Chapter 137

"With ten minutes until the final battle, all participants are asked to review their formation assignments and suppression guidelines. If you need any supplies, please speak to a nearby operations manager!"

The announcer's voice echoed through the blue-black cavern, heralding the fast-approaching departure. Mikhail let his closed eyes drift open and murmured to himself.

Time to start getting ready.

He pushed off the wall and turned toward where Salvator's members had gathered.

The group huddled together in their designated area.

Most had shifted to one side to practice the attack unit formation, but one person had his face buried in the precaution notes, visibly agonizing over something.

Well, it won't change the outcome either way… but a heads-up might help a little.

Mikhail pictured the progression they'd soon be stepping into, rose from his spot, and walked over to the group. He stopped beside Dian—who was glaring daggers at the strategy document and chewing the inside of his cheek—and crouched down.

"What's the problem? Something you don't understand?"

"Gah—?"

Dian blurted out a startled noise and whipped his head around. His wide-open eyes trembled like rain-battered foxtails as they locked onto Mikhail.

"Oh… yeah. No. I mean. Kind of. But it's nothing major."

"If you're the type who fights on instinct and split-second judgment, it's better to clear up any doubts beforehand."

The casual observation landed like a bullseye. Dian clamped his mouth shut, smacked his lips once in embarrassment, then slowly lowered his gaze to the document in his hand and mumbled his way through the question.

"The thing is… the precautions—I've got them memorized. But the part where it says only one or two people per faction should attack when the basilisk is incapacitated—I don't get why. When an opening shows up, shouldn't you hit it with everything you've got?"

Mikhail hummed in acknowledgment and reached for the document Dian was holding. Dian blinked, clearly unsure of the intent, but handed the paper over without protest.

FLIP.

Mikhail turned to the very last page. There it was—a detailed illustration of the cave basilisk. He pointed to the jaw section, where scales jutted upward like a rooster's comb, and spoke.

"The basilisk doesn't have just one threat-response mechanism. If it takes damage beyond a certain threshold, the reserve mana stored in its body activates and triggers an immediate counterattack."

"Whoa… oh. Wait—huh?"

Dian's eyes went wide as he sputtered out answers like a broken cuckoo clock—then something clicked and he cut in with sudden urgency.

"Th-then! What if someone from another faction does something reckless? Listen—I've never once seen a bunch of strangers pull off coordinated group tactics on the first try. There's always at least one or two idiots who do the exact thing they're told not to!"

The last part came out as a near-wail. Mikhail let a deflating sound trail toward Dian and answered.

"The instruction to limit attacks to one or two per faction already accounts for situations like that. The organizers who wrote this document have run well over a dozen campaigns."

Mikhail gestured casually toward the organizers' position a dozen paces behind them. Staff members bustled about, checking emergency supplies with brisk efficiency. Dian's eyes followed Mikhail's pointing finger, and he nodded without further objection.

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

Mikhail watched him with a small smile, then handed the document back.

"Questions answered?"

"Yep."

Dian snatched the document like a child reclaiming a favorite toy and stared down at the cover. Then he suddenly lifted his head and said to Mikhail:

"Um… thanks. For explaining."

Mikhail answered with a faint smile and a single shrug. That was when a presence sidled up from the side, and a smooth voice cut into the conversation.

"You two. All done talking?"

Mikhail looked at the speaker. Lloyd—apparently finished with the formation practice—had already closed the distance and dropped into a squat beside them.

"How are you feeling? Mikhail."

Mikhail met the sky-blue eyes that gleamed with a sharper edge now that battle was near.

"Got some rest. I'm fine."

"Good to hear."

Lloyd gave a ready nod and flicked his fingers lightly. Then he jerked his chin toward the space behind Salvator's line and spoke.

"About your position in the formation. Want to try standing in your spot and getting a feel for it?"

Mikhail shook his head.

"No. I'm good. I've got a general sense of where I need to be and how to move."

Lloyd let a quiet hum slip out. But it wasn't long before an easy grin broke through, and he gave Mikhail's shoulder a couple of light pats.

"Fair enough. If it's you, I'm not worried."

That was when the butterfly-shaped magic tool drifting between the factions' ranks projected a booming voice.

"All right, everyone! The ten minutes are nearly up. Have you finished your preparations for the next area? Teams that are ready, please assemble at the point leading deeper into the cave!"

Rallying cries from the other factions echoed in every direction, and the shuffle of moving feet grew urgent. Mikhail glanced around, then spoke to Lloyd and Dian.

"If there's nothing else to prep, shall we head out?"

Lloyd and Dian nodded and rose from where they sat. They dusted off their clothes and started toward the assembly point the announcer had indicated. Mikhail followed suit—standing, confirming the staff strapped across his back, and setting off toward the gathering point.

"Mikhail."

He was weaving through the crowd when Ethan—a few steps ahead—stopped and turned around. Mikhail halted to match and answered evenly.

"What?"

Ethan held a long, searching look on Mikhail and hesitated for a beat. Then he spoke, his voice pitched lower than usual.

"This fight… might be more dangerous than you think."

The eyes delivering the warning trembled faintly, as though sensing the ferocity of the battle ahead. Mikhail stared back at Ethan, then let a small laugh escape.

"Yeah. I know."

He answered without hesitation and moved forward. As he drew close enough to pass Ethan's side, he reached out and gave his shoulder a couple of light taps.

"I was already planning to stay put in the back this time, just doing my part. That'll be better for everyone."

A sidelong glance caught Ethan standing rooted in place. But the rigid expression he'd been wearing moments before was already thawing—melting away like snow touched by a spring breeze.

Mikhail stole a glance at the sight, shrugged, and spoke as he brushed past.

"Anyway, let's get moving."

He fixed his eyes forward again and pressed on toward the site of the final stage.

In truth, the answer he'd just given wasn't meant for Ethan alone. It doubled as a directive he was repeating to himself.

Up to now, he'd made small moves from the story's margins to keep the main storyline on course. But what remained was the climactic battle—a single, unbroken thread from start to finish.

And if he considered the original progression, Verte could no longer function as a variable worth worrying about.

So what Mikhail needed to do was clear.

The same thing he'd always done—remain at the story's periphery and maintain the original flow.

In the game's development cycle, even when extra characters were patched in after the fact, they only ever functioned as small parts absorbed into the larger current of the main storyline.

A hastily added individual could never influence the primary narrative imposed upon the world.

And so the principle guiding Mikhail's actions was no different now. Station himself at the margins. Confirm the original progression holds.

Do that… and this episode's finale would unfold exactly as the original intended.

---

Before long, every participant in the campaign had come to a halt in a space larger than any they'd passed through before.

A blue-black floor stretching deep into the distance, and a ceiling so impossibly high overhead it resembled the real night sky.

But the footing hadn't widened to match. All that had expanded was the yawning void on the far side of the path.

"We will now begin the second stage of Round Three—the final battle of the campaign! Each faction, please move according to the floor markings corresponding to your assigned role!"

Dense tension blanketed the air as participants followed the announcer's instructions.

The Allied Knight Order. The magic research institute. Every other faction as well—faces turned solemn as they took their positions and began constructing formations suited to their roles.

Mikhail stood at the rear of Salvator's formation and surveyed his surroundings.

The Allied Knight Order's formation sat directly to one side, while further back on the diagonal, the magic research institute had settled into position.

"Every faction's placement looks perfect! You've all prepared thoroughly for this battle! In that case—let's begin the final stage!"

WHIRRRR—

The instant the announcer finished, a resonant hum of mana began building from a dozen paces behind them.

Mikhail steadied his stance, confirmed the protagonist's party shifting into attack posture at the front, then glanced toward the source of the sound.

A blue formula circle etched into the cave floor.

The magic array designed to shake the basilisk from its slumber—growing somewhere deep in the cave's belly—was activating.

WHIIIIIRRR—

The sound swelled. The ground began to shudder in time with it. Startled shouts burst from pockets across every formation, and from the black void ahead, an enormous body began to rise—slowly, inexorably—into view.

GRRRRRRR—

A growl that sent chills crawling down the spine of everyone standing there.

Massive enough to fill the entire space—and yet bearing the unmistakable signs of a mutation left incomplete—the boss was making its entrance.