Moisture condensed on the ceiling of the tunnel and fell in heavy, dull drops onto the stone as Daralis’s procession moved forward in a ringing cavalcade.

  Every step echoed back with a delay, as if the rock itself needed a moment to decide whether it even wanted to let them pass.

  The air was heavy, thick with the smell of wet stone, old blood, and the sweat of slaves.

  There was also something metallic in it — like rust and ozone meeting in a single, suffocating kiss.

  The sheer number of powerful auras in the center of the column made the ground tremble, and the monsters at the front ran as if driven forward by the whips of their masters.

  At the very front raced the underworld hounds — war dogs and three-headed cerberi with red eyes, straight from the deepest hells.

  They sniffed low to the ground, spreading wide and fast, almost gliding over the stone.

  Their claws scraped rhythmically against the rock, and the growling and barking of hundreds of bloodthirsty maws could have frightened even the hosts of saints in heaven.

  Above them rose the screeching and roars of humanoid harpies, who squabbled among themselves and cursed at the enraged pack below.

  Behind the dogs, like the general of the vanguard, ran a tiger-skinned catman walking upright on two legs — four-armed, wielding four curved sabers. His low, tiger-like rumble echoed off the walls like the memory of an ancient storm.

  Red-eyed minotaurs in heavy armor, with only traces of fur left and often crimson-like pupils, were not idle either. They roared their own battle cry — deep and rasping, like stone grinding against stone.

  At the very center of the column rode her — the Underworld Ruler, Daralis.

  The proud queen sat atop a crawling crusader like on a living throne, rushing forward in a ritual of humiliation.

  Her black outfit, made of layered leather and metal, swallowed the torchlight, and the tight corset wrapped her waist like armor — not decoration, but a tool.

  The heels rising above her knees had reinforced tips — more a weapon than part of an outfit.

  Her skin was pale, almost porcelain, and her long, dark hair flowed freely down her back. She looked like a true sadist, utterly unconcerned with the suffering of her slaves.

  Her dark eyes watched the tunnel with the lazy curiosity of someone who expected not danger, but entertainment that had so far failed to appear.

  The crusader beneath her was covered in old scars and fresh marks from the whip. Around his neck was a metal collar etched with runes that occasionally glimmered dully.

  The cross on his cheek had long been swallowed by wild, unkempt beard, and the symbol of the holy sun — the most precious emblem of his order — had been mostly burned away with something hot.

  Behind him ran medics on leashes, dragged along by ogres and orcs.

  Two of them were angels — blond, with fair hair plastered to their foreheads with sweat, their wings cut off and ending in ugly, badly healed stumps.

  Their hands worked mechanically, patching the crusader up just enough so he could keep moving and not die under the weight of his mistress. Unlike the human slaves, the once-winged guardians of mankind showed no sign of broken spirit.

  Daralis, used to such outings, every few steps lashed her half-naked mount with her whip or drove a heel into his side — simply because she could.

  Not out of necessity. Not out of habit. Just out of boredom.

  “Faster, you lazy thing.” she said without anger, but also without kindness.

  The crusader wheezed and sped up, and one of the medics slipped on the wet stone. The smaller, now wingless angel caught him at the last moment and set him back on his feet, most likely saving his life.

  On her left walked the she-archdemon Kioti — slender, with horns curved backward like elegant blades.

  Her smile was far too confident for a place like this.

  On the right trudged Otra — short, stocky, with a face as ugly as a bloated toad.

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  Every so often, he tried to edge half a step ahead of his younger sister.

  Each time, Kioti sped up by exactly the same amount without even looking at him, often elbowing him or tripping him for good measure.

  Daralis watched this for a moment, rolled her eyes, then lashed Otra across the backside with her whip until he groaned.

  “Don’t show off, you ugly thing!” she snapped. “As if I needed to look at that hideous ass of yours! Worry about finding something interesting instead! This stupid walk was your idea. And as always — stupid!”

  Otra snorted and clenched his fists in anger. Kioti grinned, stuck her tongue out at him, and shoved him back among the slaves and orcs.

  Hodo — the old ogre shaman — only leaned heavily on his staff.

  His eyes shone with the calm, watchful light of someone who preferred listening to stone rather than people. Sweat ran down his dark gray skin, and his pair of old horns looked like they were itching to skewer those two damned, constantly bickering creatures.

  Meanwhile, the tunnel narrowed, and the walls became sharper, more jagged.

  Drops of water fell more densely here, splashing against the stone with dull, wet sounds. The place crawled with vermin, and the tunnels looked ancient — dug centuries ago, if not longer.

  The cerberi suddenly slowed. They began to scratch nervously and wag their tails.

  One head lifted higher, nostrils twitching. The second growled low, as if the sound was born deep in its chest. The third let out a short, warning whine.

  Hodo raised a hand. Everyone stopped.

  “Something is ahead of us.” he said calmly. “It seems like quite a pleasant reward for your effort, dark queen…”

  Daralis tilted her head, more amused than intrigued.

  “Oh, really? I was already hoping to break all of Otra’s fingers and shove hot iron into his wrinkled ass…”

  The archdemon turned toward the wall, as if trying to erase his own existence, which only emboldened his sister. She slapped him on the back herself and bared her fangs, as if to make it clear she was the underworld ruler’s favorite.

  From the darkness came a hiss — heavy and wet, as if the air were too thick to pass through the beast’s throat smoothly.

  No one was afraid. Not with such power at their back.

  Torchlight lit the gray mass of orcs and ogres as they surged forward together with the hounds and harpies. The hunt had begun.

  Hundreds of monsters rushed between pillars and through wide tunnels — fast, massive, relentless — giving their target neither time nor chance to escape.

  They found it quickly.

  The ogre shaman Hodo, famous for sensing even faint auras from kilometers away, and the cerberi, who needed only a drop of troglodyte blood to track down its killer, were far too formidable as a hunting pack.

  Scales caught the torchlight in cold, dull reflections.

  A two-headed hydra in the colors of catastrophe.

  Surrounded by enraged hounds, cerberi, harpies, orcs, ogres, minotaurs, and more.

  The victim, with no chance of escape, stepped from paw to paw, crushing small stones beneath its weight until they crumbled and slid from under its belly.

  The catman raised his sabers with a grin; metal rang softly.

  The largest of the minotaurs, clad in gilded armor engraved with the sign of the black dragon, drew in air and released it in a short, warlike rumble.

  The harpies climbed higher, screeching and beating their ragged wings.

  Daralis slid down from the crusader, her heels clicking against the stone with a dry, confident sound. She walked forward, parting her servants with her aura alone — like Moses parting the sea by divine power.

  She straightened and looked at the beast as if it were something unexpected that might, at least a little, improve her mood.

  “A catastrophe monster? In a place like this? I wouldn’t have expected that.”

  Kioti tilted her head.

  “Maybe there’s a wild dungeon nearby! How fun!”

  The old ogre tapped his staff against the ground, and the beasts fell silent.

  “No. I don’t sense the aura of catastrophe. There is no wild dungeon anywhere nearby. And this creature, though similar, comes from our world. Its aura reminds me of vampires… or cultists of the God of Darkness. Suspicious…”

  “Probably just some stray freak.” Daralis replied. “Still, nice. At least I can tell that idiot Kiro I went hydra hunting when she starts cozying up and asking where I’ve been again. Hmph.”

  “Queen Kiro has won the war against King Seydo… It’s not wise to be so hostile toward her…” Hodo muttered, but quickly fell silent when he felt his ruler’s gaze pierce through him.

  She raised her hand slowly, as if she didn’t want to startle the moment.

  In an instant, aura flowed from her fingertips — black and dense, like smoke that had suddenly decided to become something solid.

  The hydra hissed more sharply, sensing the space around it beginning to close in.

  Chains formed in the air with a dull crack, and a moment later something like a thunderclap rang out, knocking unconscious in a single instant a two-headed monster larger than the old ogre.

  One of the heads, with violet pupils, kept its eyes open for a moment longer, looking around in fear — but it too lost consciousness when the shock lasted a second longer.

  In the next instant, numerous monsters swarmed the hydra, trampling it and throwing it against the rock like a plush toy. The strength of minotaurs did not inspire respect across the world for no reason.

  The echo of the impact ran deep into the tunnel.

  Daralis smiled faintly, as if thinking of something pleasant.

  Hodo narrowed his eyes. At last, he would be able to rest in comfortable chambers.

  “One could say the God of the Sword gave me a birthday present.” she joked.

  Then she felt something else. The ogre shaman’s eyes widened.

  A heavy, ancient stirring deep within the world. An aura that shaped the underworld itself. Something that had no right to be this close.

  She sighed softly, and curiosity appeared in her eyes.

  “Could it be that old Tess has decided to honor me with his presence?” she murmured.

  Suddenly, unrest and murmurs spread:

  “Tessarion… The most powerful of the Underworld Rulers… The High King…”

  Daralis glanced at her two archdemons, and they knew exactly what she meant.

  In a single second, red flames devoured everyone present along with the hydra, warping reality, cutting through dimensions — creating something like a portal, but not quite.

  At hellish speed, the entire host and their prize surged like a great flame through the tunnels to the west. For a moment, they all became fire.

  Now they raced with all their might straight toward the capital of the black dragon queen’s underworld kingdom — Queen Daralis realm.