Chapter 165: The Echoes of Thaldrasil
Chapter 165: Chapter 165: The Echoes of Thaldrasil
Chapter 165: The Echoes of Thaldrasil
The heavy stone doors of the mountain slammed shut, sealing Strike Team Zero inside the suffocating darkness.
FLASH!
A blinding, violent wave of ancient white magic erupted from the floor beneath them. The world instantly dissolved. The sensation of falling through an endless void gripped The Captain.
His physical body felt like it was being ripped apart at a molecular level and aggressively stitched back together in an entirely different reality.
THUD.
Draven woke up violently.
His eyes snapped open, and he remained completely motionless, scanning his immediate environment.
He was lying flat on his back on a rock-hard wooden cot. The air was thick, smelling strongly of cheap ale, stale sweat, and burning firewood.
He was inside a dingy, dimly lit room filled with rows of sleeping men. A low, rhythmic snoring echoed off the damp stone walls.
It was a military barracks.
Draven slowly sat up. The heavy wooden bed frame creaked under his weight. He immediately noticed a glaring problem. The physical dimensions of his body were entirely wrong.
He looked down at his hands. They were massive, calloused, and covered in old, jagged battle scars. He was no longer wearing his high-end, custom-tailored dark jacket.
Instead, he was strapped into a set of cheap, heavy iron chainmail that chafed against his collarbone.
He reached up and touched his face. His skin was rough and weathered. A thick, coarse beard covered his jawline.
He stood up and walked silently across the stone floor toward a polished iron washbasin hanging near the door. He stared at his reflection in the dull metal.
An unfamiliar man stared back at him.
The man had rugged, harsh Nordic features, piercing gray eyes, and the exhausted scowl of a veteran mercenary who had seen too many pointless wars. He was a middle-aged human guard.
’I have been transmigrated,’ The Captain thought, his expression remaining perfectly blank.
’This has to be a joke! A transmigration in an already transmigrated novel? Author is onto some shit. My original body is likely suspended in a dormant state back at the entrance.’
He closed his eyes and reached deep into his core, testing his limits. A profound sense of relief washed over him. His powers were entirely intact.
[Vector Manipulation] buzzed obediently beneath the surface of his skin. However, the raw physical container he was currently piloting was incredibly weak.
The majestic, terrifying aura he usually projected was completely masked behind this middle-aged guard’s low-tier energy.
To the rest of the world, he was just a nameless grunt named Haldor.
A glowing, crimson interface flickered to life in the corner of his vision.
[System Prompt: Temporal Dungeon Entered.]
[Dungeon Realm: The Golden Age of Thaldrasil.]
[Primary Objective: Prevent the Fall of Thaldrasil.]
He read the glowing text twice. He dismissed the interface with a single thought.
He reached over to a wooden weapon rack, grabbed a standard-issue iron spear, and pushed open the heavy oak doors of the barracks to begin his morning patrol shift.
He stepped outside. The breath nearly caught in his throat.
The world beyond the wooden doors was not a dark, ruined subterranean cave. It was a masterpiece of impossible engineering and ancient magic.
Draven stepped out into the bustling streets of the Root District. The overwhelming scale of the city defied all logic.
A colossal mountain rose nearly five miles straight up into the heavens, its peak piercing the clouds. Growing directly out of the very summit of that mountain was an ancient World Tree.
It was larger than an entire continent. Its massive, bark-covered roots slithered all the way down the sides of the stone peak, wrapping the mountain in a tight, protective embrace.
The roots themselves were so large they formed natural bridges, elevated terraces, and entire residential sectors.
"Holy Hell! This was not on my Bingo Card!" he exclaimed, completely amazed by the city.
Directly in front of the barracks stood two towering statues reaching over five hundred feet into the air. One was a broad, heavily armored Dwarf King holding a legendary hammer.
The other was a tall, elegant Elven Queen holding a glowing staff. Their weapons were pointed downward toward the earth, symbolizing unity instead of conquest.
The Captain walked forward, leaning on his iron spear to blend in with the passing crowds.
The marketplace beneath the giant roots was thriving with life. Thousands of beings moved through the wide, polished stone streets.
Massive beasts of burden pulled enchanted wooden wagons filled with glowing blue crystals. Giant river barges floated along aqueducts carved directly into the tree roots.
To his left, a group of muscular Dwarven blacksmiths hammered away at anvils, the scent of hot iron and burning coal filling the air.
Just a few feet away, Elven woodcarvers were shaping living, emerald-green vines into beautiful, twisting furniture.
The Elven creations continued to sprout small silver flowers even after they were sold. There was no hostility between them.
They shared tools. They traded jokes in different languages. They coexisted perfectly.
’This is Thaldrasil,’ Draven thought, his gray eyes tracking a squad of wyvern riders patrolling the distant skies.
’The unified city of the Elves and the Dwarves. And according to my objective, this perfect utopia is about to be completely destroyed. How did that happen again?’
He knew the Cult of the Eternal Eclipse and their King Level Beasts operated by seeding chaos. They infected worlds with paranoia and watched them burn from the inside out.
Whatever tragedy caused this golden age to shatter into a desolate ruin, it was happening right now, in the shadows of this simulation.
He could not fight an entire hidden war alone in this weakened vessel. He needed his squad.
Draven continued his patrol route, nodding respectfully to a group of high-ranking Elven knights passing by in shimmering crystal armor.
As soon as the knights turned the corner, he slipped off the main thoroughfare. He ducked behind a massive, moss-covered tree root that shielded him from the bustling market.
He leaned his back against the rough bark and closed his eyes.
He did not need to physically wander the five-mile-high city looking for a needle in a haystack. He possessed an inherent, spatial understanding of his environment.
He pushed his awareness outward, filtering through the chaotic noise of the city. He ignored the millions of faint, natural life signatures of the Elves and Dwarves.
He was looking for anomalies. He was looking for the distinct, recognizable frequencies of his own people.
His mental grid expanded downward, plunging into the dark, fiery depths of the mountain itself.
He bypassed the upper layers. He scanned past the thousands of underground forges and magma rivers. Deep, deep within the subterranean core of the city, he felt a sudden spike of resistance.
It was incredibly dense, slow, and completely immovable. It felt like a massive boulder sitting stubbornly at the bottom of the ocean. It was a signature defined entirely by abnormal physical density.
The Captain opened his eyes. A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his scarred lips.
’Found you, Bram,’ he thought.
The Shield of Strike Team Zero was located thousands of feet below the surface, trapped somewhere inside the labyrinthine depths of the Stoneheart City.
The Captain knew Bram possessed zero subtlety.
If left to his own devices in a hostile simulation, the large teenager was bound to accidentally break a historical artifact or anger a Dwarven king.
The Captain reached up and unbuckled the heavy iron helm of his uniform. He tossed the helmet into the shadows beneath the root.
He pulled the dark, woolen hood of his tunic up over his head, casting his rugged face in deep shadow.
He turned away from the bright, beautiful markets of the Root District. He faced the massive, yawning tunnels that led down into the mountain’s fiery core.