Dungeon King: The Hidden Ruler-Chapter 43: [Roots of Dominion 2] - Enter the Vault

The pod hissed shut. Darkness folded over Raven’s senses—then the game booted. He logged in to Primordial Abyss like always, and the next instant, light poured in.

Duskmire Outpost materialized around him: sandstone walls, flickering rune-lamps, and the hum of public portals activating on every side. Familiar. Faded. Safe. Players bustled past—trading, tweaking gear, chatting about last week’s raid reset.

Raven didn’t linger.

Public wayshrines were scattered across every faction’s territory, and Duskmire’s portal ring was one of the oldest—open to all players, no faction restrictions. Raven approached the southern shrine, where four stone arches circled a glowing platform etched with continent-wide runes.

He couldn’t use personal teleportation here. His private chain-link teleport only allowed direct travel to dungeons he’d already conquered—and the Vault of the Rootbound wasn’t one of them.

Yet.

He opened his interface, flicked through the map, and navigated to the Cindraleth Union region. The lush-green marker of Urohk Deeproot pulsed faintly beneath a canopy of fog and bone icons.

[Public Portal: Urohk Deeproot – Confirm travel?]

He tapped Yes. The shrine flared, sigils lighting in sequence. With a deep hum and a flash of vine-colored energy, the teleport activated.

In an instant, his surroundings shifted.

Gone were the soot-stained stones and cozy lanterns of Velkarin Axis. The moment his boots touched down in Urohk Deeproot, the air itself seemed to change. Humidity wrapped around him like a damp shroud. The light filtered through layers of leaves in thick, emerald shafts, casting the forest floor in a constantly shifting tapestry of green and gold. Vines curled across massive tree trunks like veins across muscle. Far off, something howled—not beast nor bird, but something deeper, something old.

Even the wind here felt different. It didn’t whistle—it whispered.

Unlike Axis zones, there were no warhorns, no marching formations, no open trade banners. Just stone-faced players walking with slow deliberation, like each footfall echoed some private ritual. A few bore markings—painted masks, bone charms, feather-twined braids. Some wore tattoos that looked more like spells than art, etched across shoulders or glowing faintly from collarbones. They didn’t just play the game—they honored it like a living thing.

At the edge of the clearing, Raven spotted a tall NPC wrapped in moss-draped robes, unmoving beneath a carved totem. No UI bubble. No shop or quest icon. Just presence.

They watched him not with suspicion, but with quiet detachment. A stranger was here. The land would decide if it noticed.

This was the Cindraleth Union. A place where memory ruled and change was permitted only if it fit the cycle. Outsiders weren’t unwelcome. Just untrusted.

Raven adjusted the folds of his cloak, his steps muffled by spongy soil. This wasn’t the land of armored battalions or structured raids. This was a place of ancestral memory—rituals carved into tree bark, power passed down through blood and vision. And unlike Velkarin’s bustling war camps, no one here whispered about Emberstone Burrow or phantoms in chains.

Different players. Different peak time. He was invisible again.

Perfect.

After crossing a winding vine bridge, Raven reached his destination. Nestled at the base of a colossal root system was a vine-wreathed circle—its center spiraling with soft green fog. A faint rhythm pulsed from it, like the heartbeat of the land itself.

[Dungeon Portal: Vault of the Rootbound – Recommended Level: 30+]

He stepped into the portal. The world blinked.

And just like that, the jungle was gone.

Now he stood within a sealed subterranean hollow, carved from root and bone. The ceiling loomed low in some places, wide in others, like a natural ribcage. Bioluminescent vines lined the walls, glowing with dull amber light. Some vines pulsed faintly in time with his heartbeat—as if syncing.

The air was thicker here—heavy with dust, silence, and the scent of old blood. Weapon shards were embedded in the roots. A rusted helm sat half-swallowed by moss. The chamber bore signs of dozens, maybe hundreds, of forgotten battles—each one now compost for the next.

Faint echoes drifted from deeper in the tunnel—scrapes, breathing, and the steady thump-thump of something still moving in the dark.

Unlike most dungeons, the Vault felt... reactive. Every footstep triggered subtle vibrations. Roots in the distance twitched when he exhaled. The deeper he went, the more he felt like a trespasser. Not in a structure—but in a sleeping body.

His UI flickered.

[Quest Available – Speak with: Ritescar Ferun →]

Raven followed the flickering quest marker deeper into the Vault.

It didn’t take long before he saw him.

Reading a book with shelves behind him, surrounded by fossilized skulls and incense sticks carved from bark, was an NPC unlike any Raven had encountered. His armor was bark-laced and bone-threaded, weathered by time but regal in presence. One eye was covered by a spiral-carved plate of wood, and his breath came slow, deliberate—as if each inhale carried weight.

A green question mark hovered above his head.

Ritescar Ferun did not rise.

He simply tilted his head—the motion smooth, like watching a tree bow to wind it had already expected.

"You breathe the air of surface dwellers," he said, voice low and echoing, "but your footsteps carry purpose. Are you here to witness... or to become fertilizer?"

Raven met the NPC’s gaze without flinching. His cloak shifted as he stepped forward, the air vibrating subtly as the quest interface pulsed open.

"...Was that supposed to be a threat? Or a joke?"

Ferun exhaled softly. "Perhaps both. The roots find humor in decay."

He gestured to the ground, where fungal blooms pulsed slowly between the bones.

"This place was once sacred. Warriors came here to bleed for something older than the Circle. They called themselves the Rootbound—devoted to a god buried deep below. They believed if they endured long enough... they would be chosen. Transformed."

"Let me guess. That didn’t go so well."

"They became hollow," Ferun said. "Their prayers collapsed into instinct. Their names faded, but their rituals did not. Even now, they fight—without purpose, without end."

Raven glanced toward the tunnel behind Ferun, where roots twitched in the dark. "Why not just seal the whole place off?"

Ferun’s gaze never shifted. "We did. The Vault was locked by decree of the Memory Circle. The Rootbound were declared a failed branch. Their existence stripped from record."

"And that worked... until it didn’t."

Ferun nodded slowly. "The roots have begun to hum again. Visions returned. One child was born speaking in chants older than her bloodline. The Council needed a witness. One not bound by clan or creed."

"So they picked you?"

"No. The signs chose me. The Council merely followed what it feared would become truth."

Raven folded his arms. "Right. And I’m the guy you toss in to clean it up."

"You are expendable," Ferun said flatly. "That is why they chose you. No clan, no ties. If you fail, we bury the news. If you succeed, they rewrite the prophecy."

"Sounds like a win-win. For them."

Ferun extended a bark-wrapped talisman, its faint glow pulsing like a buried heartbeat.

"This is your passage," he said. "The Vault is not stone—it is spirit. And no spirit tolerates strangers without witness. Wear this, and the roots will recognize you."

He paused, then gestured to the markings scorched into the earth around the altar—spiral loops, ash trails, burnt bone.

"The Rootbound believed that war was not fought—it was survived. The Vault was shaped by that belief. Every inch of it grows more hostile the longer you linger. Roots reward endurance. Punish hesitation."

He gave a small, dry smile. "Even standing still too long is considered weakness here."

Raven took it, turning the talisman over between his fingers. It felt warm—almost alive.

"And if I lose it?"

Ferun’s eyes remained fixed. "The Vault forgets only those it has already devoured."

He paused, then added with ritual clarity.

"And if your task is true, the talisman will drink from the chambers. It will change color once the rootborn blood settles. If it does not... your work remains unfinished."

Raven slipped the talisman over his neck without another word. A soft chime rang out.

[Accept Dungeon Quest: "Buried Will, Unbroken Blood" – Vault of the Rootbound?]

Raven clicked Yes.

For a moment, the interface lingered.

[Warning: This dungeon cannot be exited until completed. Logging out during the raid will remove you from the Vault and place your character at a random settlement in the zone: Deeproot Enclave, Stonejaw Hollow, or Gnarlmark Outpost. There are no exit portals. Proceed only if you are ready to finish what you start.]

He grunted. "Figures."

He slipped the talisman beneath his cloak. Its heat pulsed stronger the deeper he stepped into the chamber—as if it recognized its birthplace.

He took a breath. Not the kind for centering. The kind you hold before a plunge.

"Step into the Vault. What you find will not be fair. Nor kind. But it will be honest."

[Quest Accepted: Vault of the Rootbound – Buried Will, Unbroken Blood]

Main Objective: Complete the Trial of Growth within the Vault. (0/3)

Secondary Objective: Defeat the Root-Soul Ascendant before it devours another soul.

Behind Ferun, the roots began to shift. A path opened deeper into the Vault, illuminated by a soft amber glow.

Ferun stepped aside, his silhouette half-obscured by the slow curl of incense smoke.

"Many believe the god below never spoke because it slept. Others believe it listened. Quietly. Patiently."

He looked at Raven one last time.

"If the god below stirs, you’ll be the first to know. And the last."

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