Dungeon King: The Hidden Ruler-Chapter 107: [The Throne of Kharnath-Dur 10] Velitha’s Last Rite

The second phase began with a scream. Not only Seravelle’s—but also the sound of the system itself splitting under pressure.

[Triad Cohesion Disrupted – Phase Two Initiated]

With her halo shattered and her bindings torn, Seravelle no longer fought with elegance. She fought with fury.

Orun’s scream echoed through stone like a warhorn shattered. His runes pulsed red, flickering like they were burning out. He dropped his stance. No more knight. Just wrath

Raven barely landed before he was thrown across the crypt floor. He rolled, kicked off a fractured coffin lid, and flipped upright.

The corrupted paladin roared. A blinding glyph ignited beneath her boots—Sacred Flagellation.

Blades of radiant blood arced around her like a cage. For every strike she received, she punished the room. 50% of all healing reflected as Holy Burn.

Raven narrowed his eyes.

"Watch her patterns," he barked. "She’s baiting burst damage. Keep her moving. Break her posture."

But Orun and Velitha had already changed.

No more pattern. No more patience.

Orun lunged from the fog with a screamless dash—Final Rite activated without warning. He wasn’t hunting weakness anymore. He was hunting blood.

Thistlecreep met him head-on.

Vine lashes snapped. Fangs found armor. Orun bled from one side—but his blade landed in return. The panther recoiled, leaving a smear of dark ichor.

Raven saw it.

Too deep.

AX-K9’s howl cleared another wave of fog. Flame burst in a line, revealing Velitha casting Writ of the Forgotten twice in succession—two echoes summoned, then a third.

Phantom Seer dove through them.

It tried to cast Mind Shatter.

But Velitha had adjusted.

She blinked left, right—then snapped her tome shut on a ghost.

Light surged.

Haunting Mirage failed.

Velitha opened her hand—and stabbed a spectral spike through Seer’s spine.

The creature convulsed, arms twitching.

It phased. Then collapsed.

Phantom Seer was gone.

Thistlecreep snarled and leapt one last time—but Orun didn’t dodge.

He caught the beast midair, plunged his blade up through its ribs.

Petals burst. Vines withered.

The panther fell.

Two shadows faded from Raven’s team.

The field was tilting.

And Raven was running out of time.

Raven’s gaze swept the battlefield—two shadows gone, and only AX-K9 still standing. Smoke curled where Thistlecreep had bled out. The place Phantom Seer had fallen was already cold.

He didn’t flinch. His mind was already moving.

AX-K9 stays. That much was certain.

"He’s the best fog-breaker I’ve got," Raven murmured to himself. "Fast. Clean. If I lose him, the whole left side collapses."

But he needed more.

Two slots. Two solutions.

The first was obvious.

From the shadows beyond the lantern-lit walls, a figure began to form. Towering, rusted, slow.

The Silent Warden. The midboss from Veilshade Catacombs.

Raven didn’t need voice from him—only certainty. The cursed lantern swayed with each heavy step. Wherever its light passed, illusions dissolved, glyphs shivered, and the edges of Velitha’s control began to warp.

"Orun’s too fast. Velitha hides too well. I need something that doesn’t flinch. Something that sees."

Then came the vines.

A ripple bloomed across the stone tiles—bright green and violet, crawling into cursed petals.

She stepped through it barefoot, trailing pollen and smirking like a misbehaved noble.

Widowvine Arcanist.

A humanoid plant-being with the gait of a tomboy sorceress, she spun a vine between her fingers like it was a dagger.

Widowvine cracked her neck, glanced around the battlefield like it was a garden overdue for weeding, and grinned. "Gods, what did you do to this place? It’s perfect."

She spun her vine whip once, then launched it across the field. The first patch of corrupted soil bloomed beneath Velitha’s glyphs.

"I don’t just need a wall," Raven thought. "I need someone who poisons every inch they touch."

Hexsap to slow. Bloomfields to trap. Curses to confuse.

She didn’t ask for orders. She just smiled and stretched her arms like she’d waited to fight all day.

The mist parted.

AX-K9 growled, embers licking at its plating.

The Silent Warden raised his lantern.

The light flared. Orun skidded, slowed—but only for a heartbeat.

He slammed into the Warden. Blade met blade. Sparks hissed from rusted steel. The lantern shook, but did not fall.

Warden did not back down. He never had.

Widowvine licked her thumb and lit a cursed vine on her tongue like a fuse.

Raven exhaled once.

"Let’s finish this."

Raven didn’t give more orders. He was already moving—chains whirling, stalking Seravelle, making sure she had no room to breathe.

He wasn’t going to kill her. Not yet.

He was going to deny her purpose.

Every time she lifted her hand to heal, he knocked it aside. When her halo tried to stabilize its broken axis, Raven’s blade caught the light and disrupted its spin.

"You’re not casting a damn thing," he muttered, teeth clenched.

Meanwhile, his team struck.

AX-K9 surged forward through the cursed tiles, its howl clearing a fresh veil of fog just as Velitha tried to vanish. Widowvine spun her staff and flung Hexsap Volley in a wide arc—thorns burst upward, grazing the Bone-Speaker’s robes and locking her movements.

The Silent Warden advanced like a nightmare.

His Lantern of Truth pulsed.

Velitha flinched, frozen by the sudden brilliance.

She tried to summon another Echo—but her tome stuttered, flickering with miscast light.

"Now!" Widowvine hissed.

The vine trap beneath Velitha detonated—Entropic Bloomfield. Her foot caught. She stumbled.

AX-K9’s mini-hounds lunged.

The first tore through her left leg. The second clamped onto her tome hand. She screamed.

But the Warden was already there.

He didn’t need to speak. Just raised his blade.

Ethereal Slash.

The spectral broadsword cleaved through Velitha’s chest. Her body didn’t fall—it unravelled into ash and memory.

Raven didn’t even look.

Seravelle screamed behind him.

Her fingers clawed through light as she tried to channel another healing rite, but Raven’s chains were already clashing against her gauntlets. No time. No space.

And in that moment of fury, Orun snapped.

A howl—raw, inhuman—erupted from across the field. The Grave-Knight’s eyes flared red. His movements, already violent, lost all trace of discipline. No more flanking. No tactics. Just murder.

He dashed once—Final Rite—targeting Widowvine.

Raven turned just in time to see her flung across the crypt by a streak of steel. Her body slammed into a pillar, vines shattering around her like glass. She coughed blood, staggered to her feet, and grinned like she was high on it.

"Oooh... he’s pissed now."

Widowvine spat blood, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Come on, knight-boy. Let’s see if that blade of yours can keep up with wildflowers."

Orun didn’t stop. He vanished into shadow—then reappeared midair, descending with his blade aimed at AX-K9.

The mechanical hound twisted, releasing a jet burst mid-leap. He dodged the slash by inches—but Orun’s blade still carved into his shoulder plating.

Sparks flew.

Raven growled. "Warden—anchor him!"

The Silent Warden raised his lantern again. The light flared. Orun skidded, slowed—but only for a heartbeat.

He slammed into the Warden. Blade met blade.

It was no longer a duel. It was a brawl.

Seravelle’s hands trembled, overflowing with radiant energy. Her halo reignited.

[Warning: Suffering Reserves: 87%]

Suffering Reserves—Raven know this, but never this high. It was Seravelle’s passive hoard: every ounce of overhealing she cast that couldn’t land on a target was siphoned into a reservoir.

The higher it climbed, the worse it got.

At 100%, she could trigger Sanctify the Broken—a catastrophic mass resurrection that wouldn’t just revive fallen enemies. It would corrupt them into Bloodbound Husks—suicidal undead thralls that exploded after fifteen seconds if not killed, dealing percentage-based damage based on how much healing she’d absorbed.

And now? She was at eighty-seven.

One more misstep. One more mistake.

And everything could turn.

Raven’s grip tightened around his chain.

He wouldn’t let it reach 100.

From behind the throne dais, the King bellowed.

"Kill them! Orun, what are you doing? You disgrace your tomb!"

His voice cracked again. "Seravelle, stop him! Heal, damn you—heal!"

But Raven only smiled.

The louder the King barked, the more fragile he sounded.

He was no sovereign. Just a man behind a curtain of fire and dying oaths.

"Shouting won’t save your army," Raven murmured under his breath. "It never does."

The air shuddered. The crypt moaned like it knew what was coming.

Cracks webbed along the vaulted ceiling, spilling fine dust into the torchlit gloom. Stone coffins split at the seams from the ambient pressure. The old prayers carved into the walls—dwarven oaths, etched in gold and blood—began to warp under radiant heat. One name cracked straight down the middle.

Raven turned his head slightly. His eyes flicked to the throne dais.

There—humming, faintly pulsing—was the sovereign control device.

Raven’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the sovereign control device.

A brass-packed arcwheel half-sunken into the back of the king’s throne. Runes glowed along its circular edge. It was shaped like a dial—and Raven knew: it didn’t control commands. It modulated loyalty.

The King didn’t fight. He twisted dials.

Raven’s chain uncoiled like a snake. With a sharp flick, it lashed toward the device, catching the dial edge. The machine sparked, groaned—and locked in place.

The King reeled back in panic.

"What are you—?!"

Raven yanked it again.

Just enough to break the next phase loose.

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