31. Unexpected Turn (Patreon)

Luke exhaled a long, shaking breath, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on his bloodied frame. The stillness of the cave after the brutal battle against the Obsidian Broodmother felt unreal, like standing in the eye of a storm. The distant skitter of spiders had fallen silent. All that remained was the pungent scent of ichor staining the cavern floor and the faint shimmer of loot waiting to be claimed.

Without hesitation, Luke raised his hand slightly, calling open his system inventory with a thought. The translucent window blinked into existence before him, rows of items neatly stored within. His eyes immediately fell on the familiar, unassuming vial—the Minor Healing Potion Arthur had given him along with a bunch of other stuff in the storage ring. 

He had never taken off the ring so far, it was the perfect cover for his own inventory.

Luke let out a quiet scoff, pulling the vial free. “Thank you, old man,” he muttered under his breath, a rare softness threading through his hoarse voice.

Without wasting another second, he uncorked the potion and downed the bitter liquid in a single motion. It tasted sharp, metallic, leaving a faint burn down his throat as the effects surged through his body almost instantly.

A sharp sting flared near his ribs, raw flesh knitting itself back together with unnatural speed. The torn muscle of his thigh pulsed painfully, but slowly—agonizingly—began to repair itself. The feeling was far from pleasant. If anything, it was like having liquid fire poured directly into his wounds.

“Fuck... I really don’t like getting hurt,” Luke hissed through gritted teeth, feeling the unmistakable tingle of healing weaving through his torn body. Even though it was just a minor potion, its potency was leagues above the diluted trash sold in lower-tier shops for profit. Arthur didn’t skimp when it came to essentials — another thing Luke found himself grateful for.

His gaze drifted briefly towards his now-closed wounds, faint scars left behind where bloody gashes had been moments ago. They still ached beneath the skin, but the immediate danger was gone. He could move again.

But even as the pain dulled, a wave of dizziness washed over him, momentarily blurring his vision. The cost of regeneration wasn’t without consequence. His body drew on what little energy reserves he had left, draining him further. His mana pool — already dangerously low — was nearly bone dry. Only his innate high mana regeneration had kept him from collapsing in the middle of combat.

Luke sat back slightly on the cavern floor, exhaling sharply.

A low, familiar sound reached him.

“Beeh…”

Szeth.

Luke turned his head, finding the metallic serpent slithering closer, concern clear in the faint tremble of its silver tongue flicking in and out. Its glowing eyes watched him carefully, posture guarded yet hesitant — waiting for confirmation that its master was alright.

Luke managed a tired chuckle. “Relax, buddy,” he murmured, lifting a hand to pat Szeth’s cool, armor-like scales. “Just a scratch. Nothing life-threatening.”

Szeth let out a delighted trill at the contact, body relaxing visibly. With renewed enthusiasm, it turned away from Luke and eagerly circled the scattered pile of loot the Broodmother had left behind. The serpent coiled around a small mountain of shimmering gold coins and dark, ominous materials, glancing back at Luke almost expectantly.

Luke huffed out a laugh, the first genuine one in what felt like hours. “Alright, alright… I get it. Let’s see what I scored.”

He dismissed his inventory screen and instead brought up the system notifications he had discarded mid-battle. One by one, lines of translucent blue text appeared before him, stacking neatly into view.

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You have defeated the mini-boss, Obsidian Broodmother!

You have gained +3 Dexterity!

Reward multiplier is in effect, multiplying the rewards!

You have gained +21 Dexterity!

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You have cleared the 2 Star Beginner Dungeon 'Spider Cave'!

You have gained +2 Agility, 21 gold, Queen's Venom Sack x1, Obsidian Web-silk x2, Broodmother's Fangs x1

Reward multiplier is in effect, multiplying the rewards!

You have gained +14 Agility, 147 gold, Queen's Venom Sack x7, Obsidian Web-silk x14, Broodmother's Fangs x7

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Achievement Unlocked!

Hunt 30 or more monsters from the same dungeon!

Rewards: Inventory Expansion +64 slots, Phantom Trigger (Skill)

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Luke stared at the cascading windows in front of him, blinking once.

Then twice.

“…No matter how many times I’m gonna see this, this is still absurd,” he muttered, voice half-laced with disbelief, half with amusement.

This was the power of the Ultimate Gunner System's first perk. Every single reward multiplied seven times over — corresponding to the dungeon’s maximum participant limit of seven. A perk that shouldn’t even exist in any logical framework of balance.

His stats had exploded upwards. His inventory had expanded massively once again. And he’d just acquired a new skill on top of enough rare materials to make any aspiring adventurer green with envy.

Not to mention the gold.

Luke knelt down, scooping the heavy pouch of coins into his hand — its weight alone was enough to make his arms tense.

1470 Sils.

Enough to live comfortably for nearly two years if he was anyone else. He had earned it all in a single dungeon run.

Luke’s grin deepened slightly. “Sure enough… dungeons really are the best way to get rich and strong.”

Although his reward multiplier did skew his sense of reality. It wasn’t just him being biased either. That was an accepted fact in this world. Dungeons were the golden road to power, wealth, and status. But they were also graveyards for the reckless and unprepared. That lure of easy riches had claimed more lives than Luke could even begin to count. 

Still, it wasn’t like he could complain.

Not when he was the one walking away alive.

Then he checked his new skill.

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Skill: Phantom Trigger (Level 1)

Effect: Upon activation, all gunfire produced by the user’s firearms becomes completely silent. This includes the absence of sound from gunshots, mechanisms, and muzzle flash. The effect lasts for 15 seconds or until 3 shots have been fired, whichever comes first.

Cooldown: 5 minutes

(As skill proficiency increases, duration increases, the number of silent shots increases, and cooldown decreases.)

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“Finally!” Luke couldn’t help but yelp like a little girl, causing Szeth to jump in surprise.

‘I can finally kill a monster without aggro-ing the whole world!’ Luke almost let out a tear of happiness. His main focus would be to upgrade this skill as fast as he can. After expressing his joy, he was snapped back into reality by an annoyed Szeth who seemed more like a loot goblin than a serpent at this moment. 

After collecting the rest of his spoils in his inventory — Queen’s Venom Sacks, bundles of Obsidian Web-silk, and a shocking number of Broodmother’s Fangs — Luke finally stood up fully, stretching his sore limbs.

He turned toward Szeth, who still coiled proudly atop the empty coin pouch like some self-satisfied guardian.

“Well, partner…” Luke called out lightly, a small, content smile tugging at his lips. “Shall we get the hell out of this place?”

Szeth immediately let out an excited hiss, its tail flicking energetically against the stone floor.

But then—

A sharp chime echoed in Luke’s mind, cutting through the air like a blade.

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You’ve met the conditions to unlock the second perk of the system!

The second perk of the Ultimate Gunner System has been activated!

If you complete a dungeon with a boss monster available, the boss will appear without the hidden trigger!

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Luke’s expression froze.

“…Huh?”

Before the words could even fully register in his mind, the entire cavern began to tremble violently beneath his feet. Loose stones tumbled from above, the web-laced ceiling groaning in protest.

From the far side of the cavern, a section of jagged rock — once a seemingly natural wall — crumbled away with an earth-shaking roar.

And then, the system struck again.

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The Boss level monster, Arachne, The Obsidian Matriarch, has appeared!

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Luke's pupils shrank slightly as his gaze locked onto the figure emerging from the settling dust.

From the depths of shadow and ruin… something monstrous was awakening.

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The Count's Residence, Atredius County.

Nestled at the edge of the county capital, the Count's residence loomed like an ancient beast watching over its territory. It was an estate built in old imperial fashion, angular and grand, but there was a palpable lifelessness to it—a stillness that didn’t belong to mere stone or timber. The outer gardens were perfectly trimmed, the gravel roads pristine, yet no laughter or warmth echoed within these walls. Servants moved like shadows, careful not to linger where their master’s eyes might fall.

Tonight, like most nights, a heavy silence blanketed the mansion.

And yet, it was within the study of Count Drevil Atredius where the air felt most suffocating. The study itself was spacious but oddly claustrophobic, its walls covered in towering bookshelves packed tight with leather-bound tomes whose spines had long since faded into illegibility. Strange ornaments—skulls, ancient coins, vials with unknown liquids—adorned the shelves like grim trophies.

Candlelight flickered from a dozen iron stands, but it did little to chase away the darkness that clung to every corner of the room. If anything, the wavering glow only exaggerated the long shadows, twisting them into grotesque shapes that danced slowly across the floor.

Count Drevil sat alone, reclined back on a creaking wooden rocking chair that swayed ever so gently, its rhythm slow, deliberate, unsettling. A book lay open in his hand, though his eyes—sharp, narrow, and predatory—glided over the pages without true focus. His features were angular, almost hawkish, with a pronounced nose and gaunt cheekbones that hollowed his pale face further. Lines of age cut deep near his thin lips, and beneath the candlelight, they curled at the edges in something that was neither a smile nor a scowl.

Purple.

That unnatural shade of hair, slicked back meticulously over his scalp, marked him without question. The same royal, poisonous hue that Damian bore—proof enough of his lineage, though where Damian’s might look charming in the right light, Drevil’s only sharpened his sinister appearance.

And then—without sound, without warning—the shadows before him stirred.

From the darkness woven between the shelves, a figure bled into existence.

Slender. Tall. Unmistakably elven.

Her black hair flowed like silk cascading down her back, stark against skin pale enough to shimmer beneath the faint candlelight. This was no ordinary visitor. This was her—the same elf who had traveled alongside Damian Atredius, though hidden beneath the bulky visage of full-plate armor when among the ignorant masses.

Now, there was no such disguise.

With an effortless motion, the dark armor that clung to her figure seemed to melt away, unraveling into strands of shadow that dissipated like smoke. In its place, a sleek, daring dress wrapped around her lithe frame — something scandalously revealing, as if defying the chill of the night or the presence of another.

The Count did not flinch. Not even at her brazen entrance.

Instead, his sunken eyes traced her movements lazily, almost fondly, as if welcoming a familiar predator into his den.

Without sparing him a greeting, the elf strode across the room with a feline grace and dropped herself onto a velvet-lined sofa stationed near a modest table. Upon it sat a single bottle of aged wine—untouched until now. As if she owned the place, she reached for the bottle, uncorked it in silence, and poured herself a glass. The dark red liquid swirled like blood within the crystal.

Only then did Drevil speak, his voice as thin and cold as steel drawn in winter.

“How go the preparations?”

The elf's lips curled—not into a smile, but something sharper. Her voice was like frost laid over velvet.

“You need not concern yourself with matters beyond your grasp,” she replied coolly, dismissing his inquiry like one might swat away an insect. “Focus on the task you were given.”

There was no fear in her words. No hesitation.

And Drevil—Count of Atredius, feared by his subjects, loathed by his enemies—simply nodded in humble agreement. There was no anger in him. Only a grotesque, servile fondness.

“But of course,” he answered smoothly. “Everything proceeds as planned. Soon, all will be in place.”

The elf leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other, sipping her wine in silence. For a brief moment, neither spoke—the candlelight casting them both in strange half-shadows.

Then, as though suddenly recalling an afterthought, her gaze flicked lazily toward Drevil.

“And what of that dreg’s task?”

The venom in her voice was unmistakable.

Drevil knew who she referred to. Damian Atredius—his own son. The word 'dreg' hung in the air, a scornful title thrown without care. And yet, Drevil’s expression barely shifted. If there was anger, it was buried far beneath layers of self-control—or perhaps apathy.

He exhaled lightly, the barest twinge of nervousness escaping him.

“General Garhan’s candidate… is turning out to be more of a monster than anyone anticipated,” he admitted. “Despite his initial summoning stats… Luke Raynott has exceeded expectations.”

For the first time, the elf’s expression twitched.

Her pointed ears flicked, her dark brows knitting together ever so slightly in irritation.

“Hah…” she exhaled quietly, another sip of wine passing her lips. “It matters little.”

Setting the glass down, she leaned forward, voice low and dangerous.

“He’s still a greenhorn. No matter how talented… no matter how fast he grows… he will not be able to stop the waves coming to Timberdell’s doorstep.”

Her words hung like a curse.

Rising slowly, she stepped closer to Drevil, her hand casually reaching into the shadowy folds of her dress. From within, she retrieved a small object—a crystalline shard of black, pulsing faintly with an ominous, sickly light.

She tossed it effortlessly toward the Count.

Drevil caught it with both hands, his thin fingers closing greedily around its edges.

“A gift,” the elf said flatly. “From my liege. Use it only as a last resort.”

Drevil’s sunken eyes gleamed with fanatic glee. His lips stretched wide—too wide—as he bowed his head reverently.

“I am humbled by your generosity, Madam Makaela.”

The reaction was instantaneous.

A wave of suffocating pressure exploded outward from the elf, her body cloaked in swirling tendrils of dark aura. The very walls of the study groaned under its weight, books trembling upon their shelves. The air grew thick—unbreathable.

And Drevil—terrifying in his own right—found himself clutching at his chest, gasping as a sharp pain blossomed in his ribs.

Makaela’s voice cut through the gloom like the toll of a bell.

“I thought I warned you to never speak of my name.”

There was fury in it. Raw. Unfiltered.

“Even the walls have ears.”

Just as swiftly as it came, the suffocating aura receded—vanishing as if it had never been. Makaela’s cold gaze swept over the count with disdain.

“You should be grateful,” she said softly, icily. “Grateful that your pathetic little county and your miserable lineage still serve some use to me… and to my liege.”

Her words stabbed like daggers, each syllable dripping contempt.

“Had you been worthless…” she smiled faintly, but there was no warmth there. “I wouldn’t waste even a moment speaking to filth like you.”

Turning away, her body dissolved into the shadows—her form unraveling like silk thread, vanishing into the darkness from which she came.

Left alone, Drevil slumped to his knees.

Blood trickled from the corner of his lips, staining the floor beneath him. And yet—despite the pain, despite the terror that still lingered in his bones—his expression was twisted into something far uglier than fear.

Ecstasy.

Madness.

A low, rasping laugh echoed from his throat as he clutched the black crystal to his chest.

“All of you…” he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking into a cackle. “All of you who’ve looked down on me… soon… soon I’ll be trampling over all of you…”