Dungeon King: The Hidden Ruler-Chapter 36: [The Emberstone Massacre 5] - King of the Ashes

The scream hadn’t even finished echoing when the Emberforged Titan moved.

Not just in the usual, scripted way—not in the pattern every raid guide warned about. This was different.

The Titan didn’t just wake.

It stood.

The furnace at its core pulsed. Embers surged through its limbs like blood through veins. Its plated arms unfolded with unnatural fluidity, and its helm craned in a slow arc, surveying the entire battlefield like a judge rising from a tomb.

Neither guild had time to react properly.

And worse? They blamed each other.

"You pulled it!" "You stepped too close!" "Your AoE splashed the aggro radius—...IDIOT!"

"We were hugging the wall! You cast first!"

Kaelthasx shouted, raising his blade. "EVERYONE STOP—this thing’s outside the script!"

Lymira bellowed at her casters. "Cease fire! Pull back!"

But the guild members weren’t listening. Panic made them deaf.

A Crimson Blades archer, still under the residual disorientation from Mind Shatter, loosed a shot in the wrong direction—and hit an Ebonreach rogue in the shoulder.

The rogue snarled and blinked forward, blade drawn.

And then it began.

Steel rang out. Spells surged.

The two sides tore into each other again—not from strategy, but from pure, bitter, spiraling fury. Fear of the unknown fused with the burning loss of gear, of pride, of everything they’d brought to this doomed siege.

And the Titan watched.

Its molten smile never faded.

From the shadows above, Raven crouched in silence, hidden by flame shimmer and the cloak of his mask. His breath was low, calm, steady. This wasn’t improvisation.

This was orchestration.

He watched as the last embers of strategy collapsed.

The Emberforged Titan stepped forward.

Not rushed. Not glitched. But deliberate. With weight.

And then it moved.

Not toward the tank line.

Not toward a main healer—they were already dead.

It moved toward the lowest HP.

The wounded.

Its arm swept sideways—a massive cleave that ripped a five-player squad apart in a single blow, armor and limbs scattering like dice.

Full HP bar. No threat meter. No damage markers.

Just destruction in a symphony of chaos.

"Aggro the motherfucker you shitty tanks! Aggro it!"

"I CAN’T!" One of the tanks desperately casts his aggro skill, trying to put the Titan back to control.

"WHY IS IT IGNORING AGGRO?!" someone screamed.

"We need to group up!"

"NO! Don’t stack! It’ll AoE us!"

Heat Collapse triggered. The escape hallway behind them exploded in fire.

Panic turned to realization.

They were locked in.

The Emberforged Titan raised one arm. The chains suspended in the ceiling began to shudder. Metal groaned. One by one, they dropped, slamming into the stone with enough force to crack the floor.

The battlefield was no longer a stage. It was a furnace.

Then came the next horror.

A flicker.

At the edge of the flames.

A chain. A shadow. A glint of red.

"It’s here again!" a Crimson scout yelled. "THE CHAIN GANKER—IT’S BACK!"

Dozens of heads turned.

But the shape was already gone.

Phantom Seer had cast Haunting Mirage again—projecting afterimages in the periphery. Every flicker of flame birthed illusions. Cloaked figures. Chains snapping in and out of the dark.

Flare spells were cast wildly in every direction.

Nothing.

Then a scream.

Then two.

Another.

Raven dropped into the firelight without warning—his Visage of the Hollow Forge pulsing, chain already in motion.

He spun the chain once, building speed. Then snapped it forward. The blade curved mid-flight and sank clean into a shoulder. He yanked hard—bending low—grabbing the edge like a dagger, redirecting it for another stab.

Another strike. A snap. A kill.

Then gone again.

He didn’t stay to fight. He never stayed to fight.

And in the momentary dim of cooling lava, they saw it.

Just a silhouette—twisted, shifting, watching.

The guilds reeled.

"Spread out!" "Stick together!" "NO—DON’T STACK—THE BOSS—!"

Half the raid group ran toward the right forge-vent. The other half scattered left, straight into Duskrunner Alpha.

The shadow-beast roared from a vent pipe, slamming into two rogues with a sound that cracked the floor beneath them.

The screams continued.

Some tried to flee.

A handful dashed toward the edge of the forge platform, shouting for escape, hoping the boss chamber’s lockout had lifted.

But the UI flashed cold in their vision:

❗ [Boss Arena Locked — Escape Disabled]

An invisible wall flared with red runes as one player slammed into it. Another rogue attempted a blink spell and ricocheted backward as if the very code of the dungeon rejected them.

They were sealed in.

Rats. In a burning cage.

Then, the forge fire flickered.

One section of the chamber dimmed—just slightly.

And in the dark?

A scream.

A low-level caster vanished into flame and shadow. No warning. Just the crunch of metal. The sound of something chewing.

The fire stabilized—only for another section to sputter.

Another scream.

It repeated. Like a sick countdown. A ritual of terror.

Flicker. Scream.

The weak were being culled first. One by one.

And soon—only the high-levels remained.

Crimson Blades officers. Ebonreach strategists. The veterans. The elites.

But they were no longer in command. They were prey.

Raven, above, narrowed his eyes.

The panic was cresting—but not yet breaking.

He whispered, "Momentum. Always keep the momentum."

He dropped.

A silent blur of smoke and steel.

Visage of the Hollow Forge pulsed to full resonance.

And he moved.

He struck an Ebonreach captain through the back with both chains, the jagged ends blooming with flame from critical stealth burst.

The man didn’t scream. He didn’t have time.

The body crumpled.

The nearby mages turned, eyes wide, and in that flicker of firelight—they saw it.

A blurred silhouette. Tattered robe trailing ash. A face that wasn’t a face—just a cold, mechanical expression. Eyes that burned through the screen. Chains that slithered like twin vipers.

Another swipe—the chains whipped outward. One latched to a Crimson duelist’s leg, yanking her into the fire.

Her death log flickered in global guild chat.

Lymira and Kaelthasx both saw it. Both understood.

The Phantom wasn’t done.

They shouted orders. Their top officers circled. High-level magic raged. One fired a flare into the rafters.

But the firelight only cast more shadows.

Phantom Seer floated to the ceiling—another Haunting Mirage warped reality. Blurred movements. Faint laughter. The sound of chains from ten directions.

Duskrunner emerged behind a pair of tanks. His fangs tore into their backs as the alpha beast vanished again into a plume of forge smoke.

One by one, the elite fell.

Raven moved without pause. Without hesitation. A black silhouette that couldn’t be focused, each movement bending the logic of the engine. His stealth stat abused to breaking.

[Resonant State: Visage of the Hollow Forge]

+30% Stealth Effectiveness

+25% Critical Chance from behind or while unseen

Next attack from stealth deals bonus shadow damage

He danced across the stone like a myth. Like a bug in the system. Like a nightmare born from the code itself.

The lava itself seemed to pulse with tension. At times, sections of the chamber would flicker—as if the forge fires were blinking, unsure whether to illuminate or abandon the slaughter. Each dimming cast the battlefield into a hellish silhouette, revealing only the glimmering flashes of forced logouts and the death-rattle glow of vanishing health bars.

The molten pipes pulsed along the walls—casting rippling reflections across the floor. Shadows danced where no one stood. One Crimson player turned and fired an arrow straight into their own rogue—mistaking reflection for threat.

Someone screamed, "WHERE IS HE?! I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING ANYMORE!"

Raven’s chain hissed softly across the stone—rattling like breath. Everyone heard it. No one could place it.

In those stuttering shadows, the music of terror rose: metal boots stumbling, blades clashing with desperation, and above it all—the screams. Not battle cries, not shouts of strategy. But raw, human panic.

"Anyone got a scroll? Please—res me—" someone sobbed. But no one moved. The healers were gone. The casters drained. Hope evaporated.

Raven thrived in it.

And at the end? Only the leaders remained.

Kaelthasx. Bloody. Burned. But upright. His sword crackling with bloodfire enchantment.

Lymira. Breathing hard. Shielding herself with flickering ice runes.

They stood back to back.

Waiting.

A chain slithered across the stone. Then another.

Then—the flames dimmed.

The lava cooled, just for a moment. The forge lights faltered.

And in that breath of darkness, they saw him.

A shadow sculpted from broken rules and pure spite.

His face—if it could be called that—burned with an intricate mechanical carved glow, like molten eyes set into a forged helm. His chains curled in the air like serpents ready to strike.

They stared, paralyzed. Not from skill debuffs. Not from fear.

But from awe.

A final sight.

The Phantom.

The chain’s jagged edge rises up like a pair of cobra ready to strike. Then, they lashed outward—curved, jagged, beautiful.

Each one struck home.

Kaelthasx dropped to his knees.

Lymira gasped.

Raven pulled both chains tight, stepped between them—and drove the blades inward.

Two deaths. Silence.

The forge went dark again.

And the raid ended in silence.

[Boss Protocol: Reset]

[Guild Claim Failed: All Parties Defeated]

[Dungeon Control: Reverted to Native State]

And somewhere above the wreckage, two burning red eyes faded into the smoke.

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦