Dungeon King: The Hidden Ruler-Chapter 101: [The Throne of Kharnath-Dur 4] Unseen, Unheard, Unwelcome

Chapter 101: [The Throne of Kharnath-Dur 4] Unseen, Unheard, Unwelcome

Raven sat in silence, the corner room of the dwarven inn providing the seclusion he needed. Second floor, back-facing the alley, two stone walls shielding him from any wandering eyes. It was the kind of place someone disappeared from without leaving footprints.

He cracked the window open just a hair.

The sun-brass above the cavern dimmed. What passed for daylight here softened into twilight as the gas-fed orb high on the ceiling shifted hues, its calibrated glow cooling into dusk. Ingenious dwarven engineering, always precise. Always watching.

He leaned forward and blew out the oil lantern. The room darkened instantly, swallowed by an artificial moonlight cast in shades of molten silver and soft violet. The shadows reasserted themselves. Now was the time.

Raven stood and reached into his inventory panel.

Black metal, carbon-threaded cloth, and spectral steel formed piece by piece across his body. His Sovereign gear was a specialized set, and only works in specific environment - dungeon. The gauntlets locked in with a quiet hum, and as he slid the mask into place, six mechanical arms whirred out from behind and clicked the faceplate into position.

For a moment, his body shimmered like heat bending light. Then the world around him adjusted. Blurred edges. Duller sound. Lighter steps.

This was what he reserved for war.

He didn’t wear the Sovereign gear all the time for a reason—it was too noticeable, too specialized. But here, in Kharnath-Dur, deep beneath the surface world, the city registered on his interface as a solo-instance dungeon.

That meant his class passive—+30% stealth effectiveness in dungeon zones—was live.

And the gear’s passive granted another 30%, synergizing perfectly.

These bonus meant nothing in the overworld.

But in dungeon?

That is where he truly shine as Dungeon Sovereign class.

Earlier, he had checked it upon renting the room: confirmed.

Now, he was a shadow in a shadow-city.

He walked to the window, crouched low, and uncoiled the Dominion Chain.

It slithered around his forearm, waiting.

With a flick, it launched silently, anchoring to the edge of a nearby warehouse roof. A moment later, Raven vaulted out, gliding across the narrow street like an arrow in silence.

He landed in a crouch, steady.

The rooftops ahead were uneven but mapped in his mind. Ventilation towers. Copper struts. Maintenance rails. Decorative brasswork. Even a few loose scaffolds. A parkour path hidden in plain sight.

He started forward, bounding from tile to pipe, from ledge to ledge.

This wasn’t just infiltration—it was adaptation. And somewhere in this story, someone was hiding the truth. The quest had taken a turn, and Raven could feel it in his bones: this was no ordinary errand. Something deeper lay beneath.

And he intended to uncover it.

From the warehouse rooftop, Raven moved low, every step calculated. His cloak rippled in his wake like smoke clinging to moonlight.

He darted across the roofline of the forge district, weaving between chimney stacks that hissed steam and cast orange halos in the dusk. Copper pipes ran like veins along the rooftops, and Raven used them to vault over a narrow gap. He tucked into a roll and came up in a crouch beside a venting unit.

Voices.

Two dwarves stood just below, deep in debate over repair costs. Raven stilled—one foot braced on a rafter, the other flat behind a sloped awning. The voices drifted, then faded as the dwarves turned inside. Only then did he rise, pacing forward again like the breath of a forgotten god.

The rooftops ahead began to shift—metal to stone, slanted to stepped, a mix of old and new construction that hinted at centuries of hidden craftsmanship. Raven leapt between wooden support beams, then ducked under a brass arch strung with signal lanterns. Every rooftop was a puzzle. Every breath was timed. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel-com

The rooftops fractured—jagged, uneven, ancient stone grafted with brass like scar tissue where old stone collided with newer brass scaffolds. Raven moved like liquid shadow—sliding across tiled slopes, vaulting over dormant chimneys, and scaling lattice-like support frames that clung to the city’s underside like skeletal vines.

Ahead, a row of carved support pillars rose from the structure of an ancient administrative block. Centuries ago, they might have held banners or bell towers. Now, they held silence—and the occasional bridge.

Raven sprinted across a copper vent pipe, balance perfect, then jumped to a maintenance bridge hanging two floors up. The iron groaned softly under his landing. He crouched—motionless—just as a temple acolyte in ceremonial robes passed below, muttering old prayers to himself, completely unaware of the intruder above.

No guards. But there were watchers.

The higher he climbed, the fewer civilians he saw. The air thinned, cooler, touched by faint resonance—the hum of some arcane crystal embedded deeper in the cliff-face.

Raven reached another drop.

He didn’t hesitate.

The Dominion Chain shot out, looping around the arch of a broken bridge. He swung beneath it, pendulum-style, using the momentum to wrap around the opposite pillar. His boots hit a stone relief halfway up—a crouch, a pause.

From here, the temple was less than 300 meters away. A series of uneven rooftops. Suspended platforms. Faded bridges and weather-worn brass signs long forgotten by the dwarves who built them.

But Raven saw the path.

He pushed forward—closer to the temple’s breath.

The rooftops thinned until only narrow ledges and crumbling brass struts remained. The temple was no longer a silhouette in the distance—it loomed above, carved directly into the mountain’s sheer face like a judgmental eye. Its topmost floor pierced the ceiling of Kharnath-Dur, so high the city’s artificial sun barely reached it.

Raven stood on the final rooftop, the cliff wall just across. One last leap. One last grapple.

He uncoiled the Dominion Chain again, his fingers brushing along the etched runes. He launched it upward, aiming not for the main temple, but for a protruding section of rock just below a carved balcony.

Thunk.

It latched.

He didn’t hesitate.

The chain went taut, and Raven vaulted off the ledge—his body a fluid arc of muscle and leather. He sailed through the cold subterranean air, the wind slicing past like whispers of forgotten oaths. At the peak of his swing, he coiled the chain once more and threw it—this time higher, toward a supporting beam near the temple’s carved exterior.

He jerked mid-air, redirected, and caught the edge of a weathered relief sculpture—a dwarven guardian with arms raised in eternal salute. Raven grabbed its shoulder and pulled himself up, crouched in silence between centuries-old stone and glimmering crystal veins laced through the cliff.

He climbed.

Hand over hand. His boots found grip where none should exist—old cracks, erosion lines, decorative grooves. Each move calculated. Each breath shallow. Below, the city had faded into soft, golden mist.

He was beyond the street now. Above suspicion. Beyond reach.

At last, the final leap.

He twirled the Dominion Chain in a short circle, then launched it with precision. It caught a pillar near the temple’s upper ledge—a ceremonial archway shaped like a crescent, its center lined with suspended lanterns that shimmered like stars.

Raven pulled.

His body lifted. Swung once. And landed on the ledge in a soft crouch.

The temple walls loomed around him—ancient stone, glowing veins, and brass-plated edges carved with glyphs.

Behind him: silence.

Before him: the mouth of power.

The real infiltration had begun.

Raven stepped onto the balcony with a soundless grace, folding into the shadows that clung to the temple’s top floor. No guards. Just silence and dust. A forgotten storage room lay ahead, its wooden crates stacked haphazardly, cloaked in layers of grime. The air was still, heavy with the scent of oiled metal and ancient stone.

He crouched low, eyes scanning the room before he slipped inside. Each step was measured, as if the ground itself might protest. The stone here felt older—less cared for. As if even the priests had abandoned this place.

From his inventory, he pulled out the hand-drawn map Ironsong had given him.

"Third floor," Raven muttered under his breath. A curse followed. This floor was the fifth. No staircases in sight.

He approached the ledge at the far end of the room. Beyond it, the great central hall of the temple yawned open below, with tiers of balconies wrapped along the interior like ribs. And there, across the stone wall, loomed the massive face of Dorrak-Thul, the God of Earth. A colossus carved directly into the cliff, his stone beard trailing into the shadows.

Raven studied the relief. The statue’s ridges were sharp, ancient, detailed.

No other way.

He climbed onto the ledge, crouched, and leapt.

His boots struck the edge of the god’s brow. He gripped the stone tightly, slipping only slightly as dust crumbled away beneath his fingers. The Dominion Chain wrapped loosely around his wrist, ready but still.

Using the carved lines of Dorrak-Thul’s stern visage—his brow, the curve of a cheekbone, the layered folds of a stone beard—Raven descended slowly, silently. The third floor was just below. The balcony edge only meters away.

A sound. Boots.

Raven pressed himself to the underside of the fourth-floor ledge, muscles tight, hanging just out of sight as two dwarven temple stewards passed above. Their murmurs trailed off into ceremonial whispers. He waited, suspended like a spider.

When the coast cleared, he dropped silently to the third floor.

Ahead stood an ornate set of double doors, their bronze surface inlaid with silver filigree. The office.

He slipped inside.

Darkness greeted him. No lamps. No candlelight. Just the faint glow of crystal veins embedded into the walls, like quiet nerves under skin.

He crouched again—not out of necessity, but instinct. He let his eyes adjust, scanning corners, letting the quiet speak.

Papers. Scrolls. A desk, cluttered but purposeful.

Raven glided to it and began searching—each drawer methodically opened, each parchment checked.

A sigil caught his eye.

One document had no formal crest, but the wording was official, strategic. Trade directives, troop movements, a reference to "the second gate of Hollowwake".

He frowned. This wasn’t just politics.

Then—a sound. Footsteps.

He shot upward with practiced speed, the Dominion Chain coiling silently and pulling him to a narrow ledge above the doorframe. Just in time.

The door creaked open.

Two figures stepped inside. Raven held his breath.

And waited.

R𝑒ad latest chapt𝒆rs at freew𝒆(b)novel.c(o)m Only