[Chapter 198. Burden of Ambition]

The massive warrior swallowed hard, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing nervously in his throat. His calloused hands trembled uncontrollably as he reached backward for the massive greatsword strapped to his armored back. The metallic rasp of the heavy blade sliding against its leather sheath sounded unnaturally loud, echoing like a gunshot through the dead silence of the Atrium. With both hands, he hoisted the heavy steel, the weapon wavering unsteadily as his sweaty fingers failed to find a confident grip.

"I... I will do my best, my Lord," the warrior stammered, his eyes darting between the ruined stump and Searanox's cold, indifferent face.

The heavy blade descended, striking Searanox's mangled shoulder with a sickening, wet thud. Searanox remained completely motionless. His expression did not change, nor did his eyes blink as the steel bit into what remained of his flesh and shattered bone. Despite the warrior's evident physical effort and the sheer weight of the weapon, the blade barely penetrated before stopping with a jarring, metallic impact against the reinforced, altered bone structure beneath the muscle.

"Was that all?" Searanox asked, his voice deadpan. "Use a skill, or did you genuinely expect to cut me with that pathetic excuse for a strike?"

The warrior's face flushed a deep, humiliating crimson. Cold sweat beaded heavily on his brow and trickled down his scarred temples. "My Lord, I—"

"Fucking useless." Searanox's voice cut through the stagnant air like a physical blade of ice.

He reached up with his right hand, gripping the flat of the greatsword. With a casual, almost bored motion, he wrenched the heavy blade free from his own flesh. A wet, sucking sound accompanied the extraction. He tossed the weapon aside; the sword clattered violently to the polished marble floor, its heavy steel tip skittering across the stone with an echoing, high-pitched ring.

"IRIS!" he bellowed. His voice reverberated off the high, vaulted ceilings of the Atrium, shaking the very air within it.

When several tense seconds passed with absolutely no response, Searanox slowly turned his head toward Rayan, who stood frozen in sheer terror beside Samantha.

"Where is she?" Searanox demanded.

"L-Lady Iris went to the Dungeon, my Lord," Rayan answered, his voice surprisingly steady despite the deathly, sickly pallor of his face.

Searanox's head cocked slightly to one side, his eyes narrowing in mild confusion. "Lady Iris? Since when... never mind." He shook his head, dismissing the thought.

With a deliberate flick of his wrist, a simple foldable chair materialized right beside him in a brief flicker of pale blue light. He sat down exactly where he stood, mere meters away from the bustling logistics counter responsible for overseeing and managing the daily dungeon delves. As his eyes fluttered closed, an Intermediate Travel Drone appeared beside him in another sharp flash of blue. Taking a silent command from his mental link, the sleek unit zipped rapidly out of the Atrium, heading directly toward the distant dungeon spire.

Searanox sat there in the middle of the grand hall, idly tapping his leg with the severed hand of the arm he still carried while he waited.

The massive crowd gathered in the Atrium watched this surreal, horrifying scene unfold in absolute, breathless silence. The man who had single-handedly founded a sanctuary city after the apocalypse, the same untouchable man who had just walked through the front doors holding his own severed limb, sat completely calm on a cheap foldable chair. He waited patiently for something they couldn't comprehend, his disembodied arm dangling idly against his knee.

Agonizing minutes passed before Searanox finally stood up from his chair. Just as he did, a rapid silhouette appeared in the high archway of the Atrium entrance. Iris hastily dismounted the hovering travel drone and sprinted toward him. Her massive Eldritch Zweihänder slipped from her grasp in her panic, clattering loudly to the marble floor.

"What happened to you?!" Her voice was pitched an octave higher than normal, laced with a frantic, desperate undertone he hadn't heard from her before. "Why do you always return in such a state after leaving for a day?"

Searanox entirely ignored her barrage of panicked questions. In one smooth, practiced motion, he clamped his severed arm securely under his right armpit. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers gently combing through the soft fur on her cheek.

"Be a good girl and cut it off," he instructed. His voice was incredibly soft, almost gentle, presenting a terrifying contrast to the gruesome request.

As he held out the mangled remains of his shoulder stump, Iris's silver eyes widened in absolute horror. "C-cut it o-off? All of i-it?"

"No, dear, just the very end. Make it a fresh, clean wound for me."

As she looked deeply into his eyes, she could see that he appeared completely, unnervingly calm. It was the exact same stoic calm he maintained when reviewing city logistics or eating a meal.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, took a few hesitant steps back, and reached down to pick up her heavy, dark sword. Her hands were shaking violently as she adjusted her grip and took a few measured steps forward. With a deep, shuddering breath, she closed her eyes for a few seconds. A thin, melodic whisper left her lips too quiet for anyone to hear.

Then, her silver eyes snapped open, glowing with raw power. "Arcane Strike."

In a blinding flash of vibrant turquoise light, the massive black blade swung downward. It cleaved cleanly through his enhanced flesh and dense bone in a single, frictionless second. Fresh, hot blood sprayed outward in a violent arc as the ruined, jagged slice of his mangled arm fell wetly to the polished floor.

A collective, horrified gasp rippled forcefully through the gathered crowd. The feathered citizens those who had been with the city from its violent inception stared in shock. The newer arrivals that had answered the systems call, many of whom had specifically ventured into the Atrium at this time of day hoping to catch a glimpse of the city's legendary founder, recoiled. Several weaker-stomached individuals fainted outright from the sheer, visceral sight of the amputation. Among them was one of the administrative attendees stationed behind the logistics counter, who had a direct, front-row seat to the bloodletting.

"Good girl," Searanox muttered softly.

He moved quickly. Snatching his severed arm from under his right armpit, he pressed the severed joint directly against the freshly cut, heavily bleeding surface of his shoulder.

`Let's hope this works.` He thought grimly.

Right beside him, another pulse of blue light flashed as a silver, octahedron-shaped Intermediate Healing Drone materialized from his drone storage. Instantly, its concentrated green healing light washed over his shoulder. The powerful, restorative magic forcefully grabbed hold of the torn, mangled mess of flesh, rapidly knitting muscle fibers, reconnecting severed veins, and fusing bone back onto his body.

While the drone tirelessly worked to reconstruct his limb, Searanox calmly sat back down on his foldable chair. His cold, calculating gaze swept across the terrified, gathered citizens.

"The Labyrinth's third floor is officially off-limits. For a very... very long time," Searanox announced. His tone was as flat and calm as always. He took a deep, steadying breath and slowly exhaled, letting the lingering adrenaline bleed out of his system. "To think that this is the level of hostility that awaits when the second stage arrives... it is utterly ridiculous."

The brilliant green light of the healing drone cut off the exact instant he finished his sentence, dissolving into blue sparks. His gaze drifted slowly downward toward his newly reattached left arm. He tested the motor functions, his fingers slowly balling into a tight, responsive fist.

"We aren't ready," he whispered to himself.

He stood up, leaving the cheap foldable chair sitting in a puddle of his own blood. The massive black sword Iris had used moments ago still lay on the polished stone floor, its blade no longer humming with deadly turquoise energy. He stepped directly past it without offering a second glance, his gait steady, balanced, and unnervingly confident.

"Iris, clear the first floor of Tartarus," he commanded, his voice returning to its authoritative cadence. "Tell the four to prepare themselves to do the exact same immediately afterward. I want a comprehensive assessment from you and them regarding its difficulty. I want it done before the system timer hits zero."

"As you wish, my Lord," Iris responded obediently, though her silver eyes remained unreadable as they flickered rapidly between his stoic face and his flawlessly reattached arm.

He turned his attention to his handler. "Samantha. With me. Bring the detailed logs of the city's resource consumption, the agricultural production reports, and the current population census data. I want everything."

He didn't wait for her reply, already striding purposefully toward the central teleportation stone that would carry him directly to his tower's summit.

At the top floor of the Magitech Fortress Tower, Searanox waited in the center of the grand hall for Samantha. She appeared seconds later in a dizzying flash of violet spatial light right next to the small pedestal that formed the center stone of the array's node.

Without uttering a single word, he began to walk toward a massive, heavy-looking set of reinforced double doors. They hummed and opened automatically the moment he stepped within their proximity. Behind them lay the towers war room. An opulent, intimidating space, even with its highly sparse, utilitarian furniture. A massive, strategic table occupied most of the chamber. The table itself was carved from a single slab of polished dark stone, its deep marbling clearly visible under the ambient light that shone through the massive window wall overlooking the sprawling city beneath them.

He gestured vaguely toward a comfortable seat near the entrance, while he chose to remain standing beside the head of the table.

Samantha approached and placed the thick stack of organized papers on the table. Her movements were highly efficient, yet betrayed a nervous hesitation.

"My Lord, the consumption reports show a twenty percent increase over the last twenty-four hours," she began, her tone professional. "The citizens are adapting to the safe zone faster than our initial calculations projected, but the food production from the agricultural drones simply cannot keep pace with the influx. With the current daily gain of City Points, the city's existing reserves will only sustain the population for approximately three weeks at these current consumption rates."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she slid the relevant, heavily annotated document across the polished table's surface. She kept her eyes fixed on the paper, entirely unable to meet the intense, unwavering focus of his gaze.

"Furthermore, the population census is currently ninety-eight percent complete. Most refugees have officially claimed residence and accepted their identification, but a small, stubborn fraction of the populace still lives in the outer districts. They are choosing to squat rather than comply with the mandatory registration and taxation."

She paused, taking a deep, steadying breath as she gathered her thoughts for the worst part of the briefing.

"And the production reports... they are not good, my Lord. Most of the citizens enter the spire exactly once, earn the bare minimum points necessary to pay their tax, and absolutely refuse to consider entering again. Less than ten percent of the teams that successfully cleared the dungeon are re-entering for subsequent dives. Then... there are the Wolves."

Samantha flinched almost imperceptibly at the name. "The Wolves of the Spire," she corrected gently before continuing her report. "Their recruitment has doubled in the last week. Gareth, their leader, has proven to be an incredibly charismatic and effective recruiter. He promises absolute salvation and guaranteed security, and the desperate, terrified masses believe him. His team now monopolizes and controls over sixty percent of all new dungeon clears, and nearly all of the escort contracts for non-combatants seeking citizenship or points."

She paused again, choosing her next words with the extreme care of a bomb disposal expert. "There are... whispers. Unsubstantiated reports of disappearances within the Spire. People sign up for Gareth's escort services, but they never officially make Bronze rank, nor are they ever seen again outside the spire's walls."

A heavy, suffocating silence filled the opulent chamber. The only sound was the faint, almost subliminal hum of the city's massive magitech core operating floors below.

"Casualties aren't unexpected inside the dungeon. I don't see a particular problem with some entrepreneurial agency emerging that offers its services in the form of clearing the dungeon for weaker individuals. In fact, I welcome the efficiency," Searanox stated coldly. His eyes actually went slightly softer as he spoke, analyzing the brutal pragmatism of the situation. "I would almost call it good news, if there weren't the glaring mention of so few people entering the dungeon to begin with."

He turned away from the table, stepping toward the massive glass wall overlooking his domain. "As for the food crisis, there is only one viable solution for this problem."

The city beneath them was a breathtaking sea of geometric perfection. Its violet-lit streets formed a rigid, unyielding grid that seemed to pulse with a slow, hypnotic rhythm akin to a heartbeat. Even at this hour, the sanctuary was far from asleep. Small, busy groups of illuminated figures moved steadily through the streets, their every progress quietly tracked and cataloged by the city's silent, all-seeing system.

"The city needs a new dungeon. One that can handle our current demands and accommodate our future population growth," Searanox declared. His reattached right hand began to tap a slow, steady, rhythmic beat against the thick armored glass. "One that can be farmed safely and consistently by the masses. The Gates of Tartarus is far too lethal for a steady stream of low-level awakened. They will never gain the strength necessary to survive the coming stages if we rely on that Dungeon Spire alone."

He slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder at her.

"Find me groups of high-level delvers. People who are not scared away by a high level or a high mortality risk. I plan on opening the first floor of the Great Labyrinth for them after I get the reports from Iris and the girls."

Samantha's throat tightened painfully, her hands clasping tightly behind her back to hide their shaking. "My Lord... locating individuals of such... extreme ambition... within our current population will be exceedingly difficult. The Gates are already viewed with outright terror by the populace. Most citizens struggle to even afford the basic Bronze tax, let alone volunteer for what they perceive as certain death."

Searanox turned his back to her again. His reflection cast a dark, imposing silhouette against the sprawling, glowing grid of the city. His gaze remained coldly fixed on the geometric labyrinth below, his mind already calculating the acceptable casualty rates.

"Then find me the desperate. Find me the arrogant. Find me the ones with absolutely nothing left to lose and a burning lust for power in their eyes. Bring me the ones willing to bleed for a fraction of a chance at greatness. I am not asking for volunteers, Samantha. I am giving you a direct order. Find them."