Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.02 - Chapter 4.5

“Ah. Eyes open now, are they?”

No, no, that can’t be right.

You tell yourself this despite the chilly whisper that reaches you through the dark.

You’re so far yet from being enlightened, from being someone whose eyes are open.

Nowhere near true understanding.

“I meant something a bit more utilitarian.”

You hear a small, dismissive snort, and finally you physically open your eyes. Even before you register what you see in front of you, you pick up the cold chill of the stone bed—no, the altar—that you’re lying on. Then the wavering light of the candle reveals what’s around you, and you catch your breath.

“Something wrong…?”

You’re in a great hall filled with the susurrating echoes of prayer; who wouldn’t be surprised to see the young lady before them, so totally devoted to her god? Especially when they registered that her skin, pale and translucent as glass, wasn’t covered by a single scrap of clothing?

It’s the nun you so frequently meet at the temple—but it takes you a second to realize that. Her average-sized chest looks as if it were carved from marble, the lines of her body smooth and neat and beautiful. Her composed, porcelain face has the faintest flush of pink in the firelight. You finally manage to look away when you realize she’s staring daggers at you.

“…I’m apt to charge you for the look, you know.”

Does that mean you can look if you pay? You chase the naughty thought out of your mind.

You bow your head in embarrassment—realizing in the process that you’re buck naked, too—and she mutters, “Gods…” Then she goes on: “It’s all right; I’m not angry. Frankly, your reaction was substantially less lewd than most adventurers I’ve encountered.” You look up at a rustling of cloth to find she’s pulled her habit back on.

You glance around, locating your own clothing folded neatly nearby, and promptly get dressed. The two of you sit back-to-back on the altar as you silently dress, finishing by tying your belt.

“I must admit, I’m impressed you made it back here.” As she pulls her hair up from under her collar, her aroma seems to come with it. Maybe it’s the incense. It’s the first time you think incense-like could be a compliment. “Even the Resurrection miracle isn’t a guarantee, after all.”

Resurrection.

Now it makes sense, you think, as you realize what ritual she was performing for you.

Life can be restored by sleeping beside a virgin, the soul called back from the edges of eternity—truly a work of the gods. It isn’t quite the same as raising the dead, but considering the state you were in, it remains an admirable achievement.

Here’s the truth: The dead don’t come back to life. No one living can escape death. You realize that despite having been brought face-to-face with this fact, you didn’t feel any special fear. Your hands aren’t shaking. It surprises you, so you look down at them to be sure.

“We aren’t merely talking about life proper. We’re talking about the soul.”

You raise your head again, startled. The nun’s calm, clear eyes aren’t far away from yours. Her gaze pins you in place. It’s as if she can see straight through you. In your mind, her eyes look like those of your master. Even though you know they look nothing alike.

“Heal the body as thoroughly as you wish; if the soul has no desire to return home, then you’re lost.”

She’s practically read your thoughts.

No one wishes to experience death again and again. And many wish to live longer than their allotted span.

Wonder which I am.

It’s not that you specifically desire to live. Rather, you live because you haven’t died. That’s how it seems to you.

“So many are like cooling ash. So many of the adventurers in this city.” The nun’s eyes turn away. No—her face turns away, but her eyes still follow you. “It seems you are different.”

You wonder about that. You repeat the question to yourself—and think. Those adventurers who spend their time in this town and you: You’re all adventurers. Where’s the difference?

When you first got here, you thought you were different. You’re not so sure now. Maybe you’re the same—in the end, it’s only whether you live or die, isn’t it?

The nun smiles with a certain exasperation to see you so deep in thought. “If you have the time to contemplate, then you should spend it taking care of other priorities.”

You wonder aloud if maybe she means you should thank the gods.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She snorts. “It’s my duty to sleep beside you in return for a donation. But it’s not the gods’ duty to do anything in return.”

They don’t work based purely on what they get out of things. But people, with their narrow minds and narrow perspectives, are so quick to think the gods are mocking them when things don’t go their way.

The nun hops down from the altar, straightens up, and heads for the door with hardly a footfall. “Be thankful to everything.”

You think about this for a second, then nod and begin by thanking her for performing the ritual for you.

The nun stops, glancing back before she exits the room. “You’re welcome,” she replies with a nod, and in her eyes is the hint of a smile like the sun the morning after a snowfall.

If, that is, you aren’t just imagining it.

You reckon it’s before dawn. The almost painfully quiet temple seems filled with a thin purple mist. The lights that flicker among the haze must be the candles on the wall.

You almost unconsciously breathe as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the silence, and you walk toward the chapel, trying to minimize your footsteps as you go. As you work your way among the pews, you realize there are some people present. Adventurers waiting for their companions to be healed—or perhaps praying for the repose of their companions’ souls.

Past that handful of worshippers, in front of the altar, you find who you’re looking for. Female Bishop, kneeling in silent prayer—your party member.

Seeing her that way, you’re a little bit embarrassed to call her a cleric. Particularly when you think of what just happened. And when you consider the effort it must have taken her to come so far…

But here in the first light of dawn, she looks altogether fit for the name.

“Oh…” When you take a few steps closer, a word not of prayer comes out of her mouth. Her vestments rustle as she gets to her feet and comes toward you at a measured pace. She must have noticed you. Her mouth works its way into a smile. “Thank goodness… You’ve come to. Your body, is it—?”

She regards you with her sightless eyes, and you gently nod your head. After receiving a miracle from the gods, everything should be fine. In fact, you feel bad for interrupting her prayers.

Female Bishop looks relieved when you say so. Come to think of it, she’s removed her gear already and let down her hair. You don’t see your other companions, either—obviously, you didn’t expect them all to forgo sleep to wait for you. You know they’re tired from the delve. You assume they’ve retired to the inn, and that’s all right with you.

You give voice to your conjecture, and Female Bishop replies, “Yes,” and nods. “I took a bath at the inn, then returned here by myself. Everyone was so tired… Not to mention, having such a crowd here would have simply been a nuisance.”

You nod in understanding and tell her that explains the sweet smell of soap you can detect.

“Yes. Your honorable older sister said we should at least take a bath and relax a little.”

It seems she dragged Female Warrior and Female Bishop with her the moment they got to the inn. By “bath,” you assume all they did was wipe themselves down with cold water—no way they went to an actual bathhouse.

Gods, but that would be just like your cousin. But it takes a load off your mind, makes you happy, to know things are going along just like usual.

“I tell you, it wasn’t easy when you lost consciousness. There was quite a bit of panicking…” Female Bishop laughs an audible “hee-hee.” Female Warrior just about lost it when you all arrived at the temple, and your scout had to try to talk her down while Myrmidon Monk made the donation.

You mention how hard it is to imagine Female Warrior in such a panic.

“Yes, absolutely… Your older sister looked calm, though, as far as I could tell. And I was so sure it would be the other way around,” Female Bishop says, but you’ve always known your cousin to be preternaturally steady. The nun must have looked thoroughly exasperated; the mere thought brings another smile to your face.

When you think about it, it was truly good luck that you all made it through that battle in the dungeon. Especially the way your collapse galvanized everyone: That was unexpected. There could be no more joyful thing, in fact. You don’t betray any hint of these thoughts, though, as you tell Female Bishop that it would have been fine by you if she’d gotten some rest, too.

“Oh, thank you—yes, I was told ‘either way’s fine,’ but me, I…” She looks down at the ground shyly. There’s a moment of silence. Then the words bubble out of her throat like bitter water. “I couldn’t do anything else to help…”

You say nothing. What should you say to her, as she stands there with her shoulders shaking?

In the end, you simply reply, ‘I see,’ and sit down on one of the pews.

After a moment, Female Bishop sits down beside you. You pretend not to hear the low moan that escapes her.

“Um, leader…”

You let your gaze drift to the holy sigil of the Trade God mounted on the altar as you ask her to continue.

“Am I…am I truly of help?”

You take a deep breath. Female Bishop’s shoulders twitch.

‘Was that all that was bothering you?’

“Wh-what do you mean, all? You’re terrible. I’ve been agonizing about it…”

Ahem, hmm. You nod, discomfited, scratching the back of your head. Of course, ahem, you understand perfectly well what’s been bothering her. She’s afraid that if she doesn’t prove her usefulness, she’ll be dumped back at the tavern, and you can’t blame her.

But then—well, as a practical matter, your delves into the dungeon would be far more difficult without her. Particularly this last one. Having a confident guide allowed you all to reach the surface safely, even with you on the brink of death.

Humility aside, your party is made up of adventurers who can attempt to challenge the third floor of the dungeon. You failed your first battle, true enough, but with all the power she’s gained, Female Bishop can’t possibly not be any help.

Bit by bit, word by word, you manage to communicate all of this to Female Bishop.

“You… You really think so?”

You nod. You really do think so. Hell, now that you think about it, you’re a lot less use than she is. You just stand up front swinging a big, sharp stick around, maybe tossing in a spell if you have the time. Certainly, last time out you didn’t do more than that.

You tap your neck, clearly depressed as you explain all this, but Female Bishop retorts, “That’s absolutely not true!” her voice urgent. “Please stay up front for us, taking the van and making the calls! Even at the tavern, I’ll—!”

‘There, see?’

“Wha…?”

That. You start laughing. That won’t happen. Not to you, not to her.

“Oh…” As she realizes she walked right into that one, Female Bishop puffs out her cheeks and grumbles, “Gosh…”

That’s right. Nothing like that will happen. She’s just overthinking it.

However—to so lack confidence in herself, you think the problem must have fairly deep roots. And you think it’s more than just the way she was left in the tavern to do item identification for so long. Even if her infamous experience with the goblins is at the bottom of it…

“I… You see, I…” When you ask Female Bishop about it, the words come out one by one, like slow drops of water. “I was brought up to be something of a hero.”

She then adds with a grim smile: “Even though the blood in my veins is nothing special.”

Her family, it seems, is descended from a Platinum-ranked hero of old. To be related to such a legend, even on just a branch of the family tree, one was expected to be quite powerful. Female Bishop tells the story in fits and starts, but you get the impression that she wasn’t “brought up” so much as she was “tailored.”

Before she had even reached the age of majority—fifteen years—she already possessed power and skill enough to be recognized as a bishop. And not simply through the gifts of birth or nature. She had done the work and earned the accolades.

“And yet, all I could do was use both magic and miracles. Miracles alone, there was another child who could perform them, and more skillfully…”

She whispers a name, then, perhaps belonging to one of her old comrades or perhaps to a friend from her native village. Thus, she says, she determined to become an adventurer. And yet when she did so…

“In the end, it proved fruitless. I never caught the knack of it and only slowed down my party.”

She was saved. Looked after by her companions as they traveled. And then she was left again.

“I should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. That making life give you what you want from it was always going to be a challenge…”

A fleeting smile passes over her face. There’s no room for doubt: In her own way, she’s fought, struggled, and strived to get ahead.

You avert your gaze from whatever is seeping through the bandage around her eyes, looking up at the chapel ceiling. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, or maybe just copious donations, that make it look so very far away—impossibly high.

It can’t possibly have been all bad things.

You then whisper that thought into existence, trying to choose your words carefully. Indeed, there are certain things you almost envy about Female Bishop.

“What…?” It sounds like she can’t quite believe you. But she only needs to think about it. How many people are there in this world, really, who know the meaning of their own lives? Not many have any clue as to why they were born or what they should be doing.

You walk the path of the sword, seeking the highest heights of the blade. Doing battle with the Death down in the dungeon is just another step on your journey. But if someone were to ask you whether that’s the right and proper way to use your life, you wouldn’t be able to answer. The road goes ever on and on, far into the great distance; indeed, it may have no end at all.

But Female Bishop… For Female Bishop, it does.

A hero in training. A hero who can bring peace to the world. At first, it was a mission given to her, but now it’s become something she seeks of her own volition.

“Oh…”

The way is dangerous, and difficult, surely…

But the way is her own, and that, you envy her—you offer these words, and then you fall silent.

“I had… I’d never thought of it that way before…”

Well, then she can start thinking of it that way now. This you say more sternly, as if ashamed of words you didn’t expect to speak. She’s still only partway along the path. Of course she’s incompletely formed. And not just her, but all of you. Why worry so much, then? Why twist yourself into knots?

Just go on walking, silently. That will be enough.

Be thankful to all things—that’s what the nun said. All things are fate and fortune. The good and the bad—what could be better than to go on walking with both of them alike?

“Still…only partway along the path,” Female Bishop whispers, and you nod again that you think so. When it comes to the dungeon, you’ve only reached the third floor. The way ahead is long. That makes her crucial to your party, with her ability to work both spells and miracles. With her as your nucleus, you can set up any formation, respond to any situation. Thanks to her, there are more paths your party can choose.

Above all, to proceed down the road, you need a map, or else you’re only wandering lost.

“Hrm,” she mumbles, pursing her lips once you’ve said your piece. “I’m not sure that’s fair. You’re treating me like a child fishing for compliments.”

You laugh, loud and deliberately. It’s just… Well, if you don’t put things this way, it will be that much harder for her to have confidence in herself. Besides, you are what you are, this time. You pound your neck demonstratively and tell her everyone must fix their mistakes.

Female Bishop looks at you for a long moment. Despite the bandage over her eyes, it’s obvious she’s scowling. “Very well then, ahem…cough.” After a moment, she coughs adorably, then comes up so close her knees are almost touching yours. “In that case, I agree: I’m glad I met you and everyone.”

Hrk…

You grunt. This feels a bit like a sneak attack, but then she comes even closer. “And as such, might I ask you not to—well, not to get injured would be unreasonable. But at least not to die? Otherwise, I will never forgive you.”

All you can manage is another grunt.

Female Bishop giggles and says, “That’s payback,” then rises to her full height with an elegant movement. “All right, I’m going to go tell everyone else you’re awake.” She points out that too much talk could put a strain on your body and requests that you go get some rest. Her tone still doesn’t sound completely relaxed, but it does seem as if a burden has been taken off her shoulders.

That could be your misperception, but you sincerely hope it’s true.

“A long day and a refreshing night. Rest well.”

And even more to you. Rest well.

“Gods above, I thought you were dead.”

The next day, you and Female Bishop go early to the inn, where you’re greeted by these words. Female Warrior, in civilian clothes, has her hands to her cheeks in an over-the-top expression of exasperation, which she accompanies with a sigh.

There’s nothing you can say to that, so you only offer a wry smile.

This was a direct result of your inexperience.

Alive, maybe, but hungry as hell.

You physically don’t have enough blood. You’ll eat anything they put in front of you—so you wish they would hurry up and do just that!

This leads to you dragging the rest of the party to the Golden Knight. Thankfully, there are no objections, and even more thankfully, your usual table is still open. You sit down just as you always do, then call over the harefolk waitress, just as you always do.

“Ah, celebrating a triumph, are we?” she whispers, her ears bobbing, as she assesses the situation at a glance. You smile, sort of, your fingers brushing the bandage around your neck. You might be proud if it happens to leave a scar.

You order substantially more than usual, after which your cousin claps her hands. “I’m so glad you survived. I can’t even tell you. After all…” She grins, and then your second cousin turns toward Female Warrior. “This means I win our bet!”

“You were betting?!” Female Bishop exclaims, getting to her feet in disbelief. Even you look at them in some amazement. How could you not?

“Yeah, yesterday. After we got back to the inn, we were all talking.”

“…And someone has to lose, or it’s not a bet,” Myrmidon Monk says sarcastically, clacking his mandibles. He fishes inside his kimono and comes up with a bag of coins that he tosses noisily onto the table. Female Warrior likewise ruefully adds a pouch of coins.

At the jangle of money, the scout places a hand on both their shoulders, grinning. “Point is, it’s their treat today!”

“Yeah, yeah. Bah, I lost out…”

So Female Warrior says, but is it just you, or does she actually sound pretty happy? Thinking you have a sense of what they bet on, you simply shrug. It’s something of a superstition, to encourage good luck. If you’d died, you don’t think the winners of the bet would be as pleased as they are at losing now. At least, you’re pretty sure. You hope not.

You think back on the trouble on the delve and realize it might be bothering Female Warrior more than you had considered. As discreetly as possible, you suggest to your cousin that she not overdo her winning privilege.

“Of course not! They always guard us up front. I won’t order too much.”

It’s not clear for whose benefit your cousin is saying this, but Female Warrior gives her a smile at once conflicted and on the verge of tears.

It’ll be okay… Probably.

It’s not easy to tell what’s in the depths of people’s hearts, and it may not matter whether you forgive her. Female Warrior might blame herself somewhere deep inside, but look, the two of you will be able to look each other in the eye until the day you’re both gone.

You won’t forget. Neither will your party members. And Female Warrior, of course, will always remember. So instead of trying to pass things off with a simple word of forgiveness—well, this is probably the better for both of you, even if it hurts.

Your contemplation is interrupted by the arrival of breakfast. Very convenient, as far as it goes. You start wolfing down the steaming barley porridge, chasing it with cheese and dried meats and wine.

“Your stomach won’t stand up to that for long,” Myrmidon Monk clacks, and you shoot back at him to mind his own business, then resume your focus on filling your empty belly. Everyone else smirks at your desperation to sate your starving body, but who cares? You haven’t eaten anything for a couple of days, counting the time you were down in the dungeon. You feel like you could eat a dragon, skin and all.

“Gosh…,” your second cousin says, moving to wipe your mouth, but you ignore her and offer an idea.

Let’s call today a rest day.

Then you wait for a second. It’s not that you have something stuck in your throat—but you take a somewhat panicked drink of wine anyway. You drink it down.

If everyone’s all right with it. You choose your words carefully. Yes, if everyone agrees:

In a day or two, we’ll challenge those tiger-masked ninjas again.

“……”

“……”

There’s a pause. Your companions stop eating, their gazes meeting above the round table. Hmm. Did they think you would go running with your tail between your legs just because you wound up on death’s doorstep once?

“Well, now,” Half-Elf Scout says with a smile and a shake of his head, his tone gently teasing. “Here I thought sure you’d suggest we get new gear or train a little more or something like that.”

You smile back. You’re not without a plan, you inform them. Though you don’t know how well it will work.

“If you have an idea, then I don’t object,” says Myrmidon Monk, who’s already finished most of his meal and is munching on some fruit. He pushes aside some citrus fruits to get at an apple. He doesn’t seem bothered by either the peel or the core. “We get in trouble again, we can just pull back. Fine either way.”

“That’s a good point… As your older sister, though, I can’t help but wonder if that wouldn’t be overdoing it. Hmm.” She taps a finger against her lips as if considering a little brother who’s said something particularly vexing. After a moment she begins, “Say,” and leans over, setting her chin in her hands and her elbows on the table, as she looks at you. “Want your older sister to teach you a spell?”

You think about that for a second, then shake your head. You don’t think you could run straight to magic just because you lost a fight with your sword. You tell her you want to try hand-to-hand combat one more time. If you’re defeated again, then you’ll come crawling to your second cousin for help with some spells.

“Heh-heh! Well, Sis will be watching from the back row to make sure you don’t get hurt again, Little Bro!”

Real nice. This, when it’s always your second cousin who’s the first to come after you in any argument. You lock eyes with her, then laugh out loud. There’s no problem.

Female Bishop fixes her eyes on you from behind her bandage and nods. “As for me, I’m set on coming with you.” Her expression looks like she thinks she’s a coconspirator in some kind of mischief. Since last night, you understand each other. Though that fact will remain your secret for now. She’s going to save the world. You’re going to test your sword arm. You have different goals but share the same path.

“…”

The only issue, then, is the one remaining person. Female Warrior’s expression is unreadable; in her hand is a spoon she’s been holding for some time. She realizes you’re waiting for a response, and after a moment, she says, “Let’s see… Yeah.”

She nods uneasily, indicating her assent.

That’s all?

“Well,” she says, starting to smile, “if I objected, that would make me the villain, right?”

It’s not an answer, but she doesn’t appear inclined to say anything more.

Mm. You have no intention of forcing anything out of her, so the conversation ends there. A few moments later someone cracks a joke between bites of food, and with a laugh, Female Warrior joins in the chatter.

Only Female Bishop continues to stare straight at the two of you, pinning you down with those unseeing eyes.

Your katana slices through the air, leaving only the sound of rushing wind behind it.

Under the blue sky, the arc of the blade is like a white flash—at least, that’s what you wish for, but instead you follow it closely with your eyes.

To induce your opponent to take an action, you must yourself take that action. Because the action your opponent takes is presumably the one most advantageous to them at that moment. So you step in, driving straight forward with your sword and then making a sweeping cut.

You’ve come back from the tavern to the inn, where you’re around back, by the stables. In the end, you never found a good place to practice where you wouldn’t bother anybody.

Wish there was some kind of training center around here.

Unfortunately, on the edge of town there are only huge, empty fields, and then the yawning maw of the dungeon. You could never shake the feeling that training there would put you too close to the Death and shied away from the idea. Some might even question the wisdom of doing training while you’re still a convalescent, but it’s precisely because you’re recovering that you feel you must train. After all, within the next several days, you’ll be confronting those ninjas again. You know full well that lying around for even a day or two can cost you muscle. Sinews may grow stiff, the skin inflexible, the body sore, the bones groaning. It might make only a hairbreadth of difference, but it could mean someone’s death or an inability to slay the enemy.

It’s in seeking that hairbreadth advantage that adventurers polish their skills and raise their level. Spirit, technique, and body: None of them can be allowed to dull or decline.

You don’t claim to understand it completely yourself. To attain that understanding, you must walk the path of the sword one step at a time; that much is natural to you by now. The others are likewise training or preparing their spirits or gear. They might appear to be playing around, enjoying a little betting—but if it’s in preparation for the next fight, then you have no complaint.

Then again, if that second cousin is just lying around, she deserves a chewing out.

Your mouth softens into a smile at the little joke, but you quickly force it away, chasing out all unnecessary thoughts. Though it hasn’t been a long time yet, it hasn’t been a short time, either, that you and these party members of yours have confronted both life and death together. At the very least, you trust that none of them is heedlessly wasting their time.

You assume they trust you in the same way, and you intend to rise to that trust.

Now, then…

You raise your sword over your head and focus on your technique. The thought of a powerful stroke to the neck makes you think of the “newbie hunters” you encountered before. They were certainly using crude steel weapons, nothing like the quick blade—maybe even a fist?—the ninja hit you with, but the comparison is still instructive. It was so fast, and yet you were able to block it.

Just lucky. You grind your teeth together with the renewed recognition. If you hadn’t seen the Knight of Diamonds in his battered state, you might well have ended up looking just like him. Yes—as you did this last time.

You unconsciously bring your fingers to the bandage around your neck. Before, you were lucky to block the strike; this time, you were lucky that Resurrection was performed in time. Lucky to avoid death.

Would it be Chance again next time? Or Fate? Perhaps all depended upon the roll of the dice.

You think for a moment, conclude that it’s not a fruitful thing to think about, and quickly cast the contemplation aside. If you have time to fret, you have time to work.

One thing’s become clear after a few battles. Stepping forward to strike and then immediately falling back again isn’t a realistic plan. Those who have only half-heard tales of the martial arts to go on often believe that sword combat is determined by strength alone. Or they decide that whoever is fastest, or whoever’s weapon is sharpest, will always prevail.

But that’s absurd.

You yourself don’t know all the martial arts in the Four-Cornered World, but you know that both strength and speed are essential. And what gives rise to both of those is muscle, bone, and nerves.

After all, the body is like a mechanism, moving at the leisure of springs and levers and cogs. People often speak of transcending physical limits, but one can only perform motions that are physically possible. Swordsmanship exists within this sphere. It is a physical system for wielding the blade as efficiently, effectively, and precisely as possible in order to take another life. A way of discerning the most appropriate actions for the practitioner to take and then always taking them.

These ways are often written down in simple words that can communicate with anyone, particularly those with the talent. Perhaps it’s the way of warriors and martial artists to ultimately write such things, but…

No, it’s impossible.

Thus, you come to this conclusion after comparing the art you’ve received from your master with your own body. Dancing and pirouetting is one thing, but to cut forward and then fall back with no other preparation, no other technique, is simply too difficult.

Perhaps it’s inexperience that leads you to draw this conclusion quickly, but it’s all right; you have only a day or two to work. Rather than try to create some secret master’s technique, better to work on what you can achieve within that time.

You steady your breathing, and in your mind’s eye, you summon up the apparition of that ninja.

Right from the start, you have one overwhelming advantage against him. Namely, that down in the dungeon, you don’t care who or what your enemy is.

Once you burst into that chamber, you simply have to be ready and willing to deal with whatever appears. Whereas those ninjas have no way of ascertaining if you’re the adventurers from before when you come flying into their room.

If you do the same thing, they’re bound to open the same way they did before.

And there—there is your opportunity for victory.

You shake out your left hand gently, then stand tall. With your feet shoulder-width apart, you feel your body move gently up and down as the breath leaves it, then flows through it again.

And now…

“Um, leader…!”

The unexpected shout causes you to break your focus on your training. You look up to see one of your companions jogging toward the stables, her footsteps slapping the ground.

“I’ve come to…to watch you train…!” Female Bishop excuses herself for intruding, her cheeks slightly flushed, her voice equally full of determination and readiness.

“……” With her is Female Warrior, her sleeve firmly in Female Bishop’s grasp so she can’t get away. With the way she’s averting her eyes and scratching her cheek, she looks like a child being pulled along by her mother.

You grin and slide your sword into its sheath with a click. You’d assumed Female Bishop would be deep in the study of magic with your cousin, but here she is, and with Female Warrior, no less.

“We happened to run into each other at the temple, so I brought her with me!” Female Bishop says. You wonder if it was really a matter of “bringing,” a question only made more pointed by the awkward look on Female Warrior’s face. The thought of what must have happened makes you smile.

‘Watching is all well and good, but there’s not much to see here.’

“I disagree, sir, completely,” Female Bishop says, shaking her head, sending ripples through her golden hair. She turns her unseeing eyes on you, and for some reason, she’s smiling, clearly in excellent spirits. “It’s always possible I might have to wield a weapon myself one day. It can’t hurt to learn how! Can it?”

She looks to Female Warrior for confirmation, but the warrior only gives an ambiguous “Mm…”

Hmm? You shoot Female Bishop a probing look, and she nods emphatically at you. Ah, so that’s it. Now you see. She’s reading too much into things. You’re not sure whether this comes from your cousin’s “instruction,” or if it’s a sign of Female Bishop’s own maturation, or perhaps of her naïveté. But if she’s trying to be kind to you, then far be it from you to let her effort be in vain.

You think for a moment, then glance around the stable, deciding that it won’t be any inconvenience to anyone else. You suggest a round.

“…You’re sure?”

It’s not completely clear what meaning Female Warrior’s response is intended to have in regards to your question, but after this soft answer, she pulls back her luscious black hair, revealing her pale throat. Once her arm passes over her head, revealing her face, you see the smile of a wild animal baring its fangs.

“I might win again—like last time, eh?”

Hrm. You purse your lips. That was a draw—in fact, perhaps even your victory. And even if it was a draw, fighting to a stalemate with a spear when you have a sword is practically a victory.

“Huh,” Female Warrior says when you inform her of this, smiling like a cat. “How about a little test, then?” She glances around, sounding like she’s playing a game. Then she kicks a nearby pitchfork (there for feeding hay to the horses) up into her hands, grabbing it with familiarity.

You copy her, freeing one of the long poles that separates the spaces in the stable and taking it in your hands. Of course, including your katana and dagger, you’re now carrying three separate weapons, and that’s going to weigh you down. You loosen the katana at your hip, and Female Bishop, seeming to understand what you have in mind, holds out her hands. You smile at her willingness to help and give her the sword.

Perfect. You ask her, where she stands carefully holding the katana, to be your referee.

“In the name of the Supreme God,” she says, her hand to her small chest, and she sounds like truthfulness itself. There’s no one in the world more fit to judge a contest than a disciple of the Supreme God.

Female Warrior takes in the way you look, then her lips arch into a smile. “Now, no complaining later that it’s not a weapon you’re used to, you hear?”

Goes for you, too.

You steady your breathing, move your feet shoulder-width apart, leaving your legs relaxed, then place your left hand on the pole as though it were a sheathed sword. Female Warrior twirls around and then points the pitchfork at you just as if it were her usual spear.

Quietly but firmly, Female Bishop says: “Begin!”

It’s Female Warrior who takes the initiative. She dashes forward, moving much more quickly than you would expect of someone wearing sabbatons. By the time you register the grass scattering behind her, the tines of the pitchfork are already filling your vision.

You twist, stepping back with your left leg, the pitchfork passing right in front of you. Then you step forward with the right foot, your chest armor groaning as you unleash your wooden “sword.” A rising stroke, upward from below. The stick describes an ascending arch cutting through the air.

By then, though, Female Warrior has already pulled her slim body back, and neither of your weapons is within range. “Ah—ha!” Laughter, a sound of genuine pleasure, bursts from her. You bring your wooden sword back in front of you, your hands slick with sweat as you try to grip it.

Avoid, cut. That’s turned out to be too slow. What to do, then?

“Hey there, if you start daydreaming, I’ll—!” Female Warrior launches herself forward, not giving you time to think. Your vision seems to constrict itself down to the pitchfork. Reflexively, or perhaps by inspiration, you let your wooden sword overlap with the ferocity of her incoming attack. There’s a dull sound of wood and metal colliding. You brace your “sword” with your left hand to prevent it being pushed up and away. The pitchfork bites into the wood with a crack, and you lean into the weapon without thinking.

The faint chill of metal against the tip of your nose makes you realize that sweat is dripping from your brow. You might have avoided getting stabbed, just, but the move seems so much faster than that. The tines retract, and startlingly quickly, her face is there. Her expression is cold and cruel, her gaze sharp—but in her eyes there’s a flickering.

“You’re gonna die again,” she teases. In the blink of an eye—almost literally—she disappears from sight once more. She gives you a peck on the cheek as she starts away again, and suddenly she’s out of range. Your sword freed by the retreating pitchfork, you stumble a little as you regain your stance.

Twice now you’ve crossed weapons, and twice now you’ve returned to where you began.

“That one sucked for you.” Your master’s words flit through your mind, accompanied by her cackling laughter. One-on-one is one thing, but against a group, letting someone get the drop on you like that would mean certain death. If one person can pin you down, limit your movements, then you can be attacked by another, and then it’s all over.

Just another way of saying that you were no end of lucky in your battle with the newbie killers.

Your concentration on the battle has narrowed your field of vision. Yourself, her, your sword, her spear—that’s all you see. Even Female Bishop, probably watching you with some anxiety, is completely excluded from your thoughts. You have one single focus. How to overcome the hurdle in front of you, how to press forward.

After dodging, it’s already too late. If you try to defend, she’ll break through. The only way is to merge offense and defense into a single move…

“Have at!!”

Three times, four times, then five. Female Warrior steps in aggressively, her attacks relentless, before she expertly returns to the original distance. It’s like she’s dancing; to a third-party observer, it must almost look beautiful.

You, though, deliberately refuse to try to take advantage of the window of opportunity in those movements. There would be no point responding only after your eyes have accustomed themselves to her actions. And so, when the sixth round comes…

You’re already moving, executing your plan. There’s a dry bam of wood striking, and then the pitchfork flies off through the air.

Then there’s only your pole, your sword, facing down Female Warrior. Her face runs with sweat, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are open wide.

“Is that…enough for now?” Female Bishop asks you, and that’s the end of your battle. With her impaired vision, it’s probably difficult to be sure.

“Aw, look, you broke it. That won’t do,” Female Warrior says, seemingly in response to Female Bishop’s question. She sounds as if she were chiding a naughty child. You collect your weapons and replace the pole in the stable, then gather up the pitchfork from where it landed. You critically inspect the way it split. Not a bad plan for something you came up with in the heat of the moment, if you do say so yourself.

“I believe that’s our leader’s win, yes?”

No. You shake your head. It isn’t lost on you, the way she aimed for your neck each time from outside your distance. All six times. That was the whole reason you were able to finally respond.

You murmur that it’s another draw and add your thanks to Female Warrior.

“Heh-heh.” She makes a pointedly triumphant chuckle, then spins the broken haft and slaps it across her shoulders. Her hair drapes over it; she looks back over her shoulder and sticks out her tongue at you just a little. “For a spear user like me to fight to a draw with a swordsman like you, that’s my loss.”

Sorry. Her lips move soundlessly, and you shrug in equal silence.

Probably her way of saying you owe the apology and restitution for the pitchfork.

“Oh, have you two made up?” Your second cousin’s voice sounds unnaturally cheerful in the gloom of the dungeon, echoing around before it fades into the dark.

It’s the day after your day of rest from the Resurrection miracle. The dungeon once again swallows you all. Nothing about that was going to change in a few days.

You’re so familiar with the first floor now that you can practically say you know it backward and forward. You skirt around the dark zone, toward the ladder. If you avoid the rooms, then there are no battles to fight. The second floor likewise passes quickly, and now you’re on the third level.

You try being silent for a while, but Female Warrior marches beside you with her usual inscrutable smile. In that case, you decide to focus once more on following the faint wire frame that stretches out into the darkness.

Thus, the answer comes from behind you—from beside your cousin.

“Yes, it went great!” The bright, clear voice is unmistakably that of Female Bishop. “I didn’t really follow—I mean, I don’t know what to make of a battle—but they definitely crossed sword and, uh, spear.” You presume she’s talking with her hands and body again. You can hear the cloth rustling, the sword and scales clinking. You know she can’t see that well, but her movements seem swift and precise.

Already seen her fighting prowess once before, actually. You shrug, which provokes a smirk from Half-Elf Scout. “What’s the matter, Cap? Don’t get too tense, now.”

He’s right. You’re on the third floor at this moment, heading for the room where you suffered that bitter defeat. You remember, when you walked through the entrance to the dungeon earlier, how the royal guard standing there seemed to want to say something. Perhaps to comment on how quickly you’ve returned.

Have to get right back on the horse when you fall off, or you’ll end up scared to ride. You whisper something of the sort in reply, keeping your voice low so Female Bishop won’t hear. Still, knowing how sharp she is, you think she might pick up even your whisper.

Then again, it’s not as though you were saying it specifically so she would hear.

“Well, failure is experience, too,” Myrmidon Monk interjects, his mandibles clacking. “If you survive it, there’s a next time. And if you die, the rest of us will learn and get better.”

In other words, winning and losing are all the same to him, huh? From that perspective, everything seems easier. Not that you can quite reach it just yet.

You go ahead, your footsteps lighter, proceeding through the dungeon.

Maybe we were hurrying too much during our last delve.

Now that you take your time, looking carefully in every direction, you realize how different the third floor is. Compared to the others—even if there are only two others—this floor feels…strange. For one thing, the path doesn’t proceed in an obvious straight line; instead, the floor plan is made up of a complicated series of intersections.

“Just in case you didn’t already know the Dungeon Master around here was twisted.” Half-Elf Scout almost groans, frowning. “You let your attention slip for one second, you’ll have no idea where you are.”

You turn to the right, then to the left, then do an about-face to the right… The series of crossings threatens to give you vertigo everywhere you go. You fear you’ll lose track of which direction you’re facing.

“I’m starting to think I don’t feel so good…,” Female Warrior says, turning her collar up slightly. You ignore her but hear your cousin rifling through her inventory. “Want a candy to suck on?” she asks.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Female Warrior replies. A typical giddy conversation between women.

Then again, maybe you have something to learn from your second cousin’s apparent nonchalance. You bite back a laugh and let the tension out of your shoulders, and you tell Female Bishop she’s in charge of the map.

“Yes, sir.” She nods energetically. “I’ve got it.” But her voice sounds very small. You figure you should save a Point spell in case you get lost. Once you know where you are, you can get back again—if you survive the trip.

As these thoughts pass through your mind, the great, heavy door looms before you again.

“Word of advice,” Myrmidon Monk says bluntly. “No guarantees we’ll find the same thing inside as we did last time.”

Goes without saying. You nod. Whatever’s in there, what you do won’t change.

“Hack and slash, eh?” Female Bishop whispers, and you briefly reply that yes, that’s the idea. You add that your dear Female Bishop is being corrupted.

“I-I’m not being corrupted…,” she protests, but you pass it off with a boisterous laugh. At least you don’t have to worry about tension.

When your cousin sees this, she lets out a sigh that sounds theatrical, although it probably comes naturally to her. “As your older sister, I’m worried about how you’ve started to tease our party members.”

How rude. It’s not as if you’ve ever taken pleasure in tormenting a friend, and besides, you only have the personality you were born with. At the same time as you voice this objection, you put your hand gently against the door.

“Want me to kick it down for you?” Female Warrior offers in a stage whisper, and you shrink back a little before heaving a sigh. No, no. No reason to change now.

You’re trying to make it in the world as a swordsman, even if you have a long way to go. As such, you can’t let defeat lie. Nobody can have confidence in a sword defeated.

Wouldn’t be able to interrogate the world with the blade, then. All the more reason you can’t run away from a fight if you hope to survive as a swordsman and sell your skills. This process will repeat until the day you die—anyway, such are the words of an ancient swordmaster, according to your teacher. You almost think they make sense to you.

Then again, it’s probably just your imagination. If a moment as innocuous as this were enough to achieve enlightenment, why would the swordmasters of the world work so hard to train? You suspect they’re trying to recapture some inspiration they received a mere glimpse of at some point in their lives. And how could you fail to have confidence in swordsmanship honed in this way?

You take in a deep breath and let it out again. Then you spit on your palms and grab your sword by the hilt, feeling the familiar sharkskin wrapping against your skin.

Don’t care what happens next.

Sometimes you just have to roll the dice.

You lift your leg and kick the formerly stubborn door as powerfully as you can. There’s a crash as it falls inward, and you and the other adventurers pile into the room.

Your gaze follows the floating wire frame into the room, where a breeze moves ever so slightly. Perhaps it’s what you would call an aura, or perhaps not; in any case, the darkness slithers into a solid form. If there’s such a thing as palpable intent to kill, you feel it now, raising goose bumps on your skin.

Four of them.

You see them: the tiger eyes coming at you from the dark.

You must kill, and they must kill, and so indeed the intent to kill is palpable.

“The ninjas…!!”

Maybe it’s Female Warrior who speaks. It isn’t a scream, and it isn’t a battle cry; you hear it only distantly. The moment you register the enemies, your body is already moving. You won’t give your tiger-masked foes a single moment.

With a great yell, you thrust forward, then make a sweeping sideward cut. You hear a whoosh of air. You feel nothing under your hands. The ninja’s figure disappears faster than the speed of sound.

Your vision blurs. The world feels heavy, as if you were underwater or struggling through molten lead. Somebody shouts, and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. But you couldn’t care less. You cast aside all distractions, trusting your body to move.

At that instant, it seems a great flash illuminates the dungeon chamber.

“ !”

It’s a moment’s opportunity. Is it just you, or do the tiger masks seem to display surprise?

You clench your left hand and laugh.

Yes: your left hand. In which you’re holding a dagger.

Your body groans with the effort of slicing with your katana with only a single hand, but it gave you a chance to draw and strike with your dagger. The blade bites into one of the ninjas, a critical hit, a firm thwack you can feel all the way up your arm.

Now, what would my master make of that? You feel sweat on your brow, but you also feel gratification, lightness of heart.

True, you’ve just done with intention what you did by instinct in an earlier battle, but…

In the traditional style of your sword school, you suspect one would block with the sword in the right hand, using the dagger in the left to strike. You’ve done the opposite, blocking with the dagger and striking with the sword—that probably means the move belongs to some other school. But what do you care? This is for survival. You think you can hear your master chuckling at the idea.

Not trusting your left hand alone to carry the day, you quickly sweep with your sword. You’re slightly out of position—you’re reaching. The tip of your blade scrapes along something hard, but fails to cut flesh. The ninja leaps backward noisily, and you glimpse chain mail on his chest.

But what do you care, you repeat to yourself and ready your weapons once more.

Should be able to handle two of them.

Female Warrior giggles when you voice that thought, and your scout cries, “Right!” with affected abandon.

You shout back to your companions, then charge at the ninjas again.

“—!”

“!!”

Your enemies are no slouches, though. Seeing that their opening gambit has been rebuffed, they retreat several steps, and then a hail of blows comes down upon you. You look swiftly ahead. From the right comes a kick like lightning; from the left, a spear-hand strike like the head of a venomous snake.

You act on instinct. You fling yourself forward, rolling across the flagstones, sword arm first. There seems to be a tremendous impact above your head. Though you don’t really register this until it’s all over.

You regain your feet and stand up to find the ninjas to your left and right have swapped. But their metal palm covers are bent, and cracks spider across their shin guards. You rolled right between them.

I see it. In that instant, you assess what your enemies are capable of. Yes, they’re fearsome. Each exchange of blows will be desperate. But… We can win this.

“!!”

With voiceless shouts, the ninjas launch themselves at you like wild beasts. But they aren’t moving in unison. Presumably, they hope to attack not simultaneously, but for the second opponent to take advantage while you’re distracted with the first.

The ninja bends his body into an S shape like a dragon. You slide back, aiming your blades at his stomach. Then you flip the blades around in your grip, using his momentum to drive them in.

“—?!”

You can feel the weapons sink in. It turns your stomach and is accompanied by a sound like a fruit thrown hard against a rock. Blood gushes out from the mask; the ninja breaks like a blossom and slams against the wall. He might have been clever enough to wear chain mail, but it won’t stop an impact like that.

You have no time to admire your work, though. Words of true power are already in your mouth; you’re focusing your mind and tensing your body.

There’s a flash from the ninja’s hand. You don’t even glance at it but let your dagger overlap it.

‘Sagitta quelta raedius! Strike home, arrow!’

There’s a screech, and the unmistakable sparks of metal meeting metal light up the darkness.

“—?!”

You might be the only one there who understands what happened. The flash reverses itself, piercing the ninja, the one who threw it. The act isn’t natural, of course—it’s the doing of the Magic Missile spell, capable of twisting the world around it. You targeted the blade that was thrown at you with the ever-accurate spell, sending it back the way it came.

The masked ninja pitches backward with a great spray of blood, but the wound still isn’t fatal. In fact, the one you stabbed a moment earlier is also getting to his feet, even as he chokes on his own blood.

But this is the perfect chance!

“Taaaake this!!” At your sign, Female Warrior gives an adorable shout, sweeping with the haft of her spear, taking her opponent’s legs out from under him. Is it your imagination, or did she give you a relieved wink when you glanced over?

“You gotta be kidding me!”

Half-Elf Scout, for his part, is still okay. But then, so is his opponent. Half-Elf Scout appears to be exclusively parrying, making silly little sounds like hiyah! and hoo-wah! He’s just managing to deflect the masked adversary’s fists and feet with his dagger.

That’s where to focus, then!

“Right! Three moves—coordinate with me!”

“I’m on it…!!”

Almost before you can shout Now! the girls on the back row raise their staves and their voices.

“Carbunculus!”

“Crescunt!”

As you add ‘iacta’ in perfect rhythm, magical power wells up and changes the world. The Fireball spell comes bursting from both your cousin’s staff and Female Bishop’s sigil. Half-Elf Scout jumps backward, and the fireball trades places with him, taking up the argument with the ninja. The heat as it goes by singes your skin, sparks dancing through the air and a hot wind whipping through the enemy formation.

“—?!”

“?!”

The ninjas, consumed by an orange conflagration, flail and struggle, still voiceless. They look like human torches. There will be no escape from death this time.

The moment the room fills with the smell of cooked hair and flesh, it’s all over. The only ones left moving among the drifting smoke are your six party members.

“…Guess I didn’t get to do anything, in the end,” Myrmidon Monk says flatly, and the atmosphere relaxes.

‘Think that finally finished them off?’

“…Hmm, probably. Don’t you?” Female Warrior, still not quite completely relaxed, gives the blackened corpses an exploratory poke with the tip of her spear.

Your memory of the occasion is hazy, but you think it nags at her, having let those enemies get away the last time. It looks like she won’t be certain until she’s stabbed each of the foes.

You leave Female Warrior to make sure everything’s dead, looking afresh around the room and then at your companions. All of you look spent, sweat-soaked, shoulders heaving. That includes your cousin and Female Bishop, and even Myrmidon Monk, despite his flippant remark.

Now that it’s over, you realize the fight only lasted a matter of moments. You suspect the time your neck was slashed, likewise, was a very brief encounter. You reflexively put your hand to your throat as a chill runs down your spine, and your hand comes away sticky with perspiration. If you hadn’t trained with Female Warrior in how to deliver quick, single blows to vital points, could you have continued to defend?

You’re about to thank her when you discover your throat is constricted, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. Only then do you realize how shallowly you’re breathing, how fast. Your hands on your katana feel impossibly heavy. You shake your head at the sudden explosion of sweat, the heavy fatigue in your shoulders. This is truly the weight of the Death, and you desperately wish not to bend under it, even if your own pride is the only thing holding you up.

So instead you look down at the scorched corpses of the ninjas and declare proudly that the tiger-masked assassins are broken.

“We did it,” Female Warrior says, bumping her gauntleted fist lightly against yours.

You can’t thank her enough—but the same could be said of all your party members. When you get right down to it, this expedition was entirely your own whim, so it must have been simple affection for you that moved them to come along.

“I didn’t really care either way,” Myrmidon Monk says apathetically, mandibles clacking. “Our leader said we would win, and we did. No complaints here.”

You’re grateful to hear that. When you say so, Myrmidon Monk’s antennae sway from side to side; he reminds you, “You’ll recall I wasn’t any help.”

“Don’t worry—who knows if we might not run into another terrible monster on the way home?” your second cousin says, smiling—but you don’t think it’s very funny. She shows no sign of noticing your withering glance as she pats herself proudly on her abundant chest. “I think that was a pretty great Fireball I came up with, don’t you?”

You won’t deny it, but you’re afraid that if you actively acknowledge it, there’s no telling how badly she’ll let it go to her head. Anyway, you thanked her for her help first thing. When you remind her of this, your cousin puffs out her cheeks sullenly. Oh well—she’ll be in better spirits again by the time you get back to the surface. That’s just how your cousin is.

“I do think there was definite benefit in studying,” Female Bishop comments. You hear her whisper that it helped in this battle.

“There was something about some secret technique written in there, too. You know, controlling time and space or something or other.” Your cousin always has the most unsettling things to say.

You sigh, shake the blood off both of your weapons, then wipe down the blades and sheathe them once more. Obviously, all of you remain prepared for battle. After all, one of your number is engaged in a contest even now.

Just up ahead, your scout is rifling through the ninjas’ belongings and searching for any treasure chest they might have been hiding. He had to fight on the front line earlier, but this is his true battle. With that in mind, you stand next to him, careful not to disturb his thorough search.

“Feel free to talk to me, Cap; it’s okay. Won’t make any mistakes because of a little chatter.” Half-Elf Scout seems to smile wryly. His eyes move constantly; his hands never stop. You think for a moment, then comment that perhaps he should consider returning to the back row.

“Good point,” he says. “Being up front takes a lot out of you, that’s for sure.”

As a practical problem, if his hands were injured in combat, it would affect your income. Parties with no scout usually had their warrior open any treasure chests, on the understanding that they might simply have to absorb a trap, but that was a reckless way to proceed. There’s always risk in adventuring, but that doesn’t mean one should be oblivious to danger.

To this point, you’ve had Myrmidon Monk fight on the front row while your scout stays behind in deference to Half-Elf Scout’s stamina. But if your monk, who has a Healing miracle, were to fight so hard that he no longer had the wherewithal to perform his miracle, it would defeat the point. So who goes in front—the scout or the monk? It’s a difficult choice.

“Eh, I’ll give it another try. Little rest should be plenty for me to work with my hands again.”

You nod and voice your understanding. If he says so, he’s probably right. Some people try to hide their fatigue and push ahead with their work, but he doesn’t seem to be one of them. If he’s going to be that diligent, then you won’t contradict him.

After all, everyone followed you in this venture. You want to follow them in theirs.

“Oh-ho?” As you’re thinking, keeping a vigilant watch all around the room, Half-Elf Scout suddenly exclaims. Everyone drops into ready postures, thinking it might be a trap. But Half-Elf Scout says, “All good, folks,” and holds up a strange weapon in his fingertips. “Just wondered what this was. No big deal.”

It’s a butterfly-shaped dagger—or perhaps shortsword. Sort of like a blade with wings on it (hence “butterfly”), it has two blades in a cross shape. At first glance, there appears to be nowhere to hold it.

The effects of the earlier fireball are evident. It looks faintly scorched from the high temperature. The weapon appears to be intended for throwing rather than cutting, but how one would throw it, you have no idea.

“Looks a bit like a thief’s dagger, but I’m sure I’ve got no idea what this is,” Half-Elf Scout says, grasping what seems to be the “hilt” between the two blades and giving the weapon a pained look. The blades are so sharp that just running a finger along one would be enough to split the skin open. It’s not clear why these ninjas were carrying such a thing, but the workmanship is evident. You’re impressed that you were able to send it back at them.

“Would you like me to identify it?” Female Bishop asks, hustling over with evident interest and peering at the weapon. You don’t know exactly how much she can see with her eyes, but she seems to be able to sense a good deal.

“No worries. Save it till we get back up top,” Half-Elf Scout replies, stashing the weapon in his belt for the time being. From the jangling that comes from his pouch, you deduce that the take was pretty good today.

“Too bad for you.” Female Warrior giggles at Myrmidon Monk. “If there’d been a trap, you might have had something to do.” Myrmidon Monk jabs her gently in the side. “Don’t care either way.”

“Goodness gracious me,” Half-Elf Scout groans, looking intimidated, and your cousin adds to the laughter. You take in a breath once more, your lungs filling with the cold air of the dungeon, and let it out. The air carries the intense flavor of the Death. But it belongs to these fallen ninjas. You and your party have come, seen, and conquered, and you are all still alive.

No complaints at all.

A damp breeze greets you as you come up to the surface, brushing your cheek. The sky is light, but at the same time, dark. It’s around noon, but black clouds are brewing up. You suspect a storm is coming.

“Hard to tell what time it is when you come out of the dungeon, isn’t it?” Female Warrior puts a hand to her cheek and lets out a breath.

For some reason, be it the miasma that suffuses the dungeon, or the tension of battle, you can’t seem to rely on your body’s internal clock. Even you aren’t sure how long you’ve been down there. You murmur that you’re just glad it isn’t actively raining. If nothing else, it doesn’t rain in the dungeon. None of you have any wet-weather gear along.

“…Rain or shine, it’s all the same to us.” The comment comes from the royal guard, who stands by the entrance of the labyrinth and looks up at the sky with a certain annoyance. You know her by sight now. She tells you that the guards do work in shifts—it just so happens that hers often comes when you happen to be going into the dungeon.

Adventurers might head down anytime of the day or night, and even if they didn’t, there would be no telling when a monster might try to come out. You sympathize: It must be hard work. But the guard chuckles and waves away your comment. “Looks like you’re all in one piece, again. Good, good. Not a lot of parties who really want to get down to that lowest level.”

Is that so?

“You, and that Diamond whoever—that’s about it. A few more who tried and never came back.”

Is that really all? You nod, and after a few more pleasantries, you part ways with her.

You and your companions hurry along the road from the edge of town to the fortress city. You might have survived your adventure, but if you get rained on and then succumb to a cold, it will be no laughing matter.

“Oh, it’s started,” Female Bishop notes, glancing up at the sky—just as you pass through the city gate. A second later, you hear the first droplets smack against the flagstones, and soon it’s a roar. “Eep!” your cousin exclaims as the deluge makes everything black as ink. “L-let’s get inside somewhere…!” she cries, pulling her cape over her head in an effort to shield herself.

She and Female Bishop are the only party members not wearing armor, after all. Their soaked clothing sticks to their skin, giving you the impression that you can see the flesh underneath it.

“Yes, and I’m afraid we might catch cold…” Female Bishop doesn’t seem terribly bothered by her translucent garments. Whether she doesn’t care or hasn’t noticed, you’re not sure. Female Warrior, meanwhile, her dark hair soaked but the rest of her covered by her armor, looks more relaxed: “I wonder. It’s actually kind of nice, cools you down…”

You wave her off. Now then, from here…

“Guess the Golden Knight’s closest,” Half-Elf Scout says. “Let’s haul!”

That’s it.

“Perfect,” Myrmidon Monk says, his mandibles clacking, and you all go flying like arrows from a bow.

It’s not long before the gentle, orange flicker of lanterns is visible through the rain, promising warmth. Though obscured by the haze of rain, they’re unmistakably the lights that illuminate the sign of the tavern. You make a beeline for them, pushing through the door, water dripping noisily from you as you enter the building.

“Welcome home!”

The fact that you don’t receive a simple “Hullo” is evidence that you’re now firmly established regulars. A harefolk waitress comes bounding up to you, smiling. You order a beer (“I need to borrow a drying cloth!” your cousin interjects) and some hot food.

“I could sure go for some grape wine,” your cousin says. “The warm stuff. And add a pinch of sugar, not pepper.”

You indicate that this should be added to the order, whereupon the waitress replies, “Certainly!” and retreats to the kitchen while you take your usual seat.

“These girls are gonna eat us out of house and home, Cap,” Half-Elf Scout whispers.

“Wha—?” Female Bishop sounds genuinely shocked. You laugh. Then everyone laughs.

At this rate, maybe it’s more than a dream to think you’ll push through the third level sooner rather than later. Then again, you can’t imagine how deep this dungeon might go, so maybe it’s all a dream. Even so, your goal is nothing less than to reach the deepest depths of the dungeon and destroy whatever hides there.

One must have high ideals but a careful step…

“Here you are!” the waitress chirps, pattering up with a cloth. You take it and dry yourself off as you reflect. Armor can save your life—but left soaked in rainwater, it can also rust, and even nonmetal parts can be damaged. Think about how ridiculous it would look if you were cut down because when you pulled out your sword at the crucial moment, it turned out to be a rusty squib.

“We need to do something about your hair!”

“Let’s get some perfume on you when we get back to our room.”

“Oh, g-goodness, thank you…”

Female Warrior and your cousin set about fussing over Female Bishop, setting up the kind of racket for which women are famous. Female Bishop has the longest hair of anyone in your party, and the other two women are bent on drying it out a little. You grin to yourself and remark quietly that, in that respect, you men have it easier.

“True that,” Half-Elf Scout agrees with a nod, but Myrmidon Monk clacks his mandibles with some hesitation. “Still, this rain,” he continues. “It makes the burial mounds crumble…”

Ah. You’re reminded that each race has its own particular concerns.

Just as you’re about to settle at your accustomed round table, you notice some adventurers not too far away and stop. That glimmering armor and handsome aspect are unmistakable. You turn toward the third son of a poor noble family and ask what’s going on.

“Ah, nothing special. We’ve reached the fourth floor, and we want to be sure of our map.” The Knight of Diamonds wears a severe expression at first, but it softens as he looks at you. The members of his party all appear to be safe and accounted for, including the red-haired priest and the canid warrior.

You feel a twinge of regret that they’ve stolen a march on you once again, but on the whole, you’re honestly happy for them. You say what matters is that they’re all here safely, to which the knight softly replies that “safety is something, sure.” Beside him, a slip of a silver-haired girl notices Female Warrior and gives a friendly wave. Female Warrior smiles a little and waves back.

“…Looks like you’re doing well,” the silver-haired girl says. “I was so sure you must be dead.”

“Now, that’s not very nice—here I am, alive and well.”

Based on what Female Warrior told you earlier of her past, you think they must be old friends from the orphanage. But you don’t want to stick your nose in where you haven’t been invited.

How’s the party doing? Has the leader proved reliable? Can she cope with slimes yet?

You cut their conversation out of your consciousness and turn toward the Knight of Diamonds.

‘Awfully laid-back party for the group that’s deepest of all into the dungeon.’

“To hear that from the ones nipping at our heels—I might think you’re making fun of us.”

The fact that he can say this laughing suggests the Knight of Diamonds doesn’t really mean it.

You chuckle and reply that it only sounds that way because you’re so tired and shrug. Heh—just the other day you were hearing that the stairway to the fourth floor was hard to find, and now you’ve been surpassed once again. That means next up is the fifth floor. Maybe you’ll be the first down there this time…

“I’m afraid not. The truth is, we’ve already completed our exploration of the fourth floor.” The Knight of Diamonds tries to sound nonchalant as he continues: “There’s just one little wrinkle. No stairway to the fifth floor exists.”

‘Come again?’ you ask, astonished.

The rain can be heard as it continues to pound down, now smacking against the windows of the tavern. Outside, it’s dark as night—but of course.