Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World-Chapter 408 A Solution

The silence stretched just a little too long.

Then Duke Evermoon stirred, his tired eyes sharpening as he lifted his head.

"...There is something," he said quietly.

Everyone turned to look at him.

The Duke let out a slow breath. "Just now, I tried to...reach out. To sense my body."

A tense hush settled over the group.

A Marquis frowned. "And?"

"I cannot move," Duke Evermoon went on, his voice low and steady. "But...my perception...was not entirely severed."

The prince’s brow furrowed. "You could sense the room?"

"More like...a lingering echo."

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then the prince slowly closed his eyes, as if testing something unseen.

He stood there, motionless, for several breaths. Then he opened his eyes again.

"...He’s right," the prince murmured. "I hadn’t noticed. But there’s a tether."

He looked thoughtful—a flicker of cautious intrigue crossing his face. "This spell is not as...complete as I first assumed."

The count’s head snapped up. "What do you mean, Your Highness?"

The prince’s gaze returned to the seven dark tunnels yawning before them. "It is powerful, yes. Subtle, yes. But there are...flaws. Imperfections at the edge of the casting. Either the one who designed this was rushed, or their resources were not as limitless as we feared."

He fell quiet for a heartbeat, clearly thinking. Then his expression tightened. "But even if that is true...so what?"

His tone was grim again.

"Even if this spell is flawed, we are still bound by it," he continued. "We cannot wake our bodies by force alone. The tether isn’t strong enough for us to pull ourselves out. That much is obvious."

"So...what are you suggesting?" Duke Evermoon inquired.

Though his face remained calm, inside he wasn’t.

To be honest, he had thought his plan for the night was perfect—but he had miscalculated.

Heavily.

And now it seemed that not only had he put himself in danger, but his daughter and Michael as well.

For a moment, he regretted ever coming for the miracle fruit—and, perhaps even more, regretted his own caution in using Michael as a bodyguard for his daughter under the guise of simply wanting company before he returned to her side.

The second prince didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he stepped forward, studying the seven tunnels with new focus.

"...I am suggesting," he said at last, "that rather than wasting time debating what we cannot change, we concentrate on the one option available to us."

Michael felt his jaw clench. "Finding the way out."

"Exactly." The prince gave him a cool, steady look. "Illusions this advanced are built around anchors. Conditions. If we navigate this puzzle faster than our enemy, we can disrupt their control."

"However, it is also because of lack of sufficient strength. Brute force also works."

His gaze grew distant, calculating. "...I recommend we split into pairs. It will be faster. But whatever you do—do not wander alone. If you die here, you will die outside."

Before the others could react to that suggestion, Michael spoke up, his voice level but edged with skepticism.

"Is this truly the only method?" he asked, turning to face the second prince fully.

The prince arched an eyebrow. "The only method worth considering."

Michael’s eyes narrowed. "Then there is another."

A brief silence fell. The prince’s mouth curved in something between a frown and a reluctant smile. "I suppose there is."

Michael didn’t look away. "Please say Your Highness."

The others stirred—some frowning, some intrigued—but the prince held Michael’s gaze for a few moments before sighing.

"Very well." He gestured idly with two fingers, as though sorting thoughts in the air. "This illusion is woven around our perception. It traps the mind—our awareness of ourselves. That is why most can’t move or think clearly enough to break it. When you think about it, this is how most illusions work at times. But..."

He tilted his head slightly, his expression turning clinical. "Because the casting was flawed—because we can still sense our bodies in some fractured way—there is theoretically another path to freedom."

Michael’s voice was soft. "Which is?"

The prince’s eyes grew colder. "If our perception can be jolted. If something breaks the illusion’s hold so violently that the mind reasserts itself over the false environment."

A Marquis shifted uncomfortably. "You mean...?"

"Pain," the prince said simply. "Intense, overwhelming pain. A sufficiently traumatic stimulus from the real world can snap your awareness free."

The Duke’s expression darkened. "That’s assuming there is anyone outside this spell to do the inflicting."

"Exactly." The prince’s tone was flat. "And there isn’t."

Michael could feel the heavy silence closing in around them as everyone digested that.

"So, in theory," he said slowly, "if someone outside were to injure our bodies, we would "wake"."

"In theory," the prince confirmed, his eyes steady. "But in practice, every living soul within the auction house is likely under some layer of this same illusion. Even the staff. No one remains to cause that stimulus."

At this point, it truly did seem they’d be forced to act according to their enemy’s design. But Michael was unwilling—deeply unwilling—to leave his survival to a gamble, to bet everything on a stroke of luck to escape this illusion first.

The second prince’s words echoed through his thoughts again. And as they did, something clicked.

Michael’s eyes sharpened.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed them and turned his awareness inward.

He focused—not on the illusion, not on the others around him—but on the body he knew should be lying somewhere beyond this false darkness.

It didn’t take long.

Unlike what Duke Evermoon had described—a faint echo, a vague impression—Michael found he could sense his body and the surrounding space with surprising clarity.

He realized, with a distant sort of wonder, that this must be the result of his intelligence stat.

But like the duke, he still couldn’t move.

His body remained a prisoner.

Yet...

There was something else.

Something he hadn’t expected to feel.

A presence.

A connection—deep, familiar, but blurred as though seen through rippling water.

Michael’s heart kicked once against his ribs.

He focused, following that tenuous thread with every ounce of his will.

And then, very softly, he breathed the name.

"Spartan?"

Silence.

"Yes, Master?"

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