Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.02 - Chapter 5.2

The days pass, full of the deaths of monsters and your survival and the piling up of treasure.

For the fortress city and the Golden Knight, there seems to be neither day nor night.

You work on your breakfast, not quite watching the dancing girls who shout and twist their hips on stage. The red-and-green frog costumes are ridiculous, but their very comical quality has an air of the salacious about it. The form-fitting clothes are obviously welcomed by the adventurers back from their quests.

As for you personally? Well, you don’t mind having something to enjoy looking at while you sip your barley porridge and wait for your companions.

“Hmm. Here I thought I might find you pouting because you don’t know where to go next, but you’re in quite a good mood, I see.” There’s a cackle of laughter, and a wind rushes through the tavern. A young woman, squinting like a cat, slides up next to you as easily as the breeze. You glance in her direction, reply that you’re doing all right, and sip your porridge.

“Well, at least you haven’t let it get to you. As a big-sister type cheering you on, I have to say I’m happy to see it.” A hand emerges from her cape, and the woman—the informant—waves for a waitress. “One lemon water, please. Put it on his tab.”

Fine—you don’t mind. At least she might talk to you while she drinks. You have a few questions you’d like to ask.

“Oh-ho,” the informant says, her eyes sparkling as she takes the glass from the waitress. “Curious about how to get down to the next level?”

You laugh. That’s not really one of your questions. You already plan to search the whole dungeon from the top down again. But if she has something to share on the topic, you’re all ears.

“Heh-heh. I love a man who lets his imagination run wild.” The informant giggles, then looks you over as she savors a sip of her lemon water. “But I think you’ve already got some ideas of your own, am I right?”

Mm. You nod, and you open your mouth. You and the informant say the same thing at the same time:

“The dark zone.”

The shadow of the Death that lies like a tomb upon the first floor of the dungeon. The lightless space even the miasma of the crypt can’t seem to penetrate. It’s literally dark. Terra incognita.

None who have entered it have ever returned. To be quite honest, you strongly suspect it of housing some very unpleasant trap. The very least you can say is that no one who goes down into the dungeon purely for the profit goes anywhere near the dark zone. Plenty of money to be made fighting monsters in better-lit places. One is already in a fight for one’s life. What need to go throwing oneself directly at the Death?

“But you…,” the informant woman whispers sweetly. “You’re different, aren’t you?”

You correct her: Not just you alone. Everyone in your party.

“Well, isn’t that fine. Yes…I think I like it.”

You reply brusquely that you’re glad she approves. The words of praise might even be heartfelt, but you feel somehow embarrassed to accept them as openly as they’re given.

The woman seems pleased by your reaction. She puts her chin in her hands and laughs again. “All right, then, a little reward for you, from me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Anything?

“You heard me. Anything at all…”

What to do? You dip your spoon into your porridge and bring it to your mouth to distract yourself from those searching eyes. There are so many things you wonder about. But some of them probably aren’t things you should ask.

You don’t mind asking, however. Nor do you mind keeping it to yourself. You could even choose your own question to ask.

You’re an adventurer. You came here to this fortress city because you’d heard rumors about the terrible Dungeon of the Dead, and you wanted to brave its deepest depths. It would hardly be to your credit, then, to rely on others for every last thing. You’ve chosen this path—now you must choose how to walk it. Thus…

“Hmm? The party of a guy with a red-lacquered sword?”

Mm. You nod. You choose not to ask about the dungeon, or about her, but about this. She looks at you for a second, blinking in surprise—you can tell even in spite of her hooded cape.

“Hmm. Well, now.” The woman mumbles happily to herself, then leans coquettishly over the circular table. “I actually don’t know anything about them,” she says, tilting her head to one side and looking up at you. “And that’s the problem, right?”

Yes, of course. A party on the cusp of discovering the fifth floor of the dungeon can’t possibly be anonymous. The only ones you’re aware of are the group with the Knight of Diamonds—and, not to brag, your own.

Trading rumors about adventuring parties is as common as talking about the weather around here. It’s a matter of public record that you’ve saved other groups, crossed swords with the scruffy men, and arrived at the fourth floor of the dungeon.

But they’re different.

It might be one thing if a famous party had shown up in the city on their travels. But this group worked with Female Bishop once—you dare say their level isn’t that different from yours.

“And yet they’re not such a different level from you.”

Yes, that’s it. Even if they were delving before you, it seems beyond strange. This isn’t a matter of jealousy or envy. Even your group, if you put in enough time—no. You never imagined you would eventually reach a point where you could go toe-to-toe with a dragon.

“Heh!” The woman smiles like a cat that’s fond of its master, then brings her glass to her lips. “I do know where they got so powerful, though.” The informant sips her water again and swallows noisily. You suddenly remember Female Warrior’s gesture from earlier and reply simply, no.

“Huh.” The woman licks her wetted lips and nods. “Only one place, right? The dungeon.” She snorts as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. You bring another spoonful of porridge to your mouth, chew, then swallow it before turning to her. You tell her you need to know more.

“What do you want? According to legend, the Platinum ranks are practically beyond human understanding.” That’s her first gambit. To speak of the heroes now gone from this world. Great adventurers said to have saved the world in their shining chain mail. Sometimes it was believed they could even transcend death, returning to life to punish evil.

But now they’re gone.

“And now we’ve got this dungeon beneath our feet. What’s down there? The Death.”

Hell. The afterlife. The Death. Old dwarven legends tell of a force of destruction that sleeps in the depths of the earth. You remember your master telling you about all of them, what feels like ages ago now. Is she there, too, then, down underneath the earth?

“And if you delve into the depths and stand on the border between life and death, and come back to the surface… Then what?” The informant woman puts the straw (when did she get that?) in her glass into her mouth, chews it thoughtfully, and looks at you. “Isn’t it the Death coming back all over again?”

Well…

You’re lost for what to say. No—in fact, you understand. You see the answer, as if a marker has been placed in your mind. It’s an immovable fact, the imitation of a heroic act that transcends human knowledge. As one who has had a taste of magic, you can understand it. Imitation doesn’t stop with physical mimicry.

Yes: The Death is power.

Adventurer, monster, killer, killed, one survives. That’s power.

A good night’s murder in the dungeon, killing and killing, could raise your level before the sun rises.

The dungeon is a place beyond human knowledge, where it’s possible to imitate the works of the great superhuman heroes.

However.

Beyond that pile of corpses—beyond that great height—what is there?

“’Fraid I can’t rightly say. I’m not an adventurer.” She smiles ambiguously at your question and shrugs.

You didn’t expect an answer. She doesn’t owe you any more of them anyway. If you want to know the answer, you’ll have to go and find it. You think you know where it lies now.

“The dark zone.” The informant’s small whisper and your own convinced declaration harmonize with each other. She stands up slowly. “Thanks for the drink,” she says, her smile disappearing into the shadows under her hood.

You ask if she’s leaving, and she says, “Yeah,” and nods. “Believe it or not, I’m a busy gal.”

That is what it is, then. You’ve already gained quite a bit from her. Certainly, more than the price of a single lemon water.

“Oughtta at least thank me, then,” she says with an ear-tickling giggle. Of course: You bow deeply toward her.

There’s a sound like another pleasant gust of wind through the tavern. As it brushes your cheek, she leaves you with a sharp sound and a “But remember…someone who only cares about weak or strong, winner or loser… They might not even be an adventurer anymore.”

That’s the last thing she says.

“The dark zone…” Myrmidon Monk is the first of your companions, finally arrived at breakfast, to speak after you do. “Guess it is the only place left to look.”

You nod: Mm.

Regardless of how you’ve reached the conclusion, there’s a distinct possibility that the dark zone is the key.

You’ve had many of these strategy meetings over late breakfasts, and each time, as you stuff yourselves with food, a strange presence seems to be with you at the table. It’s the words you haven’t said, the unknown space sitting in the first floor. The great, yawning tunnel of the dark zone.

You can never see very far ahead in the dungeon corridors, but there’s at least a modicum of illumination. But not in that one place. There’s only a lightless expanse that threatens to swallow adventurers whole.

Some say that a mad wizard lurks within, conducting unholy experiments in an attempt to open the door to the netherworld.

Some say that a den of the dead lies within, that it’s the purview of the Death and connected directly to hell.

Some say that no one who has set foot in the dark zone has ever returned.

You presume it’s not a place that would be of interest to those who have come to the fortress city purely to make their fortune. The only ones who might be willing to try themselves against it would be reckless fortune hunters seeking the biggest score of all—or else those attempting to make the dungeon’s deepest depths.

In other words, you and your friends.

“Most people don’t even seem to remark on the strangest thing around here,” Myrmidon Monk says, his mandibles clacking.

“What’s that?” Female Warrior asks.

“The endless treasure.”

He means the loot that wells up from the dungeon. You think of the treasure chests, no small number of which your party has found. When you destroy the monsters in a room, one always appears. Many adventurers lust after them. They’re the basic ingredients of hack and slash.

“Do you think there really is such a thing?”

One might argue that of course there is: It’s what built the place you’re sitting in right now. You know that’s too simple, too convenient, but you say it anyway. Just as Myrmidon Monk and your other companions do for you.

“Say you’re right. Still, something doesn’t come from nothing. The world doesn’t work that way.” Somewhere, there has to be something, some resource, feeding it all.

“But ain’t it just fine that there’s a mountain of money around?” Hmm. Half-Elf Scout stuffs a piece of bread into his mouth and goes for some liver and onions. “True, it’s pretty weird, but it’s not like there’s blood on the money.”

“But it built this town.” Myrmidon Monk shrugs slightly, the way clerics of the Trade God sometimes do. “It’s all money here, everywhere. It’s obscene. Eventually it’ll overwhelm everything, and then it’ll all be over.”

“Adventurers and our work are like bubbles, huh? A dream within a dream.” Half-Elf Scout chews his liver and onions, then swallows. “…I see what you’re saying. And I guess…that makes it seem most likely there’s something behind it all.” He folds his arms, grunts, and frowns.

It doesn’t change the fact that the dungeon is a dangerous place. You like this reaction better than simple wholehearted agreement.

“Me, I just don’t want to be afraid…” Thus, you’re grateful for Female Warrior’s strained whisper. She’s resting her chin on one hand, stirring her porridge listlessly. You can see how uneasy she feels. After all, even though you only met after you arrived in the fortress city, you’ve gotten to know her quite well. “…I’m afraid to die, you know?”

“So you want to spend the rest of your life pottering around the fourth floor?” Myrmidon Monk clacks back at her. He tears off a piece of meat from some beast you don’t recognize and swallows it. “I don’t care if you do, myself. Though I’d have to find myself another party.”

“…I didn’t say that,” Female Warrior replies, her eyes shifting around hesitantly. Finally, she lets out a small breath. “I’m just wondering if we’re really going to be okay.”

Well, truth be told, you can’t answer that.

“I was hoping you’d say we’ll be fine…even if it wasn’t true.” At length Female Warrior giggles, and you relax.

True, you well know the dungeon is a profoundly dangerous place, but adventurers are the people who take those risks. The knight-errant in the old song might warn against recklessness, foolishness, and carelessness, but still you must go. The true master of the sword is he who sees the charging horse come down the path and simply steps out of the road. But this doesn’t mean to face only opponents you know you can beat, to challenge only places that are ultimately safe.

However…

You wonder what your cousin and Female Bishop are up to. Those are two women you would normally expect to put in their two cents on a matter like this.

“Hrmgh?” Your second cousin looks up blankly; both girls have their noses buried in a thick book. It has a weathered leather cover incised with characters from some other land. A mysterious tome indeed. You think it must be a spell book the girls purchased somewhere along the line…

“What, this? No, no. Look, remember those demons we ran into a while ago?” Your cousin adopts a tone like an older sister explaining something to a particularly dense younger brother.

She’s right, you suppose, that succubi are a type of demon. They use human dreams as the medium to usher themselves into this world. Your sword was able to cut that which it can’t normally touch because the women (you think they’re women) are inhabitants of the other realm. You wouldn’t want to encounter a Greater Succubus, a creature with the power to maintain a physical manifestation in this world, while you were asleep.

“So I thought we needed to do a little research about summoning, the Demon Core, and the Gate spell.” Summoning demons was one kind of thing, but those other two—they were a forbidden art and a lost spell, weren’t they? Your tone is slightly exasperated. And your cousin has even got Female Bishop tangled up in this now.

“Oh, but…” Female Bishop shakes her head, very serious. She turns her sightless eyes on you, her fingers still running along the page, reading the characters. “I think…it’s going to be very necessary to help us move forward.”

Hmm.

Impressed by her demeanor, you relax a little, even as you contemplate what she’s said. All her considerable force of will is focused on moving the party forward. Any hostility toward her former—yes, former—party members, any anxiety about you and your new group, is gone. That’s something you’re very happy to realize.

You tell her that although you’ll be on the first floor of the dungeon, you yourself will handle any goblins you encounter, so she should just focus on her magic. You don’t forget to add that you’ll deal with any slimes, too.

“…Hee-hee,” Female Bishop chuckles, then nods and says, “Right.” Good.

“Ugh!” Female Warrior exclaims, puffing out her cheeks; with her long legs, she manages to give your shins a kick under the table. You squirm with pain, while your cousin admonishes you, “You shouldn’t say things like that!”

These ladies are tough. You tell them they could stand to be a little more gentle…or at least show some discretion.

“Dunno, Cap, I think you were the problem there.”

“Doesn’t matter to me what they do.”

How cruel. Your mumble is only greeted with a wave of Myrmidon Monk’s antennae. “So,” he says, “we are going, aren’t we?”

Yes, you’re going.

“That’s settled, then.” He raps on the table with one carapace-clad hand and stands up.

Half-Elf Scout sticks his hand in the air. “Check please, miss!”

“Yes, sir!” the harefolk waitress says, bustling over, and there’s a jangle as money changes hands. They only exchange a few words, but he shows his quick wit and sensitivity in them.

“Let’s see here. We should be fine on potions and other provisions. Your big sister has been taking good care to keep everything stocked up.” Your second cousin puffs out her generous chest proudly.

“And if we’re going into the dark zone, we’ll need a map,” Female Bishop says, clenching her fists to indicate determination.

Gods. The hint of a smile passes over your face. Look at these stalwart adventuring companions.

So—how about it?

Female Warrior, her chin still in her hands, just glances up at you. “Mm. ’Course I’m going.” She squints like a cat and giggles. “Besides, you look like you couldn’t stand to go without me.”

Do you, now? You stroke your chin. Female Warrior grabs your sleeve and pulls you toward her. “If we run into any slimes…well, I can count on you, can’t I?” She grins. You nod.

And so you all prepare your equipment, and prepare yourselves, as if this were any other trip into the dungeon. The dark zone waits for you, a place unknown and untried. But you don’t think about how you might not come home. That possibility has always been there, since the first time you went down into the depths.

To step off a familiar, well-trodden path is an act of courage. It’s practically reassuring to encounter your usual foes, like goblins and slimes.

“Ugh, I hate those things…” Female Warrior sniffles, patting a slimy shoulder—but you’re thinking these thoughts about how the encounter is almost comforting.

You look back over your shoulder and ask if everyone is all right, to which Female Bishop replies, “Y-yes, I think…,” in a strained voice.

“You just let Big Sis handle this,” your cousin says. You know you can rely on her at moments like this. You nod and exhale. You reflect that long before you worried about the dark zone or rogues or ninjas, the first floor of the dungeon was your sorest trial. An experienced adventurer could practically walk the halls alone, but that first adventure—you remember now how exhausting and dangerous it was.

“Okay…I’m all right now,” Female Warrior says with one final pat of her shoulder, and you turn to your companions. You don’t want to waste energy on random encounters if you don’t have to. You don’t want to use any spells. And yet you’d be embarrassed to run away.

Although if it came to that, the situation would probably be worse than embarrassing—and certainly more draining.

Taking it cautiously from one end to the other, that’s the best way to go about this. At least here in the dungeon.

“Sorry… Thank you, I didn’t mean to cause trouble.” Female Bishop takes the waterskin your cousin offers her and drinks gratefully. It is what it is, what with first goblins and then slimes appearing in quick succession.

More seriously, you mention, it would be ideal for people about to go into the dark zone to not start out that way.

“…If that happened, I think I would cry,” Female Bishop says. She sounds like she might be joking—but then again, like she might not—and you respond with an ambiguous smile. Then again, the fact that she can talk this way means she’s probably fine. You ask if you can trust her to find the way.

“Yes,” Female Bishop says with confidence, pulling her beloved map out of her bag and unrolling it. “We head north. Then we go through the intersection and toward the far door. After that…left.”

“So no chambers this time?” Half-Elf Scout asks, peeking over Female Bishop’s shoulder at the map. She nods. “That’s right. We can ignore them… In fact, I suppose we have to.”

“Man, guess there won’t be a lot of profit this time out,” Half-Elf Scout quips, provoking a giggle from your cousin.

“Who knows, but there might be a mountain of treasure somewhere in the dark zone,” Myrmidon Monk clacks, and this time it’s Female Warrior who smiles. “I don’t want to have to carry any more than I already do, so whatever we find, you handle yourself, all right?” she says.

“Er, sure…”

There’s a good rapport here. You let out a breath, grateful that everyone is keeping their wits about them even though you’re about to go into unknown territory.

“Don’t you want some water? Don’t strain yourself, now!” Female Bishop must have taken your exhalation for fatigue, because she holds out your cousin’s waterskin to you. You take it appreciatively but can’t quite ignore the fact that Female Bishop put it to her lips only moments ago.

Blasted second cousin…

“What, too embarrassed to take a drink?” Female Warrior’s voice tickles your ear, and you glare at her, then take a defiant gulp of water. The liquid is hardly down your throat before you thrust the waterskin back at your second cousin.

Geez. Just…geez.

“Heh-heh-heh, if only you were always so forthcoming,” your second cousin teases with a grin, thoughtless as ever.

“—? What’s going on?” Female Bishop asks, confused. You can’t imagine having to explain with Female Warrior standing right there, so instead you say it’s time to get going.

“Mm. Ready when you are,” Myrmidon Monk says.

“Same here,” adds Half-Elf Scout. The party regroups and sets off.

You go down the stairs, then directly north. Turn the corner, kick down the door. You come to an intersection, where you would normally turn to the west—to the left—and head toward the stairs to the second floor.

But not today.

Today you stare down the abyss that looms directly ahead of you, to the north. It is, quite literally, dark. You’re used to being able to see only the faint wire frame down here in the dungeon, but in that abyss, you can see nothing at all. If the dungeon were a living thing, this would be its throat, prepared now to swallow you and your party.

“…We really goin’ in?”

“I think it’s a little late to be getting all afraid,” Female Warrior says.

Half-Elf Scout laughs. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m a little scaredy-cat. So you can take point, Sister!”

“Oh, for…”

Female Warrior clicks her tongue quietly. You smile, then inform them that it’s the leader’s prerogative to head up the column. And also to kick down doors.

“Not that there are any doors in here,” your cousin offers, and meanwhile you hear Myrmidon Monk grumble, “Just do it already.”

You advance forward, step by step. One, two, three, four.

But that’s as far as you go. Everything is black ahead, as though the entire world a single step in front of you has vanished. First, you try sticking the tip of your scabbard into the darkness. As you expect, it vanishes. You pull it back out.

“…So I guess it didn’t, uh, just disappear,” Half-Elf Scout says.

“But what if there was no floor or something?” Female Warrior asks.

She’s not wrong, but you know you have to take that next step. You offer a prayer to the goddess who controls justice and the scales, as well as to the one who brings good fortune and the wind. An old text says that prayer has nowhere to go in the dark heart of the fortress, but it can’t hurt to try before you embark on this venture.

Then you focus your resolve and veritably jump into the void—to discover your feet land on solid ground.

That’s the only thing you’re sure of, though.

Darkness.

Your vision is a single, undifferentiated blackness. Ahead, beside, above—even when you look back over your shoulder, you can see nothing. You know only that you yourself exist, as the feeling of the hard stone under your feet tells you. If that sensation were to disappear as well, you wouldn’t even know whether you were standing up. You could be floating in the sky. Or drowning. Or falling. Your body starts to sway as if you were on a ship at sea.

You stretch out a hand and touch something cold, and for a second your heart skips a beat. But it’s nothing. The stone wall of the dungeon.

You unconsciously touch your face, rub your cheeks. It’s all right. You’re still here. Even if you can’t see your own hands.

“Captain, you okay?” Half-Elf Scout calls. He sounds strangely, startlingly near. As if he were just on the other side of a curtain. Feeling supremely odd, you reply that you’re fine, and slowly you start to hear the party’s footsteps. Then there’s a collection of yipes and eeks.

First comes a conversation between Half-Elf Scout and Myrmidon Monk:

“One strange place we’ve got here…”

“The dungeon never was a place where you counted on your eyes anyway.”

“Yeah, but you got those antennae there.”

“Is this place really that unusual…?”

That final voice must be Female Bishop. If anything, she might be your best hope in this place. Certainly, nobody else could continue making a map here: You were right to trust her with the task.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best!” she says forcefully when you tell her so, and you smile in the darkness.

“We’d better move really carefully so we don’t get lost, though. I guess we can’t exactly hold hands…” Hmm. You don’t have to be able to see your cousin’s face to know she’s frowning hard. And it’s not just her: You figure you can pretty well guess the expressions of each of your party members. For example…

“All right, let’s go nice and slow then, shall we? And no touching ‘just because we can’t see.’” That’s Female Warrior, the heels of her boots clicking on the stone.

“Man, don’t wanna think about what would happen if we ran into any monsters in here…,” Half-Elf Scout says uneasily, and you hear him carefully following Female Warrior.

When it comes down to it, for you and your party, this darkness means nothing more than that you can’t see anything. And for some reason, that makes you very happy.

The party works its way through the absolute darkness in formation, slowly. You advance a short way, then call out. Advance, call out. It was your cousin who suggested the system, and for once you readily went along with her. However familiar the first floor might feel to you by now, this is still unknown territory. You have no idea what might be in here. Stay together, that’s the key.

“…Sheesh, seems like there’s nothin’ at all,” Half-Elf Scout murmurs, and you know the choice to speak now and say this is deliberate.

Not long ago, there was discussion of using a long pole to get around, to which Female Warrior had curtly replied, “You’re not using my spear.”

“I was sure some crazy old man was gonna start flinging spells at us the moment we stepped inside,” Half-Elf Scout says.

“Could the mastermind behind all of this be right here on the first floor?” Myrmidon Monk asks, and you can hear his mandibles clacking. “Not possible, is it?”

“Oh, but it would sure be convenient for going out and shopping and stuff,” your second cousin says brightly, clapping her hands. You sigh pointedly.

“Yeah, going up and down all those stairs would be a pain.” Female Warrior giggles. As for you, you just can’t understand the things women worry about.

But then again, nothing is impossible. No one knows what the Death truly is; there’s nothing to say it might not be lurking here on the first floor of the dungeon. And who knows? You might even run into a villain going out on a shopping trip.

“Do you really think someone who’s tried to spread plague all over the Four-Cornered World would be that friendly?” Myrmidon Monk asks, his mandibles clacking in a distinctly annoyed way.

That makes five of you who have now spoken. So what about Female Bishop?

“…”

There’s no response. But you can feel her aura, if such things exist. Maybe she’s thinking about something. “Anything wrong?” you hear your cousin ask softly.

“Oh, no…” Female Bishop looks up and shakes her head—you can tell from the slight sound of her hair shifting that reaches your ears. “We’re almost off the edge of the map, though… I might need to attach more paper.”

“Oh, you want some help?” your cousin says, to which you hear Female Bishop reply, “Perhaps you could hold this, then?” The two of them work by feel. Your cousin may not seem like much, but the two of them get along quite well.

Is this the end of the corridor?

You mutter this to yourself as you listen to the rustling of the paper. What happens when you go beyond it?

“This might be just what we were looking for,” Myrmidon Monk says solemnly, full of caution. “Perhaps the idea of the mastermind being on the first floor isn’t so ridiculous after all.”

“Hey, we can’t be sure.” Unlike his easygoing demeanor on the surface, Half-Elf Scout sounds vigilant and concerned now. “The one thing we know is that the master of this dungeon is twisted. Who knows what kind of traps there might be around here?”

“Or if he might send us flying off somewhere with magic.” Female Warrior chuckles, but Myrmidon Monk replies tartly, “It’s not funny.”

Whatever else it might be, this is not a place to let down your guard—that’s the one thing you absolutely cannot do here.

That’s when Female Bishop—or is that your cousin?—says, “All right, we’re done.” Down here in the dark, Female Bishop’s map is your only lifeline. If you lose track of where you are, you’ll never get back out. That, at least, gives some credence to the story that no one has ever returned from the dark zone.

Come to think of it, wonder what happens to the corpses of those who die down here.

It might seem a strange thing to think about now, but maybe you’re inspired by the unusual odor that’s presently tickling your nose.

“…Do you smell something…weird?” Female Bishop asks.

“Smell?” your cousin replies, clearly confused. You can easily picture her sniffing the air, but as for you, you put your hand on your sword.

“Hey, what is that?” Half-Elf Scout says.

“…Think it’s coming from in front of us?” Myrmidon Monk asks. Each of them is on guard.

“No,” Female Bishop whispers. “It’s from the right.”

“Makes no difference to me either way,” comes the clacking response.

Carefully, but blindly, you reach out to the right—and touch the wall. No, wait…

“May I, Cap?”

You nod, taking a step back in the darkness, hoping that will get you out of the way. Somebody—of course you know who—moves forward in your place, and you can sense him moving for a few seconds, working.

Then there’s a breath of a breeze. You hear a soft clicking sound, and the breeze increases. A fetid, unhealthy wind.

“Okay, got it,” you hear, so you reach out for the wall again, and this time you feel—nothing. Where you expected stone, there’s only an open space. A hidden door, a branch in the path.

“Interesting stuff…,” Half-Elf Scout continues. “What’s the plan—do we do it?”

Forward or right?

You and your companions can continue to push boldly forward, or you can turn down this hidden passageway—either is fine. It might be a trap. Then again, this entire space might be a trap. Maybe it’s a little late to be worrying about traps.

Deciding to grasp the clue you have, you urge the others to follow you, then take a decisive step to the right. There’s the floor. Good start—you’re able to go in this direction. You have the sense that this might be a particularly long hallway. Slight shifts in the air tell you your companions are nodding, and you continue forward through the utter blackness.

“Wait, I………” It’s Female Warrior’s whispering voice. You can hear the tremor in it. “I’ve smelled this before.”

Everyone falls silent. But none of you stop moving forward. As you continue in the silence and the dark, the hallway begins to twist like a snake, first left, then right. It almost feels like you’re being pulled along. You start to think you probably couldn’t get home if you wanted to.

Finally breaking the quiet, you ask if things are okay with the map.

“Er, ah, y-yes,” Female Bishop says in a high, trembling voice. “It’s… It’s fine.”

Fine, then. After your response, there’s no further conversation.

In the blackness, the only information you have is the sound of everyone’s footsteps, the breathing, the sensation of the stone beneath your feet—and the smell. As you walk along, it starts to register with you, too. Maybe from some time long ago.

It’s just like Female Warrior says. You’ve smelled this smell. Perhaps Female Bishop has, too.

“What a nasty stench…,” your cousin mumbles, accompanied by a rustling of cloth. She must be holding her cape over her mouth, not that it will do her any good. The smell is sickly sweet, stomach turning. Like a trash pile, the odor of overripe waste left forgotten.

The source of the stink seems to be at the end of the hidden hallway. When you reach out your hand this time, you don’t feel a wall. Perhaps another door. It’s obvious that the odor is coming through the door, from something on the other side.

“…Let me check it out,” Half-Elf Scout says, sounding slightly nauseated but nonetheless stepping forward again as you take a step back.

The last time you smelled this smell was—yes, it was during that fight on the second floor.

You move slightly to make sure you’re out of the way of your scout, then slowly draw the sword from its scabbard at your hip, holding it steady.

“Doesn’t seem like there are any traps…”

You nod, slick the hilt with spit, get your hands in position. You check that your equipment is all in one piece, then slowly you raise your leg.

This smell—it’s the smell of the Death.

There’s a chamber on the other side, simple as that. But you’ve never seen a chamber so blasphemous as this one.

Corpses. All corpses.

Dismembered, rotting, left unburied, forgotten, bodies overflowing the place. The doors to several small rooms stand open, piles of bodies pouring through them. There are no flies, maybe because you’re so far underground, but that is your one and only saving grace.

There are bodies of men. Bodies of women. Elves and rheas, padfoots. Others are too rotted to tell what they used to be. And all of them—young and old, male and female—have only the slightest scraps of equipment left to prove that they were once adventurers.

This is the sight that greets your eyes when you kick that door open, the chamber’s faint illumination the first light you’ve seen in what feels like an age.

“…!” Maybe it’s your cousin who swallows audibly, or maybe it’s Female Bishop. Or maybe Female Warrior—or maybe you yourself. The reek of the bodies makes simply breathing an assault on your lungs.

To take the first step into that room, so full of corpses that there’s hardly anywhere to put your feet, takes as much courage as stepping into any monster den. But you steel yourself and enter. Underneath the door you kicked down, you feel the soft splorch of crushing flesh.

“Gotta watch out for corpse-eaters down there… Really don’t like doing this, though…” Half-Elf Scout tries to joke as he jumps lightly into the chamber, not making a sound. Maybe, with his training, he doesn’t need to walk on the bodies. Or maybe he isn’t thinking about it.

“………”

You watch Female Warrior enter the room without a word. Maybe it’s the dim light that makes her slim face look even paler than usual. She hardly seems to have any blood in her cheeks. You don’t say anything about the way she’s viciously biting her lip but simply tell everyone not to do anything reckless.

After all, seems pretty obvious this room isn’t connected to any lower levels.

“This is unbelievable…,” Female Bishop whispers, her breath ragged in her throat. “What’s going on here?” She’s gripping the sword and scales so tight her fingers are turning white. Maybe she can tell how obscene the scene is even without her eyesight. Maybe it’s a blessing that she can’t see this.

When you see that she looks like she might topple over at any moment, you’re about to call out, but your cousin moves first. She doesn’t say anything, just places her hand over Female Bishop’s. Then she looks at you and gives a small nod. You nod back. You hate to admit it, but this is one of those things about your cousin you have unalloyed respect for.

“Captain, wanna come have a look at this?”

You tell Female Warrior to keep watch, and she nods, then you head over to Half-Elf Scout. He’s crouched, examining the bodies. You squat beside him. A burst of humid air hits your face, along with the wafting stench.

“…If our lady back at the temple saw this, she’d start screamin’ about apostates.”

You force yourself to smile a little at Half-Elf Scout’s joke, even manage a chuckle. Many adventurers lie “saved” there in the temple, but…they were alive. Their bodies purified, in hopes that they might someday be healed. There’s a respect there. You know your alms aren’t going to waste. How would that nun and her colleagues ever accept blasphemy of this sort, you ask Half-Elf Scout.

“Good point… So about this one here.” Your scout wields his butterfly blade like a scalpel, indicating a wound in one corpse. “I’ve been with ya this whole time, Cap, so I think I recognize this. What about you?”

The wound was obviously caused by something very sharp. A blade driven powerfully into the body and extracted with a twist of the wrist. The point wasn’t to get through the chinks in the body’s armor but to stab a vital point. This was caused, you say without hesitation, by a katana.

“…Ya think so, too, huh? Yeah, I kinda had a feeling…”

However, you don’t think a simple blade did this. Cutting all the way through this armor. When one performs a “helmet-cleaving strike,” usually one considers it a success if the blade sinks into the helmet. To slice through flesh and bone, along with armor—that’s not normal.

Preternatural, in fact.

Some of the corpses were cut down with a katana. Others with a more typical sword. Still others have been burned with magic. Many kinds of wounds, many ways of killing. What’s more, you can see one wound, older, that appears to have been fatal, but there are others as well, overlapping with it. Newer ones. This isn’t how the wandering monsters of the dungeon work. Nor do you think it’s the MO of the newbie hunters.

You think it might, in fact, be the doing of adventurers.

“I see, so that’s the story,” Myrmidon Monk spits, playing with his curved scimitar. “That’s how a group appears virtually out of nowhere. How they gain enough levels to make the fourth or fifth floor…”

That’s right.

You remember the words, words that have been bothering you ever since you heard them.

“I know it was for training, but we had to do so much killing—we didn’t want to…

“We didn’t want to see you until our penance was done… We thought that would be best.”

What had they been killing? What had they been repenting of? How had they been training?

What had they done that they felt couldn’t be forgiven?

“These were how they trained.”

The answer comes slowly, like something out of a nightmare. A form pulling itself to its feet, like a clown shrouded in rags. You would have been alert enough if there had been just one of them. An unknown enemy. You and your party could have taken your time, battled methodically, single-mindedly.

But the situation doesn’t allow it. There’s a scraping of flesh and bones, wet sucking sounds coming from internal organs. First from one place, then another. The door you kicked down begins to quiver, and another emerges from beneath it. If all of the corpses in this room should rise and come after you…

All we could do would be to laugh.

“Don’t you think maybe we should be getting out of here?!” your cousin calls, sounding uncommonly panicked, but you shake your head. You can’t let creatures like these out of this room. And anyway, the last thing you want is to be surrounded in the dark zone.

You look around quickly, shouting for everyone to circle up as you slide toward the center of the chamber.

“R-right!” Female Bishop says—perhaps she’s able to take the initiative thanks to your cousin. You cover them as they move together; meanwhile, you use your free hand, the one not holding your sword, to take Female Warrior’s arm.

“Oh…,” she mutters distantly, an expression of surprise on her face. Her arm is thinner than you had expected, more delicate. You reprimand her for this brief lapse of attention as you pull her toward you. You have to make this stand—or die.

“Right… I’m sorry,” she says, then raises her spear before giving her head a shake. That’s good enough for you.

“…Do you know the story of the ants and the adventurer?” Myrmidon Monk asks, sounding as poised as if nothing special were happening, his antennae waving in your direction. “It’s a simple parable: Does the adventurer push through purgatory first, or is he overwhelmed by the never-ending flood of insects?”

You see now. His story has a point.

“Yeah, real instructive—maybe I’ll thank you later…!” Half-Elf Scout says. He and Myrmidon Monk already have their weapons out and are moving to reinforce the sides of your formation. The four of you confront the undead in a square shape, with Female Bishop and your cousin in the center.

Really wishing we had that extra warrior instead of a scout about now.

“Real nice, Cap!” Half-Elf Scout chuckles when you say this aloud, taking your attempt at a joke for what it is. But from Female Warrior, who would usually get in a jab at a moment like this, there’s nothing. Half-Elf Scout shrugs. “If you’re gonna kick me out of the party, at least wait till we’re back at the tavern to do it!”

You nod. You’ll take it under consideration. Then you look at the corpses shuffling toward you. There are enough of them now that you could hardly swing your sword without hitting one…

“…Shall we use a spell?” Female Bishop asks quietly. She’s grasping the sword and scales, ready to begin a chant at any moment. But you shake your head. It isn’t time yet. This isn’t the fifth floor; it isn’t even the fourth. The real fight is yet to come. Somewhere deep in the dark zone.

“But if our backs are really against the wall, your big sis will cast some magic!” Damn second cousin. The corner of your lip twists up. You say that if your backs are really against the wall, you’ll count on her. “You got it, Little Bro!” You assume she’s puffing out her chest proudly. Taking Female Bishop’s hand, no doubt. No anxiety at all, then.

“Practical point. I think after diving into this first chamber and cleaning up, we ought to go back home,” Myrmidon Monk says, mandibles clacking. Not that any of this matters to him. “Undead ought to be susceptible to Dispel. Buy me some time to concentrate.”

You nod. Steady your breathing. You’re ready. You just have to start swinging.

The vestiges of adventurers pile in like an avalanche.

Some statue, perhaps once venerated here, has been smashed to pieces, the incense burner abandoned somewhere nearby. But you don’t have the wherewithal to watch your feet, to make sure you don’t stumble over whatever it is.

“MUUUUUURRPPHH!!!!!!” The corpses of the former adventurers groan inarticulately; they seem to have no intelligence left. Whatever levels they once possessed have been taken from them, and they wield neither weapons nor magic, but only try to grab you with outstretched hands.

“…Hrgh…!”

Obviously, rotting fingers aren’t going to break through your armor. Female Warrior lashes out with her spear, sweeping several of the enemies away.

But then you hear a sound. Scritch-scritch. Scritch-scritch. It’s the monsters’ claws and teeth scratching at your equipment.

Each time something grabs you, you shove it away. You slice through the occasional internal organ as well as any flesh that spits back rotting juices at you. It starts getting hard to see. Even the instant it takes you to wipe the slime away from your eyes isn’t enough for these creatures; you have plenty of time to regain your stance and strike again. You start to slip on blood and grease. The goo is even on the hilt of your sword, making your hands and fingers slip.

But none of it matters. You put more strength into your legs, grasp your katana tightly, and strike into a monster’s face from above. Nothing dramatic happens—you don’t cleave it from the skull down its spine or anything. But you do literally break its brain. You don’t know what that means for a creature in this state, but the enemy crumples.

You steady your breathing again. Each time you inhale the disgusting stink, you’re struck by the inescapable feeling that your lungs are being polluted.

“Sons of… They don’t give up, do they…?!” Half-Elf Scout exclaims, wielding his butterfly knife relentlessly. You don’t answer.

He’s right. It’s not so much that these undead are especially powerful. One or two strokes of the sword is more than enough to deal with them. Their rotting flesh presents no serious threat. Frankly, they’re no stronger than goblins or slimes. Considering how ineffective they are even despite their numbers, maybe they’re even weaker than those enemies.

But fighting them induces a sort of hypnosis. Mechanically cutting with your sword can hardly be called combat. You slice the creatures down like wheat, find more opponents, and then repeat the process. It isn’t even physically challenging. It just makes you feel…sluggish. Your head starts nodding with each repetition, each time you do the same thing over again. Your vision starts to blur and darken, your breath grows shallow.

The martial artist’s virtue of “no mind” has such a nice ring to it. But it’s a fact that even thinking has become a challenge.

Slowing down… Too slow.

You aren’t growing physically tired, nor even mentally fatigued from all the slaughtering. The hands that hold your weapon never slacken; the enemies simply keep coming, and you keep killing, keep cutting them down.

The goal isn’t survival. It’s not even loot. This is murder for its own sake. As the bodies pile up, you feel your heart grow colder. Something in your mind dulls. A fire is going out. A smoking ember is all that remains among the ash.

This isn’t an adventure. This is simply work.

“…!” From behind you, your cousin makes a choked noise. You look forward to discover a corpse, all four of its limbs in a brutalized state. You did that. But the body rises once more, as if suspended from an invisible string. It seems like a hunk of meat in vaguely human form, something terrible and indescribable, a creature uncanny and bizarre.

“Oh…g…oh gods…,” Female Warrior whimpers like a child, shaking her head in horror. She falls back on her behind with a clatter of armor, right there in the middle of the fight. You’ve known something was up with her from the moment you stepped into this room. She must have finally reached her limit. You open your mouth to say something, but…

At that moment, the sword and scales, sharp and true, come driving from beside the unsteady warrior.

“Please… You must stay strong!” It’s Female Bishop. The sword and scales smash into the corpse that’s trying to grab at Female Warrior, and Female Bishop shouts out, “Your foe…may be hideous…! But don’t do them the dignity of being frightened…!”

Don’t. Don’t give them the dignity.

Her eyes are bandaged, and she’s striking from the back row with a long weapon. She’s not going to land a finishing blow. Nonetheless, Female Bishop grits her teeth, wielding her sword and scales against the corpse. Perhaps she wouldn’t show such bravery if she were facing a goblin. But maybe that’s why she’s so stalwart now. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t be here.

You, Female Warrior, Female Bishop—all of your party members are exactly like that.

“Maybe we can’t win…! Maybe we’re afraid…!”

Still, we have to stand and fight.

Female Bishop grits her teeth, bites her lip, and then stabs at the monster.

Argh…

It may be faint, it may be cold, it may be guttering—but some here still have a spark. You pat Female Warrior gently on the shoulder, then take a step forward and brandish your blade, ready to fight enough monsters for both of you.

The corpses are dried-out husks; cutting them down sounds and feels like chopping wood. This is the moment you most need to stand firm. You laugh out loud, calling to Half-Elf Scout.

“I gotcha, but man, this is tough! I’m getting exhausted!” He’s veritably begging you to trade places with him, but you tell him to try someone else. There’s a despairing cry.

It’s just like always. The light voices, the easy banter. Truly, these are stalwart companions.

And yet. And yet it’s true that you’ve had just about enough of this. Surely something has to happen soon.

“Hold out just a little longer,” comes the merciless clack of the mandibles. “We die down here, nobody knows, nobody cares.”

Yeesh, good gods. You wonder aloud how a cleric can be so intimidating.

“I—I don’t think he’s that scary…,” your cousin ventures in reply.

Well, no. You shrug slightly, then glance at Female Warrior. Your eyes meet hers, which are vague and slightly unfocused. “……” She seems to be trying to say something, but then she closes her mouth and looks at the ground. Her eyes are red.

Do you remember how she once talked about seeking a Life? That’s what she whispered to you that night, when you were alone and you asked her about it. If the Death is down in this dungeon, then perhaps its opposite is here, as well.

But this can’t possibly be that Life.

“Oh…”

You don’t know if the words you speak reach her or not. There are too many enemies to worry about it. They aren’t very strong, though, so they’re mostly just a lot of trouble.

“Gosh… You just don’t know how to treat a girl, do you?” your second cousin whispers. She’s kneeling by Female Warrior. Even though you’re fighting with your back to both of them, you can tell she’s smiling.

“Can you stand?” your cousin asks.

“……Yeah,” Female Warrior says weakly. You hear cloth rustle. Probably her sleeves, wiping her eyes. “I’m…sorry about that.”

“Hey, it’s fine, no problem! I would have been surprised if you hadn’t been scared of that!”

Now you hear fasteners clinking—Female Warrior standing up, although slowly. You call out to her, briefly. Is she all right, is she okay—something like that.

You don’t get a definite answer. But beside you, she says softly, “I can hold out a little longer.”

That’s all we need.

You face down the swarm of undead from dead in front of them. To reiterate, this is just a chore, not a battle.

Something you heard once flashes through your mind—that the slow accumulation of life and death is what makes an adventurer strong. Perhaps there’s a certain logic to that. But what value is there in accumulating this?

“All right, I’m ready! Let’s try Dispel on these things…!!” Myrmidon Monk’s magic fills the chamber with a fresh breeze, and the corpses are reduced to dust.

Even there, in the midst of the dancing powder, you can’t understand what all this work was worth.

“Let’s take a break!” This suggestion comes, of course, from your cousin. You don’t know where she gets the resilience. She claps her hands as if suggesting you should all have a picnic. Whether from the relief or the exasperation, your feeling of fatigue vanishes immediately. You would never tell her this because it would go to her head, but this is one of those things about your cousin you have unalloyed respect for.

Maybe the one slight wrinkle is that all this is taking place in a room piled with the dust of vaporized corpses.

“Not sure how I feel about takin’ a break right in the dark zone,” Half-Elf Scout comments.

“I don’t mind,” says Myrmidon Monk. “All the same to me.”

“Huh…,” Half-Elf Scout mutters softly, and you can almost hear the rueful smile, but you understand where the monk is coming from.

There’s too much dust to move it aside, so you all settle in the middle of the room, sitting on the floor.

“I’ll establish a barrier…” Female Bishop promptly produces holy water from her bag and starts sprinkling it around the room.

There are no guarantees that the undead won’t show up again. A barrier to keep monsters at bay could be crucial. You tell Female Bishop that when she’s done, you want to go over the map, too. “Right,” she says brightly.

As she works, Myrmidon Monk hefts himself to his feet. “Mm. Suppose I can help here…”

“Sure, and I’ll keep an eye on the entrance,” Half-Elf Scout says, hopping up. He holds his butterfly knife with both hands and moves without a sound. “You mean to keep going, right, Captain?”

Yeah, pretty much.

If nothing else, your resources—your health and spells—are untouched. Besides…you want to see the face of whatever freak thought it was a good idea to make something like this.

“I’m with you there.” At your comment, Half-Elf Scout’s words are brief, but he’s certainly in agreement. You watch him position himself by the door, then let out a breath and start into motion yourself. As soon as she sees you move, your cousin smiles and holds out a waterskin. “Here.”

Oh, for…

“What is it?” she asks, looking at you with a perplexed smile. You feel like you want to say something, but instead you just shake your head. You don’t mean to attack her head-on. Instead, you simply thank her. “Sure thing. All right, Big Sis is going to be getting her spells ready. For next time!”

Next time. Somewhere deeper in the dark zone. Before you worry about next time, though, you need to check out the corner of this room. Female Warrior is there, sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest.

You sit down beside her, saying nothing. The walls and floor of the dungeon may be ambiguous and difficult to make out due to the miasma, but when you touch them, they feel like cold stone. You lean against that chilly presence and are silent for a while.

“…I wanted to help her,” Female Warrior says. She speaks in a whisper, not looking up. “My sister.”

You acknowledge her gently. You remember this story. Her sister is at the temple. The Preservation miracle was—if not futile, at least too late. You might even remember that this situation inspired Female Warrior to visit the temple regularly.

You sip some of what’s in the waterskin. It’s tepid and doesn’t taste like much. You wish you had some alcohol. You remember your master. A withered flower, thin and bony. Perfumed with wine and medicine.

People die. That’s what they do.

Anyone alive must one day die. Even elves are no exception. It’s an immutable fact. Incontrovertible. The truly dead can’t be brought back to life, not even with a miracle. And the idea that the deceased live in our hearts? Foolishness. Memories fade and change. They can even be made up. Above all, what a person thought and felt, how they lived and how they died, can be known only to that person. The deceased in our memories are nothing but convenient simulacra.

Meaning the Death—and the Life—can’t be like that, then.

That’s all you say, and then you fall silent. You catch the scent of a woman, and a soft weight leans on your shoulder.

She doesn’t smell like your master, nor like your cousin.

“You really…” Her voice is quiet, almost pleading. “…don’t have any idea, do you?”

You tell her to forget about it, then you press the waterskin into her hand. Her face twists into a smile, then she brings the water unsteadily to her lips and drinks.

You don’t notice anything. If your shoulder is damp near her face, that must be the water spilling from the pouch.

You doubt any of your party members notice anything, either. Each is busy at their own task. You’re sure they don’t hear the quiet sobs.

This is just a quick break—nothing more and nothing less.

Your party returns to the darkness. In the dark zone, even something as simple as going back the way you came is a sore challenge.

At least, it would be, without the map.

“O-oh, I don’t deserve all the credit… I just draw the path as we walk it.” Female Bishop sounds self-deprecating, but consider the darkness. Forget drawing a map—just reading one must be hard enough.

You follow Female Bishop’s directions as she guides you all through the blackness. You glance over, but in this place, you can’t see the face of Female Warrior beside you—which is both just as well and disappointing. She’d regained her composure by the time you set off, walking lightly. No need to worry about her—perhaps.

“…Heh-heh, what is it?” she teases, but you shake your head, saying it’s nothing. If you need anything, you’ll speak up.

Then you continue walking. The hallway seems to go on and on. You could almost be convinced that it has no end. Or that space wraps around on itself here. So when you finally hear Half-Elf Scout mumble, “…Hrm?” you’re downright relieved. “Somethin’ here, Cap. Right in front of us.”

“A monster?” Myrmidon Monk asks with caution in his voice, but Half-Elf Scout replies, “Don’t know.”

You stop and think, then tell everyone to get ready and draw your sword. You can’t see what’s happening in the dark, but even after the chore that passed for a battle earlier, the weight of your sword feels reassuring in your hands.

From the left, the right, and behind you, you hear metallic rasping as people prepare their weapons and equipment.

“How about spells?” your cousin asks, to which you decide to ask her to have something ready to go, just in case. This is unknown territory. There may be new monsters here. You need to be ready to strike as hard as you can.

But as you advance forward with utmost caution, you come to see that you’ve jumped to conclusions. A door reveals itself to you, floating in the hazy light of phosphorescence. It almost looks like a single solid sheet of metal, but the seam running down the middle indicates that it must be a pair of doors. The light comes from four crevices notched in a column alongside the door. Each appears carved in the shape of some strange character, and the topmost one is depressed, as if buried in the wall.

You only realize you’ve stopped moving when Female Bishop asks, “Did something…happen?”

You briefly explain the door to her, then ask your scout to investigate it. “On it,” he says and steps forward.

“Heh-heh… Not even you have the balls to kick this one down, eh?” Female Warrior chuckles, her tone deliberately the same as always. So just the same as always, you reply that you have to give your scout a chance to shine.

“Hmm… Don’t think this door’s booby-trapped, but…what is this? It don’t make any sense to me…”

“Oh!” your cousin says, peeking from behind you as Half-Elf Scout stands flummoxed. “Maybe this is that elevator!”

“E-le-vay-tor?” Female Bishop asks, clearly unfamiliar with the word. “Yep!” your cousin says, puffing out her ample chest. “It’s like, uh, a box supported by strings. People get inside, and it moves them up and down.”

“…Ah, a dangling room,” Myrmidon Monk clacks. “An ancient trick you find in ancient ruins sometimes, I think. You step in, and the weight makes the rope break, and down you go.”

“You don’t think that’s just because they’re so old? They have a big one of those in the arena in the city,” your cousin says.

“Oh-ho…”

You’re only half listening to the conversation, enough to get the gist. The important part is that this thing goes up and down…

“So it could go to the fourth floor…to someplace we haven’t explored yet.”

You tell Female Bishop that you’re thinking the same thing. There are four nooks. If the depressed, topmost nook represents the first floor of the dungeon, then the lowest must be the fourth floor.

Female Warrior watches your fingers play over the buttons and says uneasily, “…What if it really is a dangling room? What will we do?”

Much as you hate to say it, if that happens, you’ll simply have to rely on your cousin’s Falling Control spell. Much as you hate to say it. You really hate to say it.

You ignore your second cousin’s Hmph! and try to breathe evenly.

You are an adventurer. Risking danger is what makes it an adventure; you didn’t come here just to make some money on nice, safe work. But as to whether the others will come with you…

“Heh, now that’s the captain I know,” Half-Elf Scout says, sounding genuinely gleeful (even as he adds that he is scared, though).

You check your armor and equipment, adjust your grip on your sword, and give it an exploratory swing.

Let’s go. Down to the fourth floor.

“You’re in charge. I—”

“—don’t care either way, eh!” Half-Elf Scout laughs. “Anyway, we haven’t made any cash today. Gotta earn a little something.”

“In that case, I want to try staying in the Royal Suite one of these days!” Your cousin grins, adding, “Y’know?” You finally have no choice but to laugh.

“I bet we could afford one night,” she says. “Consider it a celebration!”

“Celebration? Um, of getting through the fourth floor, I guess?” Female Bishop asks.

“Nuh-uh!” your cousin burbles. “Of winning the contest!”

“Oh…” Female Bishop puts a hand to her mouth as if this is completely unexpected. She seems nearly taken aback—almost a little flustered. If that bandage weren’t there, you suspect you would see her eyes widen. She leaves her mouth covered as her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “…I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Boo!” Your cousin puffs out her cheeks, but she actually looks perfectly happy.

Female Bishop seems completely aware of this. “I’m sorry,” she says with a laugh. “But anyway, you’re right. We have to do our best to win the contest.” The way she grips the sword and scales, you think, makes her look quite stalwart. You hope that you, likewise, have grown some since that first venture into the dungeon.

Now, what’s left…?

“……”

Female Warrior, at some point, has fallen silent, the same way she did in the tavern when you suggested fighting the newbie hunters. And just like at that time, you wait patiently for her reaction. Your party members do the same.

To go ahead—to turn back—nobody forces the decision one way or the other. You’re adventurers. People who adventure because that’s what they want to do. You’ve decided to challenge the dungeon, to save the world. You know Female Warrior hasn’t forgotten the reason that has brought you all here.

“…Mm.”

So when she gives a small nod of her head, that settles it. You press the lowest button. The doors of the elevator open, and you step inside.

It’s like a coffin.

Cramped, claustrophobic. Once those doors close, you may never come out again.

These thoughts pass in the space of a breath, giving way to the recognition that the many rooms down here, and the dungeon itself, are the same way. The rest of the party piles in, and you find that even with all six of you aboard, there’s still space left over.

Once you’re all inside (how it knows this is mysterious), the elevator doors close.

There’s a feeling as if you’re floating. The elevator begins to descend with a sensation as if the floor is dropping away from you. Everyone shifts uncomfortably at the unfamiliar feeling, unconsciously touching the walls of the box.

It’s almost like you’re tumbling into an abyss. At that moment, you see Female Warrior’s red lips move ever so slightly. Fwoooo…boom!

The doors once again open soundlessly, and you find yourself in what feels like the quintessential dungeon chamber. At the end of a long hallway, occluded by the miasma, something or someone waits. All you can see is the wire frame extending endlessly, but you know they’re there.

You’re not sure whether intent to kill is really something that can be concretely sensed. But you feel a kind of pressure. The air is heavy, like you’re underwater, making it difficult to breathe. Another reason to believe something waits for you.

“But for all that…no monsters,” Half-Elf Scout mumbles from one side of you.

“Yeah… It’s a little too quiet,” Female Warrior agrees from the other, and you take one very cautious step forward. You hear only your own heavy footfalls echoing through the hall. You take a single breath of the thin, cold air.

Guess it wouldn’t be any better if they’d rolled out the red carpet.

“I wouldn’t mind some music or something,” your cousin says with the best smile she can muster. “You know, ba-baaa or da-daaa or something.”

“You mean, like dum-dum-dum, dum-dum-dum-duuum…?” Female Bishop’s voice is a little strained, but she tries to get in on the joke nonetheless.

“I don’t know what kind of music that is,” Myrmidon Monk says, his mandibles clacking, “but be careful. We don’t know what our enemies are up to, but it can’t be good.”

Well, you knew that already.

You blink your eyes, which had become accustomed to the dim light of the elevator, and start vigilantly down the corridor.

At the end of the long, straight hallway, you discover strange stone steps that look like a twisted altar. A fell pattern is carved into the floor, a wild profusion of nongeometric lines feeding off one another. It glows with a faint orange light, clearly some manner of magic.

Even you, with your fairly minimal knowledge of the true words, with your limited ability to read the logic of the world, understand what it means. This artifact represents control, it represents arcane knowledge. There can be no question. This, this very diagram, is the center of this maze, the heart of the maelstrom.

When you step into the fearsome space, a bell—it doesn’t sound like an alarm bell—jingles somewhere. And then, out of the center of a wind of Chaos…

“…Hey there. Looks like we win the bet.”

There’s the warrior with his lacquered sword and his party, looking as calm as anything, waiting for you.

“Hrk… I knew it…,” Female Bishop says, swallowing.

Beside the warrior stands the priest who’s the spitting image of Female Bishop, holding high the sword and scales. Then there’s the black-haired warrior with his sword, and next in line the bandit girl, holding her dagger in a reverse grip. And standing behind the party is the wizard in his black hat and cape.

Their gazes all seem to focus piercingly on Female Bishop. She bites her lip but nonetheless takes a brave step forward. “…I didn’t imagine you would go so far as to lie to me.”

“Aw, we didn’t lie,” the young warrior says, frowning and scratching his cheek in embarrassment. “We just found a way to get to the depths of the fourth floor before you guys.”

No. You shake your head. The bet was on who would reach the fifth floor first, you note. Beyond the altar, though, you see a door, shut fast. Another elevator, you suspect. If they haven’t yet boarded it, there’s every chance they haven’t yet won.

The bandit girl narrows her eyes and howls at you, “That’s just a stupid quibble!”

“Look who’s talking. You’re the ones who came up with this little contest,” Half-Elf Scout mumbles. Then he shrugs and reaches out a slim arm to pat Female Bishop on the back. She looks at him in surprise, and he flashes her a toothy grin. “Just ignore ’em. Give ’em a piece of your mind. Luck’s on our side!”

“…Right!” Female Bishop nods firmly, then takes another step forward. With her bandaged eyes, she looks at her former friends. “I don’t know what you must be thinking. Are you really so desperate to spring ahead that you would even manipulate me to do it?”

There’s a beat before they respond. You don’t know if she’s guessed right. She might be speaking in part from the pain of being left in that tavern. But the fact remains that they aren’t able to answer immediately. Not affirmatively, not negatively.

“We thought if we said that stuff, you’d give up,” the black-haired warrior replies, but it sounds like an excuse. “We didn’t want you to put yourself in any more danger. To get hurt any more…”

“I’m the one who will decide what hurts me!” Female Bishop says, her words as sharp as the sword and scales. The trembling girl you met in the tavern is gone; she now speaks firmly and clearly. Be she abused by goblins, be she tormented in the tavern—even so she has come every step of her life to challenge the dungeon. Working her way to this day, this moment. You know that. Your entire party knows that.

So Female Warrior can say bitingly, her lip curling, “You never believed she would get this far, did you?” She has to push for the facial expression; she’s so tired—but still, she knows her friend well.

“Me personally, I don’t really care what the story is,” Myrmidon Monk says with a merciless clack of his mandibles. His compound eyes, inscrutable to those who don’t know him well, appraise the other group. “But I guess those things on the first floor were your punching bags.”

“…We did it to save the world,” the young magic knight says. He almost doesn’t seem to realize he’s speaking the words. He glances at the ground for a second, then his face fills with a tragic resolve, and he looks squarely at you. “We had to get stronger, so we could go on adventuring… So we could save the world.”

“So y’figure it’s okay to cheat if it’s not just for your own benefit? Interesting.”

“Let us sin, if it’s to save the world! We—”

“That won’t do at all!” your cousin exclaims. The same words she used to scold you with when you were young and had been bad. “You’re just telling yourselves that! It’s not your decision to make!” She takes Female Bishop’s hand, squeezing it tightly. One of the things you respect about your cousin is that no matter what’s happening or who she’s talking to, she’ll always say what has to be said. “You think you can do something wrong just because you’re going to apologize for it later? That’s absurd!”

“If we fall, there will be no one to save the world!” their priest insists, her voice almost breaking. It isn’t about logic for her. Just about feelings. Her face is flushed, her breath harsh as she’s flooded with emotion.

So similar, you think. She and Female Bishop are both walking their own paths as best they can.

“A girl who can’t even defeat some goblins—how is she supposed to save the world?” the priest asks. So, she says, they wanted her to wait. Somewhere safe. Alone. Always. Forever.

You think the words are spoken from the heart—the heart of a friend. One who has known Female Bishop since they arrived in the fortress city. Their feelings haven’t changed since the moment they left her alone in the tavern to go do the dungeon.

“No… No!” Female Bishop shouts. She places her hand, still clasping that of your cousin, on her slight chest, and steps forward, supported by Half-Elf Scout. “We don’t have time to bother with those little devils! Goblins aren’t the problem here!” she says, picking up on what Female Warrior and Myrmidon Monk have already mentioned. “And why? Because I…we…are going to save the world!” Then she stabs forward with the sword and scales and demands: “Now, move aside! You’re in our way…!”

That’s when it happens. You feel a cold prickling on your neck, and faster than thought, you whip your sword out at Female Bishop.

“…?!” Female Bishop, who has been looking directly forward, never wavers. The sound of metal on metal rings throughout the chamber. The gloom is illuminated by the flash of sparks. The whoosh of wind follows just after.

You remember this feeling. The shadows in the four corners of the room squirm and rise. At your feet is none other than a twisted throwing knife. You’re confronted by two men in black clothing and bizarre masks—ninjas.

Of course, you know nothing of what the other party is thinking, or feeling, or even what they want. You have no way of knowing why they’ve decided to work with these ninjas. All you know—all you can understand—is the path you’ve walked to get here. The accumulation of everything that has brought you and your companions to this moment.

There can be only one conclusion.

They think if they don’t do this, they won’t be able to save the world.

“……So I see we have no choice,” the young magic knight murmurs, readying his lacquered sword. The black-haired warrior draws a longsword and the bandit girl her dagger, while the priest and the man in the black hat begin weaving sigils with their hands.

Hmm.

It seems you’ve been chosen to be among the honorable sacrifices that will make the salvation of the world possible.

“I hate when people…get their heads…so far up their own asses!” Female Warrior spits. Her face is pale and gaunt.

The air of the room is still heavy but now seems sharper somehow. Against seven adventurers, you are six. A disadvantage in numbers. But the feeling between you is no different from that when you step into a room and confront monsters within. Female Warrior has her spear at the ready, Half-Elf Scout has his butterfly dagger gripped in both hands. Your cousin has raised her staff and is focusing her spirit in preparation for a spell, while Myrmidon Monk is intoning the name of the Trade God.

Meanwhile, with katana in hand, you ask if everyone is ready. But you don’t doubt the answer.

“…Yes,” Female Bishop, clinging to the sword and scales, replies after an instant’s silence. “Let’s—do this!”

And so the fight begins.