Dungeon King: The Hidden Ruler-Chapter 31

He had a Titan now.

But Raven didn't head toward the exit.

Not yet.

While most players would've rushed to claim their loot, open their inventory, and warp back to safety, Raven walked in the opposite direction—toward the back corner of the chamber, where the shadows pooled deepest.

Duskrunner limped behind him, watching quietly. Phantom Seer hovered, silent but curious.

The molten light didn't reach this far.

Which was exactly why most players never noticed the anvil in the corner. It wasn't part of the loot drop. It didn't glow. It didn't flash. It looked like background clutter—a rusted forge table, half-buried in rubble, pressed into a crook of the platform like a forgotten asset in the map.

But Raven remembered.

From the beta.

This wasn't just decor.

This was the Soulbrand Smithy.

He stepped closer and pulled out the Forgekeeper's Core—the item dropped earlier from Forge-Herald Vhakis. Players assumed it was just a flavor reward that could be sold as treasure in any NPC merchant. Sergeant Grenthor only asked for three runestones, after all. The core was treated like a bonus item, good for reputation or vendor gold.

But Raven had never believed that.

He set the Core into a rusted tray beside the anvil.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then a light flickered.

The forge table trembled softly.

A hidden console, embedded into the stone, flared to life—just a single glowing sigil pulsing on its surface, only visible in the dark.

[Soul Signature Detected]

[Ancient Protocol Unlocked: Soulbrand Reforging]

Raven didn't speak.

He reached into his bag and placed the three runestones—the ones Grenthor wanted for the mission—into the forge slots above the anvil.

They clicked into place one by one.

The chamber dimmed.

The anvil ignited.

Not with flame, but with a deep, molten glow, like it was waking up from an age-long slumber. Ash drifted upward from cracks in the stone. Ghostly sparks flickered in the air.

And then—

they appeared.

The smiths.

Ghostly dwarven silhouettes, translucent and weathered by time, stepped forward from the shadows. Silent. Expressionless. Each one walked to a station around the anvil and began to work—not hammering metal, but replaying movements carved into their essence. They didn't speak. They didn't breathe. But their presence filled the forge like thunder waiting to fall.

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere.

A deep, slow chant—metallic and broken, like an echo preserved in the bones of the forge itself.

"With these stones... we sealed the flame."

"But should a worthy soul return..."

"We shall unseal the soulbrand... once more."

The runes flared. The Core cracked open, spilling a molten stream into the air. The essence twisted mid-flight, suspended by phantom hands, and began forming something above the anvil.

Not a helmet.

Not a circlet.

A mask.

Shaped like nothing else in the game—part dwarven, part organic, with sharp angular features, whisper-etched runes, and six mechanical clamps that extended backward like grasping tendrils. It hovered in midair, metal folding over shadow, heat layering with silence.

And it was waiting.

For him.

[Mythical Item Crafted – Visage of the Hollow Forge]

[Soulbound – Cannot Be Dropped or Traded]

He hesitated.

Raven scanned the tooltip in silence, eyes narrowing as the details settled in.

No flat defense. No armor boost. No flashy cooldowns.

Just pressure. Momentum. Precision.

[Visage of the Hollow Forge]

Type: Headgear – Mythical (Unique)

Slot: Head – Soulbound

Soul-Forge Resonance

• Gain 1 stack of Soul Pressure every 5 seconds in combat (max 10).

• Each stack:

+2% Movement Speed

+3% Ability Cast Speed

+1% Shadow Damage Amplifier

• At 10 stacks – enter Resonant State (10 seconds):

+30% Stealth Effectiveness

+25% Critical Chance from behind or while unseen

Next attack from stealth deals bonus shadow damage

• Stacks decay rapidly after 5s out of combat.

Breath of the Hollow

• Grants immunity to Mark/Track spells while crouching or moving in shadows

• Track attempts return a "Null Echo"—a false trail to a dead-end

Raven's mind processed it fast.

This isn't for brawling. This is for control. Pressure stacking. Perfect mobility. In the hands of a stealth player...

In his hands.

Soul Pressure rewards survival. Positioning. Perfect execution. And when the stacks peak...

...you vanish and kill from nowhere.

A soft exhale escaped him.

"This isn't flashy," he muttered, "but it's mine."

And that was exactly the point.

He stared at the mask in his hand. It didn't look dangerous. Not at first glance. No glowing aura. No cinematic reveal.

Just a forgotten, scorched relic.

"...Let's see how you fit."

He brought the mask to his face.

The moment it neared his skin, it moved.

Soft mechanical hisses escaped from the clamps. The six tendrils unfurled, curling inward. One latched onto the side of his skull with a click. Another slipped behind his ear. Two more slid under his hood, tightening behind his neck.

Then the rest.

Click. Click. Click.

Each one snapped into place with cold precision, like skeletal fingers locking into bone.

It didn't rest on his face—it anchored itself.

For a moment, Raven couldn't breathe. The world went quiet.

Then—hiss—the mask's interior adjusted, syncing to his profile with eerie, unnatural ease.

The etched runes across the cheek plate flickered once.

And the weight settled.

Not physical. Not visual.

Presence.

He took a breath and turned his head.

The mask moved as if it were a part of him—seamless, weightless, and utterly silent. He saw his hand through the mask—edges softening, presence blurring.

Even Phantom Seer twitched, eyes narrowing as if unsure where Raven's body actually was. Its many eyes blinked in sharp disarray, then focused again.

"...Oh," it whispered. "That's going to be fun."

Duskrunner gave Raven a long, unreadable look. "You look like a haunted scarecrow."

Raven didn't reply.

He stepped toward the back wall of the chamber, where a half-melted obsidian slab reflected what little light remained.

The figure staring back wasn't him.

It was something forged.

A mechanical face, sculpted in worn, washed-out dark bronze, etched with curse-burned dwarven lines and impossibly intricate detail. The six clamps curved backward like iron limbs frozen in mid-grip. And where his eyes should've been—

—burning red.

Low, steady, unnatural.

Like dormant coals finally remembering what it meant to burn.

No UI message popped up.

No title was granted.

But the reflection didn't need to say anything.

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It just stared back.

A shadow in the shape of a player.

And not even the developers—who buried this mask in an overlooked corner, expecting it to be a modest reward for balancing the agility builds that have low HP—could've predicted this.

They hadn't designed for someone like Raven.

Someone who didn't follow builds.

Someone who didn't follow rules.

Someone who saw gear not as equipment...

...but as a weapon to rewrite the system.

And now the mask had found its true host.