100\% DROP RATE : Why is My Inventory Always so Full? Chapter 478 - Reunion

The portal hurled them directly into one of the vastest inner halls of the Obsidian Tower, firmly embedded within the small world.

Instantly upon arrival, every single one sensed it.

A drenched, decaying force that stuck to the ebony walls like animated decay. The whole hall radiated such heavy miasma and Black Mass corruption that even the vacant containers appeared to shy away from it.

Marie winced first.

"Disgusting."

Kaia’s face stiffened.

"This whole tower feels infected."

The building matched almost perfectly the Obsidian Tower they had carried along.

Up at the chamber’s peak, a Monster Lord sat there beforehand, positioned in front of a control pedestal, channeling miasma into the Tower’s anchoring mechanism with somber delight.

It detected them at once.

Its head whipped toward the arrivals, mouth opening to bellow a caution.

Opportunity never came.

Before its reflexes grasped the peril, Luke had positioned himself behind it.

The sword struck once.

The Monster Lord perished without grasping that combat had started.

Its corpse collapsed onto the pedestal.

Luke flicked the blood off his blade.

"Let’s move."

And move they did.

Down through the tower’s inferior floors they went, smashing the leftover internal control nodes, ripping free the set-up miasma relays, and emerging into the outer realm.

The view awaiting them precisely matched Lucien’s prior depiction.

A lesser Black Mass.

It loomed above a section of terrain like a descending heaven, devouring illumination, tainting space, and rendering even the skyline sickly.

Underneath, the realm hadn’t perished yet... though defeat had started setting in.

Luke gazed at it during one intense breath.

Then uttered, "Purge."

No repetition was necessary.

The ensuing clash lacked heroism.

It served as rectification.

The team advanced like healers excising decay from flesh to halt its advance.

All beneath that sham canopy perished.

Frail beasts fell. Mighty beasts fell. Those lurking in tainted lairs fell. Those attempting to rally fell. Those believing their miasma-drenched domain would shield them fell most agonizingly.

•••

Hours dragged on.

Not due to tough foes.

But their vast numbers.

The Black Mass had lingered here long enough. Roots had formed. Nests of filth, altered lairs, and concealed rot pockets had sprouted across the corrupted area.

Thus, the team eradicated every trace of the blight’s touch.

Finally, Luke deployed his senses with ability-boosted accuracy, scanning the whole zone once more.

Nothing remained.

He dropped his hand.

"It’s finished."

Only then proceeded to the concluding phase.

The four women lifted their individual Origin Core Fragments.

The pieces illuminated in unison, responding like dispersed stars recalling a unified firmament.

Miasmic strain surrounding the anchored Obsidian Tower swiftly diminished.

The Black Mass canopy quivered.

Luke and Cienna advanced side by side, pressed palms to the tower’s tainted foundation, and started extracting it from the realm.

Extraction proved arduous.

The tower fought back like a leech desperate to keep its grip in meat.

But Luke and Cienna ceased gentleness.

The anchored Obsidian Tower ripped loose.

The entire terrain quaked once, as though expelling a toxin.

Then Luke sealed it within the see-through black cube.

Now two Obsidian Towers resided inside.

With the anchored tower removed, the minor Black Mass commenced withdrawal.

It retracted.

Like an injury surrendering its claim to fester.

The four women seized the moment, directing their fragments and elemental powers at the persisting miasma, incinerating, purifying, melting, and flushing out every remnant they could before it burrowed anew into the land.

Once the Black Mass canopy fully dissipated, the terrain past it revealed itself anew.

And that’s when they appeared.

Forces.

Poised.

Along every perimeter where the canopy had lingered, soldiers and fighters had arrayed into defensive formations.

They had massed near the blight, ready to slay anything emerging from it.

For an instant, neither side stirred.

The small world’s guardians gaped in astonishment at the purified ground. They had braced for yet another frantic fight, another draining war, another monster surge.

Instead—

the canopy had evaporated.

And where blight had dominated moments before stood unexpected silhouettes.

King Midas sensed the auras first.

Or rather—

recognizable ones.

His features shifted before logic could intervene. He abandoned the forward line nearly instantly, heading toward the auras.

Then he beheld them distinctly.

Luke. Cienna. And strangers.

Midas halted so suddenly that dirt billowed at his boots.

His eyes bulged.

"It can’t be," he whispered.

He blinked firmly once, as though suspecting the world toyed with him via false kindness.

Then advanced anew.

"Thousand Skills Luke..." he articulated deliberately. "And the magical prodigy Cienna?"

His tone almost deserted him.

"You two are alive?"

Before responses came, another arrived.

Pope Augustus.

He appeared gaunter than recollection permitted. More ashen. As if age now clamored insistently within him. Yet his physical weakness did nothing to dull his astonishment’s intensity.

When his eyes fixed on Luke and Cienna, he resembled someone beholding the risen deceased right before him.

He pressed a hand to his mouth.

Then withdrew it, since incredulity alone couldn’t sustain him.

"You two are alive," he repeated, now as awe voiced aloud rather than query.

And brighter light touched his visage.

Hope.

Not merely their return.

But if Lucien had managed to bring them back—

perhaps the unattainable still held possibilities.

King Midas and Pope Augustus hastened across the leftover gap to greet them fully.

For a short span, inquiries flooded simultaneously.

How? When? What occurred? Why now?

Luke and Cienna replied to what they safely could, avoiding full disclosure amid crowds and watchful eyes.

Then Cienna’s gaze wandered.

Seeking a particular face.

She didn’t wait much.

Cielius appeared next.

Sebas accompanied him.

The instant eyes locked, all composure shattered.

Cielius lunged first.

Swiftly. Too swift for an elder burdened by excessive hardship.

"My daughter..."

His words fractured midway.

Reaching Cienna, he enveloped her in a fierce embrace, unleashing tears long overdue.

"You’re alive," he declared, body trembling with the weight. "You are truly alive."

Cienna clutched her father equally firmly.

For all her genius, her spells, her poise—

in that instant, she was simply a daughter returned belatedly yet somehow timely.

Tears traced her cheeks as she murmured, "I’m here... father"

Behind, Sebas charged toward Luke with unabashed feeling, making Luke sense an entirely novel threat.

Sebas seemed poised to crumple or hurl himself at Luke like a kid reuniting with kin post-protracted conflict.

Luke glanced at that look and promptly planted a palm on Sebas’s brow, halting the impending impact.

"Hold it," Luke stated. "You’re a grown man. Don’t make this weird."

Sebas chuckled through sobs.

He couldn’t restrain it.

Beholding Luke, who once regarded him as kin during his near-destitute days—

His eyes reddened.

Luke noted it and, unusually, dropped the jest.

He removed his hand from Sebas’s forehead and grinned.

"I’m back."

That sufficed.

Sebas swiped futilely at his face.

Some time passed before initial astonishment ebbed.

By then, reunion’s elation clashed with a glaring void.

Sebas voiced it at last.

He scanned about.

Relief waned. Smile wavered. Then, in a notably subdued tone, he inquired:

"Where is the young master?"

Silence gripped the group.

The atmosphere constricted.

Midas perceived it. Augustus did too.

Overcome by Luke and Cienna’s resurgence, fixated on the miraculous, they hadn’t scrutinized the newcomers’ faces closely.

Now they did.

And witnessed not victory.

But sorrow infused with resolve.

Midas surveyed once more, verifying the menace’s total elimination. Then drew a measured breath, choosing as a monarch should.

"Let us return first," he commanded.

None contested.

His tone stayed steady, yet steel underpinned it.

"Our visitors have intersected fates, waged war, and bear burdens too weighty for debate on a slain field’s brink. We converse within."

Pope Augustus assented promptly.

"That is right."

He faced the assembled guardians, projecting his voice to span the ranks.

"The Black Mass has been purged. Hold positions. Care for injured. No advances past limits. Stand by for commands."

Shortly, Midas relayed to other present chiefs.

Leo. Elunara’s father.

They joined as well.

Elunara’s father, Supreme Chief of the Wildlands Federation, issued directives swiftly.

Local leaders stayed, fortified the front, tallied troops, and steadied the zone. No units advanced rashly. No news leaked beyond cleared paths until grasping the event’s essence.

Only post-completion did the commanders pivot unified.

And alongside the revived fallen, the mourning allies, and queries unprepared to face—

they set course for Lootwell.