Chapter 45: Smelting Plains Advancement
The dense atmospheric weight of the Smelting Plains did not slow the steady, silent expansion of the gray mist leaking from Leon Graves’ duster coat.
Leon stood at the edge of the deep stone ravine, his black boots anchored onto the cold metallic ash floor. His updated parameters vibrated smoothly within his bone marrow, his attributes locked into an unassailable line of individual dominance after his swift execution of the sentinel phalanx line.
[STATUS MENU]
Name: Leon Graves
Class: Sovereign of Finality: Apocalypse Monarch (Rank: SSS)
Level: 23
Health: 3,590 / 3,590 (+80 from Con Increase)
Mana: 2,450 / 2,450 (+40 from Grave Reclamation)
[ATTRIBUTES]
Strength: 201 (+7 from previous extraction)
Agility: 173 (+7 from previous extraction)
Constitution: 202 (+4 from previous
extraction)
Mana: 158
Perception: 71
With both his Strength and Constitution officially breaking past the two-hundred-point barrier, Leon’s physical frame felt light, his molecular density detached from the localized gravity multiplier affecting the fourth tier. Every breath he drew inside his Aura of the End-Game was light, clean, and completely stripped of the heavy iron dust choking the rest of the plains.
He extended his left hand, his index finger catching the vibrant violet flicker of his mythic ring.
It was time to utilize the high-concept utility he had hoarded from the third floor’s overboss master casket. He reached into his internal inventory space, pulling out a small, glowing obsidian crystal spindle that vibrated with a heavy spatial friction—the physical anchor of his remote tether metric.
"Activate: Spatial Anchoring," Leon commanded silently.
He violently drove the sharp obsidian spindle straight into the cracked iron-stone floor at his feet.
BOOM.
A massive, silent shockwave of dark violet space-magic violently exploded from the point of contact, tearing through the metallic ash and splitting the obsidian bedrock in a perfect, ten-foot circular grid. The air directly above the spindle began to warp, the empty space twisting inward like a miniature whirlpool before opening into a permanent, vertical spatial tear that hummed with a stable black-violet liquid energy.
Through the translucent film of the newly manifested rift, the dim interior of his primary stronghold, the Ashen Citadel, was visible three vertical layers below.
[Spatial Anchor deployed successfully.][Remote Portal Node established at Floor 4, Sector 01.]
[Your Stronghold ’Ashen Citadel’ is now permanently tethered to your active hunting zone.]
Tether Effect: The user can now remotely transmit raw materials, stones, and blueprint data straight to the base vaults without returning to the first floor. Base guards can process resource transfers in real-time.
"Miller, Davies," Leon’s flat voice transmitted directly through the open spatial link, echoing inside the central apartment lobby three floors down. "The fourth-floor node is active. I am dropping fifty thousand high-density mana crystals and the unrefined alloy shields left behind by the phalanx guard. Initiate the construction script for the Ashen Armory — Tier 1 immediately."
"B-Boss!" Miller’s face appeared near the edge of the rift, his hands shaking as he frantically caught the heavy crates of resource items Leon swept into the portal with his boot. "The armory blueprints are already loaded into the grid! Davies has the low-tier engineering recruits lining up the scrap metal right now! We’ll have the custom alloy plates forged before the next system cycle!"
"Keep the deadbolts thrown," Leon said, his voice carrying a chilling, metallic resonance that cut off the guard’s frantic stammering. "I am closing the valve line."
He waved his hand, the vertical spatial tear instantly contracting into a narrow, stable violet spark hovering two inches above the obsidian spindle. The remote asset terminal was established. While the human survivor camps on the surface were still struggling to haul basic plastic water jugs across broken city blocks, Leon had just transformed his hunting routine into a multidimensional industrial network, funneling high-tier resources straight into his private vault from the frontline boundaries.
He turned his torso back toward the northern horizon, his twin rings of deep violet pupils flaring beneath his hood as his Perception tracked the shifting ambient light.
Three miles deep into the smelting plains, the sky ceiling of interlocking iron-ore plates was turning a bright, molten orange color. Massive rivers of liquid white-hot iron were running down the sides of the distant black volcanic ridges, routing their scorching heat straight into a colossal, fortress-like structure that blocked the center of the valley—the Forged Citadel.
The outpost was a massive industrial foundry spanning nearly two miles, its automated chimneys dumping heavy columns of black sulfur smoke into the cavern sky. This was the primary production hub of the Forged Legion, the location where the Level 38 Iron-Core Warmaster was currently forging the next division of mechanical elite soldiers to seal the upper floor gates.
Leon Graves slid the Abyssal Stinger back into his sleeve, his duster coat rippling with a passive, freezing chill that turned the falling iron dust around his boots into cold gray sand. The node was anchored, his base was manufacturing his gear, and the true harvest of the fourth floor was waiting wide open inside the furnace room. He walked forward into the orange glare of the plains, his footsteps silent, ready to turn their grand industrial forge into an absolute, systematic slaughterhouse.