Mystic Calling：Stone of Glory
Chapter 320: They didn’t block me?

Chapter 320: They didn’t block me?

Outside the Tiered Gate of the first floor of the dungeon connected to the Verdant Ravine in Sylvanwood...

The land was cracked and lifeless, scorched black and gray, with molten lava flowing like veins through the earth. A dungeon entrance—one of the few gateways to the surface world—stood silently in the middle of this desolate wasteland. The air was still, save for the howling wind that tore across the barren ground. Nothing else stirred.

But not far from that gate, hidden in the shadows of a jagged rock formation, something massive lurked.

A hulking beast, its entire body a deep, venomous purple, crouched low in the darkness. Its eyes—furious, bloodshot, and gleaming with toxic malice—were locked on the dungeon entrance. It hadn’t moved in hours.

It looked like a statue, frozen in time. But the rage simmering in its eyes betrayed the truth.

And then, after nearly a full day and night of stillness, the creature finally shifted. As if it could no longer hold back, it crept forward, inching out of the shadows toward the gate. But even then, it hesitated—its massive claws digging into the scorched earth, its wings twitching with unease.

A closer look revealed the beast’s identity: none other than Drexon, the Venomspike Manticore—former dungeon lord and one of the few who had escaped the massacre at the Firebird’s roost.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it all..."

His voice was a low, guttural snarl, barely more than a whisper, as if he was terrified someone might hear him.

"Those bastards... Why the hell did they show up out of nowhere? If it weren’t for them, we would’ve already taken that damn Firebird’s nest! We were so close... so fucking close!"

Drexon’s face twisted with fury, his fangs bared, his tail lashing behind him like a whip. But even in his rage, he kept his voice down—paranoia etched into every movement.

Ever since he’d fled the battlefield days ago, he hadn’t stopped running. He’d made it all the way here without rest, driven by one thought: survival. He knew damn well he was the only one left. The others—Skarvex, Xenodrath—they were dead. Slaughtered.

That meant it was up to him to report back to the Dungeon King. If he didn’t, and the King found out what happened some other way... Drexon’s fate would be worse than death.

But now, standing just a stone’s throw from the gate, he couldn’t bring himself to move forward.

Because he knew exactly what kind of monster Isaryne was.

The Firebird hero. A Crimson Ultimate. Her speed was terrifying—at least ten times faster than him, maybe more. Honestly, they weren’t even in the same league.

And that’s what scared him most.

If their roles were reversed, if he were the one hunting her, he wouldn’t let her escape. Not a chance.

So why would she?

What if she was waiting for him right now, just beyond that gate?

If he charged through and she was there... it’d be suicide.

But if he didn’t go through?

Then what? He had nowhere else to run.

This was the only dungeon gate in the area that connected to Sylvanwood’s surface world. If he didn’t use it, his only option would be to dive into some other dungeon—one he didn’t know—and hope to find another exit to the surface.

But that was a gamble. A dangerous one.

And he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

First off, the first thirty floors of the dungeon—yeah, they’re called the Lurelands, but let’s not kid ourselves. That place is a warzone. It’s where the major factions clash with the Dungeon faction, where alliances crumble, and even the Dungeon’s own elites tear each other apart in brutal infighting.

In other words, if Drexon blindly charges into some unknown part of the dungeon, he could run into anything—natural disasters, insanely powerful wild mobs, elite enemies from rival factions, or even rogue dungeon lords.

It’d be suicide.

Second, even if—by some miracle—he made it out of another dungeon entrance alive and in one piece, there’s no guarantee he’d end up back in Sylvanwood.

And that’s a huge problem.

The surface world is mostly under the control of the Light Alliance. If he accidentally stumbles into a dungeon gate controlled by them? Game over. No trial, no mercy—just death.

And then there’s the third issue. One that might be the most important of all.

Time.

He doesn’t have it.

Even if everything else went perfectly—he found another exit, avoided every threat, and somehow made it back to the surface—it would still take too long. And in war, timing is everything. Miss the moment, and not only do you lose your chance, but you give your enemies the opening to strike back—hard.

So really, Drexon doesn’t have a choice anymore.

He has to go through this gate.

If he can just break through, make it back to the surface, he can regroup with the Dungeon army. Once he’s with them, he’s safe. The crisis is over.

Sure, Skarvex and Xenodrath are dead. But they weren’t the only ones. The Dungeon faction still has numbers. And more importantly, they still have their king—Vorundar. The great Dungeon King. With him leading the charge, there’s no way they’ll lose this war.

That thought alone was enough to steel Drexon’s nerves.

With a sudden surge of energy, the Venomspike Manticore lunged forward, muscles coiling, wings flaring as he tore across the scorched ground toward the gate.

The distance wasn’t short, but with his full speed unleashed, it took him only minutes to reach it. And as he closed in, a wild grin spread across his face.

"They didn’t block me?"

"Arrogant fools... or just blind and overconfident?"

"Heh... doesn’t matter. You’re finished. Once I report back to Dungeon King Vorundar, every last one of you is dead!"

Drexon’s voice was a twisted mix of triumph and venom, his laughter echoing across the wasteland.

Then—whoosh!

With a final leap, he hurled himself into the shimmering light of the dungeon gate, vanishing into the portal that led back to the surface world.

But the moment he crossed through—

That triumphant, snarling grin froze on his face.

And then—

Drexon started to shake. Violently.

A bone-deep tremble seized his entire body, and in the next instant, sheer terror—raw, suffocating, and absolute—flooded his eyes. His pupils shrank to pinpricks as a wave of hopelessness crashed over him like a tidal wave.

His breath caught in his throat.

His blood ran cold.

It felt like he’d just plunged into a frozen abyss.

Because standing right there—on the other side of the dungeon gate, waiting for him—were faces he knew all too well.

Seraphina.

Elyra.

Zyraxis.

Auremax.

And at the center of them all... Isaryne.

The Firebird herself.

Every single one of them was here.

Waiting.

For him.