Step 2 - Wire Frame Provind Grounds - Goblin Slayer Side Story 2 DAI KATANA Volume 1
There’s a girl of scant happiness.
Such is your first impression upon seeing her. The first thought you have upon opening the door of the famous Golden Knight, for she is the first thing you see.
Some adventurers fresh from the dungeon, their loot sitting before them, discuss the day’s take:
“Eh, it’s decent.”
“C’mon, it’s two hundred and fifty gold pieces. Not bad for a day’s work, I’d say.”
You can hear metal clinking against metal, some of it from coin, some from armor and weaponry. The footsteps of waiters and waitresses. The smell of food and wine. It all merges together into a wave of sensation that breaks upon you and then recedes, as if the dim tavern were an ocean unto itself.
The girl you spotted is in one corner, sitting with her shoulders hunched as if to make herself smaller. Even in the faint light and at this distance, you can see immediately that she has golden hair. She’s small in stature. By her clothing, you would guess a cleric of some description. She looks to you like a woman who would drown in the tavern’s sea of sound, sinking deeper and deeper until she disappeared completely.
You look at her, your vision obscured by your conical reed hat. She seems out of place among the rough-and-tumble types who populate the tavern—but indeed she, too, is an adventurer.
image Without really thinking about it, you press the blade at your hip farther into its scabbard, making sure it’s still ready.
An adventurer.
That’s what you came to this fortress city to become.
And now you are one.
There’s a dwarf warrior, looking bored with a huge ax slung across his back. The lord of somewhere or other, complete with squire, is also lounging in shining armor. The one studying a scroll, struggling to memorize the words of a spell, must be an elf wizard. You even spot a rhea scout swipe some food off a table.
And on that same tabletop is a mountain of treasure the likes of which you’ve never seen.
So this is the fortress city.
“Hey, don’t stare too hard. You want them to think you’re a tourist?” a reproving voice says from somewhere just below your shoulder. “You’ve wanted to be an adventurer forever—don’t screw it up by getting careless.”
It’s your cousin. She clutches the short wizard’s staff she carries just in front of her bountiful chest. Despite her chiding tone, she’s looking around with considerable interest herself.
Going off to hone your skills with a girl in tow—it’s an embarrassment. That’s how you feel anyway…
“Gosh, you’d never survive without your big sister around, would you?” she says, even though she’s hardly older than you are, and even though you both left your home in the countryside for this city at the same time.
You sigh and shake your head. At least you have one companion you can count on. That’s your half-elf scout, who’s currently snickering to himself like you’d expect from a rhea. You jab his leather-covered shoulder with your elbow, and he responds, “Oops,” his accent noticeable even in that single syllable. “Hey, Captain, don’t get too worked up, eh? Just sit down and get a mug of ale—that’s the first order of business.”
“My, drinking at noon, are we?”
“Heh-heh! Listen, Sis, that’s what adventurers do!”
Confronted by your cousin, you can only sigh. Are you sure at least one of them isn’t a rhea?
“Well, elves and rheas are practically kin! Since I’m a half-elf, I guess that makes me a cousin.”
“Oh, just like him and me!”
You consider pointing out that as long as she’s keeping track, you’re second cousins. Instead, you just sigh again.
Nonetheless, you agree with Half-Elf Scout. Your throat is parched. You’ve been walking around outside, and it’s hot. You long for an ale. You nod at him, spot a convenient round table, and sit down on one of the barrels surrounding it. A waitress notices you immediately and comes rushing over, and you order three ales.
“Oh, if you have any water with fruit squeezed into it, I’ll take that instead…,” your cousin says.
You glance in your cousin’s direction as you revise the order: two ales and a fruit water.
The waitress responds with a smile and bustles off to the kitchen. A doglike tail peeks out from under her skirt.
“Padfoot, huh?” Half-Elf Scout says. “Makes sense. The pay’s good here.”
Padfoots, with their occasional animallike features, often find it difficult to make a living wage in civilized society. Just a glance at her makes it clear how much money there is in this tavern and in this city.
All because of an underground labyrinth—the Dungeon of the Dead. Endless loot and riches bubbled up from it, along with endless monsters. The rumors—and the king’s proclamation—were true, it seems. You nod again, adjusting the sword at your hip.
Shortly thereafter, the waitress reappears with three mugs, placing them on the table. You drink noisily. The ale is delicious.
“By the way,” your cousin says, smiling brightly, “what’s that girl doing?”
Argh.
Your cousin is pointing at the young woman you were looking at earlier.
“Hrm?” asks Half-Elf Scout, the one your cousin was consulting. He raises an eyebrow, then quickly says, “Ahhh. She’s doing identification.”
“Identification?”
“Stuff doesn’t come out of that dungeon with a convenient little tag attached, right? You gotta ask somebody what it is. Otherwise no one’ll buy it from you.” Half-Elf Scout sips his drink.
When you ask if identification couldn’t be done at a shop, he replies, “Yeah, but it’ll cost ya. If a poor little wizard goes down in the dungeon all by their lonesome, they’re almost guaranteed to die, even if they do everything right.”
“And that’s about the worst thing that could happen to you…”
“Sis, there’s no end of bad things that could happen to you…”
You could turn into a zombie or monster food. Or worse fates that he hesitated to speak of.
You nod sagely as Half-Elf Scout trails off.
But if she can identify items, that means…
“So she serves the Supreme God, who sees the truth of all things,” your cousin says. “And she’s a bishop at that.”
A bishop ranks at the top among clerics; it’s a title one cannot claim without considerable intellectual prowess. It’s always possible she’s running a simple swindle, but she doesn’t look like the type to you. Which would make her, you would think, in great demand…
“But if so, then she could have her pick of companions…,” your cousin continues. You suggest that perhaps she’s waiting for someone, but your cousin doesn’t listen. You sigh.
As much as you’re loathe to admit it in front of your cousin, spell casters possess crucial abilities. You know a few supernatural tricks of your own, but a warrior is no wizard. That girl at the table is in a position to pick and choose whom she adventures with—or at least, she should be.
“Good point,” Half-Elf Scout says with a nod. “Gotta make sure it’s someone you can trust.”
He’s right, you think. Adventurer has such a heroic ring, but in reality, many of them are broke, mendicant good-for-nothings. Especially now, with the dungeon to contend with, you hear that the standards of adventuring organizations have slipped. After all, even some of the most malnourished fighters can go down in the depths and, as you can see, come up with enough to fill their bellies and then some. All you need is a modicum of skill. That’s adventurers today.
You like to think you are different from run of the mill troublemakers, but objectively speaking, there’s little to distinguish you. You’ll just have to let your actions do the talking…
“So let’s take stock. I’m a scout, but I can handle the front row when I need to. Cap’s a warrior, and, Sis, you’re a spell caster…” Half-Elf Scout looks critically into his mostly empty mug as he speaks. “Usually, parties are four to six people—maybe another couple of casters would be nice.”
“Wow, you really know your stuff!” your cousin says, her eyes sparkling. “Wait… Have you been down in the dungeon before…?!”
“Wh-who, me? Nah, nah, this is just, y’know, stuff I’ve heard from people… Ha, ha-ha.” The scout chuckles half-heartedly and looks away. This is something about your cousin that you have unalloyed respect for.
“I’ve got an idea,” she says, clapping her hands. “If she doesn’t have a party and we need a spell caster, how about we ask that girl to join us?”
This is something about your second cousin that you are trying to have unalloyed respect for.
You’re just starting to think seriously about the idea when:
“Yo, identifier!”
“You finish that stuff we asked you about yesterday?”
The voices are so loud that they cut through the hubbub of the tavern.
“?” Your cousin looks surprised. When you follow her gaze, you see why. Two adventurers who look to be of poor quality—right down to the state of disrepair of their equipment—have cornered the girl. Warriors, you suppose. Or perhaps scouts. They seem to lie vaguely somewhere in between.
The young woman flinches, then turns her head as if seeking the source of the voices. Finally, she replies stiffly, “Yes, sir. The items from yesterday are right here.” From a bag beside her, she places several pieces of gear on the table, no less battered than the equipment the men are wearing themselves.
“Pig-Iron Sword? Rusty Chain Mail? Rotten Leather Armor?!” one of the men demands, his eyes getting wider with each item. “Hey, identifier, are you makin’ fun of us?”
“I assure you, sir, I’m not! I would never…!” The woman denies it with pitiful vehemence, clutching her chest. In another time and another place, to question a bishop of the Supreme God in this manner could result in punishment for sheer impertinence.
“Sure hope you ain’t. You know what’ll happen to you if we find out you’ve been playing us, right?”
“Yeah, so make sure you identify our stuff right. Got it?”
“Yes, sir… Of course…” Then the girl silently turns and begins to work on the fresh pile of loot the men toss on the tabletop. She has a beautiful, almost dignified aspect, but her every movement seems hesitant, unsure. That by itself appears to annoy the men, for they audibly click their tongues several times. With each sound, the woman tenses, but she reaches assiduously for the gear, brushing her fingers over it.
“…They’re a nasty bunch, huh?” your cousin whispers from behind her hand.
The tavern had gone quiet but only for an instant. The buzz soon returns, and the young woman’s voice is lost in the chatter.
All this is perfectly normal, you figure. After a moment’s thought, you call out to a waitress with long, rabbitlike ears who’s passing by, pressing a small coin into her hand.
“Hoh,” Half-Elf Scout says, raising an eyebrow in your direction. You ask the waitress about the young woman.
“Oh, her…,” the harefolk waitress says. She tucks the coin into her ample bosom, takes a look around, and then continues in a conspiratorial tone. “She’s an especially sad story. On her very first adventure, well, she got things a little bit wrong. That led her to come to the fortress city, but rumors of her failure spread.”
“Common enough,” Half-Elf Scout murmurs.
Your cousin’s lips are pursed as if she can’t quite accept the whole thing. “If at first you don’t succeed, just try again, right?” she says.
“Adventurers are a superstitious lot. Luck’s the coin of the realm, see,” Half-Elf Scout replies.
“And so her companions left her behind,” the harefolk waitress continues. “Now she makes her living identifying items…”
“Can’t go adventuring all by herself. Bet she’s lucky to make enough to eat, in fact. Rough times.” It’s hard out here.
You nod, then look once more in the girl’s direction. Her voice still just barely carries over the chatter in the tavern.
“I’m sorry… I don’t know what they are.”
“Well, keep workin’ on it till you do know. Damn worthless…”
“Yes, sir… I’m sorry, sir…”
“Betcha this is why she screwed up so badly, eh?”
“Yeah, you’re right. It was a goblin hunt, wasn’t it? Talk about worthless…”
“Yeah, in more ways than one!”
The men’s lecherous cackling mocks the young woman. She curls into herself like a mouse.
You murmur something about their truly vile attitudes, but the waitress cocks her head and remarks that this is rather strange. “Those two are always a little rough, but they’re not usually so aggressive.”
“Hey,” says your cousin, who’s been listening silently, tugging on your sleeve. “The girl… How about we bring her on board?”
This is something about your cousin that you have unalloyed respect for.
“Hoh, Captain. Gonna make a move?”
You nod at Half-Elf Scout, then slowly stand up from your seat. You ask him to keep an eye on your cousin for a few minutes, to which he smiles and offers you these words of encouragement: “Put on a good show, Cap.”
As you walk across the tavern, the eyes of the other adventurers settle upon you. You brush past waitresses and dodge legs stuck out to trip you up as a prank, never letting your smooth stride go interrupted.
The first one to notice your approach is the young woman, the one otherwise concentrating on her identifications. “E-excuse me, sir, but I’m currently busy with other customers. Perhaps you could wait a few minutes…?” Those words spill from lips that hardly form anything but a perfectly straight line: If her voice wasn’t so faint, it would definitely sound like the ringing of a bell. Now that you’re closer, you can see how petite the young woman is, her hands clasped uneasily in front of her modest chest.
Then your eyes open in surprise. Her eyes, set in that slim, lovely face—something must have happened to them, for they are clouded by a white mist and ringed by terrible scars. Maybe this explains her uncertain movements: She can’t rely on her vision.
You shake your head with deliberate slowness, indicating that this is not a request for identification, before you turn to the two adventurers.
“’Ey, who the hell are you?!”
“Get lost! You wanna end up at the temple with your face smashed in?!”
When you point out that the way they’re acting is no way to treat a woman, you receive only shouts of anger in return. Perhaps these people hail from some other land and don’t understand what you’re saying. You smile faintly.
“What a couple of brutes! Get ’em, Cuz!!”
Ah, dear cousin, always ready to pour oil on a fire. All the same, you sink down, angling your weight forward slightly, grasping the scabbard of your katana and striking backward with the ornamental hilt.
“Grgh?!” cries the adventurer you’ve just jabbed in the solar plexus. He must have gotten behind you in the couple of seconds you were distracted by your cousin. Nice move. You’re impressed.
“Why, you…!” The other adventurer reacts quickly. In a single fluid motion, you rise up again, grip the scabbard with your left hand, and thrust it forward. “Hrgh?!” Another jab, another solar plexus. But your opponent is a big guy. That’s not enough to bring him down.
And now he knows you’re an enemy.
The two men jump back, looking at you with bloodshot eyes, and you return your hand to the sword at your hip, reassuming a ready posture. You keep the young woman, who looks as surprised as anyone, at your back, your feet sliding in half circles along the floor as you get ready for whatever’s next.
“This bastard’s a warrior…!”
“Nah, look! Not a scratch on that armor. He’s more baby than warrior! Let’s show him the ropes…!”
Can you do it?
A bead of sweat runs along your cheek. You drop deeper into your stance, making sure you have a firm grasp on the hilt of your sword. To draw your blade is to kill; this is the way of things. If you fail to kill, or to die, once your blade is set free, you will never escape dishonor.
For your cousin, you have no concern. If things go south, Half-Elf Scout will help her somehow. But you might die. And the trouble you cause might become trouble for the young woman before you. Those are the only two things that weigh on you. Only now do you begin to realize what a profound responsibility you’ve taken on without even thinking. You’re facing warriors who have been down in the dungeon. Two of them, at that. You don’t know what they’re capable of.
Your opponents are wearing body armor. You don’t think you’ll be able to stop them just by lopping off an arm or a leg.
You do have some confidence in your technique. Your objective will be to score a critical hit with your opening stroke, decapitating the first adventurer, then killing the second on the return. If you don’t manage it, they’ll drag you down and gut you like a freshly caught fish.
You take a deep breath in and let a shallow one out. You feel around with your feet, clad in animal-skin socks and split-toed sandals, searching for footing. You grasp the scabbard firmly with your left hand, your right gripping the hilt. You can’t let sweat cause your hands to slip.
Draw? Don’t draw? You will draw. You will. Draw. Draw. Cut. Now—!
“Will you keep it down over here, you louts?!”
With that one shout, the hum of the tavern crowd comes back like a ringing in your ears. The explosive atmosphere dissipates, replaced by the collective murmurs of the patrons. You look over to discover that someone belonging to a party camped out at the backmost table in the building has gotten to his feet.
“Hmph.” He looks like a young lion to you with sharp, handsome features. His movements are elegant, aristocratic. The cast of his face is composed but slim; at first glance, he doesn’t look like someone who belongs in a tavern full of people looking to delve the Dungeon of the Dead. But behold: The man is wearing shining armor. It glints in the unsteady tavern light, clearly made of diamond.
More surprising still, it appears well used. Though it shines, it shows signs of wear, unlike your own chest guard; it completely changes your first impression of the man. You see now that he must be a knight of some renown.
“I-it ain’t like that, Lord,” stutters one of the men who had been menacing the young woman. “We was just teachin’ a newbie what’s what when he tried to butt in on our conversation…”
“Y-yeah, that’s right. We weren’t tryin’ to bother you or anything…”
The diamond knight doesn’t respond immediately, though. He looks at you, then at the pile of gear on the tabletop, then at the young woman, her face drawn in fear. Finally, his gaze returns to the adventurers, and he says softly, “I see all your items have been identified.” It’s not a question. The men nod. “Then you have no more business with this young woman. Sit quietly and have a drink or get out of here.”
The two adventurers look about to say something, but the knight’s menacing aura overwhelms them, and in the end, they stay quiet. Finally, with frustrated clicks of their tongues, they shove the gear off the table and back into their bag. “Very good,” the knight says, like a master acknowledging the work of his servants. The men slink away, their steps sullen, the young woman vacantly watching them go with her sightless eyes.
You have, it would appear, been rescued. You express your thanks, but the knight shakes his head. “I admire your passion, but not your methods. The gulf in strength between those who have braved the dungeon and those who haven’t is simply too great.”
You yourself have no choice but to acknowledge this. You had hoped to resolve things peacefully but quickly found yourself in over your head and had nearly had to draw your sword. Those men knew how to handle themselves. You aren’t confident things would have ended well for you if you really had drawn. Your inexperience is what got you into that mess. You thought you could control the situation. But this only makes you realize how far you are from being able to dictate the course of events.
The knight says “Don’t worry about it” and smiles, recognizing that your actions were honorable. “But don’t let your guard down, either,” he adds. “Those men were a party of six yesterday.” You cock your head at this, and the diamond knight continues as if it was of scant consequence. “Tonight, they’re two. The other four lost their souls.”
Consumed by the Death in the dungeon.
Someone snickers softly. Amid the burble of the tavern, the sound is like a bubble rising on a river and bursting. You understand now. Perhaps the men had meant to go back home. That was why they were so scared, so overawed. They didn’t want to admit that their spirits had been broken.
“Take care, good sir,” the knight says, slapping you on the shoulder, and then his eyes open a little wider, and he smiles. “That’s a fine saber you have there.”
At the far table, the diamond knight’s friends say something mocking about his actions. He shoots something back, then turns slowly on his heel and returns to his place. At long last, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding in and relax your grip on your sword.
What a scene!
You discover your palms are slick with sweat, and your heart is racing from nervousness and excitement.
And you haven’t even been down in the dungeon yet.
“Gosh, here we were gonna come and help, but I guess you didn’t need us.” Surprised by the voice behind you, you let out a great sigh. Apparently, you didn’t even notice Half-Elf Scout and your cousin coming up to you.
“That was a knight’s knight, huh? It would sure be encouraging to have someone like him around,” your cousin says.
“Eh, kinda feel like he stole our boy’s thunder, though. So?” Half-Elf Scout asks, and you nod.
“Ah, ahem…er…,” the young woman stammers in bewilderment.
The first thing that’s needed is a proper conversation with this girl.
You are an adventurer.
You heard the rumors about the infamous Dungeon of the Dead and came to the fortress city in hopes of delving to its lowest level. That’s all there is to your story thus far, so you recite your simple explanation with assurance.
Your cousin, after your rather brief tale, turns a smile on the young woman across from you and says, “See?” Almost a whisper. “He’d lose his own head if it wasn’t stuck on his neck. I had to come with him because I was afraid he’d never make it on his own.”
Well, who cares what your second cousin thinks? You shake your head gently. Much as you hate to admit it, she has learned a lot about magic—but who goes on an adventure in heels?
You ignore your second cousin—puffing out her cheeks and insisting that her shoes are perfectly cute—and turn to your scout.
“Ah. Me, I plan t’smoke out every secret in that dungeon and make my name known across the Four-Cornered World,” Half-Elf Scout says, a motivation more redolent of human than elf ancestry. He smacks himself on his chest, which he puffs out proudly. “That’s why the cap’s passion for testing himself against the dungeon connected with me, and I decided to go along with him.”
“I know it must’ve been rough for you,” your cousin says with a grin, “stuck up in that tree after that wizard you pranked cast a bug-attraction spell on you.”
“A-hem,” Half-Elf Scout says, mustering a dry laugh, and the young woman across from you visibly relaxes, albeit only a little.
“For me…” Her voice when she opens her mouth sounds so fragile. “I, too, once intended as much.”
“Intended what?”
“The dungeon… To do—something about it.”
History shows that peace inevitably ends; since the Age of the Gods, this has ever been the way of the Four-Cornered World. The shadows of the Dark Gods move behind the scenes; illness spreads. The world grows ever more disordered, and people’s hearts become ever more a wilderness. And then—the Death. Yes, that is the true problem.
Those who succumb to the plague arise once more in unlife to attack the living. Those living become one of the dead, and they, too, rise to consume other people, and the dead increase in number once more: Catastrophe grows and spreads.
If these were simply undead, perhaps a great muster of monks or clerics could have defended against them somehow. But it was found that prayer for the repose of their souls had no effect. It was not so simple. These were no mere wandering spirits.
The whirlwind of Chaos continued to spread. The forces of Order were swallowed up, and it seemed only a matter of time before all returned to darkness.
Find the source of this Death and destroy it: the king’s admonition—was it too late or just in time? It was not long after that some adventurers did in fact discover the Dungeon of the Dead.
It is said monsters emerge endlessly from the dungeon depths.
It is said in the dungeon there, likewise, await endless riches.
It is said in the dungeon’s deepest reaches resides a Demon Lord.
The king of the land immediately dispatched an army, but every man was swallowed by the labyrinth, and none came home. The military was never made to brave the traps and fearsome dangers of the dungeon. Their purpose is to stand ready to repel the savages from the north who range across the mountains, the barbarians from the southern reaches, and every neighboring country that constantly looks for an opportune moment to strike. They might even meet a great army of Chaos in the field—but dungeons? Those are for adventurers.
And thus the fortress city arose. A home base built hard on the mouth of the dungeon to serve those adventurers who ventured within. Adventurers who sought fame, fortune, and the head of the Demon Lord…
“Kill a few monsters, and you can earn more in a day than you’d see in a lifetime in your backwater village!”
“True, but you never know when you’re going to die down there.”
“Then what say we forget about the Demon Lord and just make our money farming those monsters?”
There is no sign as yet that the Dungeon of the Dead will be destroyed anytime soon.
You lay all this out, and the young woman replies “That’s right” softly and nods. “And I thought, rather than spend my life shut away in the temple…I wanted to at least try to do something to better this world…”
So she had come to the fortress city in the hope of finding companions and delving the dungeon. A splendid resolve. You tell her so earnestly. It’s not something that’s so simple to do. As a matter of fact, you yourself have not come here with any lofty ambitions of saving the world, so you are not one to judge. It is up to each person to decide how they will live and how they will die. It is not your place to debate the merits of their choices.
To still be able to act with others in mind when all that is the case—that is truly admirable.
But now you have a question. Surely, she need not sit here, identifying items, when she could be down in the dungeon.
The young woman tenses when you mention this, her breathing shallow. “I’m very sorry,” she says. She pours water from a canteen into her mug, some of it spilling onto the table, and then drinks. “I… I…” Then she takes several long, deep breaths and finally manages to get out the words. “I once—before I came to the fortress city, before I entered the temple—went on an adventure.”
You’re about to ask what that has to do with anything when a sharp pain runs through your side. Your cousin, never letting her smile slip, has jabbed you with her elbow. “Let me guess,” she says, trying to help the hesitant young woman. “Your companions…?”
Yes. The young woman nods, her slim shoulders trembling as she looks at the table. “They said someone who was once defeated by goblins… That the dungeon would be too dangerous for the likes of her… And so they left me behind.” She smiles, albeit fleetingly.
Goblins. Everyone knows they are some of the weakest creatures in the Four-Cornered World, hardly worth bothering with. They attack villages, destroy crop fields, abduct women, rape, and gorge themselves, and they are no smarter than nasty children.
No big deal.
In the Dungeon of the Dead, there is an endless array of creatures far more threatening than goblins. If you have a sword in your hand and a wish to save the world in your heart, goblins hardly merit a thought.
Of course, just moments ago, you were questioning whether you could even deal with two adventurers who had been down in the depths…
“On that…first adventure,” the young woman says, “I made…a mistake. That’s why I retired to the temple…”
Before you can say anything, your cousin has poked you in the ribs again. You glance at her with a That hurt, but your second cousin all but ignores you. You clear your throat and begin to open your mouth again. What need is there for her to stay here and be treated like a common item wrangler or to tell her story to anyone else? You know it sounds harsh to say, but surely she has no reason to remain here in the fortress city, this place of bitter memories.
“Well, I…” For a moment, she trails off, embarrassed. But then she squeezes out the words: “I want to bring peace to the world. Even if I can’t adventure myself, I thought if I could do anything at all to contribute to the end of that dungeon…”
So anything that might help save the world, you think.
The young woman looks at the ground and goes silent. She lets out only the occasional soft groan, her shoulders shaking. You say nothing about it but take a quick glance at your companions.
“Er, ah, r-right. I think it’s…just fine,” your cousin says, shooting a hesitant look at Half-Elf Scout.
“Good by me,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Heck, kinda feel like I’d curse myself if I complained. So why not?”
You nod at them, then inform the young woman that you’re searching for a bishop to join the party.
“What…?” she says, glancing up in surprise at that title.
You tell her that according to what you’ve heard, bishops are the only clerics granted the ability to identify items. To be a bishop, one would inevitably have mastered at least some magic, so to have one around would be heartening.
“Ah—ahem, there’s no need to fuss over me. I’m used to being laughed at…” She smiles weakly, almost sulking, and then her lightless eyes drift toward you. “If… If you would like to have an item identified, there’s no need for all this show. I’m more than willing to help you.”
From the way she behaves, you can imagine how this young woman has been treated. You shake your head—You misunderstand —and ask if she doesn’t know any bishops.
“I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid not. There are no bishops among my clientele…”
‘No, no.’ You shake your head once more. ‘Is there not a bishop before our eyes?’
This provokes a look of surprise from the young woman, and she stares at you. Her features, you note, are statuesque. Or would be without the wounds around her eyes— No, in fact, even so. Perhaps more so.
“But—but I’ve never even been into the dungeon yet… And I was defeated by goblins…!”
“Y’ain’t the only one who’s never set foot in the dungeon,” Half-Elf Scout reassures the terrified young woman. “But so what?” He laughs. “Neither has the captain or Sis here. Like little birds just leaving the nest, all of us.”
“He’s right,” your cousin says, calmly taking up the theme with a smile. “I’m an untested wizard, and my little brother—” Your cousin. “You can see he’s all talk so far… Sigh!” Your second cousin lets out a dramatic sigh but makes it look natural. “If we had a cleric around to put him in his place every once in a while, I’d sure feel better about things!”
………
You refuse to unreservedly agree with your second cousin, but it’s true that you need a healer. You limit yourself to giving your second cousin a good glare, then clear your throat before finally speaking again. You tell the young woman that if she’s willing, you would be happy to have her as a member of your team.
“—…!”
The young woman is flummoxed for a second by your suggestion, but then her lips draw into a line, and she reaches out uncertainly. You offer your own rough hands in response, feeling her slim fingers touch your palms. Their grip is weak, and they tremble slightly, but…
“If you’ll have me, then gladly,” she says, and for the first time, she gives you a heartfelt smile. You answer by clasping her hands firmly.
“So how about we have a little look-see at the temple?” suggests Half-Elf Scout when he judges that Female Bishop has begun to calm down. “Might be able to pick something up. Divine guidance, y’know?”
You don’t particularly have any better ideas, so you nod your agreement. You each take some coins out of your purses and pay, then leave the tavern behind.
“If we’re going to form a party, it’s going to be everyone’s money.” Your cousin, walking along in her high heels (!), has the frustrating habit of occasionally saying something insightful. True, the cost of gear—weapons and armor, items, and other things that will contribute to everyone’s collective chances of survival—will be a shared concern. With an eye on the future, you should probably pool your resources, and the first thing you’ll do is buy your cousin a new pair of shoes.
“Aw, but they’re cute. It’s fine. And the dungeon has a stone floor, right?”
Curse this second cousin of yours. It’s impossible to argue when you’re not sure if she’s joking.
You keep discovering more things you don’t know about this town and about the dungeon. Then again, you just got here. Maybe it’s not something to lose any sleep over.
“…I’ve been to the temple here once, to pay my respects,” Female Bishop says softly, interrupting your thoughts. “I remember it as a place overflowing with adventurers, so perhaps we’ll find someone…”
From the fact that the staff she holds depicts the symbol of the sword and scales, you know she worships the Supreme God. But which deity does this fortress city’s temple primarily worship?
“The Trade God,” Female Bishop adds pointedly. She almost sounds excited; maybe she’s pleased to be able to help. “The patron deity of wind, commerce, and travel. Ahem…” This second part of her speech is rather quieter, as though she suddenly realized how she might be coming across and grew embarrassed.
“Well, that sounds profitable!” Half-Elf Scout replies. “After all, travel and commerce mean meetings and money!” You look around, trying to decide which way to go. Every city and fortress has something—a shrine, a temple, or in smaller places, a chapel. The object of worship may vary from place to place, but there’s always at least one. It seems a refuge for prayer is needed wherever people go to battle. Even if you personally don’t completely understand it.
Your feelings as an individual, though, are not the issue; from a practical perspective, you fully comprehend the need for healers. It was your own good fortune that you met Female Bishop—the young woman who now trots along at the very rear of your formation. But spell slingers are few and far between. They are some of the only ones who can manifest their talent and intelligence directly into the world—in the form of magic.
“Look at all these shops. I thought it was just adventurers around here!” your second cousin marvels, gawking in amazement. Looking at her, you personally wouldn’t assume intelligence was a wizard’s primary trait…
Much as it pains you to admit it, though, she’s right. Most of the people milling around on the fortress city’s great main thoroughfare are bedecked in weapons and armor—they’re adventurers—but many aren’t. These other people, you suppose, must have been drawn to the city in the hopes of relieving the adventurers of some of the many riches they’d gathered out of the depths.
The streets of the fortress city are haphazard and hard to navigate; at first, you found it difficult even to go in a straight line. After five minutes of walking, it’s all too obvious that the city is a labyrinth unto itself.
It’s no surprise that the Trade God should have a temple here. After all, in the depths of the Dungeon of the Dead lies loot aplenty. Looking down the street, you see the obvious sorts of places: inns and taverns, armorers’ shops—but also places selling fancy clothes, restaurants, even the occasional gambling den. Yes, this makes sense. Without some way to spend your earnings, gemstones are just rocks, and gold coins are simply pretty bits of metal.
“C’mon—aren’t you embarrassed, gawking so openly like that?” your cousin says, elbowing you again when she catches you taking a particularly long look at what you suspect is a house where you might find female company. In her hand is an item you don’t recognize: a piece of cloth for tying hair back.
You question when she got it, to which she replies, “Just now,” and sticks out her bountiful chest proudly. “Geez, I know guys can be oblivious, but you’re worse than most. Here, come on.”
“Er? Oh…” Female Bishop looks confused after your cousin called out to her. “Me…?”
“Yes, you. Turn around, if you please.” Then your second cousin spins Female Bishop around and holds up the cloth. You think she’s about to tie back Female Bishop’s hair, but instead the cloth goes around her sightless eyes. “There, how do you like that? I tried to pick something that would feel nice.” Then your cousin takes Female Bishop’s hand and turns her back around. The vicious burns that robbed her of her sight are neatly covered by the bandage.
“I know I must have been…rather unpleasant to look at…” Female Bishop’s voice trembles with what seems like trepidation.
But your cousin sounds honestly puzzled as she shakes her head and replies, “Not at all. This way just makes you look mysterious—and pretty, to boot!”
Right? She smiles in your direction, looking for confirmation. From an expression of confusion, Female Bishop’s face scrunches up. Your cousin quickly puts a hand on her back. “S-sorry, was it wrong of me? If you don’t like black, we could get, uh, a white cloth, or blue, or…how about pink?!”
Female Bishop shakes her head, sending ripples through her golden hair. Half-Elf Scout grins. You let out a breath and smile. This is something about your cousin that you have unalloyed respect for, but…
Curse this second cousin of yours. You look well down the thoroughfare in an attempt to hide your smile.
That’s when it happens. A gust of wind blows down the street, carrying the stagnant air off into the sky. You close your eyes against the bracing wind, then follow it with your gaze as it rushes away into the heavens. That’s when you spot a spire towering beyond the nearby rooftops. They probably thought anyone would look up when the wind blew. For atop the tower stands a windmill, cranking noisily in the gusts of air.
Yes indeed. You nod once again.
This town did need a temple to the Trade God.
“Apostates, and stingy to boot—get out of here!”
You’re greeted by the words of a nun, her willowy impression (complete with modest endowment) is completely blown away by the force of her pronouncement as she flings open the doors.
“Dammit! Apostates, my ass, you greedy priests…!”
Perhaps the temple refused to lift a curse placed upon them in the dungeon, or to heal their wounds, or maybe the disagreement was over a Resurrection miracle. Whatever the case, an adventurer in full armor rushes out of the temple past you, carrying a companion.
Vast windows let in the light and diffuse it through a stone chapel, bathing everything up to the altar in somber illumination. This hardly looks like a place to be speaking of money. So when your cousin mutters, “I’m not sure what to say…,” you think you understand what she means.
Then again, you haven’t come to ask for healing. Whether your purse is light or your wallet thin, you have nothing to fear.
But the fortress city truly is a town of adventurers!
You look around, seeing men and women in all kinds of gear praying. Perhaps they seek success in battle, or a safe return home, or a successful recovery for wounded comrades. At this temple, it’s said that not only are there healers but even clerics of high-enough rank to perform the Resurrection miracle. To invoke this miracle, to bring someone back from the edge of death, the cleric must calm their own soul and pray fervently. To repeat, spell casters are all too rare already. Let alone highly ranked ones. And then there’s the fact that certain ceremonies that would fail if performed in the dungeon might be a different story when carried out in the temple precincts with incense burning. You’ve heard how many an adventurer has collected piles of money and come to this temple with a request…
“Please don’t get the wrong impression.” It seems the nun has noticed you’re new here. She nods to you in welcome, and there’s a smile like a flower on her lovely face. She waves the indulgence slip she’s holding, twisting her narrow hips. The movement makes clear that the line of her body is as straight as carved stone. “Anyone who doesn’t make the mistake of thinking they need make no offering when they request a miracle is warmly welcomed here.
“Although if you lack faith, there might not be a miracle anyway.”
Half-Elf Scout looks a bit stricken at this whispered addendum.
“Hmm?” the nun says, noticing his chagrin without ever letting her smile slip. “Something the matter?”
image “Huh? Nah, just, we’re new in town. Thought we might say hello, introduce ourselves in case we needed any help later…”
“I see! What a lovely idea!”
“So, uh, lookin’ forward to your help if we show up on the edge of death…” The scout looks increasingly uncomfortable in the face of the eager nun.
This was, after all, the front line of the war against the Death. It wasn’t only the pious faithful who showed up to pray. Many present were adventurers, castoffs from who knew where, seeking a miracle. If the temple simply granted all requests at no charge out of the goodness of their hearts, they would soon find themselves being ripped off and exploited in every which way.
The gods were merciful, but they were also just. Receiving a boon from their followers was permitted only after repentance.
I think I get it now: No one believes in the gods so fervently as someone hanging from a cliffside.
“Ah—ahem—th-this isn’t much, but…” Female Bishop reaches a slim arm between the two of you (she can’t have guessed what you’re thinking, can she?) and hands the nun a few small coins. The other woman takes them, counts them carefully, then wraps them in a cloth for holding donations.
We’ll definitely need to establish a common purse for the party.
“Thank you kindly,” the nun says, her manner softening—and then she sees Female Bishop’s face and blinks. “Say, aren’t you…?” You think perhaps she’s about to remark on the scars that even serving the gods can’t seem to remedy, but instead she says, “I see. Found yourself some companions, have you? Perhaps that, too, is the gods’ guidance.” And the nun traces a holy sigil in front of herself in lovely, flowing motions.
Now you see. She is a cleric after all.
While you’re having this somewhat inappropriate thought, your cousin butts in: “That’s rude.” You ignore her and look at Half-Elf Scout. Whatever he was hoping to “pick up”—is it here?
“Good point,” he says. “Say, Sister. Mind if we pick out an adventurer?”
“Feel free,” the nun replies with a smile. “Our lord is the master of meetings and partings as well, after all.” Then she bows her head with an elegant motion and bids them a good day before disappearing deeper into the temple.
You ask what’s going on. “I’ve only heard rumors,” Half-Elf Scout begins. But then he says, “There’s supposed to be this miracle Preservation.”
This temple, it seems, doesn’t simply abandon the wounded to die. Of course, there are many who are simply beyond help, no matter how many prayers are said over their shattered bodies, but for an appropriate donation, the people of this temple are more than happy to say a benediction. And just because a person at death’s door has no money doesn’t mean the priests are so heartless as to leave them to their fate. Those wounded who have breath, however faint, left in their bodies but who cannot afford an appropriate offering are put to sleep with a miracle until that day when their companions can bring the money they need.
“It don’t last forever is what I hear, but still. Not to mention, Preservation is like Resurrection—needs faith.” On this last word, Half-Elf Scout curls his fingers in a gesture that clearly means money and then gives a helpless shrug. “And let’s just say a lotta people go down in the dungeon in hopes of becoming a lot more faithful.”
Ah. Now you understand. If a party has been so thoroughly battered that it has reached this stage of desperation, then almost by definition, it lacks the strength to challenge the dungeon. Half-Elf Scout intends to find some such adventurer and try to get them to join your party, even temporarily.
“Sounds like a lot of ’em just get left behind… Or so they say,” he adds, staring down the hallway the nun disappeared into—but looking a bit unsettled. Some might come close to earning the money they need only to be destroyed again; others could find new party members or simply leave town altogether…
There were also adventurers now awaiting companions who would never return. How many such forgotten men and women slept here in this temple? Who knows? You yourself might be one someday.
“So my thinking is, we have one of ’em, any one of ’em, brought back. Consider the healing fee a debt.” Half-Elf Scout speaks lightly, as if to dispel your concerns. “After all, not like we can pay it out of pocket!”
“I would prefer to avoid such methods if possible…,” Female Bishop says, her face drawn. Maybe she’s thinking along the same lines as you are. You voice your agreement. In any event, it’s a last resort. Not a choice that will be open to you until you have some money.
Your discussion is interrupted by the approach of a heavy sound. Scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape. Whatever they are, there are five of them: hempen bags, soaked with some dark-red substance. Each one, tied with a rope, is just about big enough for a person to fit inside.
“What’s going on…?” your cousin says, cocking her head, perplexed. You mutter that those are body bags. And by the looks of it, the person dragging them along is an adventurer.
“Any priests around here? I’d like to request five burials.” It’s the very definition of an enchanting voice. There stands a gorgeous woman, all elegant curves and ample bosom, clad in black. In her hand is a spear, and the bloody bandages wrapped here and there around her body suggest she’s a warrior just back from the dungeon.
“Burials?” replies a priest in a businesslike tone. “Have you informed the next of kin?”
“Not sure it matters. I don’t think they know anyone else here—I sure don’t.” The warrior’s tone is matter-of-fact, her words mercifully ruthless.
“Then I’ll start the procedures for burial,” the priest says with a bow, and the woman puts down the pack she’s carrying. It’s better than a body bag but still heavy, and as it hits the stone floor of the temple, it jangles loudly.
Equipment. You understand intuitively. It’s the gear that belonged to the dead adventurers. It’s perfectly clear now that this woman is an adventurer whose party was completely wiped out, aside from her. She brushes her cheek with an exhausted motion, letting out a sigh as she brushes her hair lazily back over her shoulders.
“Oh…,” Female Bishop murmurs quietly. She’s been listening very closely, and now her sightless eyes settle on the female warrior.
Remembering what happened earlier, you stay vigilant, hand on the hilt of your sword, as you say, ‘You know her?’
“Yes,” Female Bishop answers with a nod. “Ahem, she’s an adventurer…” Female Bishop stops there, looking deeply discouraged to realize she doesn’t need to explain this. Maybe she isn’t very used to conversation. You shake your head and tell her not to worry, encourage her to continue. “She’s been kind enough to speak to me before, at the tavern,” Female Bishop explains. “At least, I think that’s her.” Considering the state of her vision, it must be hard to tell. You’re nodding your acknowledgment when:
“Good heavens, I can at least introduce my own self.”
The voice comes from beside you, unexpectedly, and you take a quick step back.
She got the drop on you.
The woman smiles at you from just steps away. You can smell a sweet fragrance on her hair mixed with the scents of blood and dust.
She takes a sliding step forward, into striking distance of you. She’s about your own age, and though you thought you were watching her, you never saw her start to move.
Is this what it means to be a veteran of the dungeon?
You mentally chide yourself for your lapse—maybe she notices, maybe she doesn’t, but either way, she brings her hands together in front of her large chest. “Hee-hee—finally found yourself some friends, eh? That’s good. I was starting to worry about you.”
“Er, oh, yes,” replies Female Bishop with a fretful nod. “Only just now…”
“Well, nice to meet you, O brave leader,” Female Warrior says, casting her eyes slowly in your direction. Then she utters a number you don’t quite follow. “I’m a freelance fighter. Fresh back on the market…” She flashes you a sweetheart smile; you nod hesitantly and introduce yourself in return. When you tell her you just came to the fortress city and are looking for companions, she says, “That so?” The look in her eye is practiced; you would hardly imagine she had just requested burial for five of her party members. But what was that number she gave you…?
“Oh, that’s my identification number. Might as well be my name. I became an adventurer instead of paying taxes, so—you see? No big deal.” You notice your cousin shifting uncomfortably behind you. You don’t particularly agree with the warrior’s choice, but since she herself doesn’t seem to mind it, you have no reason to argue.
Your cousin, it would seem, feels differently. “Um… Are you okay?” She sounds uneasy but nonetheless addresses Female Warrior directly.
“Oh, perfectly,” the fighter responds with a disinterested wave of her hand. “I only just met them in the tavern yesterday anyway. It’s tougher the first time.”
That little addition causes your cousin to choke out, “The dungeon… You went down there, didn’t you?” She gulps audibly.
“Well, I only made it as far as the first room before I came running home.” Female Warrior—you hesitate to think of her by the number she gave you—looks at you again. A pointed, almost flirtatious glance that would certainly invite a misunderstanding from many a man she turned it on… “I’d be very happy if you’d invite me along. I may not look like much, but I’m better than your big sister there.”
Considering the offer, you never take your hand off your weapon nor your eyes off the other warrior as you ask everyone, “What do you think?”
“Another beautiful woman? No complaints from me,” Half-Elf Scout pipes up.
“Ha-ha!” Female Warrior laughs, then whispers, “I’m flattered.” Is it just your imagination, or do you hear a hint of a threat underneath the remark?
“Me, I guess…I’m perfectly happy to have more women in the group,” your cousin says. “And if she’s already been in the dungeon, so much the better.”
Female Bishop doesn’t say anything—perhaps she doesn’t think you were asking her. She’s been listening silently, but at your urging, she says quickly, “Oh, yes.” Nothing more than that, and you decide to take it as agreement.
So that’s everyone. And yet…
“Heh-heh. What? Something the matter?” Female Warrior asks before you can open your mouth.
She’s sharp.
She may be even more perceptive than you, despite all the training you’ve done learning to read people and situations. After intense consideration, you tell her that you wish to see what she can do in a single move. You have no objection to inviting her along, you say, but you want to know what she’s capable of. This party is your responsibility, however temporary it may be. Insofar as ability corresponds directly to life and death, it behooves you to know how strong your party members are… No, you say finally, that’s all an excuse. You have no choice but to admit that you were secretly excited just now. You’re picturing those adventurers from before, old hands of the dungeon: You came this close to testing yourself against them but didn’t get the chance. You won’t hide your desire to know whether your skills can match hers.
“Hmm. Well, when you put it that way…”
You almost feel the look in her eyes change…
The quiet thump as she leaps in and the hush of your sword sliding out of its scabbard come almost simultaneously. You duck forward, rising up as you draw and strike from below. There’s a rush of air, and the tip of your blade meets the haft of her spear with a clang. At that moment, the tip of her spear is already over your head—even though it was at throat height an instant ago. Though the tip of the spear is currently covered, a good chop with it would at least have knocked you out. You flick the spear away with the back of your blade, holding the grip with just one hand, then return your other hand to the hilt just in time to prepare to bring it down. By then, Female Warrior has adjusted her own grip on her weapon and is preparing to stab again…
“Ha!” Her laugh is as much exhalation as mirth, and you see the aggression in her eyes soften. “I’m only sorry we agreed on just one move. I would’ve liked to see how that played out.” She spins the spear around before tapping the butt against the floor, and you nod slowly at her. The first move was evenly matched, if only just. The second? You’re not sure how it would have gone.
“What do you think you’re doing, whipping your sword at a woman you just met?! Your big sister is very angry!” Your big sister, sure—that would be your cousin. You make a face like you just swallowed something bitter. You know you’ve done your share of training. Nor did you discount her simply because she took the offer on the spot. But it turns out that even a little experience in the dungeon—if you come back alive—makes a world of difference.
“U-um, what…? What exactly are you two doing…?” Female Bishop asks uneasily, not having understood what was going on.
“Never you mind,” Half-Elf Scout says. “They’re not fighting. Or maybe they are, but you know what they say: The more you fight, the closer you get.”
‘Probably,’ you respond, turning back to the others and bowing your head. What just happened was entirely a personal indulgence, all due to your own inexperience.
“Ugh, I can’t believe you!” your cousin cries, but you think this is good. In fact…
“Not to put too fine a point on it,” comes a chilly voice from behind you, “but those who are faithless enough to engage in violence right in the temple might very well deserve to be turned to ash, don’t you think?” You turn around to see the nun from before, her face studiously expressionless.
You can’t find anything to say, but from beside you, Female Warrior pipes up—“Yes’m”—with a pleasant smile.
“You understand I’m not joking, yes?”
“Of course, miss, certainly. Very sorry.”
“For goodness’ sake.” The nun heaves a sigh at Female Warrior, who shows no sign of feeling particularly guilty. “Be that as it may… This is a place of meetings and partings. May a favorable wind blow before you. May it blow all the way to the deepest depths of the dungeon.” The nun traces the holy sigil again.
You understand now that this town really does need this temple.
In any event, you know how you feel about Female Warrior: Now you wonder if you met her standards…
“Let’s see…,” she says to this, putting a hand to her cheek thoughtfully. “I’ve got no complaints—take it you don’t, either?” And then she flashes you a sharklike smile.
There’s a screech of metal, and a steel ball the size of your fist goes flying into the night sky. An elf picks up the Wizball, which carries a death curse, with his bare hands.
The crowd gathered in the arena on the edges of the fortress city raises a hearty cheer. You aren’t very familiar with the rules of this game, but you gather that this move scored some points. The elves in the audience stamp their feet as the white numbers change on a blackboard high above.
The stadium is utter cacophony. People shout, cheer, and taunt. Vendors work their way along the narrow aisles, likewise shouting, “Wine, bread, cat meat.”
Even you almost feel overwhelmed—you can’t imagine how Female Bishop must be feeling at this moment. She’s pale, pressing a hand to her forehead, but when you ask if she’s all right, she nods bravely. “I—I was just a little taken aback… I’m fine.”
“Yeah, it’s like some kind of festival!” your second cousin says, staring openly at the crowd.
You ask Half-Elf Scout what exactly is going on. “I guess when you spend all day risking your life, you like to relax by watching other people risk theirs,” he says. It sounds so simple. You nod.
You do understand that it’s easier to be amused by events that don’t directly concern you. In the stadium below, a party led by a ranger is pitching the steel ball to a party led by a warlock. Even your cousin cringes as you hear flesh squish and see blood fly, but meanwhile…
“Hmm. Pretty sure he’s usually around here,” says Female Warrior. She’s the one who brought you to this stadium.
Adventuring parties that dare to challenge the dungeon usually consist of six people at most. That’s partly because of the restrictive width of the dungeon’s corridors, but it also allows one to keep track of all members in a party and make sure nobody falls behind. If nothing else, the nation itself has already demonstrated that simply sending soldiers en masse is nothing more than a recipe for feeding the Death. Six people is also, it might be said, roughly the largest group in which everyone can all look after their own equipment and resources. It would be no laughing matter if someone was eaten by a monster while trying to balance the account books.
And so—six people.
From that perspective, you could do with finding one more party member. A warrior or a spell caster? Beggars can’t be choosers, but someone who knows a bit of magic would be nice.
“I’m sure you can sling a spell or two, can’t you?” Female Warrior says in response to this remark, smiling again. You’re just leaving the temple. Maybe she figured it out when the two of you were squaring off. You nod the affirmative, and she nods back, satisfied. “And that girl there, she must know some magic.”
This time she turns to the person walking at the very back of your line, Female Bishop.
“I do, too!” your second cousin interjects; you ignore her and question Female Bishop instead.
“Only minor spells, but yes. I know some of the ways of magic use.”
That being the case, then out of the five of you, you have three spell casters: yourself, your cousin, and Female Bishop. You wonder if Half-Elf Scout might not have something up his sleeve as well. You glance at him, but he waves his hand dismissively. “Not me,” he says.
What about this final person, then?
“How about a monk?” Female Warrior asks. “I know someone I could introduce you to…”
Female Warrior’s introduction is exactly what you need.
Then again, you think as she leads you to the arena, maybe it’s a clever bit of work on her part. Bring her friend into the party to help secure her own position. You’re a bit taken aback by how naturally she managed it.
“Are there really monks in a place like this?” your cousin asks.
“Heh-heh— Sure there are. Don’t know how serious they are about their spirituality, though,” Female Warrior says, spotting the person she’s looking for among the crowd. She tells you to wait for a moment, then slips away through the mass of people.
A moment later, she returns, trailed by a lithe figure who literally stands head and shoulders above the crowd. His face looks like that of an insect—this is the first time you’ve seen one of these strange beings up close, but you know he’s a Myrmidon. A Myrmidon monk.
“Huh, so you’re the ones looking for a monk?” the Myrmidon says almost disinterestedly, his mandibles clacking together. His antennae bob as he takes you in before producing a dramatic sigh. “Women and children and one identifier. Are you really adventurers?”
Female Bishop doesn’t so much as flinch at these cold words. Perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised, considering what she endured as recently as a few hours earlier, but your cousin looks at him scathingly. “Master Monk. I hardly think that’s any way to talk to two women you’ve just met. True, we’re inexperienced, but still…”
“I’m only saying what everyone around you sees when they look at you. You need to be aware of it.”
Hmm…
You raise an eyebrow at Myrmidon Monk’s words. Maybe he’s not as bad a guy as he first sounded… Maybe. In any event, he hasn’t said anything about Female Bishop’s eyes.
You glance at Half-Elf Scout and finally see the edges of his lips turn up in a smile. “Eh, no need to act tough, I guess. We’re a team, and they stole the words right out of my mouth.”
Female Bishop takes her cue from this, saying “That’s right” in a voice as quiet as a buzzing mosquito. “I admit I don’t yet know…just how much I can do… But even so…”
Myrmidon Monk looks at the young woman, who attempts to face him despite her obvious fear, and clacks his mandibles uncomfortably. “…And what are you after?”
‘After?’ you parrot. He’s changed the subject right out from under you.
“Money? Or perhaps…the wellspring of the Death that’s said to lie in the deepest depths of the dungeon? I don’t care either way, personally…”
You look around at the others.
‘May I say what I think?’
“Fine by me,” your cousin replies immediately, smiling. “Sis has got your back!”
Darn second cousin. You sigh. This is something about your cousin that you have unalloyed respect for. Half-Elf Scout grins, but beside him, Female Bishop doesn’t seem quite sure what to focus on. “Um, you’re speaking of challenging the labyrinth, yes?” she says.
“Y’know, you’re right—we never talked about that,” Female Warrior says with a grin of her own. “By the way, I’m after the money.” But she probably knew that already.
You take a breath in, then let it out.
‘There’s only one reason to go down there,’ you announce. You don’t want to pretend that the whirlpool of money emerging from the dungeon holds no interest for you, but you have only one ultimate goal in delving the depths: to reach the lowest level and strike down the source of the Death.
“Do you mean that?” Female Bishop asks, blinking her unseeing eyes. “Is that really what you intend to do…?!” There are shades of joy in her voice—or so you think, but perhaps you’re only imagining it.
You reply that of course you mean it. You don’t know whether you’ll reach your goal, but you intend to try.
“Heh-heh! That was my plan all along, even if the cap didn’t want to go all the way down there. Who’s worried about a little dungeon anyway?”
“Maybe the guy whose voice is shaking?” Female Warrior teases, her laughter pealing like a ringing bell.
“Hey, what’s scary is scary!” Half-Elf Scout shoots back, his face stiff, but he’s chuckling a little himself.
“I see— You are serious,” Myrmidon Monk says with a long nod. “All right, I’m in.”
‘You don’t care that we’re new to this?’
“I did, but I changed my mind. I’m starting to wonder just who it is hiding down there at the bottom of that maze.” Myrmidon Monk’s mandibles clack together in a confidence-inspiring way.
That settles it, then. Your cousin, Half-Elf Scout, and you. Female Bishop, a former item identifier, a female warrior with no other harbor, and Myrmidon Monk. The six of you together are going to challenge the Dungeon of the Dead. In other words—this is the beginning of your adventure.
The Dungeon of the Dead sits on the edge of the fortress city, a great maw waiting for adventurers to enter. Those jaws have swallowed many brave souls who have come before you, and now they now wait like a looming monster.
The sun is past its zenith when you arrive, though it is still bright out. As soon as the light reaches the entrance of the dungeon, though, it seems to fail instantaneously, leaving only a stretch of darkness. The dungeon will show no secrets to those without the courage to take even a single step inside.
“So this is it… The Dungeon of the Dead…” Female Bishop’s voice is a trembling whisper. She’s more terrified than awed, but there’s someone else whose voice is shaking even worse than hers.
“S-stop that. Actin’ all scared, I mean. You’re gonna start freaking me out, too…” It’s Half-Elf Scout. He plays with the dagger at his belt, his fingers twitching.
You sigh in exasperation, and Female Warrior chuckles “Heh-heh” at almost the same time. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s our job to look after the people behind us.” You concur. If the enemies’ blades—do they have blades? You don’t know—reach your back row, you will already be lost.
The group hasn’t talked too much about what you’ll do down in the dungeon. Most of you only just met over the last few days, after all. Overly clever attempts at coordination aren’t likely to get you much. At the very least, though, you decide to divide yourselves into front and back rows and try not to get in one another’s way.
“But when we come back, everyone eats together!” your cousin reminds you with a grin that belies the gravity of the situation. Does she act that way on purpose? You’re not sure. In any event, you need her. You nod, managing to only gently press your hand to your forehead. You’ll let her choose what spells to use and when.
“Oh? I get to decide?”
You hate to admit it, but your cousin is the most experienced member of your party when it comes to magic. You’ll be busy with your sword up front, so you think it might be best to let her handle matters in the rear. When you ask Myrmidon Monk if he’s all right with this, he clacks out, “I don’t care either way. I can come up front as well. Which means, by process of elimination, you’ll be handling the treasure chests, thief.”
“Y-yeah, sure,” Half-Elf Scout says. “But, uh, I’m a scout…”
“I don’t really care what you are. What matters to me is that you don’t run away even if it kills you. If you try to flee, I swear I’ll hex you to death. I’ll work for just about anything, but I won’t work for free.”
“Wh-whatever you say, man! Just remember I’m gonna put an end to this dungeon one of these days—don’t underestimate me!”
You notice Female Bishop chuckling to herself at this exchange. You’re all nervous. Yes, even you—but you think that’s okay. Having decided so, you start toward the dungeon entrance.
The fortress city is built to enclose the mouth of the dungeon. It exists to prevent what is inside from getting out into the wider world, and an armed soldier is posted at the entrance. You bow politely to her—judging by the crest on her ample chest, she’s a member of the royal guard—and reach for your porcelain rank tag.
“Oh, don’t bother. We don’t worry about ranks around here anymore,” she says, waving her hand nonchalantly. She sounds downright cheerful. You keep one eye on her, but despite her relaxed tone, you don’t see so much as an instant’s lapse in her vigilance, and you realize just how much more powerful a member of the royal guard is than you. “The only things that count here are how far you’ve gotten in the dungeon, if you came back alive, and whether you keep coming back for more!”
“…Is it really that brutal?” Female Bishop asks in a voice strained with anxiety.
“Whatever you’ve heard, it’s worse!” the guard replies. “Half the people who go in come running right back out—or die on their first visit.”
‘And the other half?’
“Eventually die exploring, I guess.” The guard lets out a guffaw, then tosses five sacks at you. You ask her what they’re for, to which she answers, “Body bags,” her smile never faltering. “Five’s plenty. A sixth wouldn’t do you any good.”
“No one to collect your corpses if you all die,” you hear Female Warrior murmur from behind you, not sounding especially amused. It’s just banter to this guard—you don’t think she’s trying to intimidate you. You frown. Anyway, if this is enough to scare you off, then you have no business in that dungeon. You aren’t sure whether the gesture is on behalf of the nation or a bit of kindness from the guard herself…
“If you’re scared, how about you go home? You must have families—well, not must, I guess.”
The corners of your lips twist upward. You turn to your companions and ask, ‘Onward?’ Your question is met with nods.
“It’s all the same to me,” Myrmidon Monk says. “If you won’t go down there, I’ll just find someone who will.”
You shake your head and tell him there won’t be any need for that, then indicate to the guard that there are no problems.
“Okay,” she says, smiling at you. “You look like you gel together. That’s not enough to keep you alive, but…
“Better than a party that doesn’t get along.”
You react to her whisper with an ambiguous expression. Do you, indeed, “gel”? You aren’t sure. The only thing that will prove the matter one way or the other is when you come back alive from your dungeon crawl. You look around at the others one more time, then slowly take a step into the darkness of the dungeon. From behind you, the guard calls out, “Welcome to the proving ground!”
In front of you is the ladder you just climbed down, set into the rock face. As party leader, you have the job of making sure everyone gets back here in one piece. But then you notice something… You blink. The dungeon’s shadows, uncommonly thick, veiling the world around you and making it hard even to breathe. You squint, but your eyes show no sign of adapting to the darkness; you can detect only a faint light. All you can see is a “wire frame,” the barest outline of whatever looms around you in the dark.
“All right, just like we planned it,” says Myrmidon Monk. “The warriors and me up front, the rest of you in back.”
“Aye aye!”
Still, having someone with experience does make things go smoother. As Myrmidon Monk instructs, Half-Elf Scout moves to the back row. You’re glad it won’t be just the two ladies there. You’ve heard it was the supernatural character of the space in this labyrinth that was the greatest obstacle to the soldiers who ventured here in serried ranks. That also accounts for why adventuring parties hardly, if ever, encounter one another in the depths.
image The hallway is just wide enough for three to walk abreast, yet at the same time, it seems big enough for a dragon. Trying to keep track of ten people down here, or ten times that number, would be— No. You must think about your party’s six people, including yourself. Your responsibility is great and lies heavily upon you.
“Hee-hee. We’re counting on you, O leader.” A soft hand adds itself to the weight on your shoulder, and a warm breath tickles your ear. You turn to see Female Warrior smiling at you. You respond with an affirmative grunt that comes out sounding stiff. But, well, you must admit she did help ease your anxiety a little bit.
Calmer now, you double-check your sword, making sure that it sits securely in its scabbard. It’s a perfectly common item, not the work of some renowned master, but on this expedition, you’re going to entrust your life to it. And not yours alone but those of your entire party: You would not want something to go wrong with it.
“Well, let’s get going, then. Any direction will work. Let’s see—how about…this way?” your cousin says.
“Oh, uh, um, wait a second…!” Female Bishop responds.
Blast your second cousin. You look at the ceiling, thanking your lucky stars for Female Bishop, who has stopped her. You really think that cousin of yours could do with just a little more anxiety. How nice it is to have trustworthy comrades.
“W-we’d better keep a map, or we’ll get lost,” Female Bishop says, sensitive to the fact that the rest of the party’s eyes are suddenly on her. “Ahem, a-and in addition…” She blushes and looks at the ground, trailing off before she manages to pick up again. “The first crawl should only go as far as the first chamber…isn’t that right?”
You reply that that’s your plan. You glance at Female Warrior and Myrmidon Monk to make sure they agree.
“Get in, fight, find a treasure chest, get out. Simple,” Female Warrior responds with a snicker, but you don’t find this a laughing matter. You saw with your own eyes what happened to her last party. But even ignoring that, it’s obvious that surviving is no easy thing in this dungeon. You can hardly see what’s in front of your face, and even the faint outlines continue only a short distance ahead. The trackless darkness of this labyrinth seems to swallow all light. You have no idea when a monster might appear or from where. You feel like you have your hands full just keeping track of your five companions. No wonder the army never returned from these depths.
You suddenly realize how tense your hand has become; you clench and unclench your fist to relax it. You think you finally see a frown on your cousin’s face—assuming it isn’t just the darkness playing tricks on you. The scolding you were about to give her dies on your lips, and you simply admonish her to be careful. Get in, get out. The debrief can be left for when it’s over—and if you’re all still alive. Now isn’t the time.
“I have a little something here from a previous expedition,” Myrmidon Monk says, digging noisily in his bag and coming up with a scroll of sheepskin paper. He unrolls it to reveal a map of the dungeon, if only the very smallest corner of it. Someone with a knowledge of scale has produced the map in a fine, carefully controlled hand.
“Hoo-wee,” whistles Half-Elf Scout from beside you, clearly relieved. “Now, that’s what I call bein’ prepared, brother. Looks like you got this from the army or someplace. I’ve seen professional work that wasn’t half as good as this.”
Myrmidon Monk falls quiet for a moment; then his mandibles click as he says softly, “…It was me.”
“You? You what?”
“I drew it.”
“Heck…”
Well, you think, we’ve all just met. There’s a lot you don’t know about one another.
Female Bishop, meanwhile, reaches out hesitantly. You look at her in puzzlement, but your cousin quickly grasps what she wants and passes her the map. “Here you go!”
“Th-thank you very much,” Female Bishop says, exhaling audibly and running her fingers over the map almost in a caress.
“Can you read it?” Myrmidon Monk asks, and Female Bishop replies that she can, continuing to feel the sheepskin under her fingers.
“I’m not quite completely blind to begin with… Anyway, I can feel the difference between the ink and the paper.”
“I see,” Myrmidon Monk replies. “In darkness like this, I guess it doesn’t matter how good your vision is anyway.”
That causes you to smile and nod, and after a moment’s thought, you suggest that Female Bishop be entrusted with taking care of the map.
“What…?” she says, looking at you in surprise. “Me?”
There would obviously be some hurdles for anyone on the front line trying to map the dungeon and take care of business at the same time. In the rear, you want your scout to be paying attention, and as for your cousin…well. She’s your cousin.
“…I get the feeling my little brother insulted me just now!” your second cousin says hotly, though you tried to make it sound like you were joking. In any case, you don’t think she really means it. She’s just trying to break the tension that’s making her so stiff. Even if she didn’t mean it, the effect is to relax everyone, not actually to chide you.
“Consider it a kind turn from the captain—he wants you to focus on your magic!” Half-Elf Scout says—it’s almost as if he can read your mind already. You nod for effect.
Female Bishop, listening to this back-and-forth, finally clenches her fist. “U-um, I-I’ll give it everything I can.”
You acknowledge her dedication. You doubt someone with such an evident sense of responsibility as she has would make any careless mistakes—especially not while inside this dungeon. As Myrmidon Monk said moments ago, the best way not to get lost seems to be not to rely on your eyes. And more than anything…
“Er, I’ll borrow the map, then.”
“Mm. Ah, do you have a pencil? Or charcoal—that’s fine, too.”
“Oh, good point. I’m sorry… Might I borrow some?” Female Bishop says. She seems almost excited as she opens up the map and prepares to draw. It looks like this is having a positive effect on her, helping to reverse the gloom of her former mistakes and her time as an identifier.
“Just a thought—for if we survive,” Female Warrior whispers to you with a glance. “But I like a man who knows how to be considerate.”
You pass off the tease with a smile, then peer once more into the darkness of the dungeon. You won’t get anywhere just standing here at the entrance. You feel you’ve already spent too much time talking. Preparation is crucial—but could it be that fear of the labyrinth will seize you before you realize it?
You shake your head slowly, then take a deliberate step forward.
‘Let’s go.’
Everyone follows you silently.
You suck in a breath. Or is it you being sucked in with every step you take? You don’t think you’ve gone very far, yet if you were to turn around, you know for a fact the light from the surface would no longer be visible. There would be only the hazy outlines of the hallway extending away from you, until even that is covered completely by the darkness.
The path in front of you is no different. You could almost feel as if you were all alone here in the gloom. Is it the dank murk pervading the dungeon that makes you feel this way or perhaps the assumption that monsters await you ahead? Maybe both.
If nothing else, you grasp now why parties so rarely run into one another down here. In the dungeon, people are alone. The only things you can rely on are your own strength and your companions, your party members. You’re in the realm of the Non-Prayers now. You have a distinct feeling that even if you set off running back the way you came right now, there would still be no guarantee you would reach the surface alive. You see why a journey into the dungeon—even just one—produces such a distinction among adventurers: those who have done it and those who haven’t.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” Female Warrior says from right next to your ear, letting out that ringing laugh. You shake your head no. You ask the others if they’re all right and receive yeses and uh-huhs with varying degrees of tension in their voices.
No answer from Female Bishop.
Hmm? You look in her direction to find she’s concentrating on the sheepskin map, her pencil working furiously. She has the previous work for reference, and you’ve been traveling in a straight line—it would be difficult to make a mistake. You reiterate the question about whether she’s all right, and your cousin adds, “Hey,” finally eliciting a high-pitched “Oh, y-yes” from Female Bishop. “S-sorry, I was so engrossed…”
You shake your head again. ‘It’s fine.’ Certainly better than freezing up with fear.
Quite suddenly, your cousin says: “In the chamber, I wonder… I wonder what kind of monsters we’ll find.”
“Could be anything,” Myrmidon Monk responds. “On the first floor, small humanoids are common. And some who resemble adventurers themselves. Other than that…well, money, I suppose.”
“Money?”
“Don’t ask me why. But some of the guys who hole up in those chambers instead of wandering the hallways have treasure chests with them.”
Hack and slash: It’s the classic adventurer job. So you find your interest piqued more than anything by the mention of “some who resemble adventurers themselves.” It was supposed to be monsters down here. Do adventurers ever attack other adventurers?
“I don’t exactly know,” Female Warrior says. “But…there’s thieves. Or like…dead people who’ve lost their souls, I think?” Her voice is harsher now, with no trace of the lightheartedness you heard when she was teasing you. You simply ask if they’re powerful. “These creatures that are like adventurers… Maybe they really are adventurers. But they’re pretty—well…” She trails off but nods at you nonetheless. You can just hear her whisper: “If any of them show up, we have to run.” Otherwise those five body bags threaten to come in handy.
You let out a long breath. No point being nervous before a fight actually starts—but the time to worry about that is over.
Before you stands the door of a chamber, shut fast.
“L-looks like this is it,” Half-Elf Scout says, swinging his arms to loosen up his stiff body. “Gotta say, if I were the Dungeon Master, I wouldn’t put any loot right on the first floor, but…”
“Whoever’s in there and whatever we get from them, we need to take them out in one shot. We don’t have the cash to show up at the temple.” Myrmidon Monk confirms your tactics in a casual, almost mechanical tone. You nod at him. It’s just like you discussed on the way here. “Then there are just three things to do: bust in there, kill them, and get home.”
“So you’re saying we go in with spells blazing!” your cousin says excitedly.
To which Myrmidon Monk eventually mutters, “…In a word, yes.”
You have no objection to this. There may come a time when you must avoid consuming your spells, even if it makes things more difficult for you in the short term, but that time is not now. The only things you should be thinking about at this moment are fighting, surviving, and getting home. Fight and win—that’s the first challenge.
“Heh-heh-heh. I’m ready anytime. Are you?” Female Warrior says, hefting her spear. Female Bishop quickly rolls up the map, grips the sword and scales in hand, and nods. You likewise draw your sword, checking all the rivets, rubbing a bit of spit onto the scabbard to lubricate it.
You indicate to the others that now is the moment, then raise your foot—and kick in the door.
“?!”
When you and your party burst into the chamber, the monsters crouching in the shadows look up in surprise. Five of them!
“All right! Small humanoids, none of the adventurer-like ones!” Myrmidon Monk calls. In the gloom, you can’t quite see what you’re actually facing. And although the enemies aren’t especially strong, there are five of them. They already outnumber your front row. In light of their number, you promptly instruct your cousin to use a spell.
“Y-yeah, sure, coming right up…!” she replies, her voice tight. “The three of us will coordinate!”
But there’s no answer from Female Bishop. She’s gone stiff, and her breath seems caught in her throat. You give a small shake of your head, using your free hand, the one not holding your sword, to form the sigil for Sleep. When your cousin sees you, she waves her staff, loudly chanting words of true power. “Sagitta…quelta…raedius! Strike home, arrow!”
Instantaneously, white mist gathers around the battlefield only to be pierced by arrows of light that fly forth at the girl’s command. Magic Missile is a very basic spell; even you know it. Although it’s not especially powerful, it always finds its target, and in this situation, that’s a comforting thought.
“GROORBB?!”
“GORB?! GBBOROB?!”
The monsters, first disoriented by the fog and then struck by a rain of arrows, cry out, but…
“I hit them! So why—?” Your cousin sounds disbelieving. There are still five opponents standing. Her Magic Missile isn’t enough to make up the difference in strength. But you don’t care. You grip the hilt of your sword with both hands and raise it high, calling out to the other two in the front row.
“We’re good; it’s not as if they’re invincible… Let’s go!” Myrmidon Monk says.
“Aha, now this is what gets my blood pumping!” Female Warrior crows.
You shout back at them, then plunge into the middle of the enemy formation, your sword working furiously.
“GOORB!”
“GBBGORO!!”
You aim at the figure standing at the head of the enemy group. You bring your sword down in a tremendous chop before the creature fully processes what’s going on.
“GOOBOGR?!”
Powered by the momentum of your advance, the blow cleaves the monster from shoulder to abdomen, shattering its collarbone and spilling its entrails on the ground. The monster’s small size makes this a bit of overkill, but at least it did the job. You follow through, pulling your blade out and flicking off the blood before sliding forward, finding your footing. You look for the next enemy. Four remain…
“GOBB!”
“Ahhh! Ow, that hurts!”
“GOOBOBRRRB?!”
“Nasty little—”
Make that two.
Your party members are already engaged. Female Warrior deflects an enemy’s dagger against her leather armor, then forces the creature back by thrusting with the butt of her spear. The enemy is small. As with the problem you had modulating your force a moment ago, Female Warrior is struggling to keep the appropriate fighting distance. Myrmidon Monk, meanwhile, is wielding an ax-like shortsword in a reverse grip, parrying enemy attacks with precise movements. These opponents would not be remotely fearsome in a one-on-one contest, but their numbers have the power to turn the tide.
“GGGOBOO!!”
“GOORBG?!”
It’s up to you to hold off the remaining foes while your companions deal with their current engagements.
“Want me to take one of ’em off your hands, Cap?” Half-Elf Scout calls out, but you shake your head and face the two creatures in front of you.
“GGGBOOROGB!”
“GOORBG!”
One of them slowly approaches you with a crude club in hand, paying no special attention to distancing. The monster doesn’t seem to be thinking about its comrade at all, except possibly as a tool for ensuring its own survival. Ugly and selfish—you’ve heard stories about these creatures. There’s no question now what you’re dealing with.
Goblins!
“Hee…heek…!” Female Bishop suppresses a shriek behind you. In the instant you’re distracted, the goblins rush at you. One from each side simultaneously. You deflect the club from the right with your katana and simply accept the blow from your left with your armor. You can hear the sound of the gnarled tree branch the monster is holding as it slaps against your side.
“!” You hear your cousin shout, but you ignore her. It’s all right. There’s a dull pain, but it isn’t critical. It’s getting hard to catch your breath. Your legs feel like they might collapse at any moment, but you order them to stay firm. If you so much as slip, you might as well tumble right into one of those body bags. Or your back row may become exposed, or you leave the others on the front vulnerable to attack. You strengthen your grip, intending to cut your way through the goblins facing you, but something doesn’t feel right.
“GOORGB!!”
The blade of your sword is half-buried in the goblin’s club!
You put too much force into the exchange. The goblin with the club cackles, and out of the corner of your eye, you can see the one on your left raise its weapon. You strengthen your grip on your sword like a mortal game of tug-of-war, then force your arms down as if chopping wood.
“GOROO?!”
The two halves of the club tumble through the air. You have one clear advantage: sheer physical strength. And your sword is more than a match for some goblin’s stick. Your ready your blade as the goblin on the right stumbles as if pushed. Without missing a beat, you take a high stance, then step to the left after wrapping both hands around your sword.
“GBBBOBOG?! GOROGB?!”
It seems that the goblin hoping to follow up by crushing your skull never imagined it might become your target. With its branch still raised, it’s split clean down the middle, then collapses faceup. A spray of revolting blood drenches you. Now covered in gore, you position your sword in a low stance, then advance, meaning to slice the final goblin from below…
“Aha! This one’s—mine!”
“GBBBOORG?!”
There’s a thump, and the goblin suddenly has a spear growing out of its chest. It collapses to the floor, still twitching, and Female Warrior strides over and extracts her weapon. Sopping with blood, she licks a bit of the stuff off her cheek. “That makes two… Right?” When she smiles, her lips are as red as if she’d put on lip rouge. You heave a sigh and nod.
You ask Myrmidon Monk how it’s going for him, and he responds, “I’m done over here. Well, they were just goblins. Of course we managed.”
The ax-like weapon must be sharper than it looks. Myrmidon Monk has sliced one of the monsters’ heads clean off. You glance behind you, and Half-Elf Scout waves a hand without a word. Your cousin is pale, but— Hold on. Your gaze settles on Female Bishop, trembling uncontrollably. You ask if she’s all right, and she says, “H— Y-yes… I’m…f-f-fine… Safe…” But she doesn’t seem completely there.
Now you look at your cousin, who shakes her head vigorously; you nod to say you’ll entrust this to her.
Let’s take her at her word.
You let out a slow breath. You lean on your katana like a walking stick as fatigue suddenly washes over you. Now that it’s finished, you realize how brief the confrontation was… But maybe it’s safe to say you passed the first trial. Notwithstanding the fact that one or two of you have a bit of experience, you’re effectively a party of six novices. Together, you confronted five monsters who made their home here on the uppermost level of the dungeon. Perhaps your two groups could be considered roughly equal in strength.
The battle you just fought would get nothing but a chuckle from more established adventurers, but for you it was a matter of life and death. For a moment, none of you say anything as you contemplate the outcome. In the chamber, rank with the smell of mold and now with blood and death, there is only the sound of the six of you steadying your breathing.
There were more enemies than you expected, and one wrong move would have meant a baptism with the Death. Little if anything separates you from the goblins lying dead at your feet. You and the others are so exhausted, you practically forget to tend to your own wounds.
“All riiiight! We did it!”
Half-Elf Scout lets out a victory whoop seemingly meant to clear the heavy air. You feel the tension snap like a thread, and everyone looks at one another. You let out a breath, wipe the blood from your katana with a piece of rice paper, and return it to its scabbard.
As many blows as you struck, the sword remained strong. You owe your life to this weapon now.
“Yo, Captain, great work there! Come on, everyone—let’s have a drink and catch our breath.”
You take the proffered canteen and then take a draft. The lukewarm water feels piercingly cold to you, refreshing.
“I-I’m sorry. I just…”
Half-Elf Scout passes off Female Bishop’s tiny-voiced apology by pulling the canteen from her bag. “Don’t mention it—just drink. I ain’t one to talk either way; I hardly moved myself!”
She accepts the canteen, her hands shaking visibly, the water spilling as she pours it down her throat. As if to follow her lead, everyone else takes out their water and wets their throats. You nod at Half-Elf Scout discreetly so that Female Bishop doesn’t see you.
‘It’s not common for scouts or thieves in the back row to participate in combat.’
He therefore exerted the least energy of all of you, and it’s your good fortune that he’s able to use that store of stamina to be thoughtful like this.
“Like I said, don’t mention it. Nothing special.” Half-Elf Scout waves away your remark, the joints of his fingers cracking. It’s true: His battle is only about to begin. Almost magically, a blood-streaked treasure chest appears, sitting there as if unconcerned. Had the goblins squirreled it away, or had it always been in this room?
“You think we’re the first people to come in here…?” asks your cousin, who has appeared at your side, still pale with the last vestiges of fear and tension. You shake your head: You don’t know, either. This room is right near the dungeon entrance. You doubt you’re the first party to come by.
“I don’t know how it works, either. They say the chests just appear.” Myrmidon Monk crouches down, almost audibly, in the corner of the room. “Maybe it’s just the way the dungeon is, or maybe the master set it up this way. Frankly, I don’t care which. In the end, it means an endless supply of money and treasure for us.”
Ah. You nod your understanding, but somehow you feel a chill; you close your eyes.
“Hey, if you’re tired, let me hit you with a miracle. Don’t want to screw this up just because you didn’t get enough rest.”
“Aw, I think I’ll manage… Emphasis on ‘think,’” Half-Elf Scout says.
“Hee-hee.” Female Warrior snickers in that teasing way of hers. “If you do screw up, then it’s on you.”
“Erk…”
“H-hang tough, okay?” your cousin urges.
Half-Elf Scout grunts, “Yeah.”
From Female Bishop there are no words, and the voices die down, leaving only the scraping of your scout pulling out a set of seven tools.
Listening to this all happening in the dim gloom, you begin to examine the shadow that seems to have fallen upon your heart. It feels like the Death itself is beckoning to you.
You think of this treasure, apparently worth risking your life for. The mysteries that lie at the heart of all these dangers. The dungeon depths, crawling with monsters… Who could withstand them all? And how much death would there be before someone finally did? You see now that the darkness of this dungeon is none other than the darkness of the Death…
“…I’m guessin’ this thing’s rigged with some kinda trap…”
Click, click.
When you open your eyes, Half-Elf Scout’s fingers are working dexterously, the tool in his hand searching the keyhole. He has several long picks and needles and a thin, flat dagger that looks like a chisel. He inspects the keyhole, then slides the blade of the chisel in between the lid and the body of the chest, patiently feeling things out. You understand that he’s checking for traps and then attempting to undo the lock, but you don’t know exactly what processes are involved. The most you can do to help is to stay out of his way.
Which isn’t to say you can simply rest on your heels—traps come in many varieties. There could be an explosion that wipes your party out, or an alarm that brings more monsters running, or you could be teleported to gods know where… Your job at this moment is to stand beside him, ready for whatever might happen—the exact opposite of the situation a few minutes ago.
It’s agonizing to be unable to do anything but stand and wait.
“Hey… About the girl…” In the midst of this anxiety, Female Warrior whispers to you. Her gore-stained cheeks look faintly flushed—is it simply the last traces of blood from when she tried to wipe off the cruor, or is it the leftover excitement of battle?
The girl? You cock your head, and she jerks her chin toward a corner of the room. You see your cousin gently patting Female Bishop on the back, offering her water.
“Don’t be too angry with her, okay?” Female Warrior says. “Sounds like she’s been through a lot.” She casts her eyes slightly downward and knits her brow.
As nonchalantly as you can, you ask whether she’s done anything worthy of getting upset.
Female Warrior looks taken aback for a second, but then the edges of her eyes soften. “Good point… Yeah, it must’ve been my imagination. Sorry to bother you, huh?”
You tell her again that there’s nothing to apologize for and then return your attention to the treasure chest.
Everyone has their own life story, their own feelings. Unless and until they want to talk about them, want someone else to listen to them, then it’s nobody’s business to go nosing around in them. Female Bishop isn’t the only one: The same is true of your cousin and even the female warrior with a number for a name. That’s why you don’t say anything further, just focus on preparing for anything unfortunate that might happen.
She doesn’t say anything, either. Nor does anyone else.
A moment later, you hear the thunk of the chest’s lid falling open, and Half-Elf Scout bounces to his feet. “Wh-whoa…!” Sounds like a trap to you. You put a hand on your katana, ready for anything. But Half-Elf Scout turns to you, and his face relaxes. “I freakin’ got the freakin’ thing! It freakin’ opened!”
“Aw, I knew you could do it!” Female Warrior’s concern vanishes in an instant, replaced by a mewl like a coquettish kitten as she slides over toward Half-Elf Scout. Myrmidon Monk gets to his feet with interest, and your cousin, her face shining, leads Female Bishop over by the hand. The gold coins Half-Elf Scout pulls out of the chest glitter brightly.
You let out a deep breath.
It simply isn’t possible to tell who, in the now ever so slightly more relaxed atmosphere, suggests going back. One by one you turn, Half-Elf Scout taking a last look in the chest to make sure it’s cleared out, and then you leave the chamber behind. Your feet—they feel light, somehow, and heavy at the same time. It’s a strange feeling for you.
There’s still a haze of fatigue and anxiety, but relief and even joy pound in your chest.
You survived.
You won.
Just against a few goblins, yes, but you’ve taken your first steps into the dungeon.
“Man, oh man… We got a nice haul out of that,” Half-Elf Scout says. He’s carrying the money; you figure it will be best to split it up later. When you gathered together all the gold coins—finding a few silver ones mixed in as well—you found they filled one sack to bulging. Enough to weigh a person down on the road home and a considerable supply of resources for each of you, even split six ways.
One score, and you’ve already made it big. No wonder there’s no end of people who dream of becoming adventurers to make a real living.
“I could go back home right now and live in the lap of luxury for a year on this!”
“Going to skedaddle with an armful of chump change?” Myrmidon Monk asks, turning a cold compound eye on Half-Elf Scout. “Fine by me. Whatever makes you happy.”
“Whoa there…” It’s hard to say how serious the intimidating-sounding bugman is. Half-Elf Scout raises a hand in surrender. “Just jokin’,” he says, provoking a giggle from Female Warrior beside you.
“Money matters, you know?” she says, almost in a whisper. “Nothing comes cheap around here.” Not food, not pleasure, and certainly not the equipment that keeps you alive.
The presence of adventurers, who make their livings just the way their name implies, drives up the price of everything in the fortress city. People frequently remark that the cheapest thing in town is an adventurer’s life.
Female Warrior shakes her head when you mention this, though. “Not true,” she says, her hair rippling with the motion of her head. “Around here, even life has its price. Unless you die, of course…”
Apparently, anything and everything is expensive. You sigh.
“I wonder, though—what country is this money from?” Your cousin is industriously examining the treasure, which you declined to inspect first. The darkness doesn’t make it easy, but she said she was curious. “I’ve never seen anything like it. These gold coins are definitely old, though.”
Many a nation has risen and fallen in the Four-Cornered World since the Age of the Gods. That is nothing new. And if these coins seem strange, well, the dungeon is a strange place. You cast your gaze around, following the hall as it drifts into view. This aspect of the dungeon seemed bizarre when you came in, yet now, on the way back, you’re already growing accustomed to it. You seem to recall the access to the surface isn’t too far away…
“…U-um…” As you turn around to ask for a look at the map, there’s an uneasy voice behind you. It’s Female Bishop. Surprised to have inadvertently spoken up the same moment you were turning toward her, she stumbles over herself before finally mumbling, “It’s nothing.”
Your cousin puts an encouraging hand on her back. “It’s all right. Speak up,” she says softly. “If my little brother is mean to you, I’ll be sure to give him a good talking-to later.”
You inform them in no uncertain terms that she’s your second cousin, to which Half-Elf Scout responds simply, “I guess he’s at that rebellious age.”
You make a point of looking annoyed. Then Myrmidon Monk says, “Makes no difference. If you have something to say, then say it. You don’t want to talk, don’t.”
“…” Female Bishop looks at the ground, not speaking right away under the sharp words.
“Which is it?” Myrmidon Monk asks bluntly.
“I… I’m sorry,” she finally says. “About earlier. Ahem… I…”
Her voice is shaking terribly; it sounds tiny and uncertain, like a child about to be punished.
Well, now. You nod seriously. And then wonder aloud what she could possibly be talking about.
“Pfff…” Female Warrior claps a hand to her mouth as if pretending she didn’t mean to laugh, her shoulders shaking. Hardly able to suppress her laughter, she shoots you an accusing look. You shake your head as though you can’t imagine what Female Bishop could have in mind. There was nothing critical anyway.
Female Bishop, detecting Female Warrior’s snickering, shakes her head in confusion.
“Yeah, don’t sweat it. We won the day in a big way,” Half-Elf Scout reassures her with a firm nod.
Myrmidon Monk lets a hiss of air out between his mandibles, muttering, “Is that all you had to say?”
“There, see?” your cousin says, patting Female Bishop on the back.
“Yes,” she replies, her voice still small. “Um… When we get back. To the surface, I mean. Would you be so kind as to look at the map for me? I’d like…someone to check my work…” Because I’ll keep working on it. Next time, I promise, nothing like this will… Such seemed to be what she was trying to imply.
You have no objection, of course. This is an important matter. When you say as much, her face relaxes. Maybe it’s just you, but you think the “Right!” with which she responds sounds positively excited.
“Ooh, look who’s scoring points with the ladies,” Female Warrior says, jabbing you in the side as if to say, This is payback for earlier.
Shortly thereafter, you spot the ladder to the surface. Your adventure, your first attempt at exploration, has ended in success. Now you just have to go home.
It’s nobody’s fault, what happens next.
In the darkness, you feel something sticky underfoot.
“Look who’s here,” Female Warrior whispers, letting out a breath, then squinting into the darkness. Myrmidon Monk doesn’t say anything at all, his antennae working as he draws his short blade. Your companions in the back row stop as well.
“…What is it?” your cousin asks, but you don’t answer, just put your hand on your sword and slowly draw. The wire-frame depths of the maze emit a hideous, watery noise. You think you can count the sounds coming closer—one, two, three, four, five…six.
At first, you take them for blood-flecked vomit. Like squirming, translucent organs—but alive. The globs of red-black goop quiver in front of your party.
“The heck are those?!” Half-Elf Scout cries.
“Slimes,” Myrmidon Monk replies. “No telling what they’ll do. Watch yourselves.”
“Oh, I’m watching, but… Ugh. The way they quiver…” Female Warrior looks disturbed as she stands there with her spear at the ready, and you can’t blame her. From the back row, Female Bishop and your cousin both stifle cries of what you assume is disgust.
“I wonder if S-Sleep would work on them…,” your cousin mumbles, clutching her short staff in front of her large chest. You don’t know any better than she does. None of you has much magic left, and you’re uneasy with what might happen if you flail aimlessly.
“Slimes…,” Female Bishop utters as if testing the word in her mouth. “What should I do?”
We shouldn’t use our spells.
You hesitate for a moment after the thought occurs to you, then voice it to your party.
“What?!” your cousin says, but you repeat the instruction. You inform the party that magic is your trump card, to be used when the sword proves ineffective. “Got it!” your cousin responds.
“I’ll get ready as well,” Female Bishop adds, sounding tense, and then you start to close in on the wriggling creatures carefully.
You’ve got plenty of practice slicing at humanoid creatures, but living slimes? You don’t know how to deliver the cut or where.
“…Careful,” Myrmidon Monk says again. “I hear slimes are poisonous and can eat away at weaponry. Guess we’ve got no choice but to kill them regardless.” He, too, is approaching the slimes with incredible caution.
Even as you get closer, the monsters just sit there quivering; they don’t look like they’re about to spring at you. It’s very unsettling, you think, as you spit on the hilt of your sword and slowly grasp it with both hands.
“Make sure to try to minimize splatter,” Female Warrior murmurs, and you nod, bringing your katana up in a sweep from a low position. The blade slices upward easily, as if passing through water, and emerges on the other side with a ploop. The slime is cut clean in two, the halves spreading on the floor of the hallway, staining it dark. You feel like you’ve just cut through a soaked bundle of grass. You wouldn’t want to accidentally slam your sword against the floor, but even so, this might turn out to be easier than you expected.
You feel a little bad for your cousin, who looks so eager with her staff at the ready, but it’s good news for your party if your katana can settle this.
“Ooh! That’s one down! These guys aren’t so tough…!” Myrmidon Monk has his knife in his hand like he’s going to dissect an animal; he stabs at a monster. The blade arcs languidly into the slime, ending the creature’s life.
“Yeah, compared with those goblins earlier, these things aren’t so scary… I guess?” Female Warrior nimbly swings around the haft of her spear, almost scooping one of the slimes off the ground with the point. It flies through the air and slams against the wall, spattering across it like some fancy new style of painting. It bursts like an exploding fruit, but Female Warrior seems unfazed. You grumble something about the warning she gave you earlier, but she just giggles.
There’s nothing special to say about how the rest of the fight goes. Female Warrior, Myrmidon Monk, and you make the most of your weapons to annihilate the slimes. There are some reddish sprays like blood, but nothing about them seems poisonous or acidic—just sticky. Still, they’re too weird to simply walk by, so you have to engage them. At length, you discover there are no more piles of goo worthy of the name, and you stand there in the hallway, breathing heavily.
“Over already…?” Female Warrior says, leaning against her spear as she catches her breath. You can hear the harsh huff, puff of her panting, no doubt exacerbated by the earlier battle. As for you, you’re still holding up under the succession of fights. Although you wouldn’t mind being able to lean against the wall, if only it wasn’t covered in slime.
“Phew. No way of telling how many of them there were, now…” Myrmidon Monk’s mandibles clack together as he wipes his dagger on the sleeve of his robe. As he says, the whole floor is covered in reddish liquid, like a sea of blood. That’s all that’s left of the creatures that squirmed and writhed until moments before. They’re too primitive to call living creatures, and you don’t feel that you killed them, although the fatigue remains.
“Four or five of ’em, I’d say… Anybody count?”
“But I heard six different things crawling toward us,” Female Bishop says hesitantly, looking around with her sightless eyes. You, wearing a puzzled expression, nudge the ocean of goop with the tip of your sword. You thought there were six as well, but there’s no sign of movement, and you figure it’s safe to assume they’re all gone.
“Guess it doesn’t matter…”
“It certainly does,” your cousin retorts, puffing out her cheeks. “I didn’t have a chance to use my trump card!”
“Hey, if that’s what’s bothering you, I didn’t exactly get a chance to shine, either,” Half-Elf Scout says, trying to talk her down. “They didn’t even cough up a treasure chest.” He pulls a canteen from his baggage. Taking his cue, you flick the filth from your sword and return it to its scabbard, then dig through your items. Out comes the stopper: one mouthful, two. The lukewarm water feels wonderful on your dry throat.
Again: It’s no one’s fault.
You’re all tired from the battle; you’re feeling relaxed. It’s hard to shift gears straight back to vigilance in preparation for another fight. Doing so won’t cure your fatigue, either. Not by a long shot. Not to mention, the monsters that appeared were slimes, weak-looking creatures that seem to go down in one hit. It would be ungenerous to refer to the relief you and your party felt as arrogance or even a lapse of judgment.
So there’s no one to blame for this. But if someone had to, then maybe…
“Ngha?!”
One might say it was you who failed, failed to notice the red slime creeping up the wall.
By the time you hear the scream, it’s too late. You turn around, still holding your canteen, to discover Female Warrior’s head has disappeared. Her beautiful face is completely covered by the slime that dropped from the ceiling.
“Hrn…! Hrn, hngh, hnnn, hrrrnnngh?!” Muted screams are accompanied by a panoply of small bubbles. Female Warrior collapses to the floor, writhing in the ocean of slime as she tears at her face. You try to pull the slime off her, but she’s kicking her long legs, and she nails you right in the stomach.
But you can’t just leave her to her own devices. She’s clearly desperate. Even as her entire body becomes covered in slime, she continues to resist.
“Shit—she’s going to drown!” Myrmidon Monk says, his tone urgent, and between the two of you, you manage to restrain the flailing woman.
So this is what it means to drown on dry land. That’s what the slime is trying to do to Female Warrior, to drown her without any water. You shouldn’t have let yourself forget that it’s goblins, not slimes, that are the weakest monsters. Slimes, given the slightest chance, will drop onto a foe’s face like this, stop their breathing, and then consume them.
“Grab that dagger of yours and cut the damn thing off!” Myrmidon Monk commands.
“Hold on! I don’t know if I can do it without cutting her face!” Half-Elf Scout shouts back.
“It’s better than dying!”
“Damn these vicious things…!” Half-Elf Scout approaches uncertainly with his dagger in hand, but the slime is so slippery, he can’t find any purchase. No matter how nimble his fingers, the goo just slips away.
You’re desperately attempting to calm Female Warrior down; you try to keep a hold on her ankles, but in the process you get kicked in the ribs several more times. Finally, you lie across them; you can feel her feet kicking slightly under you.
“Hrn… Hn, hnnngh…?!” You feel her movements getting weaker and weaker, though; you can tell all too clearly the strength is leaving her. Her life is ebbing away. You can’t let this go on. But you’re not having any bright ideas. All you feel is panic. You have to do something, quickly…
“That’s it…! I’ve got it!”
You hardly hear your cousin whisper to Female Bishop. Female Bishop responds with a look of confusion, but then her mouth tightens, and she rushes over to you.
“Hrm? What is it…?” Myrmidon Monk asks.
“Pardon me. I’ll have to explain later…” She all but ignores him, kneeling next to the squirming Female Warrior. She reaches one hand out toward the woman’s face and puts the other to her own delicate chest as if in prayer.
“Inflammarae… Inflammarae… Inflammarae!”
Licking tongues of flame appear. Birthed by her words of true power, they spread to the slime in the blink of an eye.
“?!?!?!” The lump of goo cries out, but Half-Elf Scout’s hand is already moving.
“Now!” Heedless of the flames, he grabs the slime and slashes it with his blade. There’s a wet smack, and the creature explodes from the inside out in a burst of red muck. It apparently lost the ability to hold itself together. Now it’s no different from its comrades.
“How is she? Is she alive…?!” Myrmidon Monk peers at Female Warrior, and you likewise lean over her. Her face is pale, bloodless, and her hair is splayed every which way, stuck to her cheeks. Her eyes are open, though, and her mouth gasps at the air like a fish on dry land.
“Ah…aiee…ah…”
She can’t breathe.
The moment you realize, you pull her up into a sitting position and slap her hard on the back.
“Ugh…ghhh—hrgh!” A bit of slime that had worked its way down her throat comes flying back out of her mouth. “Cough…hack! Ugh… Ergh…”
The red glop hits the floor with an unpleasant smack. Female Warrior sucks in air even as she spits out more bits of slime that got inside her. You rub her back as she crouches there, weeping and vomiting. Touching her, you find she feels small and delicate; she’s trembling so hard, you fear she might shake herself apart, but she is unquestionably alive.
You let out a deep breath.
“I know a spell of magical fire,” Female Bishop says quietly into the silence. She keeps clenching and unclenching the hand that produced the flame, as if unable to believe what she’s done. “And we thought it might be possible to burn the thing away with that word. It was her idea…”
“Sure glad it worked,” your cousin says with a bit of a smile.
“Me too,” comes Female Bishop’s soft response.
Your cousin eases her way over to Female Warrior, offering a canteen. “Sorry my brother’s so thoughtless. Here.”
You decide to let it go this time. Pointedly not correcting your cousin, you move over so that she can sit next to Female Warrior. You’re surprised, then, to feel a tug on your arm. You find Female Warrior’s weak hands clutching your sleeve. “…I…s…rry…”
You shake your head, taking her trembling hand in yours and placing it on the waterskin. Female Warrior rinses her mouth and spits several times. You lean against the wall—you don’t care whether it’s slimy anymore—and edge your way over toward Female Bishop.
No, there is nothing in particular to apologize for. If anything, you mumble, it’s you yourself who should say you’re sorry.
Female Bishop looks surprised for a moment, then gently shakes her head. “I don’t think so…” Her tense face relaxes somewhat; her voice is still soft but firmer now. “In fact, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
When you emerge from the gloomy mouth of the dungeon, a gentle, cool breeze brushes your cheek. It’s the air of night. You look up to see stars in the sky, shimmering lights against a field of black like so much spilled ink. In the distance are other lights coming from the town. The fortress city shines brightly, blending into the starry sky. You can see a curl of smoke rising lazily in the distance, illuminated by the town lights; it’s the volcano where a dragon is said to live.
“Finally…made it…” Half-Elf Scout sounds downright exhausted. You have no idea how long you were underground. You can’t help thinking the road home feels much harder than the road here was. The fact that you’re still alive to breathe the air of the surface once more is only because the pips of the dice smiled on you.
You look around at the others, checking if they’re all okay, particularly putting a hand on Female Warrior, who’s leaning against you for support. “Heh. Just fine…,” she responds, but her words are few and weak.
After the encounter with the slimes, she received healing from Female Bishop and Myrmidon Monk, but it will take time for her stamina to recover. She’s still pale, her body obviously leaden. Despite the muscles evident on her arms, her limbs look soft and uncertain with her so drained of strength.
You acknowledge her answer with a nod, then suggest you start out by looking for an inn. The debrief can wait till tomorrow.
“Don’t much care what we do,” Myrmidon Monk says promptly. He clacks his mandibles together. “I’m not so soft as to be all that tired. If you said you wanted to go out for a drink, I’d be game.”
“As for me, I…I guess I am a bit tired,” your cousin says, pressing a hand to her cheek and making no effort to hide the exhaustion in her voice, no doubt out of consideration for Female Warrior. “What do you think we should do?”
“Wha—?” Female Bishop is taken aback. Apparently, she didn’t expect the conversation to turn to her. “Well, uh, let’s see…” She puts a finger to her pretty lips, glancing hesitantly from you to Female Warrior and back, then says, “I’d like to have a good talk with everyone, but…I think it might be best to do it tomorrow.”
“Well, that settles it, then,” Half-Elf Scout interrupts before Female Warrior can say anything—she looks like she’s about to try to put on a strong front. You smile and agree, though you think you hear someone grumble “Hmph!” Your imagination, surely.
The sentinel from the knights’ royal guard watches you go as you head back toward town, everyone in the party leaning on everyone else. She makes no particular comment about the fact that you’re still alive. After all, if she did, you might not come back the next time. So you say nothing yourself. You simply focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
Before long, you reach the city limits, and the bustle of the streets greets your ears. You’re almost overwhelmed, but this is perfectly normal; it’s the dungeon that is impossibly quiet. That’s what makes the people sound so loud.
“We’re…back,” your cousin says quietly. You nod. The fact is only just now sinking in for you.
‘It seems outrageously noisy up here.’
“True that. Almost looks like there’s a festival or something,” Half-Elf Scout remarks.
“I don’t seem to remember tonight being anything special…” Female Bishop sounds uncertain. “But then again, I can’t be sure. There’s no telling how long we were down in that dungeon.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Myrmidon Monk says flatly. “If you want to head back to the inn, then let’s get going.”
Of course. You make sure Female Warrior is leaning safely against you as you wade into the crowd and make for your inn.
Most places adventurers stay are located above a tavern. This traditional arrangement has persisted even after the emergence of the so-called Adventurers Guilds. The one here in the fortress city is very much in the classic style, tavern below and inn above.
As you retrace the steps you took to get to the dungeon, you notice something is different from when you were coming the other way. The flow of people, the spaces between them, the spots where you could just squeeze through if you wanted—you suddenly feel like you can see it all. You can feel yourself registering these details, even as you take care that nobody bumps into Female Warrior. So this is the difference between those who have ventured into the dungeon and those who haven’t. Although you would do it again if given the choice once more, you now realize that you were truly risking your life when you took up that fight on behalf of Female Bishop.
“…Mm, I’m okay now,” Female Warrior says, shifting and shaking her head as the tavern comes into view. You glance down at her, and she looks away, peering at the ground to conceal her face. You cock your head, puzzled; several adventurers pass you by, their gear clanging noisily.
When you suddenly connect the dots, you look to your party members, asking them what to do.
“Oh come on, who cares? What’s the point of putting up a front now?” Half-Elf Scout says with a grin. “It don’t get much more humiliating than bein’ on the edge of death. What’s wrong with a little embarrassment, am I right?”
“…Just you remember this…,” Female Warrior mumbles, but even her veiled threat sounds weak. As you smile and start forward, another adventuring party passes by. They’re awfully enthusiastic. It’s all you can do to keep Female Warrior out of the way—although you don’t begrudge them for a second.
Just as you all thought earlier, it really does seem like a festival around here. Adventurers and common folk alike choke the main thoroughfare, everyone looking unusually excited.
“It’s sure nothing like it was this afternoon,” your cousin whispers to you. You doubt it’s like this every night, and yet…
The furor reaches its highest point as you push through the door of the tavern. You’re assaulted by a wave of noise so loud, it makes your ears ring. It isn’t directed at you and your party, of course, but nonetheless, it’s overwhelming. Most perplexing of all is…
“Welcome, welcome!”
…the crowd of gorgeous waitresses who greet you with broad smiles when you enter.
“…Is something happening?” Female Bishop asks you, and you aren’t quite sure how to explain it to her. Among the things she probably can’t see are the rabbit ears bobbing atop each of the girls’ heads. Also the fact that they’re covered by only the barest excuse for clothing. They don’t look like your average waitresses.
“…See no evil,” Myrmidon Monk clacks quietly. “Not that I particularly mind.”
“You kiddin’?” Half-Elf Scout asks, checking the girls out with affected cool, but he receives only a clack in return.
“Yeesh.” Female Warrior groans to discover what uncouth men she’s keeping for company. Then she says to Female Bishop, “Don’t give it a second thought… Doubt it has anything to do with you yet anyway.”
“Uh…huh. That’s fine, I guess…,” Female Bishop says, not sounding completely convinced.
You remain flummoxed as to what could possibly be the source of all this hubbub. You open your mouth to ask about it, but your second cousin silences you with an elbow jab. “Er, excuse me, may I?”
“Oh, yes, you have an order?” one of the rabbit-eared waitresses says, coming over.
Your cousin is thoroughly flustered seeing her clothes (or lack thereof) at close range, but, looking away and blushing, she says, “No, I… I was just wondering what’s going on today, if anything happened. We just got back to town a few minutes ago.”
“Ah!” the waitress says, nodding and smiling. “Well, a stairway down to the third level of the dungeon was discovered!”
You open your eyes in surprise—no, really. You’re not staring at the woman’s ample chest. Really.
For all the threat the spreading Death poses to the Four-Cornered World, the survey of the dungeon is not proceeding very quickly. You came to this town to try to rectify that situation, but it seems someone is a step ahead of you.
“That party over there,” the waitress says, pointing. “They’re really something.” She indicates a round table at the center of all the excitement. There you can see adventurers who look like weathered warriors. One is a red-haired monk, another a padfoot warrior. There’s a fighter in silver armor; a massive wizard; an old, sagely type; and a girl with silver hair, so small she almost doesn’t seem to be there at all. And then you see the Knight of Diamonds sitting proudly among them, and you let out a breath. He’s calmly sipping from a mug, his armor sparkling, no sign of fatigue on his face.
Compare that to your utter exhaustion, leaning on your friends just to stay on your feet, more eager to go to bed than to have a drink. The two of you couldn’t be more different. You realize he’s far more than one step ahead of you. You can practically picture him, beautifully engaging in combat two floors beneath the surface, discovering a rich hoard of treasure, and staying in the royal suite tonight. He’s on another level, literally and figuratively, in comparison with you and your struggles with goblins and slimes on the first floor.
“…” Female Warrior takes in the Knight of Diamonds and his party, looking even more aggrieved than before. You let out the slightest breath. Gods—you couldn’t be more different in every way.
“Hmm? Something the matter…?” Your cousin’s voice surprises you, but you shake your head and insist that it’s nothing. You realize you’ve been squeezing the scabbard of your sword, and you let it go with a sigh. Finally, you tell the waitress that you’d like somewhere to stay and ask if they have room in a stable.
Where do adventurers with no money stay the night? There’s only one place: a stable, often available for free.
You request simple beds for the women, afraid of making things too hard on them, but as for the men, you suck it up and sleep on piles of straw. According to Myrmidon Monk: “Just spreading a cloak on the ground is plenty. For me, at least.”
You and Half-Elf Scout follow his example, but you can’t seem to get to sleep. It’s not that the stink of the horses bothers you, and it isn’t that the pile of straw is especially uncomfortable. You haven’t lived such a pampered life that you’ve never had to deal with such things before. More likely, it has to do with the combination of exhaustion and anxiety, excitement and nerves. That’s what you decide. No matter how desperately your body wants to sleep like a log, your mind is convinced it’s still on the battlefield and won’t allow it.
This is one more bit of proof of your inexperience. Just look at Myrmidon Monk and Half-Elf Scout. They’re sleeping like babies. You gaze up at the ceiling of the drab stable, and finally you decide to get up off the straw pile. You hang your sword at your hip, then step outside, greeted by a breath of wind. It’s the same night breeze you felt when you arrived back at the surface from the dungeon.
Squinting against the chilly wind, you notice a bright light shining in the dark night sky. Thinking it must be the moons or the stars, you look up to discover it’s coming from the windows of the tavern-inn, and you can’t suppress a smile.
You walk calmly around behind the building. You’re not going anywhere in particular. Maybe you just wanted to see the light from the windows. Hey, the stars and the moons aren’t the only things that can be beautiful.
If each and every one of the lights in those windows represents an adventurer’s sleeping place, then it could be satisfying to gaze at them. As you walk, you think back on the Knight of Diamonds and his friends from a few minutes earlier. The memory mingles with thoughts of the battle you fought for your lives in the dungeon, one you’re almost embarrassed to describe in such terms.
That’s it: That’s the gap.
The difference between your party, struggling against the most minor monsters, overjoyed by a single treasure chest—and adventurers on the front lines. What you feel isn’t anger or regret; you don’t even think of yourself as pathetic. You simply find yourself accepting the bare, unavoidable fact.
You take a breath of the cold air, then let it out. It helps cool the heat inside you.
You draw your sword, which catches the light from the windows. It helped carve the path of blood before you this day, and you check its condition carefully, making sure the fastenings are all secure. A katana is more than a simple weapon—that’s what the person who taught you the sword said. It is a part of you, an extension of your body, your technique, your very spirit. So let all be as one. Join mind and body with the blade, fuse intention and action. For you, to think must be to act.
You have not, of course, achieved that ideal yet. The most you can do is to obey the teachings of your mentor and, at the very least, make sure your sword is in good shape.
Many are those who seek famous blades, renowned swords, weapons of legend, and you don’t blame them. But your mass-produced katana is still nothing to sneeze at. For starters, this dully glimmering blade saved your life today.
“Hee-hee. And what might you be up to?”
You almost jump at the unexpected voice coming from just over your head. You look up, and there she is. Leaning out the window in nothing but a rough-hewn nightshirt, a woman is resting her cheek on her hand. In the faint light, you can tell it’s Female Warrior.
“Oh, surely I don’t surprise you that much anymore.” She seems to be enjoying how startled you are; she narrows her eyes like she’s smiling but presses her lips together as if in a pout.
If she’s up there, then those must be the economy rooms. You slide your sword back into its scabbard with a click. You ask if she should be up and about yet, to which she replies, “I’m fine,” with a giggle. “It was just a little suffocation. Not a flesh wound.”
That’s good to hear, but you hope she won’t overdo it. You can’t help noticing, meanwhile, how large the economy rooms appear to be. Are your cousin and Female Bishop in the same room with Female Warrior?
“They’re both out cold. Maybe they were tired? They’re sound asleep.”
That second cousin of yours… When Female Warrior hears you grumble, she gives you that giggle again. In fact, something—you don’t know what—must be really funny, because tears start to form at the corners of her eyes. She wipes them away with an “I’m sorry,” then follows that up with a question. “Tell me—that girl, is she your older sister?”
You respond firmly that she isn’t, that she is in fact your cousin, who just happened to be born a few days earlier than you.
“That right? You two just get along well, then.”
Well, you won’t deny it. She can be careless, but even in some other life circumstances, you don’t think she would be a bad person.
“Better not stay up too late, or you’ll be in for a scolding from your dear older sister.”
‘Speak for yourself.’
“Good point,” Female Warrior replies with an earnest nod and then falls silent. You raise an eyebrow, offering to listen if there’s something she wants to talk about. She doesn’t respond immediately, though, and you add that if she doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, too.
It’s not that you aren’t curious, but what matters is how she feels. You can’t force her to say anything. Just when you’re thinking you might as well go do some practice swings, though, Female Warrior says softly: “Tomorrow, I hope we’ll all have plenty of time to get together and… Well, before that.” The words are soft, slipping from between her lips like droplets of water pulling free. “I think I’d better apologize for today.”
Now, what could she be talking about?
You feign ignorance, but she shakes her head and says, “Come on.” She looks right at you. “I appreciate you and the girl trying to spare my feelings. But you’re our leader, right?”
In other words, it’s your job to oversee the party’s fighting strength. And if there’s any baggage, any ball and chain, then the smart move is to cut it loose. For everyone’s sake. To adventure is to risk your life; every move, every step could save you or kill you.
‘Ah,’ you say, ‘leaders really have it rough—a lot of responsibility.’ But Female Warrior blinks as if she’s misunderstood you. She doesn’t seem to grasp what you’re saying, but you don’t see the failures of earlier as such great crimes. Eventually, everyone encounters their crisis. Try as you might to avoid it, it’s best to proceed on the assumption that it will come eventually and to be prepared for it. From that perspective, you simply extricated yourselves from a problem today. What’s wrong with that?
Not to mention (you laugh), if you chased Female Warrior away because of that, then you would hear it from your cousin.
“I see…” Female Warrior looks mildly perplexed by your words but nonetheless nods. “That’s good, then.” What matters is the problem is resolved.
You nod, then casually take up a stance with your sword, raise it, and bring it down. There’s a whoosh of air. Then you do it again, making sure your joints are warmed up and loose. Then you do it again and again, over and over until the heat in your body finally dissipates.
You hear Female Warrior exhale where she watches from above you. “I’m going to bed, then, okay? Don’t burn the midnight oil too much longer—you really will get an earful.”
You nod and say good night to her, that you’ll see her tomorrow. She doesn’t answer right away. Your sword goes up, then comes down.
After a moment, you hear the window close, along with a quiet: “Yeah… See you tomorrow.” The words are soft, but you’re sure you heard them.
See you tomorrow. A good expression. You have tomorrow. Tomorrow will come.
You’re inexperienced, and your party members are untried in some ways. The dungeon is deep, the road ahead is long, and the monsters are fearsome. But there’s always tomorrow.
You are alive, your party members are safe, and the dungeon can be faced.
There’s always tomorrow.
With those thoughts in your mind and your heart, you raise your sword up, slicing through the air.