't—

The demon took a slow step forward, its empty eyes scanning the area as if searching.

Ray squeezed his eyes shut.

His tiny frame curled deeper into the shadows.

He didn't move.

He didn't breathe.

If he did—

He would be next.

And he couldn't move.

Not even when the demon's gaze slid past him.

Not even when the silence was finally broken by the sound of footsteps leaving.

Not even when the scent of blood grew heavier in the air.

He just stayed there.

Even when he knew they were gone.

Even when the monsters left.

Even when there was no one left to save.

He didn't move.

He just sat there, curled in the wreckage of a home that no longer existed, his breath shallow, his body stiff.

And in that moment, he understood.

Power didn't matter.

Bravery didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

Because in the face of true monsters, humans were nothing.

He was nothing.

And that powerlessness—the weight of that helplessness—it settled into his bones, cold and unforgiving.

That night, the boy named Ray Dawson died.

And in his place, a different version of him was born.

One that would never, ever let himself be that weak again.

One that would hunt those monsters down.

One that would get revenge.

***

Ray exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair as he pushed the memory aside.

He clenched his jaw and rolled his shoulders, shaking off the lingering tension. His grip on his shirt loosened, fingers flexing before he forced them to his sides.

The surrounding adventurers murmured amongst themselves, shifting restlessly, while the stationed guards remained impassive.

Ray exhaled again, slower this time.

Now, he just had to focus on what came next.

***

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