DINAMO - Chapter 23: The Throne Room
The route was already set. With the path provided by Eoin, the journey was quick. Not because the place was welcoming, but because Katherine left no room for “play.” They went by the shortest, cleanest, least interesting path. Anything that smelled like a “puzzle” or “scene” was ignored with the same coldness you’d reserve for a dead animal on the roadside.
There was no room in her plans to keep wasting time in the castle, no matter how tempting it might have seemed.
Of course, there were traps.
A corridor tried to spiral and separate them. A floor became “slippery” in concept, not material. Spikes shot from nowhere. Walls closed in. Even living armors—though they had a copy of Dinamo inside.
None of it worked.
Each moved in perfect synchronization, following the pre-designed path that led without doubt to the castle’s most difficult challenge.
Dinamo. The real one, of course.
Katherine said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
Dinamo was waiting, and they all knew it. They knew they would soon have to entertain him again. And that some of them would likely have to die to keep the “show” going.
Thinking about it only led to dangerous, dark paths.
The final hallway opened as if the castle had finally decided to stop pretending. The scale shifted suddenly: the ceiling rose, the walls receded, and the air felt “taller.” Not a room yet, but a prelude.
At the end stood a door.
Immense.
Not “golden like” gold. Pure gold. No blend. No shame. With strange engravings—inscriptions that seemed both letters and circuits, symbols belonging to no known human language. A piece designed to humiliate reality itself, like everything else.
In the center, carved large, a single word:
DINAMO.
Not a symbol. Not a title. Not a metaphor.
Its name, as if the castle needed to remind the universe who commanded. Even the music that had accompanied them followed that tension.
Katherine paused just long enough to confirm the obvious: they had arrived before Hanami and Dimitri. She could feel them, far away, still in transit, still racing against the clock of a place that did not even respect the concept of “distance” consistently.
Baek did not wait for orders. Nor ceremony.
He moved forward with that calm of his, irritating only because it was so efficient. He planted himself before the door, laid a hand on the hilt of his jingum, and exhaled.
The cut was not theatrical.
It was clean.
The sword fell, and the gold split like wet wood. Not due to weakness—the material was a polymer blend, unbreakable—but because of the sword’s superior material.
The door gave way.
The blade finished its path, and the entire structure divided perfectly in two halves, opening with a deep, resonant groan, as if the castle had been forced to acknowledge the disrespect.
Beyond it lay the throne room.
It was massive.
Mostly empty.
Not empty from poverty or lack of design. Empty like a boss room: space to move, space to fight, space so the spectacle never felt cramped. A perfect stage.
The floor was smooth, polished, with lines forming no pattern… until you stared too long, and realized there was one. Obsessive, repeated, flawless. The walls rose without cuts or visible columns. The ceiling dissolved into a golden haze—not mist, not dust: pure creation.
At the far end, on a gilded podium, rested a throne of marble and gold. Ridiculous, heavy, unnecessary. Fit for a god.
And seated there…
Dinamo.
He looked comfortable, as if the entire place were his living room.
Not reclined as in the previous castle transmission. Now he sat upright, posture pretending dignity, though the natural mockery still lived in his eyes.
He looked at them as if they were late guests.
He smiled.
“Greetings, my dear guests,” he said.
His voice filled the room without echo. It didn’t need to.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed the hospitality of my castle.”
He gestured broadly, as if the gold, the labyrinths, and the traps were merely a sightseeing tour.
No one answered.
Not out of fear.
Out of exhaustion.
And because, at that moment, something changed.
The background music rose. From a growing tension to outright epicness, as if someone had turned a dial on a console.
And in the air, with the precision of an interface that needs no permission, a health bar began to appear.
First, an outline. Then color, volume, symbols. A huge horizontal line floating in the void, with segments, numbers that belonged to no human system, and a name above it:
DINAMO.
Not “Final Boss.” Not “God.” Not “Creator.”
His name.
As if reality had surrendered, acknowledging this was a game.
Freya let out a brief laugh, joyless, just to highlight the absurdity of the situation.
Yehiel scrutinized the existence before him, refusing to recognize a god. Yet curiosity lingered—Dinamo was a source of unlimited knowledge. But he knew this was no time for questions. That time had passed.
Katherine glanced at the bar only briefly. For her, it was just another datum: Dinamo was setting the pace. Marking the tone. Saying, “Here I am.” Presenting the stage.
Dinamo rose from the throne slowly, taking his time deliberately for the bar to “lock in.” His cloak—finally a cloak—fell perfectly over his shoulders. His white tunic was unwrinkled. His blond hair seemed lit from within.
He smiled like someone about to open a gift.
“For the final event,” he said, “I’ve created the perfect stage.”
A throne room vast enough that no one would feel cramped.
He stepped forward. Each footfall was not a sound but a “click” conceptual—like the room acknowledging its host moving.
“I even prepared some decent rewards for when this ends.”
“Rewards.”
The word sounded dirty in a context where most did not expect to survive.
Katherine did not flinch. She adjusted the posture of her synthetic body, minimal correction, like a weapon calibrating itself.
Baek, beside Katherine, did not react. Too focused on the future, looking for ways to support without overextending in case everything else failed.
Then the air behind them trembled.
A playful presence entered like a badly timed joke.
“Faster! Redhead, we’re missing the cutscene.”
Hanami appeared at the room’s edge with a huge grin, as if late to a theater performance and delighted by it. Beside her, the space tore violently.
Dimitri.
He landed like a human projectile. Red-eyed with fury, body tense, breathing heavy. He did not greet. Did not look around. Did not admire the gold. Only aimed at the throne, the podium, Dinamo.
And roared.
A primal, wordless sound.
He tried to advance immediately, as if the health bar were a personal insult, as if the concept of “waiting” were meaningless.
Hanami dodged naturally, accustomed to Dimitri trying to crush her whenever she spoke.
“Ah, ah, calm down, big guy. Let the Final Boss finish speaking.”
Dimitri tried to grab her again. She was gone.
Dinamo, however, remained unmoved.
He watched them arrive with genuine satisfaction, like a host finally seeing the table full.
“Good,” he said, as if closing a chapter. “But let’s leave words for another time.”
He raised his left hand.
An object appeared.
A staff.
Not like the golden-gas weapons they had seen—too real, too solid, too stable to be whimsy.
The material had that pale, indifferent indigo glow Katherine knew too well.
The miraculous material.
The kind that could kill him.
Dinamo’s right hand held a crown. Simple, by this place’s standards. And that said a lot.
He placed it slowly. No explosion. No aura. Only a change in the air. As if the castle, the room, the health bar, and the broadcast acknowledged a “state.”
King.
Dinamo smiled, pleased with himself.
“For this fight, I have prepared two weapons worthy of a king.”
The staff rested naturally in his hand. The crown fit perfectly. He looked at them.
“I hope you can entertain me.”
Silence tensed. Not drama, but the exact moment before the world shatters again.
Dinamo adjusted the crown as if preparing for a portrait.
Before the first clash, Katherine spoke:
“Since when do you possess that material?”
Her gaze never left the staff—the miraculous, pale material it was made of.
Dinamo lifted the staff like a cup.
“Ah, this? Just a trinket,” he said, pointing to the crown with deliberate, almost theatrical motion.
“Unfortunately, I cannot use my creation ability while acting as the final boss. Don’t you think I need something to defend myself?”
The line was absurd, and coming from him, too precise to be a joke.
Katherine squinted. She wanted to ask again. Dinamo seemed ready to continue “explaining” with that satisfied host tone.
But someone could not wait.
Dimitri roared.
The sound cut the room like a blow. No technique, no plan, no reading of the field. Pure fury.
He attacked.
Hanami was the first to feel it—not because she saw him, but because she sensed it: a rare pressure in the air when the impossible is about to happen.
Dinamo appeared behind her.
Not a speed trick. A perfect conceptual exchange, an exact copy of her gesture, ninjato in hand, pointing at her heart.
Hanami did not scream. She moved instinctively, pressing against Katherine’s back—her safe place.
The danger remained. Dinamo followed, replicating logic instantly, the deadly ninjato poised.
Too fast for most to perceive.
Baek tensed. Hassan stepped halfway. Irina looked up. Yehiel was startled. Freya frowned.
Katherine saw it. Not because faster, but her mind was battle-ready. She had deduced the crown’s function long before Dinamo used it.
She turned. Her weapon aimed at Dinamo’s head. Fired. If Hanami died, the victory of this foolish game was acceptable.
Dinamo continued his assault, unhindered. Hanami survived.
The brief silence was heavy. No one comprehended order, only that they had witnessed something impossible.
Katherine lowered the barrel, not relaxing.
And said aloud:
“So that crown lets you replicate skills you’ve seen.”
A simple, correct deduction.
Dinamo reappeared from behind his throne as if never moving. Hanami could not replicate such natural perfection: appearing at an object’s back. Concept too far beyond her mind.
“Yes,” he confirmed calmly. “But only since I created the castle.”
He gestured at the ceiling, walls, health bar.
“It would be too boring otherwise.”
Rested a moment on the staff, testing weight.
“Though I must admit, I cannot use more than one ability at a time.”
Katherine did not reply. She measured the limitation.
Dinamo raised a finger. “A self-imposed limitation, of course.”
He smiled, proud to have set rules just to prolong the fight.
He stopped playing with Hanami and Katherine as if exhausting a joke.
His gaze fell on Baek. Slowly, deliberately, he approached.
Baek stepped forward, silent, the kind of quiet only two swordsmen share when accepting what’s coming.
Dinamo raised his hand; the staff morphed.
Not metal melting, but a role shift.
In a blink, the staff became a jingum, identical to Baek’s. Same length, same line, same presence. A copy so precise it was nauseating.
Baek didn’t pause. Both executed the same technique simultaneously.
Haidong Gumdo: Tornado.
The air twisted. Twin spinning blades, micro-layers forming and dissolving violently. Baek’s tornado had been lethal before. But now, two tornadoes.
Dinamo’s moved unpredictably, maliciously. Anticipating the future.
Baek gritted his teeth. Adjusted angles, rhythm—too late.
Experience prevailed: Baek mastered techniques. Dinamo mastered the situation. Not with skill, but by thinking beyond the storm.
The tornado closed on Baek. Invisible edges aimed to split him.
Yehiel appeared. Not from air, not corner—but as if owed that position by the world. He grabbed Baek at the last moment, saving him.
Dinamo’s calm. “Oh.” Entertained, not annoyed.
A coordinated assault from Amaltea, Samuel, and others—Dinamo shrugged. The miraculous material shielded him.
Pressure, gravity, conceptual force—repelled all.
He stepped forward. “I expected half your number by now.”
Flawless dodges, immaculate anticipation.
Katherine decided: no more playing. She activated an experimental weapon, aiming to kill Dinamo outright. Timing, precision, perfect conditions.
The throne room displayed impossibility: a reversed projectile, rewinding, undoing damage… across space, time, the castle, even to Earth.
Then reality accepted it. Dinamo’s head was pierced. No reconstruction. No immortality. Dead.
Katherine stood. Silent. Not celebrating. Not relieved. Just… waiting.
“Did I win?”...
..."
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