Dungeon King: The Hidden Ruler
Chapter 60: [Thrones in Ruin 9] - The Final Breach

Chapter 60: [Thrones in Ruin 9] - The Final Breach

The city bled smoke and dust.

Raven sprinted through the shattered streets of Greywatch, boots pounding against cracked stones slick with blood and ash. Fairyblade ran beside him, shield tucked tight against her side, face grim and set. Around them, chaos reigned—Fold banners rippled through the broken avenues, their soldiers flooding the Inner City like a dark tide.

The main gate had collapsed.

The breach yawned wide, a fatal wound bleeding enemies directly into the heart of the city.

Above the distant roar of battle, Raven caught flickers at the edge of his interface—particle effects bleeding wrong, skill markers glitching a heartbeat behind casts.

A flicker of a smirk tugged at his mouth.

It’s starting.

Manual override.

The company was trying to wrestle control back manually, patching the bleeding cracks the system couldn’t fix alone. The panic had started. They realized now—too late—what the patch had truly broken.

But he buried it. Buried it under steel focus. No time to savor it yet.

World Chat blinked and screamed, players shouting over one another, desperation eating clarity.

Raven roared in zone chat channel. His voice, when it came, was cold and absolute.

"Form lines at chokepoints. Hold intersections and alleys."

"Siege beasts first. Infantry second."

"Respawns—flank through side streets. Hit them sideways."

Short. Sharp. No speeches.

Players needed something to cling to. Something simple enough their battle-shocked brains could follow.

They listened.

Because survival didn’t leave room for argument.

The first wave of defenders slammed into the Fold advance. Steel crashed against steel. Magic lit the broken city in staccato bursts of light and thunder.

Shieldwall units locked arms at side streets, bracing against charging Fold infantry. Spears thrust through gaps. Shields cracked. Players screamed.

On the upper terraces, archer squads knelt in formation—raining death into the ranks of Fold siege beasts thundering toward the Inner Sanctum.

A trebuchet bolt—hastily repaired, sloppily reloaded—slammed into a Fold war ram. Wood and flesh exploded in a messy bloom. The ram collapsed sideways, crushing half a platoon beneath it.

Victory—brief, savage.

But not without cost.

A rogue tried to backstab a Fold commander, only to catch a glaive through the stomach. He vanished in a pulse of light—respawned at the Inner Sanctum—and immediately bolted back into the fray, bloodless determination in his eyes.

A group of frost mages, coordinated through sheer instinct, locked down a Fold shock unit in freezing glyphs—only for trebuchet fire from the enemy’s rear to smash them apart moments later.

Fairyblade carved through the chaos with purpose.

She wasn’t the strongest. Not the fastest.

But she moved with certainty, grabbing isolated players, dragging them into shieldwalls, slay her swords in rage, barking orders as sharp as Raven’s.

"Form the line! Shield to shield! Protect the casters!"

Her voice wasn’t polished. It was raw, ripped straight from the marrow of survival instinct.

Players followed her.

A tamer—no beast beside him, broken chain dangling from his wrist—pressed into formation at her command.

A healer—face bloodied, robes torn—stumbled into the second line behind the tanks, clutching his staff like a lifeline.

Fairyblade didn’t stop to mourn the missing summons. Didn’t stop to wonder what should have been.

She moved.

She fought.

She lived.

Through the haze of battle, Raven caught sight of Lymira—storming from the side, leading a battered cluster of survivors.

Her guild banners were gone. Her armor was cracked. Her spells frayed at the edges with desperation.

She met Raven’s gaze for a heartbeat—and without hesitation, without question—fell into his command flow.

"Main Gate defenders! On me! Follow the dagger! Flank east like he says!"

No pride. No protest.

Just survival.

Raven filed it away. A small, brutal victory. Lymira—the corporate star, the sponsored hero—was now just another player fighting to live.

Another pawn. Another shattered plan.

The Fold forces pushed harder.

Siege beasts roared and bucked, their handlers driving them toward the last defensive lines. Fold infantry poured through alleys, trying to overwhelm player choke points.

But Raven’s strategy held.

Not cleanly.

Not without blood.

But it held.

[Zone Chat] [IronWarden]: "Keep pressing! They’re bleeding numbers!"

[Zone Chat] [ArrowVex]: "Fold’s panicking, lol! I’ve waited for a real fight like this!"

[Zone Chat] [BurntToastMage]: "Empty city is battlefield playground. BLAST THEM INTO RUBBLE!"

[Zone Chat] [Wolfscar]: "Archers, no fear! Bleed for every meter they take!"

Hope flared.

Not polished. Not organized.

But it burned raw and savage in the blood of the defenders.

A war ram charged into a narrow corridor—only to be stopped dead by a wall of knights locking shields, reinforced by collapsing rubble from a destroyed tower.

Mages from the rear hurled blasts of ice and flame over their heads, breaking Fold ranks before they could reform.

Respawned players used side alleys, cutting into the Fold’s flanks, gutting small squads before retreating like wolves into the ruins.

Ragged, bloodied, but stubborn as weeds between stones.

PvP veterans—those who lived for siege battles—threw themselves into the Fold lines with fierce joy, carving through enemy squads with brutal precision.

Archers loosed volleys from shattered rooftops, even as trebuchet stones ripped them apart.

They laughed—full, sharp, savage—as they fell, because this was the fight they had been waiting for.

Mages reveled in the city’s ruins, turning broken walls and abandoned streets into death traps.

Fire runes collapsed buildings onto Fold shield walls. Ice glyphs froze enemy squads mid-charge, statues waiting for the kill shot.

Not all felt the surge.

Summoner classes fought with hollow eyes and broken hands.

Their familiars—zombies, beasts, spirits—were gone, flickered out by the patch that gutted them.

A necromancer, arms bleeding mana, tried to summon a bone colossus on instinct—only to spawn nothing but a broken glyph underfoot before a Fold skirmisher speared him down.

Fairyblade fought at the front, shield raised high, sword flashing.

She bellowed orders through bloodied lips.

"Brace! Break them! For glory!"

Her voice wasn’t alone anymore.

It echoed in the throats of players around her, a ragged chorus of defiance.

The Inner City was no longer just streets and buildings.

It was a living, bleeding arena.

Walls collapsed from spellfire.

Archways burned like funeral pyres.

Bodies, player and Fold alike, littered the ground—each death another stone laid on the altar of survival.

And still—

Players fought.

Screamed.

Laughed through broken teeth.

Because for a moment—before everything cracked—

they had hope.

Real, blinding, bloody hope.

The system stuttered again.

A healer’s spell fizzed in midair, particle effects glitching like static before stabilizing.

A Fold siege beast blinked—teleporting a foot sideways—before roaring back into focus.

Raven caught it.

Fairyblade didn’t.

None of the players did.

They were too deep. Too immersed.

The wall of reality—already battered by adrenaline and desperation—had cracked.

And still the battle raged.

A Fold commander led a spearhead charge into the central plaza—aiming directly for the Inner Sanctum gates.

Lymira’s battered group counter-charged.

Fairyblade peeled three tanks from her side, slamming into the enemy flank with bone-cracking force.

Raven watched, calculating.

Hold another two minutes, and the Fold momentum breaks.

Hold another two minutes...

He didn’t get to finish the thought.

A tremor rocked the air—not from trebuchets. Not from siege beasts.

From the system itself.

A flicker.

A stutter.

A sudden, gut-wrenching tearing noise that came not from outside—but inside every player’s headset, every nerve.

In the middle of swings.

In the middle of shouts.

Everything froze.

[SYSTEM WARNING: Connection Instability Detected. Emergency Protocols Initiated.]

Raven staggered a step—as if gravity itself forgot what to do.

Fairyblade turned toward him, confusion raw in her eyes—and then her model glitched, jittering sideways by half a meter.

Someone screamed.

"NO WAY—"

"I ALMOST—"

"WHAT THE F—"

The world broke.

[SYSTEM MESSAGE: Throne War Event Suspended Due to Critical Patch Failure. Emergency Maintenance Initiated.]

A blinding white light swallowed Greywatch whole.

Raven felt the dagger in his hand disintegrate, the ground vanish beneath his boots.

And then—

Silence.

A heartbeat later, he stood amidst thousands.

All around him, the respawn plaza of Ironmoss Citadel heaved and churned—a sea of players ripped violently from the battlefield. Thousands of Throne War participants blinked into existence in chaotic waves, some mid-scream, some with weapons still half-raised, spells frozen on their lips.

The heart of the Cindraleth Union, set high atop the Stoneweft Plateau, was drowning in noise, confusion, and disbelief.

The air was crisp and clean. The cobbles gleamed under the sunlight, and the banners of Ironmoss Citadel fluttered brightly against the deep blue sky. The vivid, peaceful world jarred violently against the memory of blood and chaos they had just been torn from.

Windswept mesas loomed faintly beyond the city walls, the cliffside temples of the warrior clans distant and indifferent.

System chats exploded around him.

"WTF JUST HAPPENED?"

"I WAS MID-SPELL—"

"WE WERE WINNING!"

A corporate post flickered into view at the edge of Raven’s vision, default blue template barely masking the spin.

[Titan Corp Notification: Due to unforeseen technical instability during the Throne War Event, emergency server maintenance has been initiated. All affected players will receive compensation packages. Thank you for your understanding.]

Cold.

Clinical.

Meaningless.

Raven closed the notification without reading further.

His hand—real, not virtual—curled into a slow, deliberate fist.

The throne had fallen.

Not to Meridian Fold.

Not to Cindraleth Union players.

But to the system itself.

Exactly as he intended.

And somewhere, deep in the code and corruption that built this world, the cracks had begun to spread.