Michael’s gaze darkened. He didn’t recognize the illusion technique used, but if it was subtle enough to slip in undetected, it wasn’t some street-level parlor trick.
"Why wasn’t I affected?" he muttered under his breath.
He clenched his fists slowly. The only explanation that made sense... was his intelligence stat.
At his level, it was extremely high.
And illusion-type attacks were spiritual. Mental. The higher one’s mental resistance—usually governed by intelligence or willpower—the harder it was to ensnare.
If the caster wasn’t much stronger than him, it would take significant effort to pull him into such a trap.
A chill still slipped down his spine.
That meant someone was already here.
Not wanting to take any risks alone, Michael immediately summoned Spartan.
The figure of his armored undead materialized in a silent burst of dark mist.
Michael’s lips had barely parted to issue a command—
When a voice pierced into his mind like a hot needle.
"What’s another Grand Tier doing here?"
"Shit—this one’s mentally strong. Damn it!"
The voice was raw, annoyed, almost panicked.
Michael’s body tensed.
He didn’t recognize the voice.
Before he could react—
It fell like a curtain.
No sound. No warning.
One moment he was standing in the corridor.
The next, he was falling through endless shadow.
Michael landed on something cold. Stone?
He looked around and saw he was in an opening with seven paths opened in front of him.
But there was another issue.
A faint flicker of movement caught Michael’s eye.
There were six others standing nearby—disoriented, cautious, but very much present. Some were already glancing at the paths, while others focused on each other like assessing threats.
One of them turned—and Michael’s gaze locked onto a familiar face.
The Old Duke of Evermoon.
The aged noble looked wearier than before. His once-sharp features were drawn tight with concern. Upon meeting Michael’s eyes, he gave a wry, bitter smile, as though apologizing with his expression alone.
Michael opened his mouth to speak—but someone else beat him to it.
A calm, measured voice echoed from his right.
"Newcomer." The speaker was a middle-aged man with long streaks of grey in his hair, dressed in simple but elegant robes. His eyes, however, were anything but simple. When Michael met his gaze, he felt the heavy weight of time itself behind them— man had lived far longer than his appearance suggested.
The man gestured casually toward the seven paths. "Welcome to a Grand Illusion. Quite the work of art, isn’t it?"
Michael blinked. "A what?"
"The illusion," the man continued, like he was explaining the weather. "We’re trapped. A puzzle-type. However, something isn’t formed on a whim though. It takes time—planning. The caster must have laid the foundation long before today."
Michael’s eyes narrowed. "Then it’s the auction?"
Someone scoffed nearby—an older man with a sharp voice. "Of course it’s the damned auction! Who else would have access to us all at the same time?"
Another shook their head. "Not necessarily. It could be opportunists. Or worse, some hidden faction using the auction as cover."
Michael listened but kept his gaze steady, scanning the others.
They were strong. He could feel it. Even without sensing their levels directly, their poise, calmness, and readiness said enough.
But what confused him was how... unbothered they all were.
He gestured toward the space around them. "You’re all being awfully calm for people whose real bodies are currently vulnerable."
The middle-aged man gave a small chuckle. "What would you have us do? Panic? That won’t help. Besides, I’m familiar with this kind of illusion magic."
He tapped his temple lightly. "It’s range-based. Meaning whoever cast it... they’re in here too."
Michael’s gaze sharpened.
"They’re inside?" he asked.
The man nodded. "Correct. The technique doesn’t distinguish between friend and foe. Everyone within the radius at the time of activation was pulled in—including the caster. That’s the flaw in illusions this deep."
The Duke finally spoke, his voice low and weary. "In other words... we’re not the only ones navigating this puzzle."
Michael frowned, putting the pieces together.
"So if we solve it before they do..."
"We win," the middle-aged man said simply. "And if they do first, or if we die in here—well..." He shrugged. "Let’s just say our bodies on the outside won’t be waking up again."
Michael’s hands clenched by his sides.
The rules were clear.
Solve the puzzle before the enemy.
Michael stepped forward slightly, scanning the seven paths ahead—each one leading into darkness, each one emanating faintly different auras. But before he could take a closer look, the middle-aged man beside him turned and stared more intently at Michael.
His brows furrowed slightly.
"You... this appearance—is it your real form?" he asked.
Michael blinked. "What?"
"I mean, is this truly how you look? You’re not an old man hiding behind some youthful face, are you?" The man tilted his head, eyes squinting like he was looking for a disguise.
"Hm." The man didn’t look entirely convinced.
Before the man could probe further, a voice chuckled from a short distance away.
"Come now, Your Highest," the speaker said with a half-smile. "You haven’t been in the kingdom long, have you? That’s Mic Nor."
"One of the strongest young talents in the kingdom. Some even say he might become the Duke of Evermoon’s son-in-law."
Michael gave the speaker a sharp glance, but said nothing.
The middle-aged man’s eyes flicked between Michael and the Duke, who simply closed his eyes with a weary sigh.
"So you’re the one causing a stir in the capital," the man said with renewed interest. "I had heard rumors, but I assumed they were exaggerated."
Meanwhile back in the real world, Spartan scratched his head, well...his helmet, in confusion.
What was he supposed to do here, he wondered.
He turned to look at his master.