Danjon ni Deai wo Motomeru no ha Machigatteiru Darou ka - Familia Chronicle - Volume 2 - Chapter 2

The Origin of the Strongest 
1 
His oldest memories were of a musty smell, a freezing cold that burned the skin, and a merciless, brutal dark night. 
A deserted alley and a night sky streaked with lonely moonlight. 
His stomach should have been empty, but it had passed its limit and no longer even grumbling for food. It was reduced to just sapping away his strength and body heat. Every part of him felt cold as ice, but this poor child had no way to realize how alone he was. It was an almost laughable. 
He did not know why he was there. He did not even know who he was. He had no name. No family. He had been abandoned. He didn’t think or suffer. He wasn’t aware of anything. 
There was no way a young child who was not even conscious of the passage of time would be able to escape that place. 
He felt like his instinct to live had put up a bit of a fight at first, but even that ran out of strength soon enough. Ignorance robbed him of any chance at a livelihood and a consciousness without desire made him little more than a plant. 
He was weak. Nothing more than a pitiful lump of meat that could do nothing but wait for death. But fate, or more specifically, a goddess, did not forsake him. 
“Are you all alone?” 
Long silver hair and matching jewellike eyes. 
He should have just been waiting to die, but his eyes opened wide at the sight of that otherworldly embodiment of beauty as he was captivated by her. He stopped breathing and forgot how to speak. To this toddler’s eyes, she looked like the manifestation of something that surpassed the natural laws of the world. 
In an instant, the cruel, cold darkness fell away and a halo of silver light filled his faded-out vision. 
Time had stopped for him as the silver-haired goddess’s eyes narrowed. 
“—So pure,” she said as she held out her hand. 
And the young child silently accepted it. She lifted him in her arms. 
“What’s your name?” she asked. 
The child could not respond. He did not know his name or even his lineage. He was not even truly self-aware yet. Because of that, to his immature mind, the goddess lifting him up became the entirety of his world. She was everything to him. 
“All right, then I’ll give you a name.” 
Her smile at that moment was utterly cute, like an innocent young girl’s, and even now that that child had grown up, he still remembered it. 
“You will be Ottar.” 
The Warlord, Ottar. That was the day the current strongest adventurer of the Labyrinth City raised his first cry. 
 
The sky was clear, and the Labyrinth City, Orario, was full of energy. A melting pot where travelers, merchants, and adventurers mingled together in a lively bustle. 
And in the south of the city, at one corner of the shopping district, there was a certain place filled with a distinctly different kind of activity. 
Folkvangr. The home of Freya Familia, the city’s strongest faction. White and yellow rings of flowers bloomed in a beautiful field and an enormous manor—almost a temple or palace, even—had been built on the hill at the center of the estate. It was like a little world all its own, cut off from the rest of the town. It was a grand scene like a painting brought to life. 
And all around that field, an intense death match was unfolding. 
“I shall have Lady Freya’s favor!” 
“For milady! For her love!” 
“Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” 
Many of the familia members were crossing blades. The lowest-level members, Level 1s, and the largest group of the familia, the mid-tier Level 2s and 3s, as well as the strongest participating in the struggle, the Level 4s. Her followers were all fighting among one another. It was a death match to gain the goddess’s favor, to be of some use to the goddess. The never-ending sounds of intense battle were at odds with the calm and clear blue sky. 
And amid all that, Ottar was calmly walking through the giant field. He did not even glance at the blood and roars, walking confidently right next to the battling warriors. 
There were none who tried to attack him. Or more to the point, none could. No matter how hot-blooded and passionate the members of Freya Familia might be, they had no interest in receiving even one of his fierce blows and losing the entire day to recovering. Once in the past, almost all of the familia had conspired together to attack him at the same time, but every last one of them had been beaten down. 
When he first joined the familia, Ottar had also taken part in that baptism. There was a time when he had been crushed by earlier members of the familia who were long gone, when he had coughed up blood but still kept on fighting and fighting and fighting, all for the sake of being the goddess’s strength. 
It was a nostalgic memory, but at the same time it caused him to furrow his brow because of the annoyed glare and the pained “I’m getting really tired of having to heal people on death’s door…” he got from the skilled healer Freya had brought in to the familia—ahem—because of the objections that he had gotten about it. 
In his role as leader of the familia, as opposed to the worries of a simple warrior, the merciless combat among members of the familia was a massive headache. He had tried to hide it by maintaining a studied silence behind a stern face, but that only got him lambasted. “There’s no point in trying to hide it behind that tough look…” 
His qualities as a leader were assuredly lacking in comparison to a certain prum, but Ottar also had no intention of ending the trial by fire, either. It was what made Freya Familia what it was. 
The desire to gain the goddess’s favor, to become a better version of oneself that was suitable for the goddess—that thought was foundational to every one of her followers. In other words, it was all for Freya’s sake. And because of that thought, they continued to fight, polishing themselves, ridding themselves of weakness, reaching for ever greater heights. And Ottar was no different. Not when he first joined, and not now. 
Entering the manor at the top of the hill, Ottar headed straight to his patron goddess’s room. 
“Lady Freya, may I?” 
For once, Freya was in their home and not occupying the upper floor of Babel. The silver-haired goddess was by herself, sitting in an elegant chair. 
“Is there something you need, Ottar?” she asked as she glanced at him. 
“I would like to take a short leave.” 
“Oh?” Freya stopped flipping the page of her book. Her eyes narrowed as he piqued her interest. 
Ottar basically never asked to leave his post as Freya’s attendant of his own volition. Other than the female attendants who waited on her hand and foot, being at her side was something that only one person was allowed to do. It could be said that the follower who had most gained her favor was the one who was allowed to become her attendant. It was the greatest honor available to members of Freya Familia. 
So for the same Ottar who had sworn his loyalty to Freya, who continued to worship her and exert his all at her side, to ask to leave her side…patron goddess that she was, there was no way she would not be intrigued. 
“Where do you plan to go?” 
“The Dungeon.” 
The answer was plain and simple. And it seemed Freya had anticipated it, since she smiled without showing any surprise. 
“Before this, you went on an expedition by yourself, going all the way to the forty-ninth floor, was it? You were quite ragged when you came back, as I recall. You don’t imagine I’d allow a similar attempt, do you?” 
In order to avoid becoming rusty, Ottar would work in some training from time to time. It had been a long time ago at this point, but for his last training session he had gone by himself on an expedition into the Dungeon to reach the lowest floor he could alone. 
His failure to finish off the floor boss Balror in Moitra Sands on the forty-ninth floor was still a shameful memory and a stain that he wanted to clear someday, but that was not his goal this time. 
“The thirty-seventh floor’s Monster Rex…I would like to defeat Udaeus.” 
That request was apparently not in the realm of what Freya was imagining, though. She was not particularly surprised, but her lips curled in amusement. 
“When the sword princess defeated Udaeus, it had a certain sword equipped. I would like to obtain that.” 
Three months ago, Aiz Wallenstein’s great achievement, defeating the floor boss of a deep level by herself, had made waves in the city. At the time, it had been the talk of the town, and Aiz had risen up to Level 6 herself off the back of it. 
In all the histories of Orario, there were no records of Udaeus having a sword. The Guild’s announcement based on Aiz’s report was that it was possible that the drop item Udaeus Black Sword could spawn in the event of facing Udaeus one-on-one or possibly with a very low number of people. 
Ottar was saying that he very much wanted to get his hands on that extremely rare item. As a Level 7, the strongest adventurer, there were very few weapons capable of withstanding his strength. Because of that, he wanted to acquire it. 
“Liar.” 
However, Freya immediately rejected his excuse. Her silver eyes could see his true feelings. 
“It inspired you, didn’t it? Your heart lit up when you heard about her feat.” 
“…” 
“You’re always like that. Even having reached Level Seven, you’re still not satisfied.” 
Ottar did not say anything. And Freya did not challenge that. The beautiful goddess smiled as she accepted her follower’s request. 
“Very well, you may go.” 
However, she placed a single condition on his journey. 
“Make sure you come back strong enough for me to dream about.” 
 
Having been picked up by Freya, Ottar did not immediately join the ranks of the goddess’s followers. 
He only received her blessing several years later, after he had clearly established a sense of his self. Until then, Freya would take care of him from time to time—probably because there was something about his soul that caught her attention. But the toddler Freya had named Ottar did not cry or laugh. He merely trotted along behind the goddess without any trace of cuteness. Apparently even Freya had shrugged at his behavior, describing it as disappointing. 
After receiving Freya’s blessing, it was two years before Ottar rose to Level 2. 
However, between when he received Falna and when he began fighting—when he first immersed himself in that never-ending struggle—there was actually a blank period, so in truth, it had only actually taken him one year to level up. Ottar could still be called a boy when he gradually began to stand out from the rest of the familia. 
“Uoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” 
Ottar roared with a deep voice unbefitting his age and size as he underwent the familia’s baptism. 
The fierce internal conflict. The pinnacle of cutthroat death matches. He and the rest of Freya’s followers fought on the fields of Folkvangr that were unchanged to this day. He swung a sword the length of his body, lashing out at people far older, larger, and most importantly, incomparably stronger, only to be blown away and left coughing up blood every day. 
As Ottar remembered it, the baptism in those days was more intense than at any other time. 
—Why are you fighting? 
It was not a question that anyone ever asked him, nor one that he asked himself. He had no room for any shred of doubt. It was really quite simple: There was nothing else Ottar could do. 
He had received a name, a blessing, food, clothes, a roof over his head, emotions, and warmth from Freya. She was everything to him. Taken to the extreme, from the day she picked him up, his entire world had been made whole through her existence alone. 
With his unsociability and simplicity, he could not please Freya. There was nothing he could give her in return. So all he could do was strive for power. Strength. He had nothing but his strength. He could do nothing but strive to be stronger. Because Freya desired peerless brilliance. 
The roots of the warrior who sought strength with a tireless, ceaseless devotion were exceedingly simple. His foundational memories were of that cold moonlit night when he encountered the goddess and of Folkvangr consumed by the Einherjar’s savage, restless battle. The shimmering, twilight plains were like a beautiful, golden sea, despite the countless weapons sticking out of the ground. 
“Not dead yet, are ya?” 
“…Mia.” 
His body was battered and beaten, covered in wounds, and one eye was swollen shut as he lay facing the sky. This was back when he spent a lot of time seeing the darkness spreading through the sky from the east. It was a given that the only person who would bother to talk to Ottar was a certain dwarf. 
Mia Grand. She was at least twenty years older than Ottar, one of the members of the familia before he joined. At the time, she had a more dwarflike stature, was cute and lovely, and—ga-ha-ha-ha. Anyway, she had a figure worthy of being called a follower of a goddess of beauty. However, despite appearances, her personality was both strong-willed and straightforward. Her presence in the familia was less a heroine and more a plucky mother figure. 
She had apparently been asked by Freya to keep an eye on Ottar to make sure he did not die. 
“A right pain in my ass,” she would say as she grabbed the unmoving Ottar by the collar and dragged him to the manor. 
Mia was special, even among their familia. She did not revere Freya. And Freya, for her part, treated Mia as almost an equal in some respects. 
Apparently Mia had been working in a tavern in a certain part of town and been scouted by Freya and grudgingly dragged into the familia. She must have owed Freya for something, because she had thrown in her lot with the familia despite very obviously not being particularly interested in it. 
With that sort of background, the one and only member of the familia who did not fight for the sake of Freya had a lot of enemies. But she silenced them all with a single fist. 
There was no counting the number of times familia members had immediately pounced when she entered Folkvangr only to just as immediately get sent flying themselves. Given a chance, the mountain of people she could pile up was unbelievable. 
She was just too strong. So much so it was inspiring. And Freya herself quite enjoyed Mia’s actions. Ottar could not believe his eyes the time he saw Freya holding her stomach in pain from the laughter when she heard Mia’s war stories. 
“All right, hurry up and eat, you numbskulls!” 
“““………Seconds, please.””” 
And more than anything, the food Mia served was exquisite. 
The familia members who had been fighting from dawn to dusk all gathered in the enormous Sessrúmnir hall at the center of the home and silently wolfed down Mia’s cooking and booze. Whenever Ottar reminisced about back then, he found himself thinking that her food might as well have been the reason the members at the time were able to restore themselves in order to continue facing the most intense baptism in the history of the familia, and how unfortunate were the familia members nowadays who still had the unceasing death matches but did not have Mia’s food. 
Mia Grand was just plainly, simply, and overwhelmingly strong. She rose to the top as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She was a being who existed in a realm far beyond where the Ottar of that time could even imagine. 
Before anyone really noticed, Mia had easily become the head of the familia. 
“What do I have to do in order to surpass you?” Ottar had asked her once, before he had even gone through puberty. 
It was late at night, and he had not been able to return to the home because he had passed out in the field. Mia was out on the moonlit plains, heating up a pot—apparently people not eating was the thing that most annoyed her—stirring up a stew with her ladle as he stared fixedly at her with his battered body. 
The question from the boy who was still lacking in knowledge and experience, who could by no means be called a warrior yet, drew a single glance from Mia, who continued to prepare the food. 
“Think.” 
“Think…?” 
“Far as I’m concerned, I couldn’t care less about gettin’ stronger, but no matter what I’m doin’ I always try to think about it. As best I can as a silly little dwarf, at least.” 
“…” 
“Folks who can’t think can’t live. That’s true no matter the time or the place, but it goes double for Orario nowadays with so many monsters all in one spot.” 
Mia’s response was simple. 
It was by no means the answer that Ottar was looking for at the time. However, Mia’s simple advice took root deep in his heart. 
“And if after thinkin’ it through, you still can’t understand somethin’, then the first thing to do is ask. If you don’t, you’ll never learn anything. At least in my experience.” 
Mixing in some spices and then lifting the ladle to check the flavor, Mia grinned as she served up a wooden bowl filled to the brim with stew. 
“Well, in the plainest sense, though…folks who don’t eat won’t ever get stronger or grow up.” 
Ottar quietly looked at the bowl she held out and silently accepted it. The rising steam warmed his eyes and nose as he helped himself to the fragrant stew. 
That day, Ottar finished off the entire pot of stew by himself. And from that day on, he started eating so much that Freya’s eyes went wide at the sight, all in order to develop a physique adequate for a heroic warrior. 
“Mia, are you really going to leave the familia?” 
“I’m talking about someday. Not now. Besides, that goddess won’t totally throw me out on my ass. Though I’m sure I’ll end up sighing in my mind when she comes a-callin’.” 
“…Don’t go. I still haven’t beaten you yet,” Ottar asked with a subdued, deeper voice. 
Around the time his voice had started to deepen, Ottar had already passed Mia in height. 
He had heard from Freya that Mia would end up leaving the familia someday, but his desire to stop her from leaving was not because they were comrades. Yes, far from it. But she was still necessary in order to achieve the strength he could envision. He needed to surpass her no matter what. 
“What’s the point in gettin’ hung up on me, idiot. Look at the world around ya. The only thing that’s grown about you is that body of yours.” 
“…” 
His relationship with Mia was a bit of an odd one. It could not really be called a maternal sort of relationship nor were they really equals as comrades in arms. Their connection did not really go beyond the realm of associates. Forced to describe it in words, it was probably more like an adult listening to a child’s self-indulgent complaints. 
As Ottar fell silent, Mia swung around, and a grin appeared on her beautiful and sweet face. 
“Besides, there’ll be swarms of folks chasing you after this, just like you’re chasing after me.” 
 
Leaving the silver manor that resembled the moon, Ottar departed the familia’s home to head toward the Dungeon and easily passed through the middle levels. 
He had the greatsword that was his weapon, a lightweight armor that was a bit on the heavier side, and a knapsack filled with rations and water. That was the only equipment he brought with him. 
The scene of the Warlord heading through the Dungeon caused many to fall back and open the way for him, and others got excited as they looked on from afar. It was rare for him to head into the depths of the Dungeon equipped for a stay in the labyrinth, since he was always attending to his patron goddess. Reports of “I saw Ottar!” became the talk of Rivira, the relay town on the eighteenth floor. 
For better or worse, the appearance of the city’s strongest being and adventurer caused the monsters to become restless, forcing them to clear out. The monsters that could not comprehend their difference in strength and just attacked on instinct crumbled to dust with a single blow from his sword, leaving behind a trail of ash in Ottar’s wake. 
Neither monsters nor people could stop his advance. 
—At least that was how it should have been. 
“…” 
When he reached the water metropolis that started at the twenty-fifth floor, he ran down the Great Falls, the largest waterfall in the labyrinth that cut down to the twenty-seventh floor. After landing at the bottom, Ottar started to proceed to the passage to the twenty-eighth floor when he noticed a certain presence and silently turned around. 
He was standing on the edge of the basin at the bottom of the falls when a catman wielding a silver spear appeared before him. 
“Allen…” 
And not just him. The four prums in full battle armor and a dark elf appeared, surrounding Ottar on the beach. 
“…A message from Lady Freya?” 
Had something happened aboveground, was the question implicit in Ottar’s tone. 
“You aren’t that stupid, Ottar,” Allen responded quietly. 
It was rare for Allen’s voice to be so soft, but his gaze was far from kind. His eyes were blazing with a thirst for battle unlike ever before. 
“Hee-hee-hee-hee…If an even more refined blade is the paradise the world desires, then we too won’t stop until we reach that same realm…” 
Translation: If polishing oneself through combat is the tacit agreement of the familia, then it applies to us first-tier adventurers as well. Needless to say, Hegni had a more dangerous air about him than usual as well. 
The intense intra-familia struggle was not something reserved for just the lower-level members. It was of course obvious that Allen and the other first-tier adventurers were also constantly reaching for ever greater heights out of their devotion to Freya. There was nothing strange about the fact that they would want to drag down Ottar, who was the strongest not just in the city but in the familia as well. 
For the core of the familia, fighting aboveground—the day-to-day baptism of Freya Familia—was off-limits. It was a measure put in place to avoid provoking other factions unnecessarily. 
However, Freya had never said anything about fighting in the Dungeon. And this time, unlike when he trained the minotaur previously, his trip to the Dungeon was not at Freya’s behest for the purposes of conditioning a certain boy. 
Because of that, they could fight. 
“Wait. At least save it for after. Right now, I—” 
“Silence, Ottar. As her followers, we’re not content to always be scurrying around beneath your feet. That is unacceptable. We’re going to defeat you and surpass you.” 
The prum Alfrik cut Ottar off, and his younger brothers chimed in, too, not taking kindly to him looking down on them from his position as a Level 7. 
“Quit stalling, boar.” 
“You’re a perfect-sized serving of experience.” 
“Yum, look at all that excelia.” 
“…” It was about time for even Ottar to get angry. 
“Let’s do this. Today’s the day I’m gonna tear you down,” Allen said. 
The first-tier adventurers were raring for battle, and Ottar dropped his knapsack. His expression was unchanged. Anger, sadness, bitterness—none of those emotions were visible as he merely readied his weapon to respond to their challenge. 
The cat, dark elf, and prums charged in all at once. 
 
Turning back time a bit. 
Ottar had trained his body and spirit through the daily baptisms, fostered a repertoire of techniques and tactics through a diligent study and consideration, and constructed a body of steel by eating an awe-inspiring amount of Mia’s homemade food every day, transforming him into a powerful man. 
At the age of seventeen, he had become the undisputed second-in-command of the familia. He was Level 5. However, more so than his own developments, what changed was his relation to his surroundings. 
He had already met his fated rivals—perhaps inescapable acquaintances would be more accurate—the three leaders of Loki Familia, and they were already competing ruthlessly. At home, Hegni and Hedin, who would become core members in the future, joined Freya Familia. And then the Gulliver brothers. And finally Allen and his little sister. Chosen by the goddess, they demonstrated the capacity of heroes as they achieved level-ups at a similar or even faster rate than Ottar had. 
Mia had already left the familia by that time. In the end, he was never able to settle things with her, but he understood what she had said before she left. Somewhere along the way, Ottar had gone from being the challenger to the goal. 
Hegni and Hedin, the Gulliver brothers, and Allen were chasing after him like he was their mortal enemy. They were forging themselves for the goddess’s sake just as he had in the past, racing toward greater heights, determined to overcome Ottar and teamwork be damned. It was so bad that once, when they had gone on an expedition to the deep floors, they ignored the monsters, and the eight of them started fighting one another instead. The expedition ended up being a failure, of course, and even Freya could not help sighing heavily at the result, so ever after, they all practiced self-restraint so that a similar situation would never happen again. But it was only ever that: self-restraint. 
Orario was already in the depths of its darkest period, and he passed through the Labyrinth City’s dark age with them. There were many meetings and farewells. All of the members of the familia from before Ottar joined had died. Allen’s little sister had disappeared from his side. They had all been cast aside during the hero’s trials. 
That was how Freya Familia’s strongest core and greatest assets in battle were formed. Ottar and the current generation were without a doubt the strongest Einherjar in the familia’s history. 
And without realizing it, Ottar had become the head of the familia. Truly without realizing it. He threw himself into fighting so much that he was not even really aware of himself as the leader of the familia. However, even if his position changed, the path he was walking down did not. What he needed to accomplish was the same as it ever was. 
He honestly, simple-mindedly, pathologically, even foolishly chased after ever greater strength. And Allen, the Gullivers, and Hegni and Hedin, they all ferociously chased after him. However, while he felt quite bad about it, more so than most anything else—they did not register in Ottar’s eyes at all. 
He showed them respect, but they were only ever presences behind Ottar. And his eyes were only ever focused on what was in front of him. On the age that had already passed. 
One day, a dumbfounded young familia member, a healer who was entrusted with the cleanup after the daily baptism, who often looked exhausted, asked him, “What’s even the point of getting stronger than you already are?” 
It was a stupid question. A truly foolish thing to ask. But it would have been rude to point that out to her. Because she did not know any better. 
Yes, everyone hailed Ottar as the pinnacle. They all feared him as the strongest. Not realizing that that name itself just spurred on his fighting spirit. Not realizing that he was seething, not seeing the magma-like emotions in the depths of his heart hidden behind his boulder-like, solid-steel exterior and unflappable demeanor. 
Apparently someone once said that the life of a warlord is far harsher and far more dazzling than anyone else’s. 
Ottar’s response was simply: 
“Don’t make me laugh.” 
Mia and his rivals—those three leaders—they were probably the only ones who understand how he felt. 
 
“Damn it!” Allen’s interspersed his deadly dance with vehement curses. 
Ottar easily parried the silver spear thrusts aimed at his neck using his greatsword. 
A hole had been opened in the wall of the waterfall basin. The aftershock of a magic blast had created a giant opening leading into the labyrinth right next to the Great Falls, so the first-tier adventurers had shifted their battle to a more expansive room—a broad crystal hill surrounded by a current of water. The clusters of crystals growing around the room flickered. 
The six figures moved at a speed the average person could not hope to follow, their movements reflected in the room’s many crystals. The poor monsters foolish enough to mistake them for prey were either knocked back the moment they entered the battlefield or else shredded to pieces. 
“…Nrgh!” 
And standing at the center of that broad hill, that island, was Ottar, fending off the others’ attacks. The cat was moving fast enough to leave afterimages as he unleashed a rain of spear thrusts, the dark elf had already used Dáinsleif to transform into the king of battle and was splitting the ground with his intense slashes, and the four prum brothers were using their peerless teamwork to attack from any and all directions without pause. The boaz warrior was exposed to a fearsome torrent of blows from six first-tier adventurers. 
However, it was Allen and the other attackers who could not conceal their irritation as they continued the assault. 
The silver spear that barely registered to the eyes as a fleeting slash was deflected with a single arm’s gauntlet, the black sword brimming with destructive power was swept aside by a single swing of his greatsword, and the four weapons flying in from the front, back, left, and right were knocked down by an arc drawn by that same greatsword. 
The attackers scowled. 
There were scratches here and there on Ottar’s rocklike skin, but his body had not sustained any sort of real damage. 
Allen leaped forward, ready to kill as Ottar fended them off with a single sword. 
“You’re too light. You should eat more, Allen.” 
“What are you, my mom? Fuck off and die!” 
The intercepted spear, and Allen with it, were blown away like a feather in a gale. The cat howled in rage as he flew through the air, twisting his body to land on a crystal pillar only to leap off with so much force that cracks started to form on the crystal. But faced with a tremendous thrust that pierced through the atmosphere itself, Ottar dodged by merely twisting his body. 
The silver spear split the air and pierced the hill, the force of the impact leaving a crater and sending fragments of crystal flying through the air. As the fragments fell, disrupting Ottar’s field of view, a split second after the boaz warrior squinted his eyes, the Gulliver brothers attacked, not overlooking the smallest of openings. 
“Don’t block it!” “Don’t deflect it!” “What’s the point of a surprise attack?!” “Don’t warp space-time with that muscle of yours!” 
“I’m not doing anything like that.” 
Ottar ably defended against the simultaneous attack in an instant while responding sincerely to Grer’s comment. 
As the four brothers readied a combination attack from low to the ground, so low that Ottar’s attacks could not even reach, the boaz lowered his hips in order to deal with all four of them. 
“You rely too much on your height to attack from below. Take the top, too. If you don’t, you won’t be able to make full use of your stature.” 
“I see you’ve got it easy enough to be handing down advice!” 
“Are you looking down at us, Ottar?!” 
“Not in the least. Just that if you increase the height of your attacks, the range of patterns you can use will increase dramatically.” 
““““You’ve just made an enemy of every prum in the world.”””” 
“…My apologies.” 
All light disappeared from the brothers’ eyes as a never-before-seen intent to kill came loose, causing Ottar to apologize genuinely. 

The prums formed their sure-kill formation and charged from all four directions. Their desperation attacks from all directions were fierce enough to be able to threaten the warrior. Faced with an attack of rage that would kill him instantly if he made even a single mistake, Ottar made a split-second decision to stomp his left leg down. The resulting tremor demolished the hill and blew away the Gulliver brothers’ small bodies. 
“By the power of the demon blade, bring eternal destruction.” 
And immediately afterward, a super-short cast cut in from the side. 
“Burn Dáin.” 
An eruption of flame poured from Hegni’s outthrust right arm. It was a short-range explosive fire spell, but in exchange, it had been honed to have a destructive force capable of incinerating countless enemies within its area of effect. The black magic circle at Hegni’s feat caused the crimson blaze to flash even brighter—but Ottar just swung his greatsword upward from below, with a full swing. 
“Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooh!” 
“Ghhh!” 
The sound of metal scraping against metal resounded, drowning out the giant waterfall’s thunderous cascade. Ottar used the force of his swing to extinguish the blaze and then shifted the momentum of the blade for a second slash to greet the dark elf who had charged in behind his magic. The greatsword he had swung back down clashed against the dark sword’s blade, blocking Hegni’s two-stage attack. 
“Incarnation of power…to think I would fail to cut down that giant frame with my secret technique. You truly are the being who stands at the pinnacle of the demon realm, Ottar!” 
“Speak a language I understand, Hegni.” 
While they locked blades, Ottar exchanged words with Hegni, who was speaking with a different tone and glare than usual. He then swung his greatsword aside. Losing in power, Hegni leaped backward and landed on top of a cluster of crystals. 
In the blast from the blaze, the front of Ottar’s armor and his skin had been a bit charred, but he still had not taken any serious damage. 
He had endured, not yielding in the slightest to the string of intense attacks. 
The ultimate defense. Ottar was feared by most for the attacks he could unleash using his unnatural strength, but Allen and the others knew that his true claim to fame lay in his defense. 
His defense was the summation of all the techniques and tactics he had built up over the years. An unwavering stout pair of legs, the defensive movement to deal with any attack with milin-level precision, and trained eyes capable of seeing through any and all techniques. All of that combined with his extreme endurance ability and he was capable of weathering attacks like an immovable fortress. As evidenced by the fact that he had not been forced from the center of the island throughout that entire onslaught. 
The attackers voiced their frustration as they readied themselves to try to dismantle his perfect defense again. 
In truth, there were six opponents. If the Gulliver brothers were not the only ones working together, if Allen and Hegni worked with the prums, then even Ottar would probably have been cornered. He would have been forced to use the ace up his sleeve. But they made no effort at all toward teamwork. 
“Piss off, prums! Don’t get in my way!” 
“That’s our line, kitty-cat.” “Quit chasing your tail!” “You’re the real brat here!” “Die in a fire!” 
“Your squabbling is unsightly, warriors. You vex me! Begone from my sight!” 
Allen lashed out at Dvalinn and Grer with his spear when they got in his way, Berling and Alfrik counterattacked, and Hegni tried to cut them all down, along with Ottar, using the far-reaching slash of his cursed blade. 
Freya Familia’s first-tier adventurers would accept nothing other than a one-on-one. They poured their all into defeating Ottar with their individual strengths. Because to do otherwise would not grant them a victory worthy of a follower of the goddess. None of them had a resolve so half-baked as to try to defeat the strongest through cooperation. And because of that, the fight turned into a battle royale. There were countless flashes of steel everywhere. Sparks and remnants of magic never stayed put for more than a split second. If any other adventurers saw what was happening, it would be a scene that crushed whatever pride they might have in their abilities. This was an intense battle where everyone was trying to strike one another down. 
And amid that all, Ottar continued to defend and endure everything. Allen, who attacked with an unparalleled speed; the Gulliver brothers using their teamwork to the utmost; and Hegni, who unleashed incomparable slashes and magic—Ottar rejected it all with his greatsword. 
“—I’m gonna run you down.” 
And then, Allen’s desire to kill reached its limit and he lowered his body. What was coming next would be the fastest strike. The brothers’ and Hegni’s faces tensed as, for the first time, Ottar shifted to a stance to use his full strength to defend. If he did not defend the next attack perfectly, he would be killed. Allen was about to unleash his ultimate attack that would trample everything that stood before him. 
As Allen’s magic rose, Ottar readied himself to respond with his blade—but just before the attack came— 
“Strike forever, indestructible lord of lightning.” 
Valiant Hildr. The spell’s name resounded, accompanied by a thunderclap and a bright flash that lit up the battlefield. 
““!”” 
The giant bolt of lightning caused not just Ottar and Allen but even the Gullivers and Hegni to widen their eyes in surprise and leap backward. The lightning split the battlefield down the middle and caused the water to boil as it easily cut through the crystal hill. 
The island was half-destroyed, stormy waves rose, and water mixed with lightning scattered about the room. Ottar and the rest turned to look as an elf wielding a rhomphaia appeared through the hole they had opened earlier. 
“Stop fighting, you fools.” 
Freya Familia’s only other first-tier adventurer, Hedin, released his magic circle as he stepped into the room. 
“What are you trying to pull, coming late to the party?!” 
““““What’s with the ‘stop fighting’ bit, you smug elf?!”””” 
“Fall back, rival of mine. As Allen said, one who would enter late has no right to call themselves a warrior and thus no standing to join this melee.” 
As they all responded in their own ways, Hedin sighed as if in his heart of hearts he could not be any more annoyed than he already was, eventually pulling a letter from his breast pocket. 
“A dispatch from Lady Freya.” 
“!” 
“It reads, ‘Don’t make problems for Ottar.’ Would you like to confirm it was written in her hand?” 
The letter Hedin held up fluttered slightly as they stared at it with wide eyes. 
Ottar had guessed it while watching their exchange, but while Allen and the others had left first to challenge him, Hedin had received the order from Freya to stop the fight. 
“He was granted permission to challenge the floor boss by Lady Freya herself. Not allowing him to do so would be equivalent to betraying her divine will. What are you idiots getting so worked up about?” 
““““““Ghhhhhh…!”””””” 
“Learn something from the incident with the expedition. If you want to please Lady Freya, then at least think it through a bit first, fools.” 
Allen and the other attackers twisted up their faces as Hedin made a point of hammering on them for their intelligence, or rather, their lack of it. In fact, veins were starting to become visible on their temples, and they looked about ready to burst. And while they were at a loss for words, Hedin just snorted. 
“…How did you know we were here?” 
“With you sending tremors through the entire Water Metropolis, there’s no way to not notice. The other adventurers all ran away thinking there might be a new species of monster that had appeared and started running wild.” 
When Hedin pointed out that the aftereffects of their battle had been felt even three floors away, there was not really much more to say. Hedin looked exasperated as he walked toward Ottar and tossed him an elixir. 
“I know you don’t need it, but I’m sure this was more exhausting for you than fighting Udaeus will be.” 
“My apologies, Hedin.” 
“…I would have liked to become a giant fool and strike you down, too, Ottar.” 
The elf furrowed his brow dramatically as he said that. As if, at times like this, in the depths of his heart, he was jealous of the fools he despised. 
And just like that, battle between the first-tier adventurers came to an abrupt end due to their goddess’s will. Allen and the others looked on with dissatisfaction as Ottar departed without saying anything. Emerging from the hole, he returned to the basin and headed down to the next floor. 
In order to reach his target from there, it would take Ottar half a day. He had lost some time dealing with Allen and them, though, so he walked a little bit faster. 
He crossed straight through the second safety point and passed through two more regions, leaving the lower floors behind and heading into the deep levels. 
The thirty-seventh floor, the White Palace. 
A region composed of just one floor, it was the final border set by the Guild, a true deadline. However, despite it being the most dangerous region of the Dungeon, there was still nothing that could stop his stroll. Lizardman elites, loup-garous, skull sheep, spartoi—they were all disintegrated by a single slash from his greatsword. Warrior- and undead-type monsters could not even slow his advance as he broke through them. 
It was instant death on encounter. 
Anyone who could not do at least that much would be unable to solo-play the depths of the Dungeon. But by that same logic, it meant that because Ottar could do that much, he could proceed through the deep floors by himself without having anyone worry about him and without having to borrow anyone’s strength. Even overwhelming numbers were not enough to be a challenge for Ottar in this region of the Dungeon. In fact, dealing with magic stones that dropped in order to avoid a repeat of the terrible blood-drenched troll incident—where an enhanced species was born of stones left lying around—was the more time-consuming effort. He would carefully aim for the core with his attacks to turn basically the entire monster along with its core to ash, but the monsters that died in the shock wave of his slash had to have their magic stones crushed underfoot. 
The marble labyrinth trembled as he dominated the dim darkness that was supposed to pressure him as he proceeded into the depths of the thirty-seventh floor. 
And finally, he reached it. 
“…It’s been long enough to feel like it’s been a while, huh?” 
The throne room. The area at the center of the floor where the staircase to the next floor was, as well as where Ottar’s target would appear. 
He had stopped in front of a single extra-large room. Unlike the rest of the labyrinth up to that point, the phosphorescence was bright enough to see clearly there. Overhead, the ceiling was high enough to not be visible, just like the rest of the floor. 
There were no traces of a monster there. It seemed as if it was just a wide-open space, but then there was a crackle. 
“It’s here…” 
As if Ottar’s arrival had been the catalyst, the cracks started running through the floor. The deep fissures radiating out from the center of the space were accompanied by a large tremor. It was as if the Dungeon itself were crying out as it gave birth to its child. The next second, an enormous pitch-black body broke through the ground. White marble scattered around as its full form appeared. 
The skeleton king roared out. 
“—OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” 
The Monster Rex, Udaeus. 
The pinnacle of the undead on this floor, it had an overwhelmingly imposing appearance, like a spartoi skeleton monster that had been scaled up. Its lower body was still buried in the ground as vermilion will-o’-the-wisp eyes set in deep black eye sockets focused on the intruder. 
It had been exactly three months since Aiz had managed to defeat Udaeus by herself. The interval had passed, and an intruder had appeared to set foot in its room, so it had awakened. 
The passage Ottar had entered through was sealed off by pila shooting up out of the ground like spears to block the passage. Until Udaeus was defeated, there was no retreating from that room. The floor master used this room as its execution ground. 
However, Ottar never had any intention of retreating. 
“I’ll have you show me everything that the Sword Princess saw and overcame…” 
The powerful and imposing warrior did not look the image of a grave robber, and he did not fall back in the slightest at the skeleton king’s roar as he swung his own sword. 
The early stages of the battle were entirely one-sided. 
Ottar either evaded the pila that had previously been believed to be Udaeus’s greatest weapon with a speed at odds with his enormous frame, or else he nullified them by striking the ground with his greatsword before they could burst out. He closed in to the enemy, which caused it to swing its giant right arm at a range when he entered close enough to be hit, but Ottar used his perfect defense to block the brutal attack, much to the floor boss’s surprise. His log-like legs dug into the ground a bit as he slid ever so slightly while skillfully wielding his sword to shatter the crystal sphere joints linking together the bones. Udaeus screamed and a thunderous sound rang out from its right wrist upward as the arm fell to the floor. 
“Weak.” 
The truth was that Freya Familia had already developed the most efficient way of dealing with Udaeus—though Ottar was basically the only person who could actually pull it off. But he did not use that method. If he defeated Udaeus without laying eyes on the giant black sword Aiz had seen, then he would not get another chance for three more months. Even Ottar had no desire to wait that long. Because of that, he was being careful not to accidentally defeat Udaeus as he cornered it. 
The floor boss roared as it summoned spartoi around the room, but that, too, was nothing worth mentioning to Ottar. He crushed them in groups with a single slash or else used the pila shooting out of the floor to lure them to take each other out. 
Level 7. 
Able to maintain the advantage throughout the fight against the enemy that Aiz had been forced to break through her limits in order to defeat, Ottar had the bearing of one who was the apex of adventurers. His body was much smaller than that of the floor boss, but it possessed a status that easily surpassed the floor boss’s. He was like a little giant that did not pale in comparison to a Monster Rex. And the way he repelled those giant arms with a single sword was a testament to that fact while simultaneously producing a mind-bending scene. 
The girl who had solo-challenged Udaeus with her Level-6 potential despite only being a Level 5 was worthy of admiration. But if asked whether he could do the same, Ottar would not hesitate to answer that he could. At the very least he could against the Udaeus he knew. The one that did not wield a giant black sword. 
Ottar, who had reached this pinnacle with just his own physical body, possessed a strength that was a plain and simple power. Unlike his prum captain rival, he did not have an overwhelming intelligence or instinct, nor the extreme magic of that high elf. And he did not combine the preeminent power and resilience of that old dwarf. 
Ottar’s true weapons were his body and his mentality. The combination of his unceasing effort and indefatigable conviction brought about a similar or even greater advantage than Aiz’s wind. And more than anything, Ottar had a tremendous amount of experience far beyond what Aiz had. He had been through an unbelievable number of situations and overcome a mind-boggling number of predicaments. And he had even experienced the ultimate humiliation, pity. Those were the factors that separated his blade from hers. Those mud-splattered memories were what made Ottar as strong as he was, and a genius and talent combined with not even ten years’ worth of hard work could not overcome it. 
“?Gh!” 
“!” 
As the pitch-black bones were gradually broken and cut away, Udaeus roared in a different tone, as if it had lost its temper. Ottar’s eyes narrowed at the long-awaited precursor as it summoned what he had been waiting for. 
It kept growing and growing and growing. A particularly large pilum appeared from the ground in front of Udaeus. It had a hilt. It had a six-meder-long blade. It was unmistakably an extremely thick longsword. 
“So that’s it.” 
The huge black sword that until that day had only been seen by two other adventurers. It looked smoother than if it had been carved from obsidian and it gave off an alluring light and destructive air. Ottar acknowledged that it was in the highest tier of nature weapons that monsters could wield as Udaeus raised the great black sword over its head. 
The shoulder, elbow, and wrist. Each of its joints flashed like burning starts and for the first time in that fight, the adventurer’s instincts, the warlord’s warning bells, cried out—but Ottar did not attempt to evade the attack. 
Instead, he planted both feet and readied his own greatsword. Despite recognizing that it was the enemy’s ultimate attack, he chose to face it head-on. The skeleton king mercilessly swung his sword at the fool who would dare to challenge its attack. There was an eruption as the blow landed. 
“Guhhhh—?!” 
It was an explosion of the enormous amounts of magic poured into its joints combined with the monster’s intense power. The two created a destructive ray of light, and that slash was the first thing that caused Ottar’s body to move backward. His planted legs slid, leaving two giant gashes in the floor of the room. His breastplate and shoulder armor were entirely blown away by the force of the great black sword, and his body itself was lacerated by the violent force and burned by the high temperature of the magic light. The greatsword he had readied—the first-tier weapon forged by Goibniu Familia, cracked under the force of it all. 
Looking up, the scene around the room was like a field that had been burned. All of the pila sticking out of the ground had disappeared and the ground inside the attack’s area of effect had transformed into a distorted, burned-out empty lot. The spartoi who had been caught up in it were, of course, destroyed and the skeleton king wielding its ultimate weapon ruled over the battlefield with a demeanor of absolute supremacy. 
Ottar’s perfect defense had not been broken, but his body had not been able to endure the full brunt of it. It could not blunt the force entirely. Several bones had been damaged, but Ottar was most disappointed in his own powerlessness. 
“…I’m still green.” 
Derision. An actual emotion appeared on Ottar’s face for once as he felt a burning physical pain for the first time in a very long time. 
—He saw its ultimate attack. 
—He experienced that taste again. 
—So there was no way that Ottar—the strongest—could lose now. 
That confident analysis borrowed the voices of various people and deities as it transformed into an illusion ringing in the back of his mind. That vexing title echoed in his ears. 
“…Who’s the strongest? How could someone this weak be the strongest?” 
The warrior’s face was twisted. Quietly, deeply twisted. 
The skeleton king looked at the battered man before him, unleashing a series of pila from the ground. Ottar made no effort to avoid the swarm charging at him. He did not dodge. His sides, shoulders, and cheeks bled, cut by the pila. Ottar’s body was possessed by pain and self-deprecation and an all-consuming rage that transformed into passion. His rust-colored eyes stared sharply at the floor boss. They were looking beyond it, toward memories from the past. 
Ottar was glaring at the true strongest, the ones who Ottar was still chasing after. 
How weak. How feeble. You can never reach those heights with such a frail body. 
Cursing his own weakness, he limply held his sword in his left hand as he clenched his right into a fist with all the strength he could muster. 
And then, Ottar opened his mouth. To overcome the being before him. To overcome his memories of the past. 
“Silver moon’s mercy and the golden plains. I offer this body to the lord of battle.” 
A chant rang out. Udaeus reacted in surprise at the spell being spun from inside the forest of pila that looked like pitch-black gravestones. 
“Charge bearing the goddess’s will.” 
Udaeus unleashed a single pilum cloaked in a flash of light to interrupt Ottar’s cast. As it closed in on his forehead, Ottar easily grabbed it with his right hand and crushed it. And then he finished his short-cast. His one and only magic. 
“Hildis Vini.” 
 
Someone once said the life of a warlord is far harsher and far more brilliant than anyone else’s. 
Ridiculous. Ottar’s life was far from brilliant. Quite the opposite, even. It was filled with dirt and mud, blood and humiliation. It was a series of defeats. 
He had a talent. He had conviction, too. He undoubtedly possessed the potential of a hero. However, there existed monsters far greater than he in his surroundings. 
The two greatest factions that, along with the Guild, were so integral to the city ever since its founding. 
Zeus Familia and Hera Familia. 
The thousand years of history—a thousand years of trial by fire—that those two familias had built up poured down on Ottar. 
“Gaaaah—?!” 
The very first defeat had been a single strike. A hand had clamped down on the top of his head and slammed him into the ground. The man who had shattered the stone pavement while knocking out the Level-3 Ottar had been one of the lowest members of Zeus Familia. He apologized for slighting the goddess and then left as if it were nothing. 
The next defeat was a single flash. A knife strike that Ottar had not even been able to see had sent his body flying into a dilapidated old home. He only realized he was being petted right before he passed out. That time it had been a core member of Hera Familia, a girl even younger than he. The embodiment of talent the likes of which Ottar had never before seen shot him a single glance of utter disappointment before standing up and leaving. 
They were the impetus for the most intense trial by fire in Freya Familia’s history that was occurring in Folkvangr. No, compared to their baptism, the combat that Ottar and his fellow adventurers underwent on those fields could not even be called that much. It was a charade. 
The twin mountains standing before Freya Familia, blocking the way. The true embodiment of the strongest. 
The followers who had offered themselves up to Freya became desperate in order to clear the stain on their mistress’s honor, to bring glory to her. And that thousand-year wall took their lofty sense of duty and easily kicked it to the curb. Zeus’s and Hera’s followers did not even laugh at them. They just seemed utterly disinterested. 
Long, long ago, before she had settled in Orario, Freya had apparently lost to Hera in a conflict. At the time, she had also lost many of her followers. 
It was a shock to Ottar. For some reason it felt like his chest would split apart at the very thought. The idea that such dishonor would befall the woman so suited to sitting at the pinnacle of all. 
“Apparently she had been asked to scout me by Zeus, in order to get me to help with their machia. For some reason even though she was the one who won, she got all huffy and let her hatred get the best of her…Basically, I got caught up in the farce of a relationship they’ve had since they were in the heavens.” 
Freya told him the story once on a whim while she was enjoying some wine in her room. 
“I keep my promises, so for a time, I gave up on looking for my Odr, since the deal was that I would help them if I lost. It was my fault for accepting the challenge. Even though it meant inciting an Orario adventurer, I trusted my children too much and misread just how strong that one monster was.” 
It suited Freya most to be like a whimsical breeze. For her to be tied down was a betrayal of all that she represented. Standing there in confusion, Ottar had asked, “Are you okay with it like this?” 
“There’s nothing more pathetic than a vengeful goddess. So—after I drag her down from her throne, I intend to dump a glass of wine in her face. And I’ll tell her, ‘How dare you steal my property from me.’” 
She swirled the glass of wine in her hand as she quietly, coolly smiled. Her eyes narrowed. There was a certain intense light in her gaze that even Ottar could see. He clenched his fists and swore to accomplish her will, to clear the blemish that she had received—In the end, Freya never realized her revenge because she lost interest, but that was a story for another day. 
Freya was fated to be tied to Orario in order to fulfill the promise she had made. Given that, Ottar and the rest of the familia devoted themselves to turning the land where heroes were born into a throne for her. 
And then they continued to lose. 
No matter how much they struggled, they could not reach them. There was no end to it. Just how high was the summit that he was trying to reach? It was obvious, really. No matter how rigorous the peak someone climbed, no one thought they would reach the thunder flashing through the sky. And even if their hand did reach it, they would only end up being scorched by the lightning. 
It was a hopelessly high summit that would break the will of any normal person, but Ottar did not give up on his goal. Sustaining himself with his indefatigable spirit and a never-ending stream of scorn for his own weakness, Ottar continued to seek strength. 
“—Interesting.” 
He was lying collapsed on the ground as rain fell, but even still, Ottar glared with an unabated blaze in his eyes as he heard the follower of Zeus, the city’s strongest—no the world’s strongest adventurer, the Level-8 supreme. 
“—In another ten years, maybe I’ll make you my husband.” 
Seeing Ottar beaten into the ground in the blazing labyrinth and yet still not having his spirit broken, the follower of Hera, the world’s scariest woman, the Level-9 empress, laughed. 
They always let Ottar go. Those who turned against them for the sake of their masters would always be crushed, but they never delivered the finishing blow. In fact, just the opposite, they spurred the defeated on with humiliation, as if telling them to become even stronger. 
Ottar did not bear a grudge against them. And of course he did not bear any hatred for Freya. No, his murderous intent was directed solely at himself. 
How weak. How feeble. What can you hope to catch with such a weak body? 
Ottar’s ire and hatred of himself elevated an overwhelming determination and tireless quest for strength that spurred him on to greater heights. 
That was how the heroic warrior began to take shape. The impetus for all of his level-ups after Level 5 were related to Zeus Familia or Hera Familia. 
The first was fifteen years ago. And the second was seven years ago— 
Ottar knew that it was not a fair fight. Scoffing at their own unsightliness after being defeated by the one-eyed dragon and cursing their lack of strength, they had started a fire under Ottar and the rest of the next generation who were frozen in shock, leaving everything to them. 
“Surpass us, fledgling heroes.” 
The city’s strongest, the only Level 7. The pinnacle. The Warlord, Ottar. 
He had still not even caught up to those strongest adventurers before him. The pure warrior who had sworn his loyalty to the goddess, just as so many others had done, continued to fight as he set off for the pinnacle with a resolve greater than that of anyone else. 
In order to become the strongest. In order to surpass them. 
 
A breeze was blowing. A cool, gentle breeze filled with magic that grew into a soft zephyr filling that entire cavern of the labyrinth. 
The giant room where the skeleton king lay in a pitiful pile of rubble. 
“Gu…Gaaagh…?!” 
Its right arm was gone, the left side of its head was smashed apart, its jawbone and ribs were broken, too. Having lost so many of its pitch-black bones, Udaeus was struggling to cry out from the lethal blow it had received when its eyes saw it. 
The boaz who unleashed that peerless attack was calmly standing there. He glanced at his greatsword that had shattered entirely and then cast it aside. 
Sticking out of the ground behind the floor master, knocked back in the final attack, was the great black sword, cracks running through it. 
Having lost the king’s blade, Udaeus seemed to have run out of strength and its flaming eyes were flickering like a candle in the wind before suddenly extinguishing. The countless bones before Ottar fell to the ground with a deafening clatter. And standing in the middle of the pile of bones was a glimmering giant purple magic stone. 
“So you beat it, huh…” 
Hearing those words, Ottar turned around. In the distance behind him, Allen and the other first-tier adventurers were standing there. The pila blocking the passage disappeared as the skeleton king collapsed, allowing them to enter the room. 
Allen’s words did not have any trace of doubt as to what the outcome would be, and Alfrik, Dvalinn, Berling, Grer, Hegni, and Hedin all fixed their gazes on the wounded Ottar. 
Their eyes all said the same thing. 
—Someday, I’m going to defeat you and surpass you. 
And standing right beside them was Ottar. The younger Ottar who had attempted to defeat Mia, to defeat Zeus and Hera. 
Ottar smiled. The corners of his mouth just curled up ever so slightly, so it could barely be called that, but it was a smile, nonetheless. 
And, as if history were repeating itself, he said: 
“What’s the point in getting hung up on me, fools?” 
 
The report that Udaeus had been defeated was calmly reported to the Guild by Freya Familia. 
Who could have imagined a consecutive solo conquest? No one at the Guild and no adventurer would have ever dreamed it. 
Some time later— 
“I forgot to ask, but did you gain anything out of it?” 
In the goddess’s room in the manor. 
Freya’s eyes narrowed as she sat in her chair, looking at Ottar, who had returned after finishing his errand. 
“I’ve reaffirmed my own immaturity…and just how far away the summit I’m aiming for is.” 
Standing before her, Ottar responded with the plain and simple truth. Hearing that, Freya let out a muffled giggle, as if she were struggling to hold it in. 
“…What?” 
“I mean, you went to the Dungeon in order to get stronger, and yet you came back saying ‘I discovered my weakness.’” 
That was the truth, though, so Ottar did not say anything in response. 
As he stood there clumsily, one ear folded down, Freya’s shoulders trembled from her giggles as she pressed her favorite again. 
“Did you gain anything else?” 
“…This item.” 
The errand he had finished—picking up the custom sword he had ordered from Goibniu Familia. He drew the sword from its sheath on his back. 
It was a jet-black sword. The blade was enormous. Ottar was over two meders tall, but it matched his height. A first-tier blade made from the rare drop item Udaeus Black Sword. Ottar held it out flat across both hands and knelt on one knee like a knight as he presented it to her for examination. 
“What is its name?” 
“If it pleases you, I would like you decide that.” 
Ottar wished for Freya to have that honor. 
Engraving his oath in the blade of the monster that had allowed him to reaffirm his weakness and receiving a name for the blade from the goddess would allow him to become even stronger. 
And he would someday surpass that memory of the past. 
Freya understood what Ottar was thinking and respected his wish. After thinking for a little while, she said: 
“Very well, then—Supreme Black Sword.” She smiled as she bestowed a name upon the sword. “I chose it in the hopes that you will someday be able to overcome the past darkness standing across your path.” 
“You have my gratitude.” 
He lowered his head deeply before standing up. 
As the goddess watched, the warrior who still had not become the strongest lowered his eyes and swore an oath to that black blade. 
—I shall only chase strength, tirelessly and without end.