The Ruined King's Tomb, an unconquered dungeon. The second round of the exam required reaching the lowest level of the dungeon within the time limit. Anyone who managed to do so would pass.
The creators of these dungeons were basically impossible to trace.
Think about it: building a magnificent structure filled with treasures, secret rooms, traps, and monsters in some unknown corner of the world. What was the point? Zenith did it for fun, but surely the creators of these dungeons weren't just doing it for amusement too, right?
This could only be chalked up to the "Creation Goddess's setting." Whether it made sense or not was irrelevant; the adventurers of this world seemed to love it anyway.
At the entrance of the dungeon, the candidates who had passed the first round were sitting on the ground in twos and threes.
Although most of them didn't know each other and had only formed connections during the previous round, it was still obvious that their seating arrangements vaguely mirrored their squad divisions from the first test.
In unfamiliar environments, people always tried to stick with those they were relatively familiar with.
"There is no competition between us in this round. I propose we cooperate and explore this dungeon together."
The first to stand up and speak was Denken. He had a brown beard, meticulously combed hair, and wore a gold-rimmed monocle.
Every time Zenith heard that name, he would think of another, more famous figure: the legendary wizard Mordenkainen. Once *Mordenkainen's Disjunction* was cast, both friend and foe would weep. Even if you won the battle, you wouldn't get a single drop of loot.
Because even if the opponent was wielding a divine artifact, it would be broken down into its most basic particles.
Most of the people did not agree with Denken's proposal. Wirbel, in particular, stood up without hesitation.
"Even if there's no competition, I still don't trust you. We are far from reaching the level of trust required to be comrades in arms."
His two teammates from the first round stood up with him. Ignoring the other candidates, the three of them took the lead and entered the dungeon.
"Isn't that the guy with the slanted bangs I trapped with the petrification grass? Looks like he's pretty lucky to have made it to the second round."
Zenith smacked his lips and beckoned Frieren and Fern to walk toward the dungeon entrance with him. The proctor for this round thought for a moment before following right behind them.
This airheaded girl with messy hair that dragged all the way down to her heels—if he remembered correctly, her name was Zenze.
Zenith glanced back at her. The moment their eyes met, she averted her gaze. In her eyes, Zenith could see curiosity and... fear? *'I don't think I've done anything to her, have I?'*
As a proctor, Zenze wouldn't help the candidates, but she also needed to reach the lowest level of the dungeon to judge who passed. Since she couldn't actively participate in clearing the dungeon, her only option was to follow the team with the highest chance of winning and act as a spectator.
The moment she saw Zenith, she recognized him.
Every living first-class mage was a disciple of Serie in this era. Naturally, she knew that Serie had gone out to find Zenith last night.
And judging by Serie's expression, she absolutely hadn't achieved her desired outcome. Zenze could safely say she had never in her life seen Serie return looking so resentful and defeated.
Exploring dungeons was Frieren's forte—or rather, it was Himmel's forte. Through constant exposure, Frieren had picked up Himmel's good habit: when exploring a dungeon, never descend to the next floor until the current floor's map was completely uncovered.
It was incredibly logical, deeply satisfying, and an absolute joy!
Compared to Zenith and his group, the other candidates weren't so lucky. Lacking rich dungeon exploration experience, they were unable to avoid many of the traps. Not to mention, there was also the most unique monster in this dungeon.
The Water Mirror Demon.
It could perfectly replicate clones of everyone in the dungeon, possessing all the abilities, personalities, and thought processes of the originals.
"These clones... they're quite different from what I learned in the intelligence reports."
The mages looked at the clones, which shared their appearances but had pitch-black bodies, with expressions of shock and uncertainty.
Weren't they supposed to be perfect replicas? Why was their strength not only diminished, but they also looked like they were dropping frames? Watching the clones' facial features shift between normal and distorted, everyone felt their sanity points plummeting.
Denken waved his staff and shattered the clone of Frieren in front of him. Instead of looking pleased, his expression grew increasingly grim.
"The weaker clones still retain some of their original semblance. But for powerful mages like Frieren and Zenze, their clones are nothing but empty shells. It's almost as if..."
Wirbel stepped out from around the corner, finishing Denken's thought. "...As if this replicating demon used all of its energy to copy something else."
The best-case scenario Denken could imagine was encountering an overwhelmingly powerful clone of Frieren. He had recognized her long ago—this white-haired, twin-tailed elf was the mage from the Hero's party.
"The answer likely lies behind this door. According to the dungeon's design, the lowest level's treasury is right behind it. The demon's true body, as well as that unknown clone, are both in there."
The unknown was always the most terrifying. The elderly Denken swallowed hard. *'It couldn't be that Serie is also in the dungeon, right?'*
He pushed the heavy doors open with his staff. As if some shackle had been undone, black muddy water instantly surged out from the crack, bursting forth like a broken dam and collapsing the stone doors that were several meters high.
Flight. After more than eighty years of development, flight magic had been mastered by humanity. The group of mages floated in midair, looking toward the center of the hall behind the doors at a motionless black mass.
It was a shapeless, grayish-black mosaic of a mass. Just a single glance at it evoked the most primal sense of disgust from the bottom of one's heart, causing nausea, dizziness, and the sensation of countless whispers echoing in one's mind.
"Just what exactly did it copy to give birth to something like this?"
It didn't even launch an attack. The mere existence of that mass was enough to make some of the weaker mages lose control of their mana, sending them plummeting straight into the black mud below.
"Kill the Water Mirror Demon! The true body of this kind of demon is as fragile as an ordinary mirror. As long as we take it out, no matter how powerful the clone is, it will vanish into thin air!"
Wirbel attempted to launch an attack, but whether he manipulated physical matter or used a pure torrent of mana, nothing could affect that mass.
He cast his gaze toward the back, faintly spotting the shattered remains of the Water Mirror Demon's true body amidst the gaps in the rubble.
"The intel is outdated! This thing is already capable of detaching from the Water Mirror Demon and existing independently!"
Just what kind of terrifying entity had it copied? Or was this simply an entirely different monster altogether?
Despair began to spread. None of their attacks were working, and they couldn't escape. Even the magic items they had prepared in advance to exit the dungeon were useless. At this rate, everyone was going to die here.
"Holy shit, what the hell is that lump?"
Having finally finished exploring the upper levels of the dungeon and sweeping clean every hidden room and treasure room, Zenith, Frieren, and the rest made their way down, only to be greeted by the sight before them.
It looked familiar. Why did this giant mosaic lump look so much like a clumped-up Wither? Specifically, a Wither with a massive head and tentacles.
Wait, wasn't that the Wither Storm?! Without a Command Block—an item with power on par with the authority of creation—it was theoretically impossible for it to appear.
After carefully sensing it, Zenith breathed a sigh of relief. Sure enough, the thing in front of him was a failed product of an unsuccessful attempt to copy him. It was like a Wither Storm missing its Command Block.
If he had to describe it using the rules of a fantasy world, then the essence of this thing would be an Abomination—a twisted byproduct born from a failed attempt to pry into the power of a god.
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