[Chapter 126. Global Announcement]

Searanox raised his Magitech Rifle MKII, the humming violet beam striking true once more with a sharp crack. The Revenant Lord's chest erupted in a violent shower of white-hot sparks and molten slag, leaving a gaping, jagged hole that should have instantly felled any mortal foe. The armored construct merely staggered for a fleeting moment, the dark necrotic mist within its core swirling to fill the void, before it resumed its relentless, heavy advance.

"Engage full suppression," Searanox commanded, his voice cold and devoid of emotion as he dismissed the rifle back to his storage ring with a flick of his wrist.

The Assault Drone that had been shadowing him immediately unleashed its quad-cannons. Crimson beams ripped through the darkness of the chamber in a rapid, staccato succession. Each pulse pierced the Revenant Lord's ornate plate armor as if it were made of thin parchment. Metal fragments exploded outward, creating a constellation of sparks against the ruined chamber walls.

Still, the armored figure pushed forward. Its movements were unnervingly fluid, lacking any sign of the physical trauma inflicted upon its torso. Only when another perfectly aimed violet beam from a hovering drone vaporized its head did it finally pause. The headless armored body swayed for a moment, the heavy metal boots scraping against the stone, before the helm reformed once again with a sickening, grinding finality.

`What do we know? Focus.` Searanox thought.

The internal prompt triggered a cascade of stored information—every scrap of text and every diagram he had absorbed from the hidden study flooded his consciousness with brutal, high-definition clarity. He recalled the journals of the cabal of necromancers. He saw the name Lord Marus etched in frantic, looping script. He remembered the specific details of the ritual's catastrophic failure right here, in this very chamber.

His eyes swept across the room, taking in every detail with the analytical precision of a high-end processor. He looked at the throne. He looked at the granite sarcophagi. He studied the ancient, glowing runes etched into the stone floor that pulsed in time with the boss’s heartbeat.

`If the tropes of fiction hold any truth in this new reality... liches and high-tier undead bind their essence to phylacteries.` He reasoned. `As long as that anchor exists, the Revenant Lord can never truly die. It’s just an empty shell being piloted by a remote battery.`

The realization struck him with the weight of a physical blow. And anything can be a phylactery. His gaze fell upon the cracked, ancient throne itself, then widened to encompass the pillars. Even the entire damn room could be the anchor.

Searanox stared at the Revenant Lord as its helm finished reforming for what felt like the dozen-th time.

"Destroy everything," he commanded, his voice a low growl. He gestured sharply, summoning ten Basic Offensive Drones to join the fray. "Level the room. Leave nothing standing."

A cacophony of violet beams erupted from the swarm of drones, carving through the chamber with systematic, scorched-earth precision. They shattered the Corpse Lanterns lining the walls first, the cyan flames extinguished in violent bursts of glass and necrotic fluid. Ornamental stone decorations crumbled from the vaulted ceiling, their ancient surfaces turning to fine grey dust before they even hit the ground. The throne itself began to crack and splinter under the sustained, concentrated fire, heavy fragments of the stone seat scattering across the floor like shrapnel.

All the while, Searanox kept his primary focus on the boss. He personally vaporized the Revenant Lord's head each time it tried to reform, his rifle materializing and vanishing in flashes of light. The methodical destruction began to wear on him—not physically, but mentally. He had enough tech points to maintain this level of deployment for at least half an hour, but the sheer redundancy of the task grated against his patience.

Minutes bled into one another as the chamber was transformed into a wasteland of shattered stone and broken artifacts. When the Revenant Lord reformed yet again, looking no worse for wear despite the room being in ruins, Searanox’s patience finally snapped.

"I'm a total idiot," he muttered, rubbing his temple. He dismissed one offensive drone and replaced it with an Intermediate Reconnaissance Drone, specifically tuning its sensors to the Aetheric spectrum.

In a fraction of a second, the drone's analysis materialized in his mind: the Revenant Lord's massive black-iron sword was radiating a mana signature so dense it practically hummed. It wasn't just a weapon; it was the focal point.

"Boo fucking hoo, look who finally figured it out..." he whispered to himself, his wit returning as the solution became clear.

His drones immediately redirected their fire toward the sword, but the concentrated beams reflected harmlessly off its dark surface, striking the walls with explosive force. The sword was shielded by the very energy it housed.

Searanox rolled his eyes. "Fine. Plan B. Shoot the hand off the sword."

The drones adjusted their aim with mathematical certainty. A volley of violet beams found their mark, severing the armored gauntlet at the wrist. The massive blade clattered to the stone floor, the impact echoing through the ruined chamber like a funeral bell.

He instantly replaced the recon drone with a Cargo Drone.

"Take it. Now!"

The moment the sword vanished in a flash of cyan light, absorbed into the drone's specialized storage space, the Revenant Lord ceased all movement. The armored shell that had contained the necrotic essence suddenly lost its structural integrity. It collapsed into a heap of rusted metal before disintegrating into a pile of fine, grey dust that swirled briefly in the air and then settled.

As a flood of system windows began to materialize in his field of vision, Searanox dismissed all his combat drones, leaving only the cargo drone that held the phylactery blade. He almost wiped the notifications away without reading them—a habit born of his efficiency-driven mindset—but something about the color and size of the alerts gave him pause.

Then, the final window appeared, glowing with a golden hue that seemed to vibrate in the air.

"Well... fuck," Searanox muttered, the weight of the global announcement echoing in the back of his mind like a physical pressure. "Now my name is well and truly out there. So much for the low profile."

He crossed the ruined chamber toward the ornate chest that had materialized amidst the rubble of the throne. The lid opened with a faint creak of resistance, revealing a modest pouch. Inside were a handful of silver coins.

`Same as the others. High effort, low monetary reward.` He thought. He transferred the coins to his storage ring without a hint of enthusiasm.

The exit portal shimmered at the chamber's entrance, and he stepped through without hesitation, eager to leave the stench of the tomb behind.

Night had fallen silent by the time he emerged outside. The air was cool and crisp against his pale skin, a welcome relief from the cloying dampness of the cave. In the distance, the campfires of the city’s survivors still crackled, their flames dancing like orange spirits in the darkness. The clearing around the portal was eerily empty now; the only signs of the earlier skirmish were the absence of the guards and the lingering scent of burned flesh and blood, masked by the smell of burned wood.

The portal was now a slow, dark-blue swirl of energy set within its stone archway, watched by no one. Searanox's attention shifted to the cargo drone hovering nearby, which still held the massive sword secured in its pressurized storage space. He glanced back at the portal and opened a sub-window.

`A six-hour dungeon reset right at their doorstep, and they clear it once a day?`

Searanox began to calculate the experience potential. There were over a thousand undead inside that cave. The sheer, staggering waste of resources made his blood begin to simmer. If they cleared this optimally, a party of twenty people could hit level five every single day. By the time the numbers finished processing in his head, he wasn't just frustrated—he was experiencing a cold, white-hot fury.

Eight days. It had been eight days since the System arrived. The portal had been there from day one. Even the most conservative estimates meant at least thirty-two potential runs had passed. If the 'Boss' of this city had any sense, they could have produced three hundred level-five citizens by now. They could have an army.

And that didn't even account for the first-clear bonuses. A dedicated five-person initial party could all be level ten or higher by now. The thought of such incompetence consumed him, burning through his consciousness like acid.

The urge to hunt down the city's leader and crush his skull into the pavement burned in Searanox's mind. He could see it—his gauntlets dripping with the man's blood, making him pay for every wasted opportunity, every bit of potential squandered out of laziness or fear.

Instead, he drew a slow, agonizingly deep breath, then released it in a sharp, controlled hiss. The mental mask settled back into place. It was one thing to let his true, savage nature emerge when standing over two legless corpses; it was another entirely to broadcast that lack of control to a world that now knew his name. Control was the only thing that mattered. Control. Patience. The mask was more than just a social tool—it was his survival.

"I need to see this 'Boss' for myself," he whispered.

The cargo drone dissolved into motes of light at his command. The massive, black-iron sword materialized on the ground before him, thrumming with a dark, oily energy. Searanox bent down to retrieve it, intending to store it himself for safer keeping.

His fingers closed around the cold hilt.

The moment he made contact, a psychic explosion detonated in his skull. It felt like a jagged rusted knife was being driven deep into his brain. A voice, raspy, ancient, and dripping with malice, invaded his thoughts, echoing through the halls of his mind.

<So much power... this vessel is worthy. Such potential. Mortal, relinquish this shell to me. Give me your eyes!>

Searanox tried to let go, his muscles screaming, but he couldn't drop the sword. His hands were fused to the metal by a surge of necrotic energy, and the world began to turn a sickly, bruised purple.