Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.02 - Chapter 4.1

Step 4 - Critical Hit of The Tiger

“Heyo! Sounds like it’s going swimmingly for you.” It happens one morning when you’ve started getting used to exploring the second floor. You sit down at your table in the tavern to await your companions, only to have someone else sit down nimbly across from you. “I heard you finished off those newbie hunters?”

You didn’t see this coming. The shadow under the hood shifts. You can detect a grin on the face that watches you: someone who looks like a mischievous young girl. The curves of her body are almost statuesque.

Mm. You nod, putting the pieces together. It’s that informant.

Keeping one ear on the hubbub of the busy tavern full of adventurers, you thank her. Not for praising you, of course. For the information she gave you.

“Aw, don’t mention it. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think I’d get something out of it.”

Hmm. You don’t pry further but fiddle with the drinking cup in front of you. It’s just lemon water. You won’t eat until your party members get up. You’re fairly certain you’ll all go into the dungeon today, but it would be best to check with them first.

“So where’s the crew?”

You left them in the stables. You didn’t think they could keep up with you, with your need to train and practice day and night. Still, you feel a touch of disquiet at the girl’s approbation. The tavern is full of adventurers with money on their minds; there’s no special need to flatter you in particular. Perhaps it’s simply that those who do good in this world expecting no reward are…unusual, let us say.

You know that, and you feel a bit bad, dragging your party members along on your own damn foolish, idealistic crusade. It’s perfectly natural not to wish to do something that isn’t going to get you anything in this life. You don’t recall hearing any rumors about your party for being so special or anything.

But that leaves the question of where this informant got wind of you…

“Oh, just around town, you know?” she says, as if this should be perfectly obvious. “People trade rumors like how you talk about the weather—just a way of saying hello. And people like to talk about parties that are making a name for themselves.” She waves a hand to summon a waitress and orders a lemon water.

You watch the server go, rabbit ears flapping, ample bosom bouncing, round butt shaking along with her tail, and you think:

Most likely sources of info about us would be the old armorer or the nun at the Trade God’s temple.

They were the only ones you told after you came back from the newbie hunters’ den. The dead have no need for equipment. Sell it off, make a little money the living can use. You don’t have any qualms about that. And anyway, a modest donation was necessary to have the rank tags you retrieved properly buried.

The armorer or the nun, then… And considering the nun’s personality, you’re pretty sure it was her.

A few coins in the palm and she’d likely tell anybody anything.

When you mention your suspicion, the informant only says, “Ah, who knows?” and cackles. “Anyway, I’m glad things are going so well for you. But remember, if you let your guard down, you’ll die. Occupational hazard for you.”

You purse your lips. Pretty nasty thing to say—even if she’s exactly right. But you don’t voice your objection.

Come to this tavern regularly for even a few days and the observation becomes inescapable. A party of adventurers who had been sitting around a table the day before last weren’t there yesterday. And today, a different party with brand-new equipment fills the seats. You have no way of knowing how long they can resist the Death.

That’s something you don’t even know about your own party.

“Point is, don’t turn your back.” The girl seems able to read your mind—and she giggles. “After the second floor comes the third floor, and after that comes the fourth. Long road ahead. Can’t have you dying.” You nod as she sips her lemon water. Yes, you agree. Can’t have that.

After all, you can slash your way to the second floor now—and soon the third. And that isn’t entirely unknown territory; others have gone before you. If you want to see how far your blade can take you, you’ll have to challenge that third floor.

“Though, t’be fair,” the girl says, snapping you out of your reverie, “I guess they still haven’t found the stairs down to the fourth floor.”

You look up, and across from you is a half-drunk lemon water. One of the waitresses must have neglected to clean it up, you conclude, and reseat yourself in your chair. Suddenly, you notice the murmur around you rising like a tide, and you feel like you’re smack in the center of activity here in the tavern. You figure your party members should show up anytime now…

“My pardon—would you mind if we shared this table with you?”

The voice is unexpected but clear and strong, exuding such refinement as to give you a twinge of jealousy. You turn to discover the handsome young man in his diamond armor and equipment. Beside him is a silver-haired young woman so small she almost looks like a shadow.

A rhea? you wonder for a second, but no, she must be human. She seems so slight, though. A scout, perhaps.

You reply that as they can see, you’re by yourself and don’t mind at all. The man nods and sits facing you. The young woman brings a chair over from a nearby table and sits with her legs dangling. Maybe she means to indicate that she’s not here to eavesdrop.

You ask if they’re partied together, to which the Knight of Diamonds replies, “We’re associates. She comes from the orphanage, but I must say…she’s saved my skin many a time.”

You remember that the knight is supposedly the third son of a poor noble house, but you can’t help noticing the quality of his equipment. You say so, trying to keep the conversation going, to which he replies, “Oh, hardly,” and smiles almost shyly. “What matters is the quality of what’s inside the equipment.” After a pause, he adds, “…I’ve been hoping to get a chance to speak to you properly.”

You guessed that much. But you don’t say so and instead ask him what you can do for him.

“You needn’t be so modest. It was you who defeated those notorious rogues, was it not?”

You respond with a noncommittal shrug. There are many adventurers in this town. It might have been you, or it might not.

“Perhaps, but in this particular tavern, not so many with the ability and resolve to challenge the third floor of the dungeon.” The Knight of Diamonds sweeps the adventurers seated throughout the building with a keen gaze. They sit around tables pawing through treasure, drinking wine, celebrating, and making no effort to hide their joy. It’s a lively place, friendly in its own way, but also purposeless—the Knight of Diamonds lets his eyes drop. “To challenge adversity by one’s own volition, to confront it and win out—I believe your party and mine are perhaps the only ones here to do all that.”

You don’t quite like the undertone of his remark and only shake your head and question whether that is, in fact, the case. Adventurers want to know what’s in it for them—you’re no different in that regard. To risk one’s life for money, to save the world, to walk the path of the sword—all motives have their value.

There is no hierarchy in alignment. Ultimately, it’s merely a question of whether you live or whether you die.

“…You have a most interesting way of looking at things,” the Knight of Diamonds remarks. Then he hmms, nods, and changes the subject. “Rumor has it there’s a real up-and-coming party out there.”

Probably so. You suspect no other town has such high turnover of adventurers. Then again, other cities have Guilds; everything is different out there. Here, whatever you’ve “contributed to society” has no meaning. The depth to which you’ve descended and the money you’ve earned tell all: Your skills are the only things that matter. Rank and trust don’t come into it; this is the place to see what you can win by your own strength. In the dungeon, that’s all there is.

“From what I hear, they’re led by someone who wields a fine saber much like yours.”

Hoh. You rest your hand on the hilt of the sword at your hip almost without realizing it. This is interesting indeed. You’d like to meet this person sometime, if you have the chance.

“If destiny is on your side, and if you both survive, then I have trouble imagining you won’t meet.”

That seems reasonable. You smile and agree with the Knight of Diamonds. You observe, however, that he’s fully armed and armored despite the early hour, so you ask if he’s going exploring.

“That’s right,” he confirms. At his hip, he bears not only a straight sword but a dagger as well. He didn’t have that before. “Oh, this…? Mm, let’s say I was caught napping last time, and I think this might prove useful in a fight.”

Draw, stab—allowing for a reverse grip, the two actions could be done in a single motion. You make a sound of admiration, then remark that it seems no one has discovered the stairs down to the fourth floor yet.

“You have quick ears, sir.” The Knight of Diamonds doesn’t try to hide anything but confirms that the rumor is true. As for who you heard this information from…well, it probably doesn’t matter that much.

You’ll pray for his success in battle. You tell him so, and he grins like a sleeping lion. “Any prayers would be most heartening.”

Then…

“Urgh, sorry, didn’t mean for it to get so late. It’s just with that slime yesterday… I still feel kind of…ugh…slimy…” Belated footsteps are accompanied by a sleepy voice. You don’t have to look to know it’s Female Warrior approaching your table.

You can tell she’s getting closer, but then she’s suddenly interrupted. The small girl with the silver hair asks you very seriously: “Slime?”

Yes, slime.

“Huh.” After a second’s silence, the girl says, “Pardon me.” She looks away, and a series of noticeable tremors begin to run through her body. The Knight of Diamonds likewise wears an inscrutable expression. You shrug. It’s just a fact—nothing you can do to change it.

You take great pleasure in imagining the expression that must be on Female Warrior’s face at that moment.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Well, slimes do seem to like her!” Half-Elf Scout’s cheerful laughter echoes around the gloomy darkness with its faint wire frame. You maintain your silence, trying very hard not to look in Female Warrior’s direction where she’s stretched out on the ground.

You’re in the dungeon. You might be resting, but you absolutely must not let your guard down.

“She’s on the front row. Sometimes there’s not much she can do… At least, that’s what I think,” your cousin observes. You don’t disagree that it’s not entirely Female Warrior’s fault. She and you, along with Myrmidon Monk, bear the onus of forming the front row of your party’s formation. Any of you has a one in three chance of being the first thing an enemy attacks—it’s just a matter of luck.

“Anyway, the slimes in this dungeon aren’t especially dangerous,” says Myrmidon Monk with a disgruntled clack of his mandibles. He seems surprisingly adept at avoiding that one in three chance. He flicks his curved saber to get the goo off it, then slowly replaces it in its scabbard. His tone carries an undercurrent of significance, as one might expect from a disciple of the Trade God, deity of the wind, bearer of words.

You’ve heard that there are different varieties of slime. Some are intelligent, and some can even use magic.

“We’re just lucky they don’t have acid or poison or the ability to swallow us in a single gulp.”

True enough. Cold comfort, but it’s also true the gooey enemies who appear on the first floor aren’t very powerful.

As you ponder these things, your cousin slips over to Female Warrior to check on her. “Are you doing all right?”

“……Yeah,” Female Warrior mumbles, nodding with the earnestness of a disappointed child. She squeezes out the slime-soaked clothes from over her armor, wipes her face, then slowly gets to her feet. Then she smiles with a calmness and clarity that puts you in mind of a quiet sea before a storm. “I’ll have to make you pay for laughing at me—later.”

“Uh…oops,” Half-Elf Scout says, wiping the grin off his face.

You silently repeat a Lightning-Deflection spell once or twice and start thinking fast. Your party managed to decimate the slimes even though they took you by surprise. You’re not sure if that’s a good omen or a bad one. You look down the corridor, the path leading deeper into the first floor, with which you’re already quite familiar. The dark abyss that confronts you beyond the white wire frame bears an odor of death you can never quite get used to.

“Uh, um,” Female Bishop says, tugging on your sleeve. You ask her what’s the matter, and she unrolls the sheepskin parchment containing your map, leaning close to it. “Today, we’re…challenging the third floor, right?”

Indeed. You nod without much enthusiasm but reiterate that such is your plan. Not that you were feeling hurried because of that chat with the Knight of Diamonds, though. You’re fairly sure. At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

Exploration of the second floor has proceeded apace, and you think it’s time to put your skills to the test. To find out whether you and your sword can stand on the front lines in this Dungeon of the Dead…

“I just want to double-check our path…,” Female Bishop says. “We want to take the shortest route, right?”

“It sucks having to work our way down the stairs every single time…,” Female Warrior comments, turning sullen again. You give a wry smile and tell Female Bishop yes, that’s what you want.

“Understood, sir.” Her slim face relaxes into a smile, and she gives a serious nod at this responsibility.

The dungeon is a big place. You can’t imagine how anyone gets by down here without a map. Some people joke about it being the deepest dungeon in the world, but to you, it’s no laughing matter.

Maybe it’s the constant, complete focus demanded by exploration and combat, but your sense of time is fuzzy down here. You enter in the morning and emerge at night. Once in a while, a party thinks they’ve been down there just a day, when it’s actually been several. More often, though, battling for days on end produces a lapse in concentration and results in the party’s demise. If you go a few days without seeing a given group in the tavern, chances are good you’ll never see them again.

Not that anyone goes out of their way to discuss that fact.

“The whole thing is rotten through and through, no question,” Half-Elf Scout says grimly when you share your thoughts. “Just trudging through these hallways, everything looking the same; you start to get sort of hypnotized.”

“It would be so great if we could just pop in and out. You know, like with a Gate spell!” Your second cousin claps her hands as if extremely pleased with her own idea. And it’s an excellent idea. Or it would be, if Gate wasn’t a lost spell!

“Besides, even Gate isn’t all-powerful,” Myrmidon Monk notes, opening his jaws with a sort of imperious click. “A person trips a Gate trap, or screws up the inscription on their scroll, and there’s a good chance…”

“?” Your cousin gives him a questioning look.

“…Well, let’s just say the walls are full of ’em.”

Your second cousin’s face suddenly contorts with terror. She steps back several paces, trembling, and glances at the stone wall over her shoulder. Female Warrior, watching with an amused smile, claps a hand on your scout’s shoulder and says seriously, “Big responsibility.”

“…Don’t scare me like that, lady.”

You tell him not to worry. You, after all, keep a safe distance while he’s opening treasure chests.

“Aw, Cap…” Half-Elf Scout groans, but then he bursts out laughing. It wouldn’t be possible to joke about this if he didn’t know you were always right there for him while he was picking locks.

“…I think there might be something in that darkness,” Female Bishop says suddenly as she runs her fingers along the lines of ink on the map.

Female Warrior cocks her head, then brushes some hair out of her face. “What do you mean, something?”

“I’m not sure, myself… Something similar to a Gate circle, perhaps.”

“Eek!” Your second cousin yelps, but you ignore her, crossing your arms and letting out a breath. You presume that by that darkness, Female Bishop means the zone of blackness in the corner of the first floor.

Even in the gloom here in the underground, you can see a short distance ahead. The wire frame rising out of the darkness proves it. But there’s one place where you can’t see anything at all, not even your hand in front of your face. You pass the yawning opening each time you travel from the first to the second floor and back. If the entrance to the dungeon is the maw of a monster, that must be a path to the abyss itself…

“Ah, that place…,” Female Warrior remarks, sounding sad about it. “I’ve heard people have tried to go in there.”

“And let me guess. None of them ever came home,” Myrmidon Monk says, and Female Warrior nods.

So many of the adventurers in this town are interested in nothing but money; they want nothing to do with adventures that won’t yield a profit. If some foolhardy folk go into the darkness and never come back, well, then…

“…I told you: Whoever set this place up is rotten to the core.” Half-Elf Scout spits. You agree completely.

“C-come on, let’s keep going! Safety first, remember!” your second cousin says, still looking thoroughly terrified. You agree completely with her, too.

You nod, patting Female Bishop on the shoulder. Time to go. Long road ahead.

“Oh, right.” She nods, quickly rolling the map up, and stands. “Let’s go!”

Good enthusiasm. Heartening to hear.

Several rooms and battles later, you arrive at a long rope ladder leading downward. This is the second floor—though in the dungeon, with its almost unchanging scenery, it’s all too easy to lose track of where you are. There’s only the encompassing gloom and the faint wire frame passageway.

Female Bishop, feeling her way along corridors of ink on the map, gives the instructions. “We’ve found the ladder to the third floor before, so I don’t anticipate too much trouble with getting lost…”

You’ll let her lead the way. You say as much, then you check your katana and help your companions double-check their gear before you continue down the hall. Thankfully, you haven’t yet run into any wandering monsters. You can’t avoid encounters with the guardians of the various chambers, but you’ve been able to keep combat to a minimum, and that’s a good sign.

“When going into a new area, you have to conserve your spells as much as possible,” your cousin (responsible for your party’s resource management) says from the back row, as if admonishing a child about his allowance. “You never know what might happen, so you have to be careful!”

Female Warrior chuckles from beside you as she watches you try to brush off your cousin’s advice. “You can use some magic, too, can’t you? Color me jealous.”

It’s not that impressive. You shrug, glance over your shoulder, and then lower your voice. You don’t want your cousin to overhear this part, because you know it would go to her head—but you tell Female Warrior that she’s the better caster.

“Hmm?” Female Warrior is grinning about something; you ignore her and turn the corner. You’ve never gotten comfortable with the way you can’t see what’s ahead, even after your eyes have adjusted to the dark. The only sounds to speak of in the empty halls are your own footsteps and the noise of your armor. There aren’t even any odors, so that your senses almost feel paralyzed.

You had to learn how to relax yourself, so that you wouldn’t be constantly at 100 percent focus. You can’t let down your guard, but it would be worse if your attention snapped at a crucial moment. That’s why you allow your party members to banter—and even sometimes deign to take part yourself.

“You used Magic Missile in a battle recently. How many times can you do that?” Myrmidon Monk asks, and you reply that the answer is not that many. Two or three times, maybe, but you’re a swordsman and still inexperienced. You don’t necessarily have the wherewithal to unleash a magic spell while also fighting in melee combat.

“I guess that means when we get back up top, you’ll have to study up on your magic, too, O brave leader,” Female Bishop says with a laugh. She gives a ringing shake of the sword and scales to indicate the direction to go. “I bought a new spell book the other day… I think it could be very helpful, you know?”

You reply that yes, you do know. You mean two things by that. Female Bishop doesn’t seem to remember what you’re talking about.

That’s right: You know that between adventures, she and your cousin study magic intensely. All the more so, whether they realize it or not, since you survived that battle on the second floor. You don’t talk to your cousin about those girls, and she doesn’t ask. You think maybe that’s for the best. Instead, for now, you just give a tired smile and look to your scout for help.

“Nah, Cap, knowledge is power!” he says. Uh-oh. “Lots of people in this world, they can’t read or write or do numbers. You learn a bit; you get a whole different taste of life!” He crosses his arms like a lecturing professor, and there’s really nothing you can say back. You grumble that you would rather work on your swordsmanship, and Female Warrior pipes up pointedly, “Hey, I think your little brother is saying something.”

You immediately correct her: You’re cousins.

“Don’t worry, Big Sis will help you with your magical studies!”

Stupid second cousin.

“…I don’t much care either way,” Myrmidon Monk says with a deliberate clack of his mandibles, then lets out a breath. “But are we heading on or turning back? Make up your mind.”

Before you know it, you find yourself standing in front of one of the big, thick chamber doors. You ask Female Bishop if this is the place, and she responds “Yes” with a small nod, clutching the sword and scales. “I’m given to understand goblins don’t appear on the second floor… I can manage.”

You look around again at those beside you and those behind you—your party members—making sure they have all their gear. Everything looks good.

“Hey, can I kick it down this time?”

No, you tell Female Warrior, you’re going to keep that little job for yourself—and then you smash the door down with a kick.

—!

Waiting for you as you all pile into the room are rotting humanoid monsters!

“Zombies!” shouts someone who recognizes them. Decaying adventurers, perhaps, called back from the depths of hell—in any event, decomposing corpses that press toward you. The reek of rotting flesh and organs that now belong to the dungeon: the odor of the Death. The smell mingles with the miasma, working its way into your nose, causing your stomach to spasm.

“U-urgh…” Female Warrior frowns but doesn’t back down, while Myrmidon Monk bounds into the front row. “Undead ought to be weak to Dispel! O my god of the wind that comes and goes—”

“I’ll coordinate with you! Sword-prince, by your blade—”

Female Bishop joins Myrmidon Monk in creating complicated sigils with her hands, one after another.

“—send home these souls!”

“—cut away the curse that binds these!”

They thrust out their palms as they intone these incantations, and a pure, holy wind fills the chamber. As soon as it brushes across the rotting flesh, the stuff begins to drop away.

But that’s all.

Some of the creatures have nothing left to hold their bones together and collapse into piles of dust, but some don’t. The undead shuffle closer, lesioned filaments wriggling from their decaying bodies. The way they move is uncanny—not like humans, but like dolls being helped along by children.

They thrust out their arms, moving in a sort of forward stumble far removed from proper walking, and the sight is terrible. The stench of the Death overpowers Female Bishop, who cries out, “These aren’t…! These might not be undead at all…!”

“Who cares? Looks like if you destroy their bodies, they stop moving…!” Myrmidon Monk says. That’s the important point. You smile slyly at his succinct appraisal, then draw your beloved blade.

You glance at Female Warrior out of the corner of your eye to find she has a smile on her own face, her spear at the ready. You want to know if the back row is all right. You seek confirmation without ever taking your eyes off the enemy. Half-Elf Scout responds with a vigorous shout: “Just leave this row to me, Cap!”

“If things get tight, I’ll use my magic, but if it comes to that…”

You nod wordlessly at your cousin’s voice. If that’s what it takes, then you aren’t ready for the third level yet. You’ll have to give it up for today.

“They might come charging. Try not to get bit, okay?” Female Warrior says half-jokingly, watching the monsters approach step by shuffling step. You wonder if they have the smarts to worry about proper distancing. You weren’t sure they’d be willing to get within reach of your blade, but it turns out you needn’t have worried. One of them shambles right into range.

You bring your sword up in a sweep from below, carving off the creature’s right arm.

“BRAAAAAAAAINNNNNN?!?!”

Bodily fluids splatter. You flick your wrist over, bringing the blade down on the left arm in a slash from above. When the zombie stumbles, you give it a solid kick in the torso.

“I’ll take that!” Female Warrior leaps in, bringing her spear down in a single blinding strike. The creature’s flesh gives way with a revolting cacophony of rending skin, cracking bones, and dissolving organs. Female Warrior steps neatly away from the stuff that spatters on the floor, showing her experience with this kind of thing. Maybe it’s all those slimes she’s done in…

“BRAINNNNNN! BRAAAAAAIN!!”

The silly thought seems to distract you—just as you could have feared it might. One of the corpses grabs you from one side, sinking its teeth into your arm.

There is no pain. You give a click of your tongue, and with a sort of shake of your arm, you slam the creature against the dungeon wall. There’s a sickening sound as brains blossom across the wall.

“Is that you, leader?!” Female Bishop cries from behind you. You give a wave, indicating it’s no big deal.

The headless corpse in front of you is a more significant problem. It slides to the ground, but only for a second. Then, twitching spasmodically, with no head at all, it gets up again! Rotting goo pumps from the stump of its neck, the bizarre wormlike things wriggling.

“Don’t think of them as living creatures! These are just inert things!!” Myrmidon Monk slashes the leg from another corpse with his curved scimitar as he shouts.

Yes, that’s right. You register the truth of his words as you drive your blade into the headless zombie’s chest. You can hear the bones and then the spine crack, and this time the corpse goes down for good. You give it a few more blows for good measure, making sure the body has returned to dust. That makes two of them.

These things take a bit of work. You shake your sword to get the blood and organ meat off it, then compose your breathing and make for the next enemy.

“Ain’t a single one of ’em got any kind of weapon. Dunno if that makes us lucky or not,” Half-Elf Scout observes from the back row. It means less trouble but also less profit. You grin: He’s right.

But you aren’t going to let your attention wander again.

You close the distance with a smooth slide of your feet, bringing your sword down on the shoulders of another zombie—twice. The collarbone cracks under the impact; you’re turning even as its arms fall to the floor.

“Hiiiyah!” As you spin, Female Warrior swiftly takes your place, driving her spear into the monster. For sheer, single-strike power, her spear is probably the most potent weapon in your party. People tend to think of spears as being mostly for stabbing or sweeping, but you can add to their force by leaning into a blow.

“BBBBBBRAAIN…?!” The zombie Female Warrior slams into turns back to dust—that’s a third one down.

Female Warrior spins in an unbroken motion, delivering a strike with the butt of her spear to the corpse at your feet. “Phew… Blast it all, I’m going to be out of breath by the time this is over…,” she complains, brushing hair off her sweaty forehead.

You apologize to her for making her do all the work. The constant downward sweeps are not particularly efficient.

All you really have to do is physically prevent the zombies from moving, but to really finish them off, you have to actively destroy them. Which means Female Warrior’s fighting prowess is the key here, but…

“Our leader and I could go around finishing them off one by one, eh?” Myrmidon Monk clacks, his scimitar still working.

“True enough,” Female Warrior says with some concern as she combos the zombie your monk has just brought down. She crushes its face in with the heel of her metal boot, then smiles broadly. “You want to handle the last two, then?”

You glare at Myrmidon Monk. “This just got interesting,” he remarks blandly.

You let out a sharp breath, then turn to the zombies shambling toward you. Unfortunately for you, they show no sign of retreating. Do they not care about what happened to their companions, or are they only interested in the living?

“It certainly appears we won’t need any magic or miracles besides Dispel,” Female Bishop says.

“Yep. Kinda sorry I didn’t get to do anything, though…,” your cousin adds.

Even as they speak, you make a sidelong swipe across the midriff of one zombie. Sheesh—they might conserve their spells, but your physical endurance has a limit, too.

How deep can this dungeon go? And how many corpses will you have to make to get there?

Everything you see, everything you have to do, makes you think how twisted the Dungeon Master around here seems…

By the time you finally stop to catch your breath, there’s a substantial pile of zombie bits on the floor.

“Everything okay?” Female Warrior, seated firmly on the floor and smelling faintly of sweat, looks in your direction. You reply that you’re unharmed and continue digging the zombie teeth out of your gauntlet with a dagger.

Once your group was sure that the room was clear, you decided to take a brief rest before heading down to the third floor. The circle you drew with pure water will keep you safe, if only briefly.

Female Bishop kneels before the pile of zombie bones in the corner, praying for their repose. Myrmidon Monk, meanwhile, is working with Half-Elf Scout to check the treasure chest—the various gods must be keeping busy.

Across from where you and Female Warrior sit, your cousin is rifling through her items. Well, as long as she doesn’t do anything rash, you’re happy to let your second cousin do as she pleases.

“Wasn’t asking about you—I meant your glove,” Female Warrior says with a giggle, resting her chin on her knee and peering at you.

You say that your glove is unharmed, too, as you pry loose the last of the teeth. Three or four of them scatter across the ground, clicking noisily. All rotted, disgusting. You brush them away with a grumble and thank Female Warrior for her hard work.

“You can say that again. I wish you wouldn’t make me do all the heavy lifting.”

Hey, you’ll pay her back by taking some slimes off her hands next time.

“Hmph,” she replies, pouting, and jabs you in the side with her elbow. She finds a place your armor doesn’t cover and manages to leave you a bit short of breath.

“Hey, don’t bully the poor girl,” your second cousin chides. You object that you’re the one being bullied.

You look over to see what she’s been up to and find hard-baked goods in her hands. They aren’t the things you bought as provisions before setting out; instead, you suspect…

“The third floor is coming up! We’d better make sure our stomachs are full!”

Blasted second cousin. You frown, take two of the cheerfully proffered treats, and toss one to Female Warrior.

“Hee-hee, thanks.” She smiles and stuffs the treat into her mouth. “Oh, delicious!” she exclaims. You nod, then take a bite of the bread, now knowing it’s safe to eat. It has a crunch to it, hard-baked as it is to help it stay fresh for days. The same objective has led to the use of a copious amount of sugar in the recipe, and all you can taste is sweetness.

It’s more than a bit of an indulgence, but each of your party members is free to use their personal share of the money as they see fit. You don’t intend to criticize your cousin’s choices; indeed, it would be something of an indulgent excess itself to do so. Instead, you chew silently, and your second cousin puffs out her abundant chest with immense satisfaction.

“Aw, can’t leave you to test the stuff for poison, Captain,” Half-Elf Scout says, coming back with a bag full of loot from the treasure chest, a crooked smile on his face. He grabs one of the treats. Your cousin shoots you a glare, but what else is new? She tends to be careless, leading her to make a lot of mistakes—you can’t help worrying if anyone will ever want her for a bride.

“Well, I never! Your big sister doesn’t screw up at cooking that often!”

That often, eh? Silly second cousin.

“I think they taste great, myself. Those are harsh words for a little brother.” Female Warrior laughs out loud, then looks to Female Bishop with a Don’t you think? expression.

“She went out of her way to make them for us; I think the least we could do is be grateful.”

Yes; for once, your cousin didn’t oversleep, giving her time to bake these treats…but it took her so long that you left late. But then, they are pretty tasty… Hrmm. Maybe the pros win out over the cons.

“Which ones don’t have any mint or ginger in them? I mean, I’ll eat any of them, but…,” Myrmidon Monk ventures.

“These ones, I think!”

She thinks. Stupid second cousin.

Myrmidon Monk brings one of the treats to his mandibles, attempting to look nonchalant, so you avoid any follow-up. Instead, you bring up the subject of the battle you just fought, provoking a further smile from Female Warrior. You ask her what it is, but she says, “Aw, nothing really,” squinting like a cat.

You don’t press the matter, turning instead to your mapper, Female Bishop, to see how things stand with the map. “Ahem, right. Umm…” She unrolls the sheepskin paper hurriedly, tracing the lines of ink with her fingers and nodding. “…The staircase should be just ahead, so getting down to the third floor shouldn’t be a problem as such.”

“When you start doing the mapping of the third floor, be careful where you put the staircase…or the ladder or whatever it is,” Myrmidon Monk says, crunching noisily through his snack. Bits of baked bread fly from his mandibles.

“Hey,” your cousin gripes, picking some crumbs off the hem of her robe. Myrmidon Monk turns his antennae and compound eyes briefly in her direction but then goes on as if nothing has happened: “The floors aren’t necessarily laid out precisely above one another.”

If perchance you ever get your hands on a Gate scroll, or ever get caught in a Gate trap, a slight miscalculation of your coordinates could be fatal. You could end up gods knew where and never figure out where you were again. Everything you’ve heard suggests you might be lucky even to wind up in a hallway at all.

“So just about at the third floor…,” Half-Elf Scout muses, his arms crossed and his face drawn.

“Something the matter?” Female Warrior asks with a quizzical look, but he replies, “Nah. Just thinkin’, there haven’t been too many floor traps up till now, but I bet we won’t be so lucky downstairs.”

“I agree…” Female Bishop nods. Noting locations where you encounter traps on each level is also part of her job. It’s not that there have been no traps on the first two floors—even that dark zone would probably qualify. But there have been few things that were genuinely deadly, nothing to worry you overmuch. Nevertheless, there’s no indication that the next level will be the same.

“Might be they hope people will let down their guard after a couple of floors, and then—bam!” Myrmidon Monk says seriously while he picks up his crumbs as instructed by your cousin.

Half-Elf Scout seems unsure what to say for a moment, but then with palpable tension, he remarks, “Man, the Dungeon Master around here sure is twisted.”

For some reason, Female Warrior is staring at you and shaking with suppressed laughter. You snort. Beside her, Female Bishop has a finger to her lips; she looks melancholy. “Maybe we should have asked one of those other adventuring groups to show us their map…”

“Eh, answer woulda been no,” Half-Elf Scout says with a shrug and a shake of his head. “They risked their lives to get that information, and it’s what puts food on the table for ’em. They wouldn’t cough it up any sooner than they’d give us their actual cash.”

You agree with him. Your own companions are one thing, but when it comes to other parties, well, they may be fellow adventurers, but they aren’t your friends or buddies. You think perhaps that third son of the poor noble family might have obliged…but even then, you know it would be an awfully impolitic request. You think of it from your own perspective: You and your party have walked around this dungeon, Female Bishop carefully recording everything on your map—you certainly wouldn’t give it up for free.

“Yes… That’s true.” You notice Female Bishop scratching her cheek as she looks at the ground, as if she’s holding something back, and you decide to add a comment of your own:

‘Naturally, if everyone agreed, that would be a different matter.’

“…! Yes, of course!” Female Bishop looks up and nods happily, sending ripples through her hair.

You relax when you see that. Ignoring the party’s smiles (what do they have to smile about?), you shake out the arm the zombie bit. Even you realize the gesture looks staged, but it is important to make sure everything is still in good working order. Your gauntlet stopped the zombie’s teeth, so you aren’t hurt, and there’s no numbness. The glove itself isn’t even damaged.

“Still, bad luck,” Female Warrior says, watching you test your hand. She reaches out with pale fingers. “Never took such a heavy hit before this.”

She means the teeth marks still distinctly visible on your gauntlet. She runs her fingers over the surface of the glove, almost scratching it, then whispers in your ear, “I’d certainly hate for all of us to be destroyed down on the third floor because our leader has bad luck.”

With her leaning toward you, you can feel her body heat, the softness of her limbs when she’s not on her guard. You think her words, with the edge they carry, are actually a sort of joke, almost a friendly gesture toward you. Needle a person in order to relieve the tension, or say something terrible just to hear them deny it…

“Hmm…?”

Well, even so, it’s not easy being the one who gets teased.

You shrug as if you’ve seen through her, then set about tightening the fasteners on your armor, which you loosened earlier. It’s time to get going. You instruct everyone to make sure to check their armor and gear.

“Yeah, sure, we’re on it.” Female Warrior, stretching out lithe as a cat, quickly inspects her own armor. Female Bishop lets her fingers brush over the map one more time, then folds it up, and Half-Elf Scout likewise begins to stretch out his hands. Only Myrmidon Monk sits stone-still, making no move.

“Phew, there! Clean as a whistle.” Beside him, your second cousin wipes sweat from her brow, smiling brilliantly as she gets to her feet. There’s a pile of crumbs in her hands. Someone laughs at the sight, and then someone else joins in, drawn into the laughter. Female Bishop looks this way and that, the question mark almost visible over her head, until Female Warrior whispers in her ear. Female Bishop covers her mouth with a sound of surprise, and her cheeks soften into a smile, but Myrmidon Monk remains silent.

“……”

He finally gets heavily to his feet, his mandibles clacking; otherwise, he makes no sound as he checks over his equipment. Trying to suppress your own grin (someone has to preserve Myrmidon Monk’s dignity), you give the command to move out.

The third floor is just ahead.

With a shout, you drive your katana toward the onrushing beast. The small, white-furred animal yelps and bounces across the dungeon floor like a ball. Just as nimbly, it kicks off the wall and bounds through space.

“RAAAAAAAAABBIT!!”

“Dangerous little bugger…aren’t you?!” As you pull your sword back, Female Warrior flits past you, her spear singing out. The haft strikes the creature, which bounces along the ground again. You hear organs rupturing, and this time it doesn’t get up.

You give Female Warrior your thanks (“Don’t mention it!”), then walk over to inspect the corpse of this creature you’ve never seen before.

Things do start to get strange on the third floor.

“It looks like a…bunny,” your cousin says, trotting up to you and peering at the body.

Think so? You cock your head, then remark that maybe it’s something more like a capybara?

“Cappy…ba-ra?” Female Bishop repeats, apparently unfamiliar with the word, and Female Warrior chuckles.

Mm, you grunt. Then you cough and agree that yes, it does seem quite bunny-like.

The pure white fur (grimy though it is), the long ears, and the exaggerated back feet all look like those of a rabbit. But its front teeth are extraordinarily long, sharp, and deadly. Rabbits can be troublesome, yes—by eating crops in fields, not trying to murder you in a dungeon hallway. This creature is clearly a meat eater. Human meat, you surmise.

“Long, long ago, some king somewhere was exploring with one of his knights, when they were attacked by a monstrous rabbit,” Myrmidon Monk clacks out, almost to himself. “They were only able to defeat it with the help of a sacred item, or so I’ve heard. If we aren’t careful, we could end up the next meal for one of these things.”

“If you say so. Didn’t seem like all that to me,” Half-Elf Scout comments, and you nod. It was the first thing you encountered on descending the rope ladder to the third floor, and although it got the drop on you, you managed to survive the battle. It didn’t strike you as that much more powerful than you are…

“Uh, um, may I ask something…?” You’re just probing the rabbit’s remains with your hand when Female Bishop tugs unexpectedly on your sleeve. You ask her what’s wrong, and she says, “I know it’s a very important matter…and I’d like to make certain of our position. May I use the Point spell?”

Ah. You nod in understanding. She’s thinking of the warning Myrmidon Monk inflicted on her upstairs. From the perspective of your continued exploration, it would be a good idea to make sure of where you are.

What does your esteemed cartographer think of that?

“Doesn’t matter to me either way,” he says, mandibles clacking. “Let her do what she likes.”

Well, that’s not very helpful. You look at the ceiling, frowning at the unchanging white lines.

Finally, unable to come to a decision, you call your cousin over.

“Never fear, Big Sister is here. What can I do for you?” your second cousin asks gleefully. You want to know if, as the party’s resource manager, she feels it’s all right to use a spell here.

“Let’s see…,” your cousin says, putting a thoughtful finger to her lips. “I think it should be fine.”

You remark that she came to that decision awfully quickly; she brings her hands together in front of her bountiful chest and continues, “Well, we’re just trying this out today. We’ve made the third level—now let’s think about getting home, all right?”

The way she looks up at you pointedly for agreement, like an older sister scolding her younger brother, makes you cast your eyes to the ground. You seem to remember her being taller than you once—but, well, never mind.

You consider your cousin’s advice for a moment, then call Half-Elf Scout over to ask him about the current take.

“Hrm? Lessee here… Not bad, not bad at all.”

Treasure chests are found only in rooms, and rooms are guarded by monsters. You didn’t go out of your way to go into many rooms on your way down, but you still managed to come up with some loot.

“Found a few bodies on the way and helped myself to some spare change. Oughtta cover having their tags buried.” He shakes a jangling leather pouch at his hip and grins. Your cousin frowns a little at the innocent gesture, but you nod and acknowledge what he’s done. Dead men don’t use weapons, and they don’t need cash. Nor will they complain if you relieve them of the same.

Besides, if and when you finally fall, you hope someone will bury you.

The thought crosses your mind of the body bags Female Warrior was dragging behind her the first time you met her. You realize now what a kind and decent thing she was doing.

“…Whatcha thinkin’?” Female Warrior inquires.

Nothing—it’s nothing. You turn aside her sharp gaze with a smile, then conclude that it seems a good idea. Your plan is to try one room on this third floor, then go back up without pushing yourselves too far. Using up a spell here will give you a firm foundation, not to mention being helpful the next time you come here.

When you mention this, Female Bishop bows deeply and says, “Thank you very much,” her face shining. “In that case, I’ll do it right away. Ego…quelta…zain. Confirm my presence.”

She intones words of true power that echo throughout the world. Words, it’s said, were invented by the god of wind, and letters by the god of knowledge. Perhaps, you think, this is because words are sound, effectively wind. You feel the words Female Bishop speaks fill the chamber.

As a fighter who is nonetheless conversant with magic, you have to be familiar with how these things work. You suspect that at this moment, the world appears as a grid in Female Bishop’s mind. This spell to locate one’s position on it is considered to be a fairly basic one.

“…I’ve got it,” she says, letting out an anxious breath and putting a hand to her as yet undeveloped chest. “It’s true, there is a slight displacement from the floor above. If I’d started the map without realizing it…”

“Huh! That there’s one convenient trick,” Half-Elf Scout remarks, crossing his arms. If he, a scout, wanted to do the same thing, he would have to rely entirely on his own experience and intuition. But polished and accumulated as it is, he would have a much better chance than an inexperienced tracker like you. The fact that his magic is also better than yours… Maybe that’s what they call talent.

“If we ever get lost down here, I’ll be countin’ on that spell!”

“Heavens…,” Female Bishop says, putting an embarrassed hand to her cheek. “I can’t use it more than once, and it’s nothing special anyway.”

“Well, once you do learn to use it more than once, I guess we won’t be needing our scout anymore,” Female Warrior coos, a broad smile on her face. “Hrm!” Half-Elf Scout scoffs, looking at the ceiling.

You feel your mouth ease into a smile at your friends’ antics; you wipe your blade down with a special paper for that purpose and put it back in its scabbard.

“Are we moving on?” Myrmidon Monk asks, and you nod.

The scenery in front of you is all too familiar: the dark dungeon, only the faint lines of the wire frame visible through the gloom and the miasma. The place never looks any different, and yet you can assume that whatever waits for you ahead won’t be the same as what you’ve already seen.

So start with a first step. Find a room, go inside, fight a battle, and go home. Just like the first time you challenged this dungeon—the first time you encountered the Death that lurks in these depths.

A good omen would be a nice way to start. You look at the furry white corpse and think. What position does this creature hold on this floor? You can’t imagine it’s the strongest thing around. But whatever it represents, your sword worked just fine on it.

That’s all you need to know to inspire the courage to go on. You nod with fresh resolution, check your gear one more time, and then tell your comrades it’s time to go.

You take a step forward, and the ground beneath your feet disappears.

“Leader!”

Yikes—a pit trap! You flail your arms as you fall, a victim of gravity. Your fingers brush against something, and you grab on as hard as you can. There’s a burning pain as you scrape your palms, the muscles of your arms and shoulders complaining mightily. Still you don’t let go, and the reason is simple: You don’t want to die.

“H-hey, Captain, you okay?!”

“Gods… You weigh a ton…!”

You look up when you hear Half-Elf Scout and Female Warrior, and finally you realize you’re holding on to the haft of a spear. Half-Elf Scout has his arms wrapped around Female Warrior’s midriff as she braces herself at the edge of the pit, trying to fish you out.

“Here, give me that. I have better grip strength.”

“Yeah… Be my guest…!”

Myrmidon Monk grabs the spear, and Female Warrior lets out a breath. You swing your body upward, bracing your feet against the wall of the pit. You push against the wall as hard as you can.

“I’m going to pull now,” Myrmidon Monk says. “Work your way up, one step at a time. If your hand slips, it’s over for you.”

You respond with a yes-please, and then you work your way slowly, painfully out of the hole, up along the wall. You can feel the sweat on your forehead, and your breath comes in gasps. You grit your teeth, clenching your core muscles. One step, two steps, three, four. It seems you didn’t actually fall that far.

Just another way of saying that if your friends had been an instant later to help you, they wouldn’t have been in time.

Thus, you return from the pit by the skin of your teeth, crawling panting onto the floor of the third level.

“Geez, you’ve gotta watch where you’re going!” your cousin exclaims, running up to you pale as a sheet.

You’re not sure watching where you were going would have made that much difference, but it remains that this came from your failure of attention. Nonetheless, you were saved, and you thank your party members for rescuing you, then take a drink from the canteen at your hip.

“Ugh, now my hands hurt…,” Female Warrior complains, wiping sweat from her brow. You apologize and also thank her especially for her split-second reactions. Without her, you would have fallen for sure. “Er… Don’t mention it,” she says quietly, not quite looking at you.

You take another swig from your canteen, then give your equipment a quick once-over. You hope you didn’t drop anything in the pit…

“Dangerous stuff down there. Don’t go falling again, Captain,” Half-Elf Scout says, tossing a torch into the pit and watching it drop. It’s a good choice—torches serve no purpose in the maze. Finally getting your breathing under control, you, too, look down into the dark.

At the bottom of the pit are several sharp spikes, already piercing the bones of one unlucky victim. Without your party members, you would have ended up just like this person who went before you. Even if by some tremendous chance you’d avoided being skewered, you would certainly have broken your legs and been unable to move, at which point your only option would have been to wait for starvation to claim you.

Deeply embarrassed by your own pathetic mistake, you thank all your party members yet again. If you screwed up like this ten times, you might have no choice but to kill yourself to maintain your honor.

At the same time, you’re glad it was you who fell into the trap. Female Warrior, Myrmidon Monk, or Half-Elf Scout might have survived like you did, but Female Bishop and your cousin could have been in real danger.

“…So we are dealing with proper traps starting on this floor,” Female Bishop says, her expression tense. With a quick motion of her hands, she makes a note of this feature on the map.

As you stand talking, the cover over the pit trap snaps shut, and it looks like an ordinary floor again. You fell through it, and yet you would never guess that there was a trapdoor here.

“Guess that’s our warning—better watch our footing from now on,” Myrmidon Monk says. You nod at him and turn to Half-Elf Scout for his professional opinion. His response is to the point—a different point. “First things first. We’d best move to a new place, Captain. Sometimes y’get so thrown off by a trap that you just stop…and then you fall right back into it.”

That makes sense. You want to avoid that at all costs. You thank your party one more time, then instruct your scout to take point. You have Myrmidon Monk take up his former place at the back of the line.

“You sure?” Myrmidon Monk clacks, and you say the most important thing right now is to be careful of traps.

“Hee-hee. Looking forward to working with you,” your cousin says to him with a grin as he lines up beside her. Female Bishop dips her head. “Y-yes, we’ll be counting on you…”

Well, you trust him to keep an eye on things. And of course, your cousin can’t help sticking her nose where it shouldn’t be. You think it’ll be fine.

“All right, Cap, we’re off!”

Mm. You nod to Half-Elf Scout, who sets off at a quick clip.

Female Warrior, her spear on her back, groans and makes a show of rubbing her hand. You fall into step beside her.

“Not a lucky boy today, are you?”

You reply that you thought the omens looked good. Then you turn your eyes back on the depths of the third level.

Gods, this floor is equal parts gratifying and awful.

“…I wonder if there are slimes on this level…,” Female Warrior suddenly whispers, and you find yourself grinning at this unexpected show of vulnerability.

Maybe you just need to let off steam, or maybe it’s a simple tease: Either way, you say that slimes would be better than pits, and Female Warrior says, “True enough,” smiling weakly.

You’re all on edge because this is your first visit to the third floor. You steady your breathing, relax your shoulders, and look around again—but it’s still the same unchanging black-and-white maze. Half-Elf Scout is ahead of you, his sharp eyes darting left and right as he steps gingerly on each floor tile. You ask if there’s some trick to spotting traps, to which he replies, “Good question,” and crosses his arms, frowning. “Y’look at every surface real close, and if anything seems the least bit off to you, y’don’t take any chances.”

So that’s how it works.

“That’s all there is to it.” The rest is experience and intuition—and being used to it, he tells you. You acknowledge what a significant part pure gut instinct plays in all this.

Accepting his response, you leave Half-Elf Scout to his work, looking back instead toward the end of the line. Though you haven’t been together too long, your party has already gelled. But this is the first time you’ve changed the makeup of your formation. You think it’s going well, but…

“Goodness, is it that difficult?”

“Uh-huh. Harder than reading the old texts.” Myrmidon Monk nods seriously. If it weren’t for the bandage covering them, you think Female Bishop’s eyes would look as round as saucers. “Reading what’s about to happen in the game of Wizball? Much more difficult. Just when you think you’ve got it won, you take your eyes off things for a second, and it’s over for you.”

“I hope he doesn’t get it into his head to start betting on games, claiming it’s a way of training his intuition…”

What rude things your second cousin says. When you tell her as much, she replies, “Oops, you heard that?” putting a hand to her cheek and giggling. “You don’t have to worry about your older sister back here. You just keep your eyes front.”

Dumb second cousin. As the words leave your mouth in a mumble, you see that even Female Bishop is trying to restrain her laughter, her thin shoulders shaking. Yeesh. You look to Myrmidon Monk for help, but he only clacks his mandibles, his antennae pointed away from you. “Makes no difference to me.”

Bah.

You give an exasperated shake of your head and look forward again.

All of this might seem like simple banter, but each of you is doing your job. Never letting your vigilance lapse, yet not worrying more than is necessary. It’s all right; you have this down. Or so you keep telling yourself as you walk carefully forward.

“Captain,” Half-Elf Scout says sharply. “Chamber ahead.”

A great, heavy door looms before you.

It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for.

You kick the door open, but to your surprise, you’re greeted with a long hallway. Unlike in the average chamber, no monsters appear to be waiting for you. That’s a relief, but it also takes the wind out of your sails; you relax your grip on your weapon.

Beside you, Half-Elf Scout and Female Warrior exchange lighthearted banter:

“Huh… More fool me, getting all excited,” Half-Elf Scout says.

“Yeah. If I’m going to feel that nervous, I’d like to at least get a treasure chest out of it,” Female Warrior replies.

“You said it!”

They might sound silly, but letting out tension is important. You don’t even think of reprimanding them.

“Do we go forward? Or turn back and look somewhere else?” Myrmidon Monk asks, indicating that he doesn’t care either way; you say that you’re going ahead, of course. The party isn’t that far from the staircase yet—not far enough to worry about getting home anyway. With your companions alongside and behind you, you proceed step by step deeper into the dungeon.

“It certainly is unsettling, being down here for the first time…,” Female Bishop whispers, even as her quill scratches the paper. Conversation subsides, leaving only the sound of her writing and the party’s boots tapping along the floor. Led by your scout, looking this way and that, you head into the darkness.

Some distance down the corridor, you discover a door in one wall. You raise a hand, signaling to the others to stop. The hall seems to go on—this might be a chamber.

“Want to take a look? We haven’t really found anything around here yet…” You nod at your cousin’s suggestion, then touch the surface of the door delicately. It’s the same iron portal you’ve seen everywhere else in this labyrinth. So cold you can feel it through your gauntlet. Almost as cold as your blood runs when you think about what might lie on the other side of it.

You check your armor and equipment, draw your sword and check the blade and the fastenings, and otherwise prepare for battle. You tell your comrades to do the same and continue your own inspection.

“Mm, thanks,” Female Warrior says, holding her hair up so you can check the back and sides of her armor, as if this is all routine to her. There’s a hint of teasing in her voice, but your lives depend on this, and you all take it seriously.

You nod. All looks good. Next, you clap Half-Elf Scout on the shoulder.

“Y-yeah, hey. Think it’s okay… Nothin’ unusual, Cap.” He seems a little startled at first, but his voice quickly returns to normal, and his head bobs up and down. You smile. He’s going to be fighting in the front row, but there’s no need to be quite so tense. You and the girl are there to handle offense; he just has to focus on support. It’s the same thing you expect of Myrmidon Monk when he’s up with you—nothing’s different.

“Yeah, sure, I get it,” Half-Elf Scout says. “Just, y’know, Cap…y’haven’t been very lucky today. Gotta be careful.”

The omens are good. That’s what you say to his little remark, and then you glance toward the back row. Female Bishop and your cousin are twirling around for each other, checking each other’s equipment. Next to them, Myrmidon Monk is making sure of the scimitar in its scabbard, then he looks at you and nods. If he says no problem, then you believe him. You’re ready to go.

Good.

You nod, give a shout, and then, as is your wont, smite the door with a powerful kick.

Eeyowch!

There’s a hollow thud, and you grab your foot, feeling a pain you’ve never felt here in the dungeon before.

“Ooh, that looked nasty.” Female Warrior giggles, and you don’t blame her. The door took your blow and didn’t move an inch!

“Hey, are you okay?” your cousin asks, worried, but Myrmidon Monk only shakes his head in disgust. “Doesn’t even need a miracle. It’ll fix itself soon enough. Don’t think twice about it.”

It’s not exactly that it’s all the same to you, but still crouched over, you wave to your scout with one hand. Better let a pro take a look at this one.

“On it!”

“That… That really seemed painful…,” Female Bishop says, though she’s half smiling as she asks, “Would you like me to rub it?” You shake your head emphatically. Compared to being wounded in combat, this is nothing. So why does it hurt so damn much?

You finally manage to get to your feet. You’ve survived the dungeon’s deadly traps. You are going to kick this door down no matter what.

“Hmm… No traps,” Half-Elf Scout reports. “Regular locked door.”

Son of a…

“Hang on a sec. I’ll give it a try.” Half-Elf Scout pulls out the toolkit he normally uses for opening treasure chests and starts working on the lock. You’ve heard this kit called “the seven tools,” but it must be a figurative expression, because it looks like a lot more than seven to you. There’s what appears to be a thin metal needle and a fine rasp, each tailored to the exact needs of a scout.

“No traps, he says,” Female Warrior whispers from beside you, chuckling at your little screwup. You purse your lips and reply that there might be slimes on the other side of that door.

“Bah,” Female Warrior says, frowning. Then, by way of poking further fun at you, she quips, “You really aren’t on your luck today, are you?”

You cross your arms sullenly. But you don’t feel tired. The omens really are good.

A short while later, there’s a click and a scraping of metal.

This is hardly the only chamber whose door has a lock on it. Adventurers used to be very careful about checking everything thoroughly, dealing with things properly, but apparently, they got tired of it at some point. Eventually, they adopted a custom: When you’re confident a door doesn’t have any traps on it, you just kick it down.

So was it your inexperience that kept you from kicking this door open, or was it, say, the fit of the door itself? It must be the latter. You’re sure of it.

“Um…” Female Bishop, wondering if there might be something productive she could do while you waited for Half-Elf Scout to pick the lock, unrolled the map and gave it to Myrmidon Monk. He runs a carapace-plated finger along it, then says, “Don’t worry about it,” with a shake of his antennae. “What do you think, leader?” He hands you the map, and you give it a quick glance. There’s always a possibility of being attacked, even when you’re just standing around like this, so you have to keep one eye on your surroundings. Thus, you don’t look at the map very carefully, but as far as you can tell, there are no problems.

“Thank goodness…” Female Bishop puts a relieved hand to her as yet undeveloped chest when she receives approval from you both. She takes the map back and folds it up carefully—but then she makes an innocent gesture of curiosity. “I still find it very strange…”

You ask what it is she finds strange. She replies, “It’s just a small thing, but… Why are all the doors closed, do you suppose? We’ve opened some of them many times ourselves.”

“Because the master of this dungeon is rotten to the core,” Myrmidon Monk says, clacking and giving a deep nod of his head. “They might be enchanted with some sort of magic that makes sure they’re always locked.”

“That’s the Lock spell,” your cousin adds quickly. She probably figures magic is her department. She sounds very confident, puffing her ample chest out. You hate to admit it, but that second cousin of yours is a better magic user than you or Female Bishop. And why do you hate to admit it? Because if you did, it would absolutely go to her head…

“It’s a simple spell, but it shows how proficient the caster must be if it activates automatically.”

Meaning you’re facing a powerful magic user. You grunt thoughtfully, during which time Female Warrior calls to your cousin from beside you: “Does that mean there’s a spell for opening doors, then?”

“Sure there is,” your cousin replies as easily as anything. “But just like Lock, its effectiveness depends on the caster’s ability…”

“Gee, ‘Sis,’ I guess that means when you grow up a little, you won’t need a scout to open doors for you anymore,” Female Warrior says, putting her hands together with a grin. “Aww…,” Half-Elf Scout groans. You frown and tell him he’s got nothing to worry about. After all, locks are as locks may be, but your second cousin will never be able to handle finding enemies and traps.

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” she demands.

Exactly what you said. You pretend not to know what she’s upset about, and your cousin puffs out her cheeks in annoyance.

Now, that’s quite enough chatter. You inquire if the door’s open yet.

“…Yep, ready to go,” Half-Elf Scout answers. He lets out a long breath and wipes some sweat from his brow; Female Bishop walks over to him with a canteen.

“Here,” she says, offering it to him. He accepts it with a “Thanks” and takes one mouthful, then two. “Man, it really wears on a guy, not knowin’ what might happen while he’s working. Might be traps, might be monsters.”

You shrug a little and look around at your party. You made an idiot of yourself earlier, but it won’t happen again. If you screw up twice in a row, you’re going to take your anger out on the master of this dungeon.

“Ready when you are,” Female Warrior says breezily.

“Yep, anytime…!” Half-Elf Scout adds, holding his dagger in a reverse grip that’s visibly trembling.

You tremble a little with excitement yourself. If Half-Elf Scout is ready, then so are you. You steady your breathing, pull your sword from its sheath, and take up a fighting posture, then aim another kick at the door.

Now, to arms!

You all tumble into the room like an avalanche. In the gloom of the chamber, there are four squirming forms—no, six, counting the back row.

“They’ve got staves!” your cousin shouts. “Look out, they’re spell casters!” You squint against the darkness, trying to make out what you’re really facing. Now you see it: The ones in the back wear robes and carry staves in their hands. Some kind of wizards, you suppose. But the thing that draws your attention are the men on the front row. They wear dark outfits that blend into the dim surroundings, and they have on strange masks. Their faces are white as if covered in powder, and red patterns with great, large eyes are drawn on them.

You don’t get the dramatic appearance. If it weren’t that their eyes and faces moved not at all, you could almost take them to be the monsters’ actual faces.

“We haven’t faced these enemies before—don’t let your guard down for a second!” Myrmidon Monk shouts from the back row. You hear Half-Elf Scout and Female Warrior respond in the affirmative. You don’t say anything at all but vigilantly grasp your katana in both hands, moving with sliding steps, checking the footing, trying to judge the distance.

Your toes bump something. A bone that goes rolling away—does it belong to a human or a monster? Down in this dungeon, there are probably more who died after losing their way and running out of strength than there are dead beasts. One wrong move and you might well become one of them. But in the dungeon, no flower blooms in a spinal column lolling in the corner of a chamber.

“………”

The masked men likewise slide forward, spreading out through the room without a sound. You suspect they’re trying to make space for the spell casters in the back row. Beneath your helmet, you glance quickly left, then right. The men crouch, so low they’re almost on the ground, but they move smoothly—and swiftly.

You hear a hush of blades slipping from scabbards, each of the men drawing a straight sword from the holsters on their backs. You click your tongue; you didn’t even see them move. They probably slid the scabbards around toward their hips and drew them from there.

We can do this.

Without taking your eyes off the enemy forms in front of you, you tell your cousin that you’ll let her manage your magical resources.

“Right!” The response comes from Female Bishop, her voice tense. Your cousin is probably concentrating, trying to find a gap in the formation through which to launch her spell, just like your enemies. Your many years together lead you to trust her with the back row; you make your breathing even and face the masked men.

Two.

Two of them come rushing at you. One each toward Female Warrior and Half-Elf Scout. Maybe they see you as their most dangerous opponent. The thought brings a crooked smile to your face. Troublesome, but you’re grateful.

It means there will be that much less for your comrades to deal with.

Sweat runs from your forehead down your cheeks. You no longer even have the time to spare to glance at your friends to either side. Your vision constricts, until the enemies are all you can see. The sounds around you recede into the distance, like a ringing in your ears, and all that’s left is your complete focus on your foes.

You pull your sword in, stepping back, sliding your right foot behind you so your left foot is forward. If they try to come from below, you’ll block with your left, then swipe up and disengage.

The distance closes. You see what your opponents are targeting. You know the distancing. You don’t think they can see your sword.

If they were coming one by one, you could dispatch the first one and then turn to the second. They aren’t making things so simple. If they both come at you together—what will you do?

It’ll be fine.

Cut down the first one with your first strike, then get the other one with the return stroke before his blade can reach you. Seize the initiative in a volley of blows that will last only an instant. The fractional difference in distance between you and each of your opponents: That’s the path you’ll take. The spot you’ll aim for. You breathe evenly.

Shf, shf. You slide forward, trying to lure them in. If I have to come to you, you try to communicate, I’ll cut you down.

You can’t see their faces for their masks, but they seem unmoved by your provocation. They crouch lower and move backward, their behavior showing that they understand what’s happening in this fight. Gods, they’re making this difficult. Fine, one more step…

“—!”

Even as the thought crosses your mind, there’s a dry scrape across the stone floor, and one of the men vanishes. You reflexively lash out with your sword, but the blade cuts empty air. You feel nothing under your hands.

A belated instant later, a figure springs up silently, directly in front of you.

A leap!

No sooner have you understood what happened than a red-streaked white face presses in on you.

So this is a “tiger”…

The next second, everything is a brilliant red, the floor and the ceiling seeming to switch places.

You are decapitated!