Absolute Cheater-Chapter 271: Fantasy Dungeon X

A smaller house. Younger. Fierce. Led by Lady Nyra Verrin—a woman younger than Valeris herself, with ice-blue eyes and a warrior's posture.

Nyra knelt without hesitation.

"We followed House Sarraneth before," she said, her voice steady, "and we will follow it again."

Valeris inclined her head slightly—an acknowledgment, not a blessing.

She liked Nyra.

But liking meant nothing here.

Trust would have to be earned in blood.

After the court dispersed, Valeris and Asher retreated into the private solar—a high-walled chamber filled with stained glass and carved stone beasts.

Asher locked the door with a flick of his hand, weaving a minor spell of silence around them.

Valeris poured herself a goblet of black wine, then turned to him.

"They crawl now," she said, swirling the wine. "On their bellies. Some to beg. Some to scheme."

Asher smiled, slow and sharp.

"Good. Better to see their faces while they still wear them."

She sipped, savoring the bitter taste.

"I won't allow them to think they are safe just because they bowed."

She turned toward the stained glass—a depiction of an ancient dragon coiled around a sun.

"Fear is good. But I want more than fear. I want devotion. I want to rebuild the kingdom in my image."

Asher tilted his head.

"Then we don't just punish treachery," he said. "We reward loyalty. Loudly. Publicly."

Valeris nodded slowly, considering.

"Yes," she murmured. "Blood and fire for the traitors. Bread and crowns for the loyal."

She turned back to him, eyes alight.

"We'll call a Tournament. Open to all houses. A week of contests, trials, and feasts. Strength, wit, loyalty—displayed for all to see."

"Winners gain titles, land, and seats in my court. Losers... remind everyone what happens to the weak."

Asher chuckled, deep and dark.

"A game within a game. Perfect."

Their hands brushed, a silent exchange of shared hunger.

Power wasn't taken by force alone.

It was seized in a hundred small moves.

In a thousand whispered pledges.

In blood written into history.

And Valeris would not be written in ink.

She would be written in fire.

Later That Night — Hidden Within the Palace

Not all the lords were satisfied with bending the knee.

In a forgotten wine cellar beneath the western wing, seven men and women gathered.

Candles flickered. Shadows leaned long against damp stone walls.

Lord Renwyn Calven.

A few remnants of House Durn.

And a cloaked figure whose face none could see.

"We cannot let her solidify her rule," Renwyn hissed, voice taut with fury. "If we wait, she will root us out one by one."

"Then we act," growled another. "Before the Tournament. Before she binds the court to her will."

The cloaked figure leaned forward, gloved fingers tapping the table.

"You speak of rebellion," they said, voice soft, genderless.

"I speak of survival," Renwyn snapped.

The cloaked figure stilled, then reached into their cloak—and placed something on the table.

A vial.

Black glass.

Bound in silver wire.

The others leaned closer.

The vial pulsed faintly, as if alive.

"What is it?" someone whispered.

The cloaked figure smiled—a thin, terrible smile.

"A key."

A beat of silence.

"To kill a queen," they whispered. "And a sovereign."

Three Days Later — The Grand Tournament of Mimir

The sun blazed down on the valley fields below the palace, where colorful tents rose like a second city. Banners snapped in the sharp breeze, each bearing the sigils of competing houses—lions, hawks, wolves, serpents.

Crowds thronged the temporary stands. Merchants cried their wares. Bards sang of ancient battles, weaving Valeris's name into their verses.

But the Queen herself sat atop the royal dais, a towering marble platform overlooking the grounds.

Dressed in white and silver, her hair pinned with sapphires, Valeris looked every inch the sovereign goddess she had become.

Asher stood behind her right shoulder, hands loosely clasped behind his back.

His armor was lighter today—a dark and gleaming half-plate, suited for moving quickly. His sword remained at his hip.

He scanned the crowd without ceasing.

"They're already here," he murmured under his breath, voice for her ears alone.

Valeris didn't so much as flinch.

Her smile remained serene as nobles approached to offer greetings, but Asher could see the slight tension in her fingers resting on the throne's armrest.

Somewhere in this Tournament, hidden among the games and laughter, was a dagger meant for her throat.

And they would let it come.

Because sometimes the best way to kill a snake was to let it strike—and snap its neck when it lunged.

The first events began with ceremony:

Jousting tournaments between knights, their lances flashing like meteors.

Archery contests where arrows split the air like falling stars.

Wit duels among the scholars and nobles, trying to best each other in riddles and verbal traps.

The crowd loved it.

They roared when a favored champion unseated a rival.

They gasped when a lady from House Verrin—a slim, fierce archer named Elyra—shot a bullseye so clean the judges thought the target bewitched.

Every victory was a pledge of loyalty to Valeris.

Every failure was a reminder: only the strong would survive under her reign.

By the second day, the games grew bloodier.

Sword duels replaced wit contests.

Mounted battles where the losers sometimes didn't walk away.

In the shadows behind the spectacle, House Calven's plot thickened.

Foll𝑜w current novℯls on ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm.

Renwyn had entered a "champion" into the tournament under a false name—one not born of noble blood, but trained in secret, bred for a single purpose:

To kill Valeris and Asher.

And he would do it during the grand melee, when dozens of combatants clashed at once in controlled chaos.

All it would take was a single moment of distraction.

A single misstep.

A single heartbeat.