Carrying the suffocating tension from the previous floor, the S-Class party descended into Floor 8. Mosin, still swallowing his boiling rage, maintained his flawless facade, directing the formation with cold, mechanical precision.

  This floor was different. The air was thick with the putrid stench of rotting flesh, and every step onto the stone ground was met with a sickening, sticky squelch.

  Then, they emerged. A horde of undead dragged their feet out of the darkness. Their limbs bent at horrific, unnatural angles, and some wailed with agonizing screams. But the most terrifying detail wasn't their rotting faces—it was the tarnished armor and familiar gear they wore. They were fallen adventurers.

  Mosin barked the orders. The clash began. Sarah pushed her limits, continuously casting buffs and channeling mana into the vanguard. But no matter how many skulls Michael crushed, or how many bodies Meijin cleanly bisected, the tide of rotting flesh simply knitted itself back together and stood up again.

  "We can't keep this up! Sarah's going to run dry!" Meijin yelled, his daggers blurring as he continuously shredded the encroaching corpses.

  Suddenly, an oppressive, razor-sharp killing intent flooded the cavern, freezing the blood of everyone in the party.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Annoying."

  Mythy’s voice cut through the chaos. The thirteen-year-old mage unleashed a catastrophic wave of raw blue mana. The shockwave pulverized every single undead in the vicinity, reducing the entire horde to a cloud of fine, gray dust in a fraction of a second.

  Silence fell over the sticky floor. The party stood panting, staring at the boy's back in absolute terror. Mosin physically trembled, his hands clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. He knew exactly what would happen if he ever let his own anger slip against this monster in human skin.

  "You've got to be kidding me..." Michael muttered, his voice cracking.

  From the center of the settling ash, a new figure materialized. An Undead Mage, draped in the tattered robes of a high-tier adventurer, levitated above the ground. Its staff glowed with a sickly, necrotic green light. With a single tap of its staff against the stone... the dust began to swirl. The horde that Mythy had just erased reformed, surrounding them once again.

  Furious at the sheer redundancy of the situation, Mythy's focus slipped for a fraction of a second. From his blind spot, a massive, heavily-armored undead lunged at him.

  Guided by his S-Class intuition, Mythy twisted his body just in time to avoid the fatal strike.

  Riiiiiip.

  There was no blood, but the sound of tearing fabric echoed louder than any scream. The undead's rusted claw had caught the edge of Mythy's cloak, ripping a massive gash through the material.

  Time seemed to stop. The profound boredom that usually occupied the thirteen-year-old's eyes completely vanished. In its place was a dark, bottomless abyss of apocalyptic wrath.