Floor 9 of the Sanhell Dungeon wasn’t completely shrouded in darkness. It didn’t reek of old blood, nor did it harbor monsters lurking in the shadows.

  It was the exact opposite.

  It was a brilliant, blindingly white marble corridor. It was so impeccably clean that the glare hurt their eyes. The silence was absolute, penetrating every fiber of the air until the only sounds were the hollow echoes of their own footsteps and ragged breathing.

  But to the S-Class party, this pristine, silent brightness... was infinitely more nauseating than the sea of black blood on Floor 8.

  No one had spoken for a long time. Michael and Uncle walked tight against the wall, their knuckles white as they gripped their shields. They weren’t checking the path ahead; their eyes kept darting over their shoulders... constantly watching the thirteen-year-old boy who was casually strolling with his hands in his pockets, humming a cheerful tune as if he were walking through a park.

  Sarah, the once-arrogant top-tier Healer, was clutching her staff to her chest. Her dry lips constantly moved, muttering incomprehensible prayers like a broken woman. Her eyes were vacant. Meijin no longer hid in the shadows, simply because there were none to hide in. He walked right behind Michael, keeping as much distance from Mythy as physically possible.

  Mosin led the vanguard. His brain throbbed with the exertion of trying to make sense of the absurdity.

  Why the sudden shift in environment? Where are the monsters? Why...

  Then, Mosin’s eyes caught it—a splash of dried, rust-brown liquid staining the immaculate white marble wall.

  He raised a hand. The party stopped instantly, like marionettes with their strings pulled taut. Mosin approached the wall and ran a gloved finger over the dried blood. It wasn't just an isolated stain; it dragged down the corridor. The deep gouges on the stone floor weren't made by monster claws... they were the distinct marks of heavy swords, axes, and magical scorch marks.

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  At the end of the blood trail... lay a pile of corpses.

  They weren't monster carcasses. They were human. Five bodies, clad in high-tier equipment that, despite being heavily damaged, still screamed immense wealth and status.

  "A raid team... the A-Class vanguard of the Valkyrie Guild," Michael said, his voice trembling. He recognized the shattered wing insignia on one of the shields. "They took a subjugation quest for Sanhell three months ago... and vanished."

  Meijin crouched down, examining the closest body with the clinical detachment of an Assassin. He looked up, his face ashen.

  "This one... was decapitated from behind by a greatsword," Meijin pointed to the clean cut. "And the Mage over there... took a crossbow bolt through the eye socket from point-blank range."

  A freezing dread gripped Mosin’s heart.

  "Human weapons..." Sarah whimpered, backing away. "They... they weren't killed by monsters..."

  Mosin closed his eyes. The final pieces of the dungeon's puzzle snapped perfectly into place in his mind.

  This wasn't an anomaly. It wasn't a glitch. The 'Log'—the core logic—of the deeper levels of Sanhell was never designed to spawn mindless beasts for top-tier parties to farm.

  The escalating pressure, the illusions, the mana vacuum, the undying horde... it was all meticulously crafted to crush human 'arrogance' and 'ego.' It squeezed their sanity, letting paranoia rot them from the inside out.

  The Sanhell Dungeon... engineered scenarios to make high-level parties slaughter each other.

  "Its logic is a mirror," Mosin whispered faintly. "It creates a twisted environment to draw out the monsters hiding inside us."

  "Monsters?"

  Mythy’s crisp, clear voice cut through the heavy air. The boy casually stepped over the pile of corpses without a second glance, stopping in front of a massive, pitch-black metal door at the end of the hall. The entrance to the Floor 10 Boss Room.

  Mythy looked back at Mosin. The absolute darkness that had consumed his eyes on the previous floor was gone, replaced once again by profound boredom. But the smile tugging at the corner of his lips was chillingly distorted.

  "If these pieces of trash killed each other just because they couldn't handle a little pressure..." Mythy tilted his head. "It just means they were weak. It has nothing to do with monsters, Mosin."

  The thirteen-year-old boy placed his small hand flat against the towering metal door.

  "Real monsters... don't break."

  CRRRR-CLANG!

  The door to the Floor 10 Boss Room was pushed open.