Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.01 - Chapter 3.3

From somewhere deep in the fortress city, you gaze up at the blue sky, divided into squares. The clouds and the sun are the same as they always are, yet from here, they seem immensely high up, far away. You stand to one side of the door so as not to be in the way of other customers—not that you think any will come by.

The wind brings a breath of air bearing that special clarity of a city before noon. That even this vast, complex place should have fresh air must be a blessing of the Trade God. The bustle of the streets several blocks away reaches your ears. You hear children shouting and women chattering, although by the time their voices reach you, you can no longer make out the words. The sunlight is warm and comfortable, and you feel as if you were floating in the sea.

It’s almost impossible to believe the Death is lurking directly underfoot.

So long as you delve the dungeon—indeed, so long as you have anything to do with it—the Death will always be with you. It’s impossible to forget that. But if you did, maybe you could melt away into the peace here. You could spend your life crawling around the first floor of the dungeon, never too far from the entrance, making your living on the deaths of monsters. So long as you have no objective besides making money, you have no prospects, either. It would simply be death piled upon death. Perhaps then, when your days are like cold ashes, you could claim to have nothing to do with the Death…

“Hullo, mister. That’s the look of a man with nothing good on his mind if I ever saw it.”

The cheerful voice catches you by surprise, and although you don’t take up a fighting stance, you look to the side. The owner of the voice is beside and just below you. A diminutive figure in overclothes who doesn’t quite come up to your shoulders.

You ask who they are, but you’re not especially alarmed. They’re just out of range of you. If they meant to steal from you, they wouldn’t have said something first. And for the time being, they haven’t done anything to warrant you wanting to kill them. But then…the first problem with that is that the sword you always wear at your hip isn’t there now.

Would you be able to settle this problem with the dagger you normally carry for backup, if it came to that?

“Ooh, look who’s Mr. Worried,” the stranger says, apparently realizing that you’re sizing them up. They have a bit of a lisp. They laugh gaily.

Well, now. You’re puzzled; you don’t recognize the voice. You slowly turn toward them. The stranger is indeed wearing some kind of overgarment—you think it’s a woman, though. The gentle curves of her body are visible despite her clothes.

She has delicate limbs and a modest chest, but her body is firm, almost sculpted. There’s no mistaking it. You see only a few strands of golden hair peeking out from under her hood—that and a grinning smile.

“No need to try to glare me into submission. I’m just a fan.”

You’re not sure what this means, but at the very least, this person doesn’t seem hostile. You ask her suspiciously about this “fan” business, trying to feel out what she really wants.

“Yep, a fan. Of adventurers, you see. I like to watch them, see what they do. And if I hear some news I think they might be interested in, I bring it to them.”

Hmm. A fan of you and your party would be a bit surprising, but it seems this person is an adventurer herself. You don’t precisely buy everything she’s saying, but you’re willing to listen.

“Let me tell you what’s been bothering you, mister.”

Her tell you? That bothers you, you inform her with a raised eyebrow.

“That right?” She laughs as though your suspicion means nothing to her, then says: “Newbie hunting.”

The wind gusts at just that moment, fwoosh.

‘Newbie hunting.’

You repeat the words out loud, not knowing exactly what they mean but feeling a chill just the same.

“That’s right,” she says. “You were attacked by those scruffy men down in the dungeon, weren’t you?”

You nod. Strictly speaking, you attacked them and finished them off, but, well, details.

“And there’s tell of people selling a bunch of almost brand-new equipment.”

You nod again. You think of what you saw and heard in the shop downstairs just moments ago.

“There are people who hunt novice adventurers down in the dungeon, then strip off their equipment.” You think you feel something like a flag going up in your mind as she speaks. “At the beginning, they did it at the tavern. Get the kids nice and drunk, everybody’s happy, then they’d take ’em out back, and bam.” She makes a horrifically comical gesture, whipping one of her pale arms out from under her mantle. It’s a theatrical move, certainly, but also a fairly effective representation of smashing someone’s head in with a club.

Lots of adventurers come to the fortress city. A novice’s life is cheap.

“Thing is, that’s against the law. So they learned to do the deed down in the dungeon. Then maybe it’s a monster’s fault, right?”

She seems to be seeking agreement, but you don’t respond. You do, however, mutter that it doesn’t make sense. These people may think of themselves as the hunters, but eventually they’ll become the hunted. That’s how monsters work down in the dungeon. Or at least, that’s what many adventurers believe. It might be dangerous, but they exist to be killed and deprived of their loot. Everyone knows that.

“Who’s to say? Maybe it’s not about profit or gain. Maybe they just enjoy the act. Maybe they’re possessed.”

‘Possessed.’ Once again you repeat: ‘possessed.’ But by what?

No, you don’t have to ask. You already know. It has to be…

“The Death.”

Even with the wind blowing, the words reach your ears clearly.

The Death.

You gaze up into the sky with its division into squares. Suddenly, it seems covered in the shadow of the Death that wells up out of the dungeon.

“I hear they have a hideout on the second floor of the dungeon. Watch out for yourself, eh, mister?” She cackles and waves a hand. Instead of answering, you grunt.

You’re the leader of a party now. A group of companions set on reaching the source of the Death and destroying it. You can’t let the prick of pride or a deluded little notion of justice draw you into unnecessary battles.

And yet… Newbie hunting.

The words seep into your heart, formless and creeping, inescapable. It’s as if the great wave of the Death that emanates from the dungeon has suddenly and unexpectedly taken on concrete form. It seems to you that if you’re going to reach the deepest depths of the dungeon, you won’t be able to avoid it.

After a few minutes’ thought, you slowly shake your head. This is for you to think about, but not for you to decide. You’re a leader now. So instead of making a choice, you ask her: Why tell you this?

“You know, mister, the answer’s obvious: There’s no real reason!” She laughs uproariously, as if to say, What an idiot you are! “It’s just how the dice roll of Fate and Chance turned out!” And then, before you can say another word, she dashes off.

You reach out, but all your hand grabs is empty air—she’s already vanished down the next side alley. You look at your empty hand, then pull it back angrily. What was it you meant to do if you had caught hold of her? You don’t know. This is completely unlike you. But still…

What to do now?

“Hey there, what’s the matter?”

The next ambush comes, as ever, from right next to you. Female Warrior has pushed open the creaking door and is looking at you curiously.

You shake your head and tell her it’s nothing; she emits a “hmm” and squeezes out of the stairwell. You see she’s wrapped in metal scale armor that fits her as neatly as ordinary clothes. The hem goes to just above her knees, and a belt is tied around her waist. Maybe that’s what makes the lines of her body so evident.

“Here, for you.” Before you can comment on her new armor, she tosses something at you. You instinctively catch it to discover it’s your purse and your sword, returned to its scabbard. You put the purse back in your pouch without checking the contents, then pull your sword just the slightest way out of its sheath. It catches the sunlight, a sharp, shining silver. You nod—this is good work —then click the sword back into place and hang it at your hip.

“…Mm, is that all?”

You say you don’t want to plant seeds of mistrust in your team by counting the money. She just hmms again. She sounds uninterested, but you can’t help feeling this is a thought-provoking reaction of its own. Anyway, if you start thinking that way, there’ll be no end to it. If she has something to say, she’ll say it.

“You know, it must be past noon already. I’m feeling a mite peckish…”

You consider for a second, then suggest that in that case, you should return to the tavern. There’s something you want to ask the others, and it’s a little late to be wandering around looking for someplace to eat with no particular place in mind. Then again, you’re not sure if the others will be at the tavern for lunch, considering how excited they all were to have a day off.

“Heh-heh. That’s fine, then.” She walks off, and you follow after. You turn down an alleyway, then double back, taking a route completely different from the one you came by—and then you’re back on the main street. But this was so much faster than the path you took on your way over. There are so many ways to get around here.

Just before you emerge onto the main thoroughfare, Female Warrior interjects softly, “Say…” She turns toward you, the sun, like the road, at her back, and she smiles. A ripple runs along her scale plates without so much as a sound, the brand-new metal catching the light and shining. “What do you think of my armor?”

You give some short response to this question, and she snickers.

But you, you have no idea what she herself thinks of it.

“See? I knew you needed to study more!”

That’s what your second cousin, pointing her finger at you, says upon returning that evening, very much true to form. You swat the finger away wearily and look down at the book open on the round table. You don’t know where she got it, but it appears to be a spell book.

It’s so thick and heavy that it needs a reading stand; with its ancient-looking metal cover, it practically oozes history. You pick it up and feel how heavy it is; it’s more suited to some library tower than this tavern.

Apparently, your cousin and Female Bishop, seated squarely beside her, have spent the entire day deep in study of this thing. You’re pleased that the party’s spell casters are devoted to improving themselves—but where in the world did they get this thing?

“A dark-elf tradesman got it for us. It will be helpful.” Female Bishop, from her place at the table, is unusually garrulous. Or maybe it isn’t that unusual. This is the true her—beaten and hidden it had been but is now coming to light.

“Heh-heh-heh, we can’t let those girls outdo us!” The “girls” your cousin refers to must be the ones from the orphanage. You never thought of yourself as an especially experienced adventurer, but the presence of people less experienced than you seems to have been a useful goad. Even you feel like you can’t rest on your laurels.

Not everyone in the fortress city agrees on this point, but most believe the Death has only one source. The Knight of Diamonds might find it before you, or perhaps those girls will overtake you from behind, but… In any event, only one party can solve the mystery and arrive at the root of the problem.

And it’s always possible that you might expire, still lost in the dream. Even if you’re down in the dungeon only for money—most adventurers are—you can still be swallowed up by the maze.

The Death.

The words are like a shadow that clings to you.

“He said it’s a secret text from another country,” your cousin says with a smile, apparently oblivious to how you’re feeling; Female Bishop nods. “It’s going to be very helpful.”

When you look closely, you see there’s a hint of color in her cheeks. Seems reading isn’t the only thing your cousin’s been doing at the bar.

Money. Yes. Need to think about money.

You give a gentle shake of your head in an effort to slough off the slight chill that’s been hanging on you all afternoon. You control the party’s collective finances, not the private money of its individual members. But still, two unworldly girls buying a mysterious book from a dark-elf trader? It seems a little fishy… Wondering aloud whether it really is some kind of secret heirloom text, you cast a doubtful eye on the book…

Aha.

Now you see why your second cousin would be so engrossed by it. You don’t know whether you could necessarily use everything in it just now, but a quick skim of the pages reveals any number of useful spells. No harm in learning these. Whoever this merchant might or might not have been, his wares seem to be legitimate. Then again, when you think about it, your cousin had Female Bishop with her, who has the power of identification. Would have been hard to pull one over on them.

“Heh-heh, what do you think? Does your sister know how to do her shopping or what?”

You ignore your second cousin (who’s currently puffing out her chest triumphantly) and close the spell book. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to learn a few more spells yourself for your next dive into the dungeon. For now, you’ve got your hands full with your sword, literally; you still have trouble using magic intuitively in the heat of battle.

You’re loath to give your cousin the satisfaction of admitting she’s right, but you agree that maybe you should study a little bit. You have to drag the words out of your own mouth, but you manage to ask the girls if you might be able to borrow this book sometime.

“Er, I…I think it’s quite all right. I don’t mind.”

“Sure, of course! Don’t worry—your big sis will keep a good, close eye on you until you learn everything!”

That would be your second cousin. You make a gesture indicating this conversation is over, then let out a breath. You have to get some funds from the party purse to cover your cousin’s expenses.

Half-Elf Scout watches your (in your case unwelcome) bit of banter with your cousin and laughs. “I gotta hand it to you. My head hurts just lookin’ at this thing.”

He had said he was going to go visit an acquaintance, and ended up coming back around evening. You smile and agree with him. Well, of course it’s difficult. The old tongue, the words of true power, used in casting magical spells isn’t anything like the everyday languages people speak now. Not to mention the descriptions of the spells are difficult; sometimes you feel the best you can hope for is to understand what little you can.

Half-Elf Scout listens to your explanation and nods enthusiastically. “I can understand it if I want to; I can. But I can’t just take a look and go, Aw, yeah, that makes sense. I ain’t one of those types. Gotta say, though, Cap, I wouldn’t mind learning to use a spell or two myself, y’know? Don’t have the brains for it, though.” Then he laughs. You give a dry smile yourself.

Knowing the words isn’t enough to use a magic spell. You need intelligence and perceptiveness. It’s a bit like it is for clerics, who can read scripture all day long and still their prayers might not reach the gods.

You ignore Female Bishop, who continues to nod and say that “it will be helpful,” and look at Myrmidon Monk instead.

“Seems fine either way…,” he says to your fishing for agreement, sounding even less interested than usual as he sinks into his chair. “At least when compared with thinking you’ve won, only to go buy a snack and find out you’ve lost.”

You see. That’s true. You nod—you absolutely couldn’t care less—and pour some wine from the jar into his cup. Myrmidon Monk takes the cup, gulps down the wine with a clack of his mandibles, then shakes his head, his antennae bobbing from side to side. “…My deity loves gambling, so why can’t I get a blessing over here?”

Fate, you suppose, is the answer. You give a noncommittal response and pour some wine into your own cup. Or perhaps it’s Chance. When it comes to the roll of the dice, even the gods…

“Hey…” You feel a tug on your sleeve, almost a sort of ambush; the hand was just there so suddenly. “Didn’t you say there was something you wanted to ask everyone?” It’s Female Warrior, who until a moment ago had been showing off her new armor to everyone, now that they’re all finally back. She must have finally gotten enough admiration to satisfy her, because now she’s sipping a cup of wine. She looks at you with her most ambiguous smile.

You give it a moment’s thought, then decide to say it.

‘Apparently, there are “newbie hunters” in the dungeon.’

Half-Elf Scout is the first to react. “Wha—? You talking about the scruffy men?”

You nod and say probably—the scruffy men, who supposedly have a base of operations on the second floor. Those rogues you dealt with last time out, hadn’t you all stumbled upon them right as they were busy trying to strip some novices of their armor?

“Now I get it,” Half-Elf Scout says, crossing his arms and making a face. He sits back in his chair.

Your cousin leans across the table, her eyes a little wider than usual. “Now you get what?”

“When I was out with my friend today, Sis,” the scout says, “we were walkin’ around town, but the whole place felt…funny.”

‘Funny?’ You cock your head, and he replies, “Yeah,” his face very serious. “Like there aren’t enough mid-levelers, like the new kids aren’t coming back up… The dungeon, I thought it was just that way.”

That makes sense. Many adventurers give up truly delving the dungeon, resigning themselves to making some money—but still. If there seems to be a great gap in experience, newbie hunters would explain it. Of course, plenty of people meet their doom by the monsters, traps, and simple confusion generated by the Death in the dungeon. Whether anyone is engaging in newbie hunting or not, the Death will continue to flow out of the labyrinth in all likelihood.

“Where’d you get this info exactly, Cap?”

Well…

Where did you hear it? You shake your head: You can’t seem to remember exactly.

It was in the afternoon… No, this afternoon you talked to the old man at the equipment shop and Female Warrior—and no one else, right? Well, maybe you picked it out in the snippets of passing conversation at the tavern… It doesn’t really matter how you heard it anyway. Very few of the rumors swirling around the dungeon are totally trustworthy. Instead of asking each other pointless questions, it would be much better to go find the truth with your own eyes.

There’s just one question: Do you need to find the truth? Whatever happened to the adventurers who went into the dungeon, it was on them. Whatever happened to those girls from the orphanage or any other adventurers, it has nothing to do with you. And conversely, whatever happens to you has nothing to do with any of them.

You are the leader of a party, and the fate of your party members rests, to a greater or lesser extent, on your shoulders. You don’t have one single, solitary reason to put your companions in danger for the sake of some other adventurers. You can go out of your way to confront these newbie hunters or avoid them entirely.

We’re free to make either choice.

“…………”

To your surprise, as you’re deep in thought, it’s your cousin who leans toward you, her face serious. What could she want? You open your mouth to ask her, but—

“C’mon, you!”

Eeyowch.

You can almost hear the sound as she pokes you in the forehead.

“A leader’s not supposed to make a face like that. You’re supposed to talk—to your big sis and everyone else.”

Even as you rub your stinging head, you try to maintain your composure as you look back at your cousin. That’s all well and good, but surely, she doesn’t need to attack you for it?

“But you weren’t even looking around you. I think a little poke in the head is the perfect antidote.”

Around.

That causes you to take a proper look around the table. Half-Elf Scout guffaws and pounds himself on the chest. “What’sa matter, Captain? Something on your mind? You just tell your old scout, eh?”

“Let me guess—you’re in love?” Next is Female Warrior, grinning. “Well, sorry to rain on your parade, but I’m afraid the answer is no.” She puts her hands together in front of her ample chest apologetically.

You scratch your cheek with embarrassment (even though you haven’t said anything yet), and Female Bishop opens her mouth hesitantly. “Um, uh…” Although she acts unsure, you can detect her gaze from underneath her bandage; she turns to you and nods firmly. “If you’re willing to talk to me, I’m certainly willing to listen… Okay?”

“Me, I don’t care either way,” Myrmidon Monk says, mandibles clacking as he offers Female Bishop a drink of water. “Whatever’s on your mind, just spit it out.”

Well, sheesh.

“See?” Your cousin grins, and you realize she never meant any harm. Seeing now that you’re surrounded by the kind of friends who are hard to come by, you shore up your resolve and share your thoughts.

‘I want to hunt down those scruffy men.’

You won’t pretend you’re doing it for the greater good, for the world or anyone in it, or even because you personally don’t like them. You won’t spout any nonsense about virtue, or evil, or being unable to forgive them for their crimes. It literally has nothing to do with you. No one’s asked you to fight them, and you have no reason to.

Except you came to the fortress city relying on your own blade. Can those who would challenge the Death live with themselves if they run from some ruffians on just the second floor?

Yes, there’s a proverb that says the wise man doesn’t face a stampeding stallion but takes a road that avoids it. But you don’t wish to avoid this first intimation of the Death in the dungeon. Instead, you feel strongly that you should cut it down if you can and move forward.

“…”

“…”

Your friends, after hearing your thoughts, look at one another in silent consideration. You’re thankful for this. You feel immense gratitude that they give it genuine thought, rather than unthinkingly saying That’s right or I agree.

Ultimately, the first to speak is Half-Elf Scout. “It’s a tough one, but… If we’re talkin’ purely about whether it benefits us or not, gotta say the answer is a resoundin’ no.”

Female Bishop turns a bit red at that; putting a hand to her cheek, she tries to offer her own ideas in a hesitant voice. “Wha—? But… Is that really true?”

“Sure it is,” Half-Elf Scout replies with a nod. He isn’t explicitly for or against the idea yet, just stating facts.

“He’s right if we limit the discussion to ourselves,” Myrmidon Monk says. “This bunch is after freshly minted prey. Adventurers who can handle the second floor themselves would be too risky.”

Meaning, you suppose, that if you simply continue getting more powerful and delving deeper into the dungeon, there’s minimal chance that you’ll be targeted by these people. That’s the conclusion you draw about your current situation based on what these two have said. If you go on with your original plan to head down to the second floor, you won’t be attacked by the newbie hunters. Not even scorched by the sparks from their activities. No need at all to go jumping into the flames yourselves.

“Still… Hmm. I think there’s more to say. What about you?” Myrmidon Monk pulls your thoughts back to the argument at hand.

“Who, me?” Half-Elf Scout makes a strained face. “Eh, it means no newbies coming up the ranks. Life’d be that much harder when you’re trying to bring up a new kid…”

Now, that, you understand. They’re talking about what happens when someone in this place dies and is lost. Spending inordinate amounts of time teaching and training new people would slow down the exploration of the dungeon; it would, in effect, be a retreat from the front lines.

You can’t imagine how deep the dungeon might be beyond that second floor. Still less whether the people now delving will be the ones to reach the bottom…

“But we can’t just do nothing.”

Of course your cousin would say that. She’s such a good-hearted soul, much more so (you know all too well!) than you are.

“We can’t just sacrifice other people when we know what’s happening…”

“I agree that, er…um…it would be helpful,” Female Bishop says, much as you expected. She still sounds a little hesitant and uncertain; maybe the drink hasn’t quite worn off yet. But she tilts her head in an enticing fashion, a bewitching expression on her face, and says coolly, “Besides, they aren’t goblins, are they?”

At the very least, you don’t think they are.

That simple confirmation from you brings a “Right” and a happy nod from her. Her voice still carries a hint of ineffable fear, but now she’s against the scruffy men.

Always expected those two girls to agree anyway.

“Can’t say I’m a big fan,” Half-Elf Scout remarks, his cup in his hand and a sour look on his face, and that’s also just as you knew it would be. “Long-term thinking’s one thing, but the short-term matters, too.”

“But dungeon crawling was always going to be dangerous. It’s only a matter of whether we confront it now or put it off until later,” Myrmidon Monk counters, his mandibles clacking. “In this case, we happen to have avoided the danger. The next time, we might not be able to. Do we leave ourselves a little slack or gain some experience?”

You think you understand where he’s coming from.

‘Meaning?’

“I don’t care either way.”

You take in these varying opinions into consideration and nod deeply.

Myrmidon Monk isn’t specifically for or against. That makes it two against two. Not that it’s precisely your intention to decide things by majority vote, but if it was, then…

“………”

Female Warrior has kept her silence. She’s just sitting there at the edge of the table. You’ll have to ask, find out what she thinks about all this. Notwithstanding her occasional serious looks, she tends to poke fun at any real arguments.

You ask the question, and at the bottom of her voice, sounding almost confused, she says, “What, me…? I… I…” You nod, encouraging her to continue, and finally, in the softest of tones, she says, “…I want to…do something to help, I guess…” Her words sound uncommonly delicate and vulnerable. She pulls her feet up onto her chair and nods to herself like a little child. “I want to do something. This… It’s about more than just us.”

Fair enough.

Now you’ve at least heard everyone’s thoughts on the issue. You nod again to show that you’re thinking seriously. That makes Female Warrior giggle and smile just like she always does. “…Hey, if our leader says no, then there’s no arguing.”

“True that!” agrees Half-Elf Scout, and you smile in spite of yourself. “We’re the ones who picked you for this job, Cap, so just make the call.”

Myrmidon Monk doesn’t say anything, and neither does Female Bishop, although she smiles ambiguously and rocks back and forth a little.

“See?” Your cousin looks at you as if to say, Just like your big sis told you, right? Bah.

But you have indeed found yourself with rare traveling companions. You can certainly go confront those scruffy men on the second floor of the dungeon with them or ignore the whole thing. The right to choose is in your hands. This is true freedom.

You announce your decision.

‘Let’s do it.’

To turn a blind eye to evil is to do evil yourself—isn’t that what they say? Besides, you’re going to fight the Death at the bottom of the dungeon someday. What are a few ruffians to you?

Half-Elf Scout and Myrmidon Monk nod.

“Oh, it’s on!”

“So it would seem.”

Now that you’ve made the choice, all that’s left is to act. You were already planning to head for the second floor on your next visit to the dungeon, so nothing new on that front. There shouldn’t be any problems on the way, assuming Female Bishop is good and sober by then. The real key is going to be how many resources you can conserve during the trip, knowing you have a big fight awaiting you…

“Mn… Thanks,” Female Warrior whispers, but you shake your head and say that you didn’t do anything to warrant gratitude. You just made the best choice for your party’s future.

“Heh-heh.” Your cousin scoffs. “Your big sister is happy to see what a sweet person her little brother’s turned into.”

‘Hush up, second cousin.’

Then you raise your voice even louder and call for a waitress. You’re going into the dungeon tomorrow. A little more to drink first won’t matter. The laughter of your companions as they watch you call for more alcohol is lost in the hum of the tavern.

“Say, Cap, I heard that Knight of Diamonds is heading to the second floor tomorrow, too.”

Oh-ho. You listen closely, although you don’t stop drinking liberally from your cup. This isn’t the first rumor Half-Elf Scout has reported this evening—he seems to come by a lot of them.

“That’s because I’m a scout and a thief. Keeping my ears open is my job.” He crosses his arms as if this was obvious. “Heck, if I didn’t work on gathering information, I’d have nothing to do but open treasure chests.”

You don’t think that’s all he would have to do, and you tell him so. He’s helped you out in any number of different ways.

“Gotta be diligent—that’s the real trick to staying alive.” He grins and shrugs.

Makes sense—by his logic, he’s been keeping you all alive.

“Yeah. That’s why you just have to do your best opening those treasure chests,” says Female Warrior, who’s been listening to you, cheerfully stirring the pot. You can see that her cheeks are flushed and her eyes relaxed; you’re not sure how many cups of wine she’s had. “But if you’re not sure about one, you have to let us know, all right? There are lots of replacements.”

“Like me,” Myrmidon Monk adds, his mandibles clacking. “My Precog miracle lets me foresee any traps that might be set on a treasure chest.”

“Geez…” Half-Elf Scout wrinkles his brow to much laughter (and eating and drinking) from the rest of you.

Well, only as much eating and drinking as the last few little coins in this purse.

Each of you has had a good day off, raised your level, and now you pray for success in tomorrow’s dungeon dive. Chances to raise a glass and revel with your companions like this are precious. The next time one comes, you might not be celebrating with the same people.

In this town where ash and death attend you at all times, just living is hard enough. That’s why the adventurers you see always celebrate as they do. And you intend to learn from their example.

Regardless, the last thing you want is to die because of a hangover. You dump Half-Elf Scout and Myrmidon Monk, both brought low by their cups, into the haystacks, then head outside the stable by yourself. You can see one lone white trail stretching through the bright array of the heavens far above: smoke from the distant mountain where a dragon is said to dwell.

You remove the mass-produced sword at your hip, scabbard and all, and sit down beside the stables. The cool night breeze of early summer feels pleasant against your cheeks, flush with spirits. You draw your sword and hold it up, almost as if to shield yourself from the starlight. You check the blade carefully, make sure all the fasteners are fastened, and see that the sharkskin wrapping around the hilt is still a good fit.

Your mentor taught you that your sword is much more than just a weapon. It is an extension of your body, your skills, and your heart: It is a part of you. And whatever it may or may not be, tomorrow you will entrust your life to it. Maintenance is crucial, lest poor fettle cost you everything in the dungeon.

“Hmm… Funny place to sleep.” The unexpected voice causes you to jerk your head up; you tighten your grip on the hilt of your sword, then relax it again.

“Ha! Yeah, I’m here.” Female Warrior stands in the starlight, grinning like a little girl. She sits herself down in a pile of straw beside the stable, ignoring your surprise. The place doesn’t have the typical musk of animals—maybe because it seems more adventurers than horses sleep here. Female Warrior presses her hand into the straw with an interested “Huh! Softer than I expected. Wouldn’t mind curling up right here.”

Not quite grasping what she really means—but with you, what else is new?—you change positions so you’re facing her. Female Warrior moves as well, shifting her soft, supple body so it presses right up against yours. “Hee-hee, getting your hopes up? Sorry to disappoint.” She giggles, but you just smile wryly and shake your head. “Hmm,” she says disinterestedly.

But won’t your cousin and Female Bishop be concerned to find her missing from their room?

“Let’s just say the dear things don’t hold their alcohol very well.”

Out cold, huh?

You suspect it’s almost certainly your second cousin’s fault, but it’s also understandable, considering they seemed to have been drinking since noon.

“Just when I was really feeling bored, I looked out the window, and I could see the stables. I thought I’d stop by to kill some time.”

Ah. You nod in response.

Trying to be mindful of your snoozing companions and the other adventurers nearby, you begin attending to your katana by the light of the moons. But if anything, that seems to draw her interest further. Well, it’s not like you’re sleepy yourself yet. You wouldn’t be averse to chatting for a while…

“…Heh, who am I kidding? That’s all just an excuse.”

You look up from your work in surprise and find yourself gazing into Female Warrior’s eyes, which are clear and true. You wonder if she’s ever looked at you so unflinchingly before.

“…Hey, thanks for earlier, y’know?” she says and smiles gently. Not her usual smile, meant to obscure her true feelings, but one that makes her look as young and girlish as she is. There’s the hem of her clothing, then her pale legs, her smile, the warmth of her beside you, the softness of her flesh. You force yourself to glance away from all this, up to the sky. There you see the twin moons and the gentle wisp of smoke.

Her opinion mattered to you, of course, but it wasn’t the decisive factor. It had been your suggestion to begin with, but the feelings of each individual weren’t the only things that went into the choice. It was really a question of what would be the most beneficial for the party in the future. So it’s nothing she needs to be so concerned about. And if anything happens because of it, the responsibility will rest with the one who made the decision: with you, the party’s leader.

Over the course of several minutes, you explain all this to her.

“Hmm… That’s real cool and all,” she says quietly, looking at you critically. “I always knew you liked putting on a show.”

With utmost seriousness, you object that it isn’t “a show”; it’s simply how you really are, and she just giggles and then falls silent. The only sounds that remain are the gentle rasp of breathing and the wind. You hear, too, the distant burble of the town and the tavern, but that’s all.

With Female Warrior quiet, you replace your katana in its scabbard with a click, then loll onto the hay, lying and looking at the stars. There’s a faint rustle of clothing. You can feel, somehow, that Female Warrior is looking at you.

After a moment, you hear her snicker again. “…Hey. Be honest: You were sort of hoping, right?”

‘Hoping for what?’ You laugh, then close your eyes.

Tomorrow will come soon. Scruffy men or no, it will be your first time challenging that second floor of the dungeon. The great and august leader of the party mustn’t be short on sleep.

“True,” Female Warrior agrees, and you can feel her stand up. Then you hear her pat herself down and some straw scattering around. “But maybe that was just a little hope there?”

This time you don’t say anything at all, and she likewise goes back to the inn without another word.

So the night ends.

“U-urgh… My head… It huuurts…”

Morning comes to the fortress city.

You sigh at your second cousin as she goes wobbling down the main street. You know the bustle of the city’s residents will soon carry away the chilly white mist and the morning silence. The town, just waking up, looks almost empty, yet there’s an irrepressible feeling of life. Maybe this is the only town where that feeling might be disturbed by a group of adventurers clanking down the street in full equipment.

Why did she drink until she felt that way anyway?

“W-we have antidotes and stuff…”

She thinks you’re going to use one of your party’s precious antidotes on a hangover?

Your cousin looks so despondent that you elect not to say anything else. When you think about it, you realize this girl didn’t have a lot of opportunities to go out drinking with her friends and companions back when she was living at home. There’s no special reason to needle her about her failure to consider the consequences.

“Are you quite all right…?”

“Yeah, I… I’m fine.”

From that perspective, it’s rather surprising that Female Bishop, seemingly so obviously a daughter of a cultured upbringing, is apparently unaffected. She holds the sword and scales as she walks and even has the wherewithal to offer a kind word to your cousin. Well, everyone has their own past.

“Heh-heh, guess I should’ve asked for more medicine while I was at the temple,” Female Warrior says with her usual inscrutable smile. You see this as rather a different matter from your lengthy chat with her and settle on a simple nod. It’s clear that she, too, has no intention of bringing up last night.

You remain somewhat mystified by why she feels the need to put in an appearance at the temple so regularly, considering she doesn’t strike you as especially devout. At the same time, though, it’s not for you to question what your party members do. This is well and good.

“My friend was tellin’ me that if you fall asleep drunk, you might sleep, but your spirit doesn’t get any rest,” Half-Elf Scout says seriously from beside you. He seems to have done his fair share of drinking yesterday as well. But elves and rheas aren’t built the same way humans are.

“Doesn’t matter one way or the other to me—just do us a favor and don’t flub your spells,” chides Myrmidon Monk, who you know for a fact has been chewing some herbs that are supposed to chase away hangovers. You silently hold out your hand, and with a “tsk,” he produces a plug of the herbs from his pouch and gives it to you. Still without a word, you pass it back to your cousin. She blinks at it, then grabs it with both hands and stuffs it into her mouth.

“…It’s so bitter!”

‘Yeah, it’s a hangover cure.’

That’s all the response you have to her concern as you cut through the city and head for the edge of town. To challenge the pit, its fangs bared like a cruel animal, while suffering from a hangover would be beyond foolish. The opponent you’re facing is the Death. Something or someone stretching out its hand from deep within all over the Four-Cornered World. Whatever it is, you’ll never be able to handle it just puttering around on the first floor, but today is different. Today, you’re going down to the second level. It sounds like such a small change, but you have to make sure everything is just right.

That’s what you’re trying to keep in mind as you pass through the great gate and head for the dungeon entrance. The royal knight standing guard already knows you by sight, but then, there must be many she knows. And perhaps just as many who die before she gets to know their faces—yes, those who succumb to the Death.

The sense of death intensifies as you get closer; to you, it smells like rust…

Female Bishop is the first to say anything: “I smell blood…” Her voice is so soft and detached, you almost don’t realize it’s her at first.

The knight guard stares at you curiously when you all stop just in front of the dungeon entrance. She looks like she’s about to ask if you’ve caught a case of cold feet, and you wave your hand to dismiss the notion. If you were really frightened, then you would have to humbly accept the reputation as a coward that would pursue you. But if not, then it would be a dishonor to be thought one. And dishonor is a failure and would ultimately mean you would have to kill yourself to make it right, and you’d like to avoid that.

Still, to discover the dungeon so full of blood and death that you can detect it all the way on the surface…

“Sorry, make way! Coming through!”

By the time the voice reaches you, even you can smell the blood. Racing out of the dungeon, equipment rattling, comes a party you recognize. It’s the Knight of Diamonds and a red-haired adventurer, supported by their party members. All of them are wounded, their armor dirty, and several of them are carrying companions slumped over their shoulders.

The Knight of Diamonds, in the lead, is just as bloodless and pale as the others, and he’s hardly uninjured. For one thing, he has a rag soaked a dark reddish-black pressed against the neck of his armor.

Now, that’s failure.

They don’t have to tell you to get out of the way; they nod in acknowledgment as you step aside, then run past you without breaking their pace. As they pass by, your eyes meet those of the Knight of Diamonds, who opens his mouth as if he might say something to you. But the words take on no sound, and before you can tell what he was about to say, they’re gone.

Your party, left standing there, takes a look around, your eyes finally settling on the guard. The knight guard shrugs uncomfortably but says nothing.

“Do you think it was goblins…?”

“I’m betting it wasn’t slimes—that’s for sure.”

Female Bishop and Female Warrior both have trouble hiding the nervousness in their voices. You say very seriously that it could well have been goblins or even slimes. “Grrr,” your cousin growls from behind you, jabbing you in the back, but you can’t be bothered to notice her.

“Y’know… I heard their party was going to be hitting the second floor today,” Half-Elf Scout remarks, and you nod agreement. Probably best to assume they were fighting the notorious scruffy men. Apparently, they’re more powerful opponents than you gave them credit for. You must be vigilant, but this might also be your best chance. After all, the scruffy men have certainly been weakened by the fight as well. Now might be the perfect moment to finish them off.

“But that…,” your cousin says to this, clearly concerned. “That makes it sound like this is no different from a monster hunt…”

Myrmidon Monk’s mandibles clack, and for once he laughs. “It just means those bastards are Non-Prayers now.”

To make a long story short, slimes certainly do show up, as do goblins.

“…!” Female Bishop’s teeth chatter, her face pale.

“Argh, I can’t take it anymore…!” Beside her, Female Warrior is wiping goo off her clothes, looking like she might cry at any moment.

Down amid the white wire frame of the dungeon, even the simple path to the stairway is not guaranteed to be safe. You can stay out of every room, yet you never know when you might run into a wandering monster.

You kick the gooey, spreading puddle—whether it’s blood or brains or what, you don’t know—and turn around. You ask if everyone’s okay. The two girls in the back aside, it would be trouble if anyone was hurt.

“…A good scare fixed me right up!” your second cousin replies brightly, probably referring to her hangover. You think maybe it had more to do with the herbs you gave her, but in any event, you flick the blood off your sword and put it back in its scabbard.

“This place has one rotten Dungeon Master.” Half-Elf Scout snorts as he frisks the corpse of a goblin lying in a puddle of foul liquid. “We fight, we risk our lives just like we do in any of the chambers, but these guys don’t carry treasure chests.”

“Guess they don’t want people who are only after money going any deeper.” Myrmidon Monk, like you, wipes his blade and puts it away. “You’re right; the danger’s the same, so let the coin-addled stay up here instead of being tempted to explore farther—that’s probably the logic.”

You get out your canteen and take a swig, then speak to Female Bishop and Female Warrior.

“Yes… I’m all right,” Female Bishop answers with an uneasy nod.

“Urgh, my brand-new armor…,” Female Warrior moans, pouting.

You’re not sure whether these responses represent their true feelings or are just a front, but if they can pretend to be all right, then that’s probably good enough for now. You give out orders, then start walking through the halls of the wire frame that leads deeper into the dungeon. You’ve managed to make it to right near the staircase without using up any of your spells, which seems like a good sign. You leave it to your scout to check out what’s ahead, then ask about the path to follow.

“Oh, yes,” Female Bishop says, quickly opening the map she’d rolled up when the battle started.

Your cousin peeks in from beside her, brushing the surface of the sheepskin with the same fingers that clutch her short staff. “This is about where we are, right?”

“Yes, I think that’s where the battle started, so…to the east one square, then north…”

Fighting within a room is one thing, but this is the danger of a battle out in the halls. After all, you don’t stand in one place while you’re fighting. You close distance, open it up again, get pushed back, or fight your way forward. In other words, your position changes, and if you resume exploring without taking that into account, it’s all too easy to get lost. If you were to step on a turntable and get spun around completely—you haven’t encountered that yet yourself—it would be no laughing matter.

More than anything, getting too involved in some other task can cost you your concentration.

You try to steady your breath, made ragged by combat, and wait for Female Bishop to finish the mapping.

“There it is—we’re taking the long way around the dark zone, and we should reach the staircase before long.”

You nod acknowledgment, then give Female Warrior a gentle pat on the shoulder. Her sopping clothes stick to her skin, but you make it a point to act like you don’t notice. “Hmph,” she utters, whether she notices this or not, then follows you at a brisk trot.

You finally arrive at something that isn’t so much a staircase as a sort of rope ladder. It hangs clear through a hole in the floor so that you can climb up and down. You wonder if it was left there by the first adventurers to brave this dungeon to its bottom or if it’s been there all along. You don’t even know if anyone else has ever really reached the lowest floor.

You go right up to the edge of the hole and peer down.

Darkness.

A square patch of black yawns in the floor. The harder you look at it, the more you feel like it’s looking back at you.

“Wouldn’t want to fall down that,” Half-Elf Scout says with a glance at the hole.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Myrmidon Monk clacks. “This dungeon does funny things to your senses. What’s close seems far away, and what’s well in the distance looks like it’s just out of reach.”

Myrmidon eyes are different from those of humans. Maybe the world they see is different, too. But regardless, what he says is right. The only visible things in this dungeon are the darkness and the faint white wire frame of the walls. Perhaps the invisible floor beneath your feet is really just that thin.

“So if someone was to go Boo! from behind you…”

You give your second cousin a cold stare.

“What, you think I would actually do it? Not me.”

Good, then.

“Wonder who—or what—is waiting for us on the second floor,” Female Warrior whispers, and you, taking her cue, say it’s probably monsters.

“Monsters.” It’s a broad grouping, but there it is. Be they goblins or be they slimes, the monsters, in their wanderings, made this dungeon their home, so perhaps it was true what Myrmidon Monk said before. You were going to have to fight fearsome Non-Prayer Characters.

‘Let’s go with the usual arrangement.’

You and Female Warrior, along with Myrmidon Monk, in the front row. Female Bishop and your cousin, along with Half-Elf Scout, in the back.

That means it will be up to you to descend the ladder first and make sure it’s safe for everyone else to come down. You grab the ladder even as you make the suggestion and are greeted with nods from the others.

“Might be best for me t’go down last, then. Gotta make sure it stays safe up here, too.” Half-Elf Scout smacks his chest assuredly.

“If you don’t mind, we would most appreciate that,” Female Bishop says with a dip of her head.

With the front row heading down first, you have to make sure you’ll be able to return in a hurry if anything happens. You transfer your sword to your back so it won’t get in your way as you climb.

“Just to be clear, there won’t be any looking up by the people who go down first, will there?” says Female Warrior, ready as always with an ambush. She brings her arms together in front of her voluptuous bosom and looks at you as if to say, Will there?

“Not interested.” Maybe Myrmidon Monk thinks he’s helping, but he does it with his characteristic bluntness.

Whatever.

“Now, now, be a good boy,” your second cousin teases, evidently intent on twisting the knife, and even Female Bishop examines you studiously. Her eyes might not carry the light of vision in them, but her gaze can still be cold and sharp when she wants it to.

Fine, fine. You give a wry smile, then get a better grip on the ladder and give it a good tug to make sure it’s firmly in place. Satisfied that it’s not going to come loose too easily, you lower yourself into the hole, hanging in space. You let out a breath, feeling the rungs of the ladder against your fingertips. Then you begin a slow, careful climb downward.

Your companions vanish from sight above you, and then you’re swallowed up by darkness. You’re frightened, yes—but no one has ever attained victory by worrying. The best thing you can do is banter with your friends a bit to keep things lighthearted as you go. Being unable to do that, here alone in the dark, is perhaps the worst part of this. But you steel yourself and proceed down, rung by rung, toward a second floor you can’t yet see.

In terms of what you see, the second floor is no different from the first.

The wire-frame maze floating up out of the darkness. The chill, unfeeling atmosphere.

You stand in the very center of the hallway, call up to your companions above you, and give the ladder a shake.

The first to follow you is Myrmidon Monk, who comes sliding smoothly down. You remark that he seems used to this, to which he replies simply, “Well, you know.” You don’t know whether it’s some trait of Myrmidons or past experience, but in any event, you find it reassuring.

“Hold on a second, ’kay?” Female Warrior seems to be having some trouble; whether it’s from the height of the ladder or from awkwardly trying to hold her spear, you’re not sure. She spends a moment attempting to figure out how to avoid both dropping her weapon and getting entangled in the rope ladder, but in the end, she seems to give it up. She ties some rope around herself, diagonally across her chest, securing the spear on her back before finally making it down the ladder.

“Sorry. Waiting long?” she asks, landing lightly on her feet, as if she and her armor weigh nothing at all. You nod your admiration. Although, given the agility and nimbleness her weapon demands, perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised.

The ones who come next, they could be the problem.

“S-slowly now, okay…?”

“Please don’t shake the ladder…!”

Female Bishop’s difficulties you can understand, what with the trouble with her eyes, but your cousin’s bumbling descent gets on your nerves. You don’t intend to complain aloud—you know this isn’t the sort of thing either of them was taught to do—but you will have to try to think of some way to help them for the next time this comes up.

You don’t think it’s really that far down, but the girls’ movements on the ladder are slow and hesitant. You call out that it’s all right, that you’ll catch them if they fall, but it doesn’t seem to help very much.

“I think it’s falling they’re afraid of. Doesn’t matter if they’ll be fine at the end,” Myrmidon Monk notes.

You see he’s right. It seems so obvious when he says it. You shake your head hopelessly and decide to take a look around.

You seem to be on the first square of a hallway, and there’s no sense that any monsters are about to burst out at you. The real question is where on the second floor you are. The dungeon may go many levels deep, but nothing says it was necessarily dug straight down. Judging purely by the number of steps on a side, it seems to be built roughly in the shape of a square, but you don’t know if this level is located directly beneath the one above or not…

“S-sorry about that. We’re here now…”

“Phew, we made it…”

That would be Female Bishop and your second cousin arriving. Female Bishop is nodding slightly, but your second cousin has since collapsed on the ground. You remark with an amused smile that it makes her look sloppy, and she puffs out her cheeks at you. “Not all of us were allowed to spend our time climbing trees back home!”

So she thinks she would be on equal terms with you if she’d been allowed to clamber through branches all her life? You shake your head at this sore loser–ness of hers, then ask Half-Elf Scout what he thinks of the situation.

“Eh, that’s the difference between a warrior and a magic user, I guess.” He slides down to the second floor with hardly a sound, a thief in his element. He does a quick check of his equipment, then nods. “Great. And as your level goes up, the gap gets bigger, too, so I wouldn’t sweat it too much.”

“See? That’s what you’re missing!” your cousin says, apparently heartened by the scout’s considerate remark and looking to make an attack of opportunity. “Right?” she adds, looking to Female Bishop for confirmation, but the other woman only shifts nervously. “Us girls have picked up some new tricks from that spell book, so don’t underestimate us!” She puffs out her generous chest, full of confidence, and you have to admit that it won’t hurt to have some more magic available.

You cut through the chatter to tell everyone it’s about time to move out, and then you refocus your attention. It’s time to explore the second floor—and confront the scruffy men.

They don’t know you’re coming or that you even exist, but then again, neither of you is compelled to be in this fight. When adventurers and monsters clash in this dungeon, all that awaits is victory for one and the Death for the other.

“So which way first?” Myrmidon Monk asks. You think about it for a moment, then conclude that wherever they are, the scruffy men can’t be far. They might be no different from monsters now, but they’ll still want to make their base somewhere that offers them the most convenience. If they’re preying on adventurers exploring the first floor, then they would probably stay as close to here as possible.

“Agreed. Assuming there aren’t any other stairways or the like around, of course.”

If you’re right about this, then that’s another mystery of the maze you’ve solved. With the scruffy men hurt by the attack from the Knight of Diamonds and his party, you can’t miss the opportunity this day represents. There’s no way the enemy escaped unscathed; they must be injured as well.

You can’t give them any time to lick their wounds or to relocate their base deeper into the dungeon in fear of reprisals. And on the unlikely possibility that the scruffy men dealt with the Knight of Diamonds before he and his party could even scratch them…

Well, it’s too bad, but your adventure will end here. That’s all there is to it.

“C’mon, Cap—let’s get a move on. I’ll bet those guys have a tidy little treasure hoard, too.” Half-Elf Scout grins. You nod at him, then call to the others to form up. Female Bishop and your cousin both seem to have gotten their breathing under control, and you think they’re going to be fine.

You form your ranks the same way as always, and then your friends and you start down the wire-frame hallway of the dungeon.

“North, one, two…” Female Bishop has the sheepskin map open; you can hear her pencil scratching along it, high-pitched above the sound of her footsteps.

You think of yourself as a relatively experienced explorer by now, but the dungeon is so much quieter than you ever thought. There are more urgent moments and less urgent ones, but at the very least, it isn’t the constant, unyielding struggle you once imagined. You can’t let down your guard, but if you’re in a constant state of extreme vigilance, you’ll be too fatigued when the moment that really requires you to pay attention comes along. To help avoid this, you look back over your shoulder and remark that you’re given to understand there are no goblins on the second floor.

“Heh-heh… Well, small blessings, I guess,” Female Bishop says with a mixture of reluctance and relief, her pencil stopping in her hand. “I’m glad we won’t see any down here, but they’re still there, up on the first floor…”

They aren’t gone. That makes sense. You hadn’t thought about it that way.

Then again, monsters seem to spring up endlessly from this dungeon, and that includes goblins. If you want to get all the goblins out of the dungeon, you’ll have to confront the Death on the lowest floor.

“That makes sense…” She echoes your words in a whisper, dead earnest. “I hadn’t thought about it that way…”

Female Warrior tugs on your sleeve unexpectedly. “Hey, how about slimes? What do you think?” You don’t even look at her but say flatly that you have no idea. You hear a “grrr” and assume she’s puffed out her cheeks. The sound is very pointed. “Aren’t you being a bit cold?”

“Don’t mind him,” Half-Elf Scout says with a guffaw from the back row. “The cap just isn’t that interested in stuff he’s already decided to kill.”

This time it’s your turn to be a little annoyed. You wish he wouldn’t talk about you like you were some sort of sword devil. Openly pleased by your reaction, Female Warrior turns to your scout and asks, “What about you?”

“Good question,” he says. He thinks about it for a second before replying nonchalantly, “Slimes and goblins never carry that much cash, so I guess I’m not that interested in ’em, either, eh?”

“In other words, you’re after money. Not what I’d call the highest of principles.”

“Well, now…” Half-Elf Scout deliberately trails off. Female Warrior giggles.

“Hmm,” muses your cousin, who has been listening to all this chatter with a smile. “Personally, I’d welcome an encounter with some humanoid monsters—it would give us a chance to try out our new spells…”

“That’s true,” agrees Female Bishop softly. “We did go to all that trouble to learn them.”

“Well, isn’t it nice to have you two along,” Female Warrior says in a singsong voice and gives a nimble flourish of her spear. You likewise come to a stop, feeling out the footing ahead with the tiptoes of your sandals.

“Looks like you’re out of luck,” Myrmidon Monk clacks, drawing his short, bent blade from the scabbard hanging at the small of his back.

Just down the hall from where you’ve all stopped, the corridor is full of some kind of vapor of an unsettling color. The way it moves, though, is clearly organic—a wandering monster!

“Can we… Can we really cut that stuff or stab it…?” Female Warrior asks, and you don’t blame her.

Your path is blocked by several roiling clouds of gas. Their color hints at their poisonous nature, and there’s clearly more than one of them— What do you call a group of clouds of gas? A herd? They’re obviously alive, yet they’re just as obviously not normal organic life-forms but something created by magic. That means it’s not immediately apparent whether blades and clubs will do any damage to them.

“Sorry,” your cousin says, “I don’t think my new magic is going to do much against these…”

You tell her not to worry about it, then draw your sword. You grasp the hilt in both hands, taking a deep, low stance and advancing step by sliding step. No one weapon, be it a blade or a spell or anything else, is effective against everything you might encounter. If your physical attacks don’t work, then you’ll have to rely on your cousin and Female Bishop for their magic. Why get upset with them just because their newest spells won’t have any effect?

You shoot a glance at Female Warrior and Myrmidon Monk; then with a great shout, you charge in. You drop your torso low, kick one foot back, and strike upward from below. Your katana neatly slices the cloud of gas, sliding through it as easily as if you were cutting air. Without a pause, you bring your sword back, rising up again even as your eyes widen.

It works!

A bit of the gas drifts away like a cloud in the sky. The thing even spasms like a flesh-and-blood creature being cut!

“This might actually work…!” Female Warrior says, then drives at the enemy with her spear in one hand.

But just as you’re getting used to the fact that you don’t feel the creatures under your blade, one of them expands dramatically.

“CLOOOOOUDDDD!!!!”

It doesn’t sound like a cry so much as an angry torrent of wind. But the moment the vapors surround your head, you involuntarily drop to your knees. You struggle for breath as if you are being strangled; you feel your life seeping away with every attempt to suck in oxygen. Your face burns, and you know you’re being attacked by the living gas.

You flail your arms, waving away the mist, and the cold air of the dungeon rushes into your lungs.

“Take this!” Female Warrior rushes past you where you kneel coughing and choking, taking up a position ahead of you. With a sweet but fearsome yell, she drives her spear forward; you can hear it whoosh through the air. It scatters the gas cloud, but your opponent isn’t going to take this lying down. Droplets of the dispersed mist fly every which way, and some of them land on Female Warrior’s face.

“Hrr—agh?!” she gasps and reels backward. Seeing how pale she is, you pause in surprise even though you’re in the middle of a battle.

Poison gas!

“I-it’s okay… I’m fine!” Female Warrior retreats, supporting herself on her spear, but you distinctly acknowledge that she did nod at you. In the back row, your cousin and Female Bishop are hurrying to make a move, but you hold up your hand to stop them.

“Watch out!” Myrmidon Monk calls. “The monsters down here aren’t like the ones on the first floor!” He holds his dagger in a reverse grip, while with his other hand, he forms the sigil of the god of wind—the Trade God. “My god the roaming wind, let all on our road be good fortune!”

At that instant, the wind stops. The gas clouds’ movements become noticeably slower: This is the Silence miracle, a blessing of wind avoidance. You certainly don’t need any other spells now. You see what Myrmidon Monk meant; this is a very different way of handling enemies from what you’re used to. But…

You draw your sword back to your shoulder, then step toward the cloud, at the same time bringing your weapon down from high overhead.

“CDDLOOOUDD?!?!?!”

But they’re weak.

With that one great slash, the gas clouds disappear like a bit of morning mist. The fog that had ensconced the hallway clears, and coins come falling to the ground with metallic clinks. Perhaps the coins formed the nucleus of the spell that gave these creatures life.

And so you survive this random battle without too much worry or fuss.

This is a good sign as far as it goes, but one could argue it’s a bad sign, too.

Thus you muse to yourself as you give a precious antidote to Female Warrior. She grimaces. “I’m not a big fan of bitter stuff…”

Even here in a remote corner of the dungeon, you can still make a circle with holy water and set up camp. You can’t count on it holding for very long, of course, but it will be enough for a short rest. You look around at your companions, catching their collective breath inside the circle, then place the bottle, drunk empty, on the floor.

“Hey, here, try some of this baked treat I got at the inn. It’s delicious!”

“Oh, don’t mind if I do, then… Thank you.”

Your cousin is sharing provisions with Female Bishop; despite some fatigue, they still seem to have plenty of vitality.

You do need a little rest: You’ve come all the way from town, through the first floor and now some distance along the second, a fairly lengthy bout of exploration. Still, you haven’t used up any spells. And you haven’t forgotten the ones you committed to memory, so no problems there.

“Man, with all these random encounters, there’s nothing for me to do!” crows Half-Elf Scout, who has been making up part of the back row. He idly plays with his dagger to pass the time but cackles to himself. His only real job is to keep an eye out behind you, and while that’s a tremendously important role, it doesn’t consume much stamina. Although it’s true he can’t let his attention waver. In that respect, he’s pacing himself well… “Eh, no big deal. Never know when there might be a hidden doorway somewhere anyway.” He must have noticed you watching him, because he grins. You nod back at him.

“Phew……”

It’s really Female Warrior and yourself who concern you more than anything else. Your ability to concentrate isn’t limitless. At the moment, Female Warrior is sitting down, leaning listlessly on her spear, looking somewhat spent. If you were to ask whether she’s tired, you suspect she would insist that she’s fine. Or maybe she would give that belly laugh of hers and say, Yeah, a bit.

Whichever it might be, you doubt she would tell you how she’s really feeling. You need to make a decision. You all survived the battle on the first floor, and now you’ve obtained your first victory on the second. So that’s a good sign—but your diminished stamina might not bode so well for the next battle.

You’re startled from your thoughts by the sound of a pair of mandibles clacking. “If you think it’s too dangerous, the answer’s simple: retreat,” Myrmidon Monk says, glancing at you. “Just like the others.”

You indicate your agreement with Myrmidon Monk. It’s worth remembering that you and Female Warrior aren’t the only ones in the front row. He’s here, too. It would be silly to rely on him to do everything, but to never let him do anything would be equally foolish; it would defeat the point of including him in the party. You remark that in the case of a retreat, you’d have to play rock-paper-scissors to decide who ended up as the rear guard, but he shrugs and doesn’t say anything.

“………?” Rather unexpectedly, Female Bishop looks up, her nose twitching.

“Something wrong?” your cousin asks, looking at her with puzzlement, but she replies, “Oh, no.” Your cousin picks a few crumbs from around Female Bishop’s mouth. Maybe Female Bishop can sense her pop one into her own mouth, because she blushes and looks down. “It’s just… Don’t you think it smells a little like…blood?”

“Might be right,” Half-Elf Scout says. “That knight we saw up top could have survived, but there’s been an awful lot of killing down here, don’t you think?” He seems to mean that even though you rarely encounter other adventurers in the dungeon, traces often remain. You try to chase away the image of a pile of dead adventurers in the rogues’ hideout.

That’s actually a rather good sign, you conclude. You’ve cut your way through those gas clouds, and now you’re approaching the rogues’ base. A safe step in the right direction is one of the best things you can hope for in the dungeon. After all, how often do those steps reveal a pit trap that you tumble into? You don’t know anything about the terrain down here anyway. Might as well rely on Female Bishop’s intuition.

“You’re counting on me, sir?” she asks with a frown, but then she grips the sword and scales all the more tightly. “Okay, I understand.”

She nods, and Myrmidon Monk says simply, “Let me take over the map.”

The Trade God is the god of the wind, the god of travel, and perhaps that would make him the god of maps as well. Myrmidon Monk responds to your suggestion with a clack of his mandibles. Perhaps that’s all the answer you need.

After a moment to compose yourself, you give the despondent-looking Female Warrior a pat on the shoulder. She looks up at you distantly for a second, then says “Yeah” with a small nod. “You’re right… The things down here don’t seem that different from the things upstairs, but…”

She gets to her feet, spear in hand, and the others likewise start gathering up their equipment and getting ready to go. You check one another, making sure armor and weapons are good to go. You help, needless to say. A leader’s actions are what show that he’s taking proper care of his party members and help put everyone’s minds at ease.

“Have to say, the enemies down here make the skin crawl.” The unexpected whisper in your direction comes from Myrmidon Monk. In addition to his monk’s robes, he carries the characteristic curved blade of his people at his hip and always looks ready for battle. You clasp the palm that earlier patted the sopping shoulder of Female Warrior and ask if he means slimes.

“Yes… Well, no,” Myrmidon Monk adds, his mandibles clacking and his face serious. “It’s the Gas Clouds.”

So that’s what you call those roiling clouds of poisonous fumes. He frowns. You can tell yourself the omens look good as many times as you like, but the fact remains that you were caught unawares. If those things are the foot soldiers of the second floor of the dungeon, whosoever might have put them to the task…

“This is more than just a simple question of level,” Myrmidon Monk says. “Those things aren’t normal organic life-forms.”

Well, that much is certainly true. Up on the first floor, the wandering monsters mostly consisted of things like goblins, slimes, animated corpses, and skeleton warriors. Then you come down to the second floor, and all of a sudden there are living clouds of gas floating around. And they spray poison, just to make things extra interesting…

‘Ah. This isn’t going to be straightforward.’

“Exactly. And we haven’t been granted any miracles yet for healing poison or curing sickness. Don’t let your guard down.”

“What’s the big deal? The cap took ’em out like they weren’t even there,” Half-Elf Scout says lightly, coming to tell you he’s done getting his gear ready. You look him over and see that his leather armor and dagger both look to be in fine repair—no problems as far as you can tell. If you thought he simply painted his equipment black, you are surprised by the earthy dark-red hue the gear actually is. For the first time since you started working with him, you realize the color must meld better with darkness than actual black.

“If you can cut ’em up and they die, then no biggie. Nothing to worry about.”

You grin and say he’s exactly right, but your cousin butts in from behind:

“You know there are some creatures that can only be defeated with magic, right?”

Your cousin would go down for the count pretty much immediately if she had to engage in actual, physical combat, and you both know it. So instead, she’s equipped with the absolute minimum of defensive gear, along with the staff she grips tightly. But nonetheless, of course, even if you aren’t checking your spell caster’s equipment, you have to make sure they look physically and psychologically fit.

You nod and indicate No problem; beside you, Half-Elf Scout looks at your cousin with exaggerated but utmost seriousness. “Welp, we’ll just have to count on you if we meet one of those,” he says.

“Heh-heh, gladly. And not me alone…remember?” Your cousin smiles and puts a hand on Female Bishop’s shoulder. Female Bishop says, “That’s right,” but sounds nervous, not very convinced. She clutches at her sword and scales with fresh seriousness, though, and as she starts to walk, she cuts an inspiring figure. Your lips relax into a smile when you see her, and then you address the group:

‘Let’s go.’

Back in formation, you step outside the circle of holy water and resume your exploration. You follow the white wire-frame walls extending out into the darkness, one step at a time, ever deeper into the maze. Each time you come to a corner, Female Bishop stops and thinks, focusing carefully, then tells you where to go.

“To the right, I think…”

In this unfamiliar place, there are no other markers to rely on. The rest of you follow her without question. Taking your cue from Female Bishop behind you, who must be focusing her senses very carefully, you take an experimental sniff of the air.

The obvious question is what people actually mean when they talk about a someone or something’s presence. Elves and wizards might see things invisible to others, but to your mundane human eyes, the world appears unremarkable. The only thing you can see at this moment is the wire-frame dungeon extending endlessly into the darkness before you.

Surely, then, even the most sensitive people can’t pick up on something as convenient as presence. You need instead to pay attention to sounds, the shifts of the wind, odors, shadows, the coming and going of your own breath. And when you really focus, you find that no matter how long and how carefully you attend, there’s little information to be had. “Where there’s no smell, there’s no taste,” as the proverb has it—it’s all no, nothingness. Even the stench of death that pervades a chamber after a battle is like this: Take one step outside the room, and you can no longer smell it. You have to simply force yourself to not let your mind wander and to think only of moving forward through the dark.

The way Female Bishop uses her intuition to help you—“To the right.” “Left, I think.”—is truly impressive. It’s almost as if she perceives a different world than you do. Or maybe it’s a natural talent. Maybe this slight and luckless girl was given a gift. An ability to sense whatever it is that hides down here in the dungeon. Whether that be monsters slinking through the dark, something threatening destruction upon the world from the deepest depths, or rogues. Each time you encounter such things down here, what awaits is not merely victory or defeat but death for either you or the other. So perhaps the nothing that creeps along your tongue is the flavor of the Death…

You smile at yourself and shake your head, pushing away the thought. You have to be careful. It’s almost like you’re getting hypnotized by the Death.

Battle is all but unavoidable if you enter a room, while out in the halls you never know when you might encounter a wandering monster. And if it’s unavoidable, then there’s no need to worry about it before it happens.

At the thought, you suddenly feel light, like your breath is finally reaching some deep part of your body that had been too stiff to accept it before. You need to worry less about invisible threats and more about the uncharacteristically reticent Female Warrior.

“………”

Ever since you determined to take on those rogues, she’s been prone to bouts of gloom. You have no intention of prying into her inner life, but if that gloom blunts the tip of her spear, that would be a problem.

So what to do…?

“Oh, that’s right,” says a cheery voice completely at odds with your own concerns. It is, needless to say, your cousin, who digs industriously through a bag slung over her shoulder. “I found some terrific candy in town. I’m not sure about this walking-along-in-silence nonsense, so maybe we could all share it.”

Blasted second cousin. This would have been a lot more appropriate during your little break earlier.

Your cousin effectively ignores your “advice,” smiling brightly as she passes around a bag with little balls of candy in it. Not wanting to be the wet blanket, you take one and pop it in your mouth but immediately frown.

‘It’s mint.’

“Aw, bad luck, Cap,” Half-Elf Scout says with a grin, rolling his own candy around in his mouth. He’s quick. He must have gotten some sweet flavor. You purse your lips and say something unkind; Half-Elf Scout glances off to one side without breaking his smile. You follow his look to discover Myrmidon Monk standing there with the bag in his hand and a look of chagrin on his face.

“…Mint,” he says. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ You nod. Myrmidon Monk slowly shakes his head. “I think I’ll pass for now… This would be a bad time to be distracted by my mouth.”

‘Oh yeah? Well, that’s what it is, then.’

“You’re right about that,” he responds gravely.

“I think I’ll pass, too, then,” Female Bishop says, observing Myrmidon Monk’s reaction closely.

“Are you sure?” your cousin asks, looking disappointed. “I think they’re really good…”

“I’ll try one after we’re finished, then,” Female Bishop tells her, and this gets your cousin smiling again. She trots over to Female Warrior and holds out the bag, smiling brightly. “How about you, milady?”

“Huh…?” Female Warrior looks taken aback, though you can’t imagine she’s actually caught off guard. She glances at you uncertainly, and you nod. Your cousin just keeps smiling. Finally, Female Warrior, looking a bit resigned—or is that hesitant?—reaches slowly for the bag. “…Any strawberry-flavored ones?”

“There sure are! Uh, let’s see… This one, I think!”

‘You think.’ Your teasing earns you only an “It’s too dark to be sure!” from your cousin. Well, if nothing else, avoid the white ones and you won’t get mint.

At that suggestion, you hear Myrmidon Monk mumble, “I didn’t even think of that,” and Half-Elf Scout laughs.

“I think mint is good, too,” Female Bishop says politely, and you feel your cheeks work into a smile.

Encouraged, perhaps, by the convivial atmosphere, Female Warrior reaches into the bag and pops one of the balls of candy into her mouth. “…Mm, it’s so sweet.” A happy look comes over her face, and you exhale pointedly.

Bah. This is why you can’t win with that cousin of yours.

For the next few minutes, the only sound is candy rolling around in people’s mouths. By the time there’s only the last traces of mint left on your tongue, you find yourself standing in front of a deep, dark door.

“…It ain’t locked. No traps, neither, is my guess,” Half-Elf Scout concludes after carefully investigating the door with the tools that normally hang at his belt. Despite his characteristic tone and attitude, he’s actually quite a diligent person. You don’t believe he would make a mistake on a matter like this.

You nod in acknowledgment, then touch the door with one gloved hand. The metal portal is essentially indistinguishable from the door to every other chamber you’ve seen; it’s all a little too neat. Not that you have any reason to doubt Female Bishop, but you wonder if the rogues are really in here.

This dungeon is very strange.

You know there was a battle here not long ago at all, yet the maze hides any lingering miasma or other traces of it. This might be the very place where the Knight of Diamonds and his party fought just this morning, but there’s no way to be sure.

“…This is it. The smell of blood, I think it’s…” But Female Bishop can’t be certain, either, and she trails off.

“Well, only one way to find out,” Myrmidon Monk says with a shrug. He draws his curved blade and holds it in a reverse grip, ready to go. “Let there be monsters or rogues or whatever in there. Makes no difference to me.”

“True that,” Half-Elf Scout says, matching Myrmidon Monk’s unconcerned manner, but it’s Female Warrior you’re worried about.

When you ask if she’s good to go, she replies ambivalently, “Well…” But then she gives a twirl of her spear and continues. “…Yeah, I’m fine. Shall we?” There’s a crack as she bites through the last of her candy.

Good.

You nod briefly, then draw your beloved blade from its place at your hip. Even here in the gloom of the dungeon, it seems to sparkle; it may be nameless, but it’s yours. You work a little spit into the hilt, then hold the sword low and turn toward the door.

“Here we go…,” your cousin says quietly. She sounds nervous, yes, but also somehow relaxed—just like usual. “You have some kind of plan?”

The edges of your lips curl up, and you declare theatrically:

‘Think we know what to do by now. Let’s get started.’

And then you kick the door as hard as you can, smashing it in before you charge into the chamber bellowing your name as a battle cry. The rest of the party piles in after you.

“The hell?!”

“Back for more, ya filthy adventurers?”

You seem to have surprised the room’s inhabitants—the scruffy men!

Now, standing in the room, you can finally smell it: a stench of blood strong enough to turn your stomach. You don’t think even the most rundown tavern in the city would smell quite this bad. At your feet are the remains of some unidentifiable meal and a stewpot in which bones and loot appear to coexist.

The enemies—how many are there? You take a sweeping glance across the room, evaluating the situation.

“Th-the hell are you doing here?!” One of the men scrambles to his feet, awkwardly raising a dagger seemingly before he’s had time to think about what he’s doing.

He’s finished.

You take a step forward, planting your foot on a reddish-brown splotch on the floor, then close the distance with another step before bringing your sword down from overhead.

“Eeyargh!” The silver flash slices into the man’s neck, severing blood vessels and producing a spray of gore. His breath makes a whistling from his demolished throat for a moment before he collapses to the ground. No matter how good you are, what’s unprotected by your armor is still unprotected. You can’t afford to show any openings in battle.

You let the momentum of your strike transition into a flick to get the blood off your sword; then you proceed to the center of the room. There’s only one door. That means the exit is behind you. You need to take up a position here so that not one of them can escape!

“Just leave this to me…!” Female Warrior flits past you, her spear lashing out like an extension of her arms.

“Hrgh?!” The sharp spear tip leaps upward like a snake, piercing one of the rogues through the throat. With a whoosh, the spear tears sidelong out of his neck, and Female Warrior takes up another stance, gripping the spear with both hands. That’s two down. Another six to go—no, wait…

“Huh, damn! First those other guys, now you… Busy day today.”

Whoosh. A giant of a man stands up in the shadows at the back of the room. He’s a veritable barbarian; you’re startled to see chain mail glitter on his body, while in his hand is a broadsword.

Must be their chief.

You slide forward, gauging your distance, while you shift your katana into a low position. You assume this is an experienced opponent. He looks nonchalant, but he must know what he’s doing to have gathered this band of brigands around him. That makes seven opponents altogether. They outnumber you. And when you consider their levels…

“I’ve got your back,” Myrmidon Monk says calmly by way of encouragement. His knife, still in a reverse grip, parries a blow from one of the foes as he moves into position in the front row. You give him the slightest nod, then glance quickly back over your shoulder. Half-Elf Scout is standing there glaring at the rogues with his dagger at the ready, guarding the spell casters. Female Bishop holds up her sword and scales nervously, while beside her, your cousin brandishes her short staff and winks.

“Buy us some time…!” she whispers.

But of course.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself, count the squares to judge the distance, then stare at the chief.

“Huh, three men and three women. Nice stuff—after all, a man gets hungry after a fight!” The one you assume is the leader hefts his broadsword and grins menacingly at you. Then, with lust dripping from his voice, he howls loud enough to shake the stones: “You know the drill, boys! Rip off their heads and then have your way with ’em!”

A collective shout rises from the others, and you hear a great scraping of equipment.

The room isn’t that big. Even if they all attack at once, the seven of them won’t be able to reach you at the same time. So long as Female Warrior and Myrmidon Monk can hold up their ends, you’re not afraid of any attacks reaching the back row. And if by chance one does, Half-Elf Scout is there to intercept it and hold the line.

How do you know he’ll do that? Because it’s his job. And your job is…

“What say we get started, eh…!”

To keep this brute busy for every move, every second it’s possible to wring out of him.

You can tell from the moment the weapon rises in the air that the blow coming at you from dead ahead is going to be a big one. A sword can survive being chipped, but you can’t let it get bent. You meet the massive hatchet with the back of your blade and step to one side.

Your hand tingles. It’s obvious you can’t take these attacks head-on. Unless of course you want to die with the hilt of your own sword buried in your forehead.

Shf. Your straw sandals slide over stones stained with many battles’ worth of blood and gore, and you take a breath.

He’s experienced.

“Hoo, not bad!”

Now you see. You should have expected as much from the leader of a party, even a party of rogues. Everything he wears reeks of blood and rust. His mail sparkles. Then there’s the giant hatchet. All look like they’ve seen many battles. It could just be a bluff, of course. But the massive stature of the man in the mail suggests otherwise.

Recognizing that it’s going to be a tough fight, you carefully scan the room.

“Yah!” Beside you, Female Warrior, sounding incongruously cheerful, puts her spear to work. They always tell beginners not to use a spear in an enclosed space, but apparently, one of these chambers doesn’t count. The weapon is like a living thing in Female Warrior’s petite hands; it shoots back and forth, jumps up and down, sweeps through the air.

“Grgh?!”

“C’mon! Surround her! Get in close enough and she can’t swing at you!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” By this point, she seems to be doing less stabbing and more beating her opponents with the haft of her weapon, but anyway…

“Not sure you have time to admire her work,” Myrmidon Monk says. “Though I admit, she is distractingly competent.”

And you definitely don’t have time to look back at what’s happening with the magic. As long as you keep the rogues off the back row, that’s enough. You catch an intake of breath from your cousin. Female Bishop is silent. You need them to focus on their spells, so you don’t want to give them any unnecessary distractions. You track your opponent’s movements with your eyes, sliding to keep yourself between him and the spell casters.

The giant man leans the broadsword across his shoulder as if it were a toy, his eyes glinting with bestial malice. When he grins at you, revealing crooked teeth, he looks almost like any other wandering monster you might find in the dungeon. “I’ll grind your bones to make my bread—ha!” he says. “That’s just a little joke. Don’t want you getting the wrong idea—I’m a gentleman; I really am.”

You don’t take your eyes off the resting broadsword. The thing is massive. It should be easy enough to tell when he’s going to swing it—should be.

Hadn’t you heard a proverb about how big heads have small wit? Turns out life is not nearly that convenient. The man’s strength is precisely in his strength; his muscles are his power. Not something to be underestimated.

“Precisely.”

The blow comes almost before your brain can process it. The broadsword seems like nothing more than a flash of light.

You raise your sword over your head—the image of the wounded knight flashes through your mind—then you angle the sword vertically and press your hand against the spine.

There’s a tang of metal on metal!

Your hands feel as if an electric shock has run through them, and your ears ring loudly. You reel back as if struck by a hammer, but then you force your feet to stay steady under you.

That was no cleaving strike. It was a sidelong swipe meant to take off your head—and a critical hit at that!

“—!” Your cousin calls your name from behind you, but you can’t quite seem to hear her. But still you nod. You can do that much. You’re alive. So there’s no problem.

That one second, that instantaneous vision of the Knight of Diamonds with the wound to his neck, saved your life.

“Huh, that’s two of you I didn’t manage to kill today with that move. Maybe I’m getting old.” The man in the mail works his arms in a circle. You spare a glance at your katana. It isn’t broken, or bent, or even chipped. Good.

There probably won’t be another attack like that.

A sideswipe disguised as an overhead blow. A brilliant move but the sort of thing that works only once.

Now all you have to do is keep whittling away at his hit points. Still, a person can always die from a single, straight hit. Although that’s as true of the enemy as it is of you…

“Hrrrahhh!!”

The broadsword crashes toward you again, and with a quick, sliding step, you slip out of the way. You don’t know how many toe-to-toe exchanges you could hold on for before your sword would just be batted out of the way. You can still feel a tingling in your hands from the last one. But you can’t play a purely defensive game, either. You have to go on the attack. You need to attack to attain victory, and to attain victory, you need to kill.

Even as you step away, you pull your katana down into a low position, sliding back and to the right. You’ll never be able to cut through the mail the man is so ostentatiously wearing. Your targets are the legs, the arms, the flanks, and the neck.

The moment the man draws his broadsword back, you advance. You put your weight forward ever so slightly, using the momentum to bring your sword up on a diagonal, stretching out with your arms as you go.

“Heh…!”

There’s a ringing as the blade scrapes the mail. You feel no real resistance. Your opponent has used the momentum from his broadsword swing to get back out of the way. It instantly proves that he fully understands the strengths and weaknesses of his weapon and has adapted his fighting style to accommodate them. But you don’t care. So have you.

Your katana has bounced off your enemy at a diagonal, but rather than bring it back to center, you relax your right hand and twist your left, flipping the blade around. You press forward again, hoping to bring the sword down on the man’s neck.

But your blow is deflected by his broadsword, which he brings up on a diagonal. It’s a textbook move, escaping the line of attack by swinging to the outside. Without hesitation, you pull your sword back, and you see that the man’s next strike will come up from below.

You jump.

You pull your feet in as close to your body as you can, leaping over the broadsword. You know the man’s weapon is unsuited to executing a series of quick strikes, so you realize you’re unlikely to be hit between when you launch yourself into the air and when you land back on the ground.

But the enemy knows it, too. By the time your feet touch the stone floor, your vision is full of the man’s fist.

That broadsword strike was one-handed?! You crouch down deep to minimize the impact of your landing and neatly dodge the punch.

This is bad. You can feel the rush of wind from the force of the punch above your head; you somersault backward and out of range. The broadsword crashes down where you were just a second before. The stone floor cracks under the impact.

You jump to your feet and bring your katana up in front of you, your breath coming in small, short gasps that make your shoulders heave. You force yourself to breathe more calmly, releasing the stiffness from your body, cooling the heat, urging the blood that seems to have rushed to your head to flow back to the rest of you.

Sweat runs into your eyes, but you can’t afford to blink. Thanks to the sharkskin wrapping around the hilt of your sword, at least you aren’t afraid that your hands will slip. You feel as if you should be hearing the clangor of battle around you, but it no longer reaches your ears. Your field of vision narrows until the man in the mail seems to occupy your entire world.

“Har! Har! Har!” the man thunders. “Looks like you’re running out of tricks!”

But that’s fine, you think. Because…

“Musica! Music—”

“Concilio! United—”

“Terpsichore! With dance!”

Because the same goes for him!

“Hrgh! Wha—?!”

The two girls intone the Dance spell in ringing, clear voices. By the time the man in the mail notices them, it’s too late. His feet start to spasm almost like he’s dancing but out of his control. It lasts for only a second. Still, that’s all the time you need. You take a horse spike you’ve drawn out of the hilt of your blade and recite three words of power as you throw it.

‘Sagitta quelta raedius.’

In other words: Magic Missile!

“Hyargh!”

The spike, imbued with total accuracy, as if it had been loosed by a master archer, buries itself deep in the man’s eye. He stumbles back, his hand to his face. Now you don’t have to worry about that broadsword.

‘Ryaaahhh!’

You let loose a great war cry, close the distance between the two of you in a flash, and bring your sword down from high over your head. The blade slides easily into the crevice between the man’s neck and his shoulder.

“Grgh—hrgh?!”

You can feel it under your hands. The spray of blood shows you’ve found a vital point. The giant man gags as if choking on his own blood, and shortly thereafter, he crumples to the ground. The broadsword clatters from his limp hands.

“We… We did it! We did it!” your cousin whoops. Gods. You always knew it was really her you should be afraid of.

“Y-yes,” Female Bishop says. Your cousin takes her hand and exclaims happily, seemingly oblivious to the profound power of her own spell.

You give your faithful sword a shake to get the blood off and look around.

“Hell, even I could’ve killed a guy who had his feet pulled out from under him,” Myrmidon Monk says, casually eviscerating the throat of the man in front of him. It’s no doubt thanks to Myrmidon Monk that none of the giant man’s friends interfered with your fight. You thank him for his help, then quickly reassume a fighting stance. Four enemies left?

“…If you’re going to thank me, do it later,” Myrmidon Monk adds with a clack of his mandibles. “This isn’t over yet.”

“He’s right. Besides, I’ll be wanting a little thanks myself,” Female Warrior says with a laugh, her face flush as she drives her spear under an enemy’s clavicle. The weapon finds its way through the chinks in the man’s armor and has soon claims his life. Three left now.

“Looks like I won’t have much to do till this is all over,” Half-Elf Scout remarks nervously, the lighthearted comment an attempt to ease the tension he feels.

You just shrug, size up the remaining opponents—thrown into a panic by the loss of their leader—and then dive in.