My Overpowered Bunny Girls

Nathan found Derek Stone standing alone on a jagged outcropping of volcanic rock, his back to the bustling camp, staring up at the monolithic face of Drak’thar.

The Goldcrest emblem on his tactical suit caught the dull grey light. Down below, his party—four hardened Climbers Nathan didn’t recognize—drilled in sharp, lethal coordination.

Nathan approached slowly, his footsteps crunching in the ash. He wasn’t sure what to expect. The Derek Stone burned into his memory was a loud, arrogant aristocrat. A boy who hid behind mercenaries and smug superiority.

The man standing on the ridge was someone else entirely.

He was noticeably leaner, the soft edges of wealth burned away into hard, practical muscle. His styled blond hair had been buzzed short. Most striking was the jagged, pale scar that slashed down from his left temple, cutting across his cheek and ending at his jawline. It was the distinct mark of a wound that had nearly severed his life. The headlines from months ago echoed in Nathan’s mind: Stone Heir Critically Injured in Catastrophic High-Class Failure.

Derek had pushed too hard, desperately trying to prove himself, and the Tower had nearly kept him.

The old arrogance was still there, flickering in his eyes, but it had been severely tempered. It was no longer a wildfire; it was a controlled, localized burn.

"Cross." Derek’s voice was lower, raspy. He didn’t turn around. "I figured you’d show. Celestial Peak wouldn’t pass up an Elite expedition. Your guild has been breaking High-Class Towers like glass for months."

"Derek." Nathan stopped a few paces away, keeping his hands relaxed. "I read the reports on one of your High-Class run. I heard it went bad."

"Mhm. I nearly died." Derek’s jaw flexed, the scar pulling tight. "My party fractured. Reid and Tyler surrendered their licenses. My father used my three weeks in a hospital bed as a cautionary tale to terrify my brothers." He finally turned. Up close, the scar was brutal. "It’s all true. I pushed the pace. I tried to prove I was still a prodigy after you humiliated me at the Colosseum. It didn’t work out."

Nathan studied him. There was no posturing. No defensive venom. "You’re... different."

"Bleeding out on a dungeon floor tends to shift your perspective," Derek said, his gaze drifting back to the Tower. "I spent two months in physical rehab. My Salamander’s core was fractured; it took weeks to stabilize. And Reid and Tyler... guys I’ve known since the academy... they walked. Said I treated them like stepping stones instead of a team." He paused, the silence heavy between them. "They were right. I was so obsessed and arrogant with proving my place that I forgot how to lead."

"So why are you here?" Nathan asked. "Goldcrest has other veterans."

"Because I know how to kill dragon-kin better than anyone else on their roster, i’ve spent three solid months drilling exclusively for wyvern combat." Derek finally locked eyes with him. "I’m not here to measure myself against you anymore, Cross. I’m not here to prove a point to my father. I am here to break this Tower. That’s it."

Nathan held his gaze. The old Derek would have immediately demanded a wager. This Derek was simply laying out his tactical value.

"Then we clear it," Nathan said.

Derek gave a single, sharp nod. "My squad will hold our sector. Don’t waste your focus worrying about us."

"I wasn’t planning to."

For a fleeting second, the ghost of a genuine smile touched the corner of Derek’s mouth. "Good. Because I’m certainly not going to worry about you."

He turned back to the towering obsidian walls. Nathan left him on the ridge, an uneasy but necessary ally.

---

By sundown, the command tent was stiflingly hot, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with the eight party leaders. They crowded around the central holographic projection, the air thick with sweat and calculated scrutiny.

"The Fallen Piece of Drak’thar," Marshal Vane began, cutting through the low murmurs. "Fifteen confirmed floors. The initial five will be a combined-force breach. The dragon-kin populating these lower levels rely on overwhelming swarm tactics—wyverns, terrestrial drakes, and coordinated lizardmen. We meet them with overwhelming force. We bulldoze the first five floors."

She swiped her tablet, and the hologram fractured, displaying the branching pathways of the middle tiers. "At Floor 6, the architecture widens, and we splinter. The primary assault group—Celestial Peak, Silver Drake, Red Dragon, and Goldcrest—will take the central artery, pushing a direct line to the boss. The remaining four support parties will branch off, clearing the side chambers to ensure the vanguard isn’t flanked. Communication is paramount. If a support party is overrun, the vanguard is blind and exposed."

An older, heavily scarred coordinator stepped up beside Vane. "Floor 11 is the point of no return. The Tower’s internal defenses exponentially escalate there. The dragon-kin grow larger, highly intelligent, and tactically sound. We have zero reliable intelligence beyond Floor 9. From 11 onward, you are flying blind."

"And on Floor 15," Vane took over, her voice dead serious, "Vorlagrath. True dragon. Sentient. Apex. Ancient texts revere him as the Last King of Drak’thar. He has been locked in this cage for centuries, stewing in his own rage. He will not hold back."

A heavy silence smothered the tent. Every Climber in the room was doing the same brutal math in their heads.

"One final point," Vane said, her eyes sweeping the ring of leaders. "The contribution system. You all know the metrics. You all want the Legendary drops. I will say this exactly once: if you actively compete for contribution percentages, you will die. Vorlagrath does not care which banner you fly. He will incinerate you equally."

The Silver Drake captain—a tall, imposing woman with steel-grey eyes—gave a stiff nod. "Silver Drake recognizes the stakes. We will hold our line."

"Red Dragon as well," grunted a massive man, a heavy battleaxe strapped to his back. "We didn’t march out to this wasteland to argue over scraps."

Derek stood silently at the back of the tent, his arms crossed. He met Nathan’s eyes across the glowing table and gave a microscopic nod.

Nathan stepped up to the edge of the holomap. "Celestial Peak is locked in. We secure the primary path and support the vanguard. No poaching kills. No undercutting. We clear this Tower as an army, or we die as individuals."

Marshal Vane studied him, then let out a slow exhale. "Good. The breach begins at first light. Get your rest. Tomorrow, we make history."

---

Night swallowed the camp, leaving Drak’thar to gleam ominously against a star-choked sky.

Nathan stood at the perimeter of the Celestial Peak camp, watching the golden, molten veins pulse across the Tower’s surface. The heartbeat was loud enough to rattle the loose ash at his feet. The rest of the camp had settled into an uneasy quiet, the silence punctuated only by the crackle of watch-fires and the distant, haunting screech of a volcanic bird.

Mirko materialized beside him in her humanoid form, the gold light reflecting off her polished steel. "You are dwelling on the Stone boy."

"Among other things," Nathan admitted. "But yeah. Derek."

"He has evolved," Mirko observed astutely. "The arrogance remains, but it has been forged into something useful. He is no longer the spoiled child who thought gold could buy victory."

"I guess Nearly dying does that. It burns away the excess." Nathan sighed, crossing his arms. "I don’t know if I fully trust him. But I respect that he stood back up."

Kuro’s voice slid into his mind, cool and analytical. The physical scar is merely a symptom. He carries trauma .That weight either crushes a Climber entirely or compresses them into diamond. Tomorrow will reveal which he is. Regardless, his B-Rank Salamander will be a vital asset against the wyverns.

"And if he decides to turn the vanguard into a competition?"

Then I will handle him, Kuro replied seamlessly. Quietly. In the dark. As I handle all variables.

"Let’s hope we can just focus on the dragon." Nathan turned his back on the monolith. "The other guilds talked a good game in there, but that contribution system is a ticking clock. Eventually, someone is going to get greedy."

"Hmph!" Mirko planted her hands on her hips. "Let them scramble for their trinkets! This Knight does not require a percentage tracker to fight with absolute ferocity! I am driven by glory! By honor! By the sheer, undeniable thrill of burying a worthy opponent!"

And occasionally by carrots, Kuro interjected softly.

"Carrots are a tertiary motivation! Mostly!"

Nathan actually smiled. "Come on. We need to sleep. Dawn comes early."

Inside their sprawling tent, the atmosphere was a mix of exhaustion and quiet tension. Garrett was already dead to the world, snoring softly on his cot with Volcan propped against his boots and Red acting as a heavy, woolly blanket. Dillon was wide awake, meticulously polishing his Storm Striders, Cloudy coiled contentedly on his pillow. Elise sat cross-legged, reviewing the dossier one last time by the shifting, ethereal light of her aurora circlet.

Nathan sat on the edge of his cot, unbuckling his bracers. "Tomorrow. Elite Class. We’re going in with people we barely know, under a system practically designed to turn us against each other."

"We’ve played with worse handicaps," Dillon said, not looking up from his boots. "The Court. The two-headed Wyrm. At least this time the threat has the decency to stand in front of us."

"This is fundamentally different," Elise said softly, closing the folder. "This is the culmination of everything. The High-Class runs, the broken ribs, the training—it all bought our ticket here. And we aren’t lone wolves tomorrow. We’re a cog in a massive machine. This is how the real wars are fought."

Nathan looked around the dim tent. Garrett, the unshakeable foundation. Dillon, the lightning strike. Elise, the brilliant tactician. Mirko, standing proudly at the tent flap, and Kuro, a shadow draped over the canvas. They had bled together, failed together, and conquered together.

"Whatever is waiting for us in the dark tomorrow," Nathan said, his voice quiet but absolute, "we face it exactly the same way we always have. Together."

Garrett shifted in his sleep, grumbling into his pillow. "To Drak’thar..."

Dillon grinned, raising his polishing cloth like a glass. "To Drak’thar."

Elise inclined her head respectfully. "To the climb."

Mirko drew her sword an inch from its scabbard, letting the steel ring softly. "To glory! And aggressive problem-solving!"

To survival, Kuro whispered.

Nathan lay back on his cot, staring up at the canvas roof. Outside, the Tower’s golden heart pulsed, waiting for the dawn.

The climb was here. And somewhere in the shadows of the world, the Nemesis Court was watching.

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