The Revival of the Old Days 7

The black-robed man was making his way up the stairs.

He had already drawn his wand, stained with the blood of countless killings.

Meanwhile, at the junction between the seventh level of the underground prison and the passage leading to the surface, five prisoners were gathered before a massive bronze door, restless with anxiety.

The area had already been saturated with the heavy stench of blood and the scorched smell of lingering magic after the black-robed man's earlier silent yet efficient "purge."

Now, this buffer zone between the underground and the surface looked as though it had been swept by a storm. This was the final checkpoint: an incomparably heavy metal gate carved with powerful ancient runes, separating them from the world of freedom. Light shimmered across its surface.

It had clearly been reinforced with exceptionally powerful protective magic.

Seven or eight figures stood gathered before the door. Their clothes were ragged, most of them were wounded, and their faces were a mixture of utter terror, the longing to escape alive, and the fury of seeing their efforts come to nothing.

They were the ones who had slipped through the net—criminals skilled in concealment magic, or those who had happened to hide in corners with strong magical shielding when the black-robed man began his slaughter. During the massacre, they had relied on their instinctive sense of danger or some hidden life-saving trump card to conceal themselves. Holding their breath and focusing their minds, they had waited until they sensed that suffocatingly terrifying presence leave the prison level and head deeper inside before daring to emerge cautiously.

Seizing that fleeting opportunity, they had raced all the way here. They had thought they could finally escape, only for this door to become an impassable chasm before them.

"Quick! Think of a way