32. Arachne (Patreon)

The last rubble rattled to the cavern floor, and as the dust settled, she emerged: the Obsidian Matriarch. Half-spider, half-woman, her lower body gleamed like polished volcanic glass—eight slender legs fanning out from her waist, each joint veined with glowing purple filaments. Above, her torso was lithe and impossibly graceful, skin pale as moonlight, hair the color of quicksilver tumbling over her shoulders. Four eyes—two large, two small—clustered above high cheekbones, burning with violet intensity. Even her many-fanged maw, when it curved into a smile, seemed almost beguiling. Luke’s pulse hammered; for a moment, he forgot everything but the surreal beauty of this living nightmare.

Szeth, coiled at his side, hissed urgently. Luke barely registered until the serpent’s crystal tail smacked his cheek. Pain bloomed hot. He rubbed the sting, eyes clearing. “Right… focus,” he muttered.

The Matriarch’s limbs flexed; she launched herself forward in a blur of obsidian and sinew. Luke dove aside, boots skidding on bone-dust. She whipped around, screeching, and the sound cut through his ears like a blade. He stumbled, head ringing, then hauled himself up, Titanfang Repeater in hand—fully loaded on habit.

He aimed at the narrow joint where her thigh met the carapace. Heart pounding, he squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession after activating ‘Titan’s Barrage’.

Bang—bang.

Luke blinked at his hands. There had been no kick, no jolt—only the satisfying crack as bone and armor shattered. He realized with a jolt that his dexterity gain from the dungeon had been enormous: his aim was steadier than ever, recoil all but vanished. Even his muscles had memorized the motion. Arachne reeled, one leg collapsing in splinters.

He straightened, astonished. “Okay… that was easier than I thought.” His voice sounded brittle in the echoing chamber.

But the Matriarch was far from finished. With uncanny speed, she recovered, the broken limb knitting itself whole in a shimmer of violet light. Acid dripped from her fangs—Luke dove behind a jagged bone pillar, the drops sizzling into steam at his boots. His side throbbed where acid had seared through cloth. He grit his teeth.

“No rest,” he muttered, shoving Titanfang back into its holster. He drew the Enhanced Flintlock, palm slick with sweat. “Explosive Bullet.”

Bang.

The shot detonated at her midsection in a concussive roar. Shards of obsidian plating fractured and flew like shrapnel; Arachne was thrown against the crater wall. Dust and web-threads drifted in the air. Luke’s breathing was ragged, but he felt… alive. His agility surge meant he could move faster than ever—his legs itched to sprint, to dodge, to strike.

The Matriarch rose again, slower this time, limbs trembling. Luke risked a glance—her form was still intact, wounds already closing. Her eyes narrowed. She lunged.

Szeth uncoiled in a flash, shifting into weighted form. In one fluid motion, the serpent struck her flank with a devastating Bite, fangs sinking deep. Arachne shrieked and swung a foreleg, sending Szeth skidding across the floor. Luke dashed forward, boots pounding bone.

He aimed the Titanfang, and lined up on her other leg joint. Lock On flickered in his mind: he marked the spot, aiming through the revolver’s sights. He fired twice more, each shot tearing through the joint. The Matriarch staggered, body pitched at an impossible angle.

Luke’s lungs burned. He felt lightheaded, adrenaline coursing through his veins. “This—this is insane,” he gasped, staggering back. He clutched his side; acid had bitten deeper than he’d thought. He couldn’t afford to slow down.

Arachne roared and lunged, mandibles snapping. Luke dove sideways, enhanced reflexes carrying him clear. He put Titanfang in his other hand as he grabbed a minor healing potion out of his inventory. Cork popped; he tipped it back in one gulp. Cool liquid scalded his throat, then soothed his wounds. Burns closed, flesh knitting. Pain receded to a dull ache.

The Matriarch paused, observing him with those four eyes. Then, in a fluid motion, she drew a strand of her own web from beneath her arm—an obsidian thread glinting in the torchlight. With a flick, it lashed toward Luke, seeking to bind him.

Szeth hissed and darted in, intercepting the strand with a clash of crystal tail. The web snapped. Luke seized the opening—he flicked back to enhanced flintlock, used ‘Double Round’, and triggered Explosive Bullet again.

Bang.

The explosion erupted at her torso, an inferno of force. The Matriarch’s obsidian shell fractured in a web of cracks; she tumbled backward into the crater, legs twitching.

Luke advanced, every step measured. Arachne struggled, her carapace mending, but slower now—the Matriarch’s rapid healing was faltering. He raised Titanfang one last time. Szeth slithered beside him, ready.

In a single, fluid motion—revolver to shoulder, finger to trigger—Luke fired twice, two bullets blazing into her head. The shots rang like thunder. Arachne’s form convulsed, then stilled.

Silence reclaimed the crater.

Luke dropped to one knee, chest heaving, wounds aching. Szeth coiled around his arm, tongue flicking. Luke patted the serpent’s head. “Good job, buddy,” he rasped, voice hoarse.

Above them, the Matriarch’s shattered body began to crumble, turning to ash that drifted away on an unseen breeze. A pile of loot shimmered in the torchlight.

Luke closed his eyes, breathing hard but victorious. He would not die here—not now. It was his first fight against a true boss-tier monster, and he had come out victorious. “Although I feel like I’m gonna pass out from tiredness,” He laughed weakly as he said that.

Even though the healing potions were effective, they didn’t restore his energy, and his fresh wounds still hurt. Especially after he had exhausted himself.

There were again blue notifications popping in front of him, and another pile of loot to collect, but Luke felt too powerless to move as he dropped down on the floor, passed out. 

------------------

It was midnight on a weekend, and students were currently most likely enjoying their day off. On the other hand, the staff room was currently bustling with activity.

The staff room of Berch Gyara Academy was far from what one would expect from a place where the greatest minds of Eldoria gathered. It wasn’t ostentatious, nor was it particularly extravagant. Rather, it was built with an intimidating sense of quiet authority.

Dark wooden panels lined the walls, carved intricately with ancient patterns of beasts and kingdoms long lost to history. The ceiling arched high, supported by black iron beams forged from the same material that fortified the walls of the Main Academy. Several stained glass windows lined one side, their colors dulled under the midnight sky, letting the soft glow of the twin moons bathe the room in faint silver and blue.

The long obsidian table at the center of the room reflected the faces of the professors seated around it. Old faces. Young faces. Some worn with wisdom, others sharp with ambition. And at the head of that table, like a silent monarch watching over restless subjects, sat Arthur Redvalor — the Principal of Berch Gyara, the founder of the continent's most prestigious academy… and a man whose creased brows spoke of the storm brewing within his mind.

The debate tonight had long since devolved into chaos.

"I refuse! It doesn’t matter who recommended them—rules are rules!" A sharp voice rang out, its owner slamming their fist onto the table, shaking nearby teacups. "We cannot allow the academy’s system to crumble because of one recommendation, especially when we’re well into the semester!"

"Short-sightedness," another professor sneered from across the table, folding his arms. "Do you even understand whose recommendation this is? Sylvi Redfern. The Scarlet Blade. The very woman who could walk into most kingdoms and be welcomed like royalty. And you expect us to refuse her?"

"But it’s been nearly a month and a half since the term began! Accepting a new student now… it’s unheard of!"

"And what of talent?" A calmer, elderly voice interjected. "Would you let rigid rules blind you to potential? Are we educators or gatekeepers?"

The argument spiraled. Voices rose. Hands waved. The clash of principle against pragmatism played out in full.

And through it all… Arthur Redvalor remained silent.

His deep-set golden eyes were distant, half-lidded in thought. But his mind was nowhere near the noise in front of him.

Sylvi Redfern, huh...

He recalled the rumors from the Candidate Summoning Ceremony.

Back then, he’d heard that Sylvi Redfern — the infamous blindfolded swordmaster of House Redfern — had been present at the Human Candidate site. A shocking thing in itself, considering Sylvi never attended these events. She had no need to. And yet… she had bid on a candidate.

Luke Raynott.

A human with one of the worst starting stat distributions Arthur had ever seen. So mediocre in fact, that most of the observers had laughed and were inwardly puzzled by Sylvi’s actions—except Garhan, who had swooped in and snatched the boy, driven by nothing more than petty jealousy.

But that same human… was now sitting under Arthur’s personal tutelage.

Arthur’s fingers lightly tapped the table. The phenomenon Luke had caused during the Familiar Summoning... it wasn’t something even Arthur had witnessed many times in his life. A life that spanned nearly a dozen centuries.

But now...

Now, Sylvi Redfern was at it again.

This time, with a Fiend.

A Fiend candidate. A race so closely tied to the ancient Demonkin that just the word stirred unease in the hearts of mortals. Their history was a tapestry of violence, betrayal, and ruin. Few Fiends had ever been summoned as candidates over the course of Eldoria’s history... and none had left a favorable mark.

Yet the records stated clearly—this Fiend girl had been summoned at the Elven Candidate Site, and had been acquired by someone from House Redfern.

Arthur’s sharp gaze narrowed faintly.

Tampered records.

There was no doubt about it.

The atmosphere in the room was nearing its boiling point when—

"Enough."

The single word was spoken in a calm, unhurried tone.

And yet it tore through the heated arguments like a knife through silk.

Silence fell.

Every head turned toward Arthur.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. When a man like Arthur Redvalor spoke — people listened.

Slowly, he turned toward a specific individual seated a few places down the table.

Professor Elric Voss.

A handsome man known not only for his unshakable composure but also for his unwavering principles. The man responsible for teaching the first-years, including — soon enough — this very Fiend candidate.

"Elric," Arthur’s voice was deep and steady. "What’s your opinion on this matter? After all, the Fiend girl will be joining your class."

Elric Voss gave a respectful nod, adjusting his spectacles calmly.

"My opinion?" he began, his tone devoid of prejudice. "My duty has never changed, Principal Redvalor. Be they candidates or nobles, elves or dwarves... or even fiends — I am but a teacher. My responsibility is to educate them about this world. If they possess the will to learn, I will teach them."

He paused, his voice gaining weight.

"And let us not forget — rejecting a direct request from House Redfern is... not exactly within our power. Especially when it comes directly from Sylvi Redfern herself. A meritorious retainer of Rolhart Kingdom."

For a heartbeat, the room was silent once again.

And then...

Arthur’s lips curled faintly. A smile that neither agreed nor disagreed — merely acknowledged.

"Then it’s settled."

He rose from his seat, the very act causing a subtle shift in the room’s air. "The Fiend girl will be accepted as a student of Berch Gyara."

His golden gaze swept across the seated professors.

"I expect understanding from all of you."

And with that, he turned and walked away — leaving behind a room simmering with barely restrained noise, the professors already erupting into murmurs and debate the moment his shadow disappeared past the doorway.

------------------

Arthur stepped into the quiet corridor outside, his footsteps slow but steady.

His eyes — sharp, ancient things that had witnessed empires rise and fall — drifted upwards.

There they were.

The twin moons of Eldoria.

One larger, glowing with serene white light.

The other smaller, but hauntingly blue.

He sighed, a low rumble beneath his breath.

"...She’s really making this old man work to the bone," Arthur muttered dryly.

An image appeared in his mind — a red-haired woman in a blindfold, her faint smile somehow always three steps ahead of everyone.

"Sylvi Redfern..." he whispered.

"First you asked me to take care of a human boy with no talent, someone who wasn’t even your own candidate — a nobody that turned out to be anything but ordinary."

His gaze darkened slightly, tinged with quiet curiosity.

"And now... a Fiend girl."

He chuckled under his breath.

"I hope your judgement isn’t failing me now, old friend."

Turning his gaze back ahead, Arthur’s steps resumed. His presence as towering as ever.

And just as he reached the end of the hallway, a stray thought crossed his mind.

"...Come to think of it," he mused, "how’s that student of mine doing?"

A faint smile touched the corner of his lips.

"I hope he’s not slacking off somewhere."

Far, far away from his knowledge...

Luke Raynott was currently passed out cold inside a dungeon — beaten, battered, and barely clinging to consciousness.