Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.03 - Chapter 6.1

Step 6 - Dead Space

The man in black disappears into the darkness, and you and your companions chase after him.

How simple it would be if that was how the story went. Instead, however, your party is left standing in the chamber, battered, beaten, and defeated. You’re all ragged. No one even tries to speak. The faint weeping you hear—is that Female Bishop? Is that Female Warrior’s anguished moan?

It was a struggle of life and death, and you’ve emerged on the other side. You’ve triumphed and survived, overcome the trials, and earned the right to go beyond them.

The inky abyss yawns before you. A labyrinth of magic and murder calls to you—the Dungeon of the Dead.

But why would you go there?

It’s all too clear what waits beyond. Not the man in black—the thing that lurks behind him.

The Death.

Small piles of ash remain in the chamber—piles of ash that used to be people, used to be adventurers before they burned until they were nothing but cinders.

You breathe in some of the ash, then breathe out again. Even breathing seems repugnant to you, but if you don’t do it, it will all end here.

Hence why no one, none of you, makes a move—nor even thinks of moving.

You stand stock still, your breath escaping you like a groan. You realize you’re still clutching your katana. Your fingers are stiff as stone and shaking. They seem frozen to the hilt, and you can’t get them to let go of your own accord.

Three times: You take deliberate deep breaths, let them out again, and finally your fingers begin to loosen.

You flick the blood off your blade—the weapon shines as if it hasn’t cut anything at all—and then return it to its scabbard.

Only then, at last, do you speak to the others. You tell them it’s time to go.

“G-go…?” Female Warrior stammers, as if she doesn’t understand the meaning of the word.

You nod. You have to go. Standing here will gain no one anything. You’ll head back up top, regroup, and lick your wounds. If you aren’t going to move forward, then that is the only other possibility open to you.

“…”

However, your cousin—always the first to get behind an idea—is silent. She stares down into the abyss with her probing, perceptive gaze. Her slim fingers reach toward her mouth.

“Fusion Blast didn’t work? Did I do something wrong? Was that the Dungeon Master? Impossible. And yet…”

She chews on her thumbnail and mumbles to herself, a mage grappling with the truth. Hers is the face of a spell caster in an accomplished party who understands that if she doesn’t transcend her own spells, everyone will die.

A moment later, though, the look is gone; she sees you watching her and grins at you—now this is the face of your second cousin. “Yeah, that’s right!” she says with the relentless cheerfulness you’ve come to expect of her. Her voice booms in the silent chamber. She thrusts an arm in the air hard enough to disperse the miasma in the dungeon all by herself. “We’ve found the way forward. We can’t shrink back now!”

“Right…” Female Bishop reaches under the bandage over her eyes, rubbing her eyelids as she stands up. The blue ribbon her friend left to her is tied firmly around an arm otherwise covered in ash. She grips the sword and scales and nods decisively. “Whatever else, we must destroy that thing. If we aren’t in top shape when we challenge it, we’ll never win.” Her voice is shaking, yet strong. Strong enough to make your eyes widen.

“If that’s the plan,” Half-Elf Scout says with a chuckle, “we’ll need a war chest.”

You ask if he trusts he can do it, to which he nods and replies, “Yeah, sure. At the very least, I can start by rifling through a treasure chest. Gimme a minute?”

Then comes the clacking of mandibles: “…I don’t really care either way.”

Half-Elf Scout responds to Myrmidon Monk’s declaration with a guffaw. “Life or death, and you ain’t got a preference?”

Everyone is pushing hard to create this relaxed atmosphere—and you’re grateful. Female Bishop and Myrmidon Monk put their heads together over the map, plotting a route home. Half-Elf Scout heads for the locked treasure chest as your cousin trots beside him declaring, “I’ll help!”

Everyone is busy fulfilling their own roles.

So you, for your part, walk over to Female Warrior, who’s crouched down and looking shattered.

“…!”

She sucks in a breath when she hears your footsteps; her shoulders give one great shake, and she shrinks even further into herself. The spear in her hand is broken, ruined; it will never serve in combat again. Yet Female Warrior hugs the shaft and refuses to let go. She isn’t like Female Bishop, clasping what she has lost close to her heart. Instead, she clings to the spear because it is her only haven; because if she lets it go, she fears she will disappear.

And what can you say to a girl who feels like that?

There is only one thing you can do: stay silent and stand beside her, as you always do. Amidst the susurrus of shifting ash as the others move around, you can just catch the girl’s faint moans.

Time is a slippery thing down in the dungeon. How long has passed since that life-and-death struggle? A day? A few hours? Or mere minutes?

You resolve to simply stand and wait—suddenly you feel a gentle weight, and a warmth, against your leg. Female Warrior has come close and pressed her face to you. “The older girls,” she manages. “They all… They all died…”

The whisper falls from her lips, and it seems to unveil the wellspring of the will that has brought her this far. She believed that in the depths of the Death, there might be life. But it was not so. There is Death, and Death alone.

But that is enough to make one think, Perhaps it is time to stop. However wrung out one may be, as long as one has a goal, one can take the next step, no matter how unsteady. Yet once one arrives, how is one to take the step after that? Especially when one has used up every ounce of one’s strength—and found nothing.

Perhaps it’s not possible to go on believing forever that bliss is always just on the other side of the mountain. And yet in your mind, that’s better than those who jeer and say that there is no bliss at all in the world.

To find out, she got to her feet, walked, and came this far: five floors down, into the heart of the Dungeon of the Dead, farther than anyone had gone before. It would be beyond the hack-and-slashers with their cute little maps.

Only an adventurer could do what she has done.

You have no words to say to a young woman who lost her family, her friends, all at a stroke. But to a young woman who risked everything to take the next step and try to save those family and friends—to her, there is something you can say.

You reach out a gauntleted hand and brush Female Warrior’s head as gently as the falling snow. It’s not a gesture of comfort but of praise for a job well done.

“……Hic… Ohhh…!”

She sniffles, then snorts, then cries, the sounds evading her attempts to stifle them. You simply continue stroking her hair, so black it seems to vanish against the darkness of the chamber.

It’s as simple as this:

When you were about to die, when the spark within you guttered…

Indeed, even from the first moment you resolved to challenge this dungeon…

Has she not been with you, walking by your side? Shoulder to shoulder with all your companions?

Yes. This is not your story alone.

Female Bishop, your cousin, Myrmidon Monk, and Half-Elf Scout have all gotten help from her at times you don’t even know about.

In which case, how could you ever resent waiting for her to stand up?

Shortly thereafter, the weeping turns to a quiet sniffle, and you judge that it is time. You ask softly if she can make it to the top, not if she can go back. Whether you return to confront the dungeon depths or choose to stop here, you will be moving forward.

Female Warrior looks at you vacantly, her eyes as damp and as clear as a lake at twilight, deep enough to swallow you whole.

At length, she says, “Yeah…,” in the voice of a little girl tired from crying. Her slim, delicate hand reaches out and brushes your fingers, then entwines itself with them. You squeeze back, then help heft her to her feet.

Female Warrior rises slowly, languorously, like she’s stretching; the heels of her sabbatons click on the floor.

“Looks like this spear is done for,” she says. “Guess I’ll be counting on you until we reach the top.” She gives you that catlike smile and laughs with a sound like a tinkling bell. Then she smacks you on the shoulder and turns around.

You nod to her back, tell her you’ll take care of things. Be they slimes, goblins, or bushwhackers, let them come. Let them try you if they dare.

I will cut them down, every single one.

Along with a rustle of wind, the first thing you notice is the smell of the country burning.

It’s supposed to be nighttime, but it’s bright—and not because the fortress city never sleeps.

You can see the twinkling of flames in the distance, sending up thick smoke that blots out the light of the twin moons and the stars.

From the dungeon on the edge of town, you have an excellent view. From beyond the city walls, something flows like a black river toward the city, reaching out from endlessly far away toward the town.

It’s people—the squirming shapes heading for the city, civilians and defeated soldiers. Survivors, somehow, of hexes overpowered and overwhelmed, they’ve come to the northmost reaches in search of some kind of hope.

It’s the feeling of an ending. You think you can taste cold ash that no longer harbors even the last lingering warmth of any fire.

The Four-Cornered World has been scorched and singed.

“…The heck’s goin’ on?” Half-Elf Scout asks, stunned. Unable to even put on a merry expression, he focuses his sharp eyes (a bequest of one of his parents) and looks into the distance, then lets out a low groan.

“Do you think…a war’s broken out?” Female Bishop asks, raising her chin slightly and sniffing the air. Her tone is solemn, and she barely squeezes out the end of her question. Not from fear, but from caution; a vigilant search for the enemy’s true form. In spite of the awful things she’s experienced, Female Bishop’s face is taut as a bowstring. The Death in the air must be all the more detectable to her, deprived of her sight.

“If so, it’s been raging for a long time,” Myrmidon Monk says with clacking mandibles. The antennae on his forehead shake, and then in a tone that suggests he wants to cut down all the stupid humans, he continues, “This was the front line—not that anybody here acted like they cared.”

You don’t even see any sign of the royal guards who normally stand watch here. Not just the woman you’re used to seeing—there isn’t a single soldier anywhere. Yet you don’t feel you can say that this is a lack of vigilance.

There’s simply something more important happening.

Although it’s a fact that, at this moment, you can’t imagine what would be more pressing than the Dungeon of the Dead.

“Let’s hurry!” your cousin says, without even looking at you. “If we need information, the tavern is the place to go!”

Ah, there it is. You give Female Warrior a gentle pat on the back, and then you run like the wind.

You’re exhausted. All you want to do is fall into bed and sleep like a log, but your eyes are clear, your mind working. Half-Elf Scout catches up and overtakes you, and Myrmidon Monk is close behind him. Lastly, Female Bishop says, “Let’s go!” and Female Warrior nods and says, “Right.”

Then you hear three sets of hurrying footsteps. Fine, then. If your cousin is with them, that’s fine.

What’s not fine is the scene in town.

“They’re all refugees…!” Half-Elf Scout says, and you understand his amazement.

The town you knew is gone—the fortress city had belonged to the adventurers who walked the streets as if they owned the place, but now there’s no trace of that. The streets are packed instead with crowds of people in ragged, scruffy clothing.

Strangely, no one appears to have any baggage to speak of. And though there are many tired faces, no one seems panicked.

These, you realize, are the ones who were smart enough to abandon everything and flee with only the clothes on their backs in order to save themselves. That was why they got into the fortress city first. Those less canny are the source of that great black river out there.

You know, too, that the Death will gradually approach and dry that river up.

It’s a strange thing. You realize your mouth has softened into a smile without your noticing it. How strange, that although the Death emanates from that dungeon, this fortress city should be the last place to succumb to it.

You open the door of the Golden Knight and walk into a bustle of an entirely different kind from usual.

“Somebody help! There were demons hiding in the village! Disguised as children… They killed everyone!”

“A dragon! We were attacked by a dragon! The sky burned! The tower crumbled in an instant…!”

“My village was destroyed by goblins… Somebody…somebody help me!”

“Goblins can wait, dumbass! All that shit can wait! The undead are coming, and I want everyone who can hold a weapon to help me face them down!”

“They came back… They were dead, and then…they started getting up! All of them, shambling to their feet…”

Some yell, some tremble with fear, some beg, some argue, and some simply curl into themselves, muttering. The Golden Knight is no longer a place for adventurers’ meetings and partings. Everyone shouts and cries, makes a case for their own tragedy.

Not because they expect anyone to save them. No, not at all. They don’t even care if someone, anyone, hears them. They simply need to let the emotions out.

For one thing, there’s no Adventurers Guild in the fortress city. Rank tags mean nothing here. If you want to beg help from an adventurer, the tavern is the only place to go—and most of the city’s adventurers there at that moment appear to regard the uproar as nothing but a nuisance.

You still can’t shake that sense of ash as you call out to a familiar waitress.

“Yes? I’m sorry,” she starts and then says “I mean, welcome back!” She hurries up to you, her rabbit ears—yes, they are real—bobbing as she goes. She greets you with gladness for your safety, but then the small talk is over and she gives you an apologetic look. “You see how it is—we don’t have a single open table today.”

Now that she mentions it, you notice that the round table where your party always sits is already occupied by some refugees. So much for gathering intelligence—at this rate, you won’t even be able to sit down and take a break.

You flip the waitress a gold coin, asking if she wouldn’t be able to bring some food and drinks for several people, and quickly.

“Sure thing! Coming right up!” the rabbit-eared server says, tucking the coin into the cleft of her chest and rushing back to the kitchen.

“This looks like it could be a very big problem,” your cousin says, gazing around. You offer a brief word of agreement.

In fact…

This has been, to borrow Myrmidon Monk’s phrase, a big problem that’s been raging for a long time. The destruction of this world began long ago; you and yours simply weren’t willing to face it. It’s only now that many people realize how close the Death has pressed upon the world.

“So what do we do?” your cousin asks. How strange. What is there to question or hesitate about now?

You answer. First…

“First?” she says.

First, you go back to the inn and rest.

You state it as a fact. The situation is clear, and what you must do is equally clear. You’ve endured a life-or-death struggle in the dungeon and have returned to the surface. You need to recuperate, identify what you got in your haul, and then go from there.

Your cousin blinks at the total conviction in your words, but then her face softens ever so slightly. “Yes, you’re exactly right!” As she smiles like a blossoming flower, you sigh in relief. This is one thing you’ve always admired about your second cousin.

The server returns and you take your dinner from her, then trail out of the tavern with your companions in tow. Each of them says whatever’s on their mind, and naturally, conversation develops. Throughout, though, Female Warrior offers not a word, only noncommittal grunts and nods. But that’s understandable.

As you walk through the fortress city, now veritably turned upside down by the influx of refugees, you look up at the sky. It’s as bright as the town—not only the stars, but even the smoke rising from the distant mountain are invisible.

So what?

That’s right—no reason to get upset. Flailing around would do no one any good this late in the game.

The beginning of the end: That’s all this is.

We’re approaching the climax.

Whatsoever happens to the squares, the sun will rise upon the board.

Bright beams of light cascade down out of a pale blue sky, and you sit up on your mound of straw.

Thankfully, there was still space in the stables and the economy room—a lucky turn of the pips. When you think of all those who have lost their homes, their lodgings, and had to sleep on the dusty roadside…

You murmur to yourself as you brush some straw off your chin that it’s a curious thing. You don’t think you did well, or were uncommonly skillful, or even that you took anything from anyone else’s proverbial mouth. Instead, once everyone has done what they can (even if some may be slothful), there is something that separates the bright and the dark. Not quite Fate, not quite Chance, its pips show themselves in even the smallest of ways, like this.

Even if you have no idea what may happen tomorrow, you won’t decry the pips, which have come out well today.

With that, you stand up. You speak to your companions sleeping nearby on their own mounds, tell them it’s morning.

“Aw, heck… Morning already?”

“You get some sleep?”

They heave themselves into consciousness, but it sounds like they didn’t sleep very well. Maybe it was the battle in the dungeon, or maybe the state of the fortress city. Whichever, they seem surprised to see you looking just like normal.

You pointedly straighten your outfit, then urge the two of them to hurry up. You don’t have high hopes of getting a decent meal at the tavern with the town the way it is—and there’s something else you want to ask about. You want to meet with the entire party before the girls go out.

You look up, as you always do, toward the window of the economy room on the upper floor of the inn. Normally, each evening, there’s a young woman who looks down at you from that window and smiles—but at this moment, there’s no sign of her.

Instead, you see a slim face framed by golden hair, a different young woman looking distinctly upset as she gazes out. You try gesturing, then you try waving, and finally you call out to the girl overhead.

In a tizzy, Female Bishop opens the window and leans out dangerously far. “Y-yes? What’s the matter…?!”

First, you want to meet at the door of the inn and talk about where to go from there. You outline this simple request, adding that you’d like everyone to bring their stuff with them.

“All right!” Female Bishop replies, and then she disappears back inside.

Good. You’re concerned about Female Warrior, but you feel safe leaving her in the hands of Female Bishop and your cousin.

“So a group huddle, huh…?” Half-Elf Scout says when you conclude your conversation. He still looks sleepy. Then again, maybe he’s just pretending. Thanks to your long acquaintance with him, you know he can be that way. Yes—it has been a long acquaintance. Not in terms of time, but long just the same.

Not just with him but with Myrmidon Monk (who’s picking straw off his robes), Female Bishop, and Female Warrior, too. And your cousin, needless to say.

“…You got a plan, Captain?”

Thus when Half-Elf Scout asks this, you laugh out loud. This is no time for silly questions.

No plan at all—hence the group huddle!

You all meet in the corner of the lobby of the inn and eat the meal you got from the tavern last night. The tumult engulfing the town hasn’t spared the inn; there’s a crackling tension in the air. The shouts of refugees who have pushed their way inside, met by the equally vocal staff trying to keep them out, are all too easy to hear.

“What the hell do you mean, we can’t stay here?! There’s nowhere else to stay!”

“I’m very sorry, but the cots that had opened up are already taken…”

“Then put us in some other room! I know you’ve got plenty of ’em!”

“I’m very sorry, but we can only make the economy rooms available. If you’d like to stay in the stables—”

“You’re just gonna abandon us?! Tell us to sleep with the animals?! That’s bullshit!”

The inn staff had made a number of rooms available as a show of goodwill, but there were only so many people they could accommodate. Despite the burgeoning crisis, they can’t just let the refugees into the fanciest suites. Even compassion doesn’t mean throwing everything away for no reward. At that moment, the teachings of the temple of the Trade God were the shield that protected Order at the inn.

“…Shouldn’t be surprised,” Myrmidon Monk says, nodding gratefully and munching on some fruit with his mandibles. “If they threw open the doors and made the whole place available, they wouldn’t have a way to show compassion anymore.”

Money was like the roaming wind. If you stopped up the place it came from, the air would grow stagnant and foul.

You mumble your acknowledgment as you bite into a concoction of dried meat clasped between two pieces of bread, then you look around at the others. There isn’t, in fact, much conversation to speak of. Your cousin is flipping through a spell book she acquired somewhere along the line, so absorbed that she almost forgets to eat. Female Warrior looks down, barely managing to get the food to her mouth, while Female Bishop watches her with concern.

Normally, Half-Elf Scout might intervene, but he seems to feel he can’t act at the moment. You mutter to yourself and take a sip of the well water the staff have kindly fetched you. Even at a moment like this, cold water is delicious, and when your stomach is satisfied your nerves may feel less frayed.

In the meantime…

The moment you speak those words, everyone’s gazes fix on you. Even Female Warrior looks at you, vacant but beseeching.

You weren’t intending to say anything all that important. You give a wry smile and continue to expound. For now, the most important duty is to secure the inn.

“True enough,” Half-Elf Scout says, jumping on your suggestion like it’s a lifeline. He picks up the thread and runs with it, as if the conversation must not be allowed to slow. “Whatever else we’re gonna do, we need somewhere we can get a decent rest.”

Indeed, if you lose this base of operations, there’s no telling what will become of you.

“A place to sleep, a place to rest,” Female Bishop adds, nodding at the thought. “And some equipment too, right?”

“We can try to stay in an economy room, but you see this mess. Feels like someone might walk away with the cot out from under you.” Half-Elf Scout glances at the people still arguing and pressing in at the entrance. You only have to think of the newbie hunters on the second floor of the dungeon to know what starving people might resort to.

Female Bishop looks disturbed, but she doesn’t object. Instead, she nods. She is not some ignorant girl.

Having established that you need a base of operations, you next suggest that this is the moment to use your financial resources. That would make this an accounting issue, but your cousin, the keeper of the party’s books, currently has her face buried in a book.

You give a little shout for your second cousin and her head pops up. “Huh?” she says.

Real nice. This is a matter of the party’s assets, you inform her—of cash on hand. You need to know how much the group has left.

“Oh, sure… We’ve been careful to save up, so we’ve got some wiggle room.” She proceeds to give you the details of the party’s ledger from memory.

That settles it, then.

‘Let’s rent the Royal Suite.’

“Let’s what?!” your cousin exclaims, at once shocked and dismayed. “You realize that’ll be expensive, right? We won’t be able to stay there for very long…”

Yes, but so what? There may not be very long to stay.

How about it? You turn toward Myrmidon Monk, who’s been sitting silently with his arms folded.

“…I don’t care much either way,” he says gravely, then clacks his mandibles as if to indicate that’s the full extent of his contribution. “If that’s what you think we should do, let’s do it.”

“I-I’m with you…!” Female Bishop adds.

Your scout chuckles. “Beds up there are so soft, we might get older just sleepin’ in ’em!”

The whole party knows the situation. The rooms on the top level will be worth the money in exchange for the safety and peace of mind they afford. Anyway, everything takes money. It will support the inn as well.

All right. You tell your cousin to take care of the administrative details, then start giving instructions to the rest of the party.

Although, for the most part, those instructions consist only of waiting at the inn. Losing your base would be a major blow. You’ll entrust everyone else with securing that base while you go out. That, you think, will be best.

“Wha…?” Female Warrior looks at you vacantly, her eyes not quite focusing.

You’re going? her gaze asks, and you nod. You need to get a sense of the situation in town—and whatever you do next, you need to get your equipment fixed up.

“Oh…” Female Warrior looks at the ground again. Neither of you say it, but both of you are thinking of her spear.

Half-Elf Scout takes a sidelong glance at her and says casually, “Y’know, maybe I oughtta go instead.”

You shake your head no. You need someone who can let you know if anything happens at the inn. You need him to do that for you, you say.

“Well, you heard the man,” replies Half-Elf Scout. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Cap.”

Mm. You nod, then hand off your belongings to the others, taking only your katana as you rise to your feet. Normally, you’d rather go out in full armor, but you don’t want to antagonize the refugees; it might be dangerous.

So…

The fortress city, it seems, is hardly different from the dungeon.

With that thought in your mind, you depart the inn.

Leaving the inn has almost always meant you’re on your way to face some dangerous challenge, so your mindset is much the same as usual.

The only thing different is that you can feel Female Warrior watching you as you go, and it’s distinctly uncomfortable.

“The hell d’you think you’re doin’, huh?!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday!”

“So you thought you’d just take someone else’s food, did you?!”

“Forgive me! I have a child to feed…!”

“And I’ve got me to feed! I risked my life for this stuff, you son of a bitch!”

The adventurer gives the weeping refugee a brutal kick, sending him sprawling across the ground. The man’s child starts crying, but those around only jeer.

Everywhere you go in the fortress city there are scenes like this. Which of them is at fault? The scales of Order would probably incline toward the crime of the refugee. Dire straits cannot excuse stealing from others. Not everyone could be the priest giving a candle to the escaped prisoner, nor would it be possible to order them to do so.

The prison guard who went after the escaped convict—he was not right, but neither was he wrong. Law and Order are people’s rights given to people, and as such they are imperfect, ambiguous, and expansive, and the gods see that it is good. That they are imperfect by no means implies disorder.

What is assailing the fortress city at this moment is a storm of Chaos, the panic of those people who live in terror of the shadow of death.

Making sure you can draw your katana at any time, you step into the crossroads, into the maelstrom. You wouldn’t take the risk at this moment, except that that you can feel blood in the air.

“You sonuva—! Stop already!”

“Yeah, that’s enough!”

After all, if you reach for the thing at your hip, or if you were to wave a magic staff around, the town guards would intervene. Or maybe they’re not guards—maybe they’re volunteer adventurers. Regardless, this is no time for unrestrained violence.

The new arrivals, men and women alike, fan out across the area. They aren’t here to protect the townspeople from the refugees; they’re here to protect everyone from the adventurers.

No matter… It won’t last long.

That thought is barely through your mind as you arrive at the Golden Knight. You can already see who you’re looking for inside.

“Hrm.”

“H’lo.”

Beside the knight in his shimmering diamond armor, a young woman with silver hair raises one hand, expressionless. Things are a little quieter here than they were the night before—maybe that’s the way to describe it—no doubt because not only is the Knight of Diamonds here, but a number of dungeon-delving parties are packing the tables. The waitresses are sweeping up sawdust that was put down to soak up blood.

Looks like those refugees learned a very hard lesson.

That’s not the only reason the tavern seems so on edge despite the midday hour, though. The knight’s party carries armfuls of baggage and exudes menace.

‘Planning to flee the city?’

The Knight of Diamonds responds to your jocular greeting with “Something like that,” flashing a pained smile. He gives his party some instructions with a lordly air, then beckons to you and leaves the table. Only the silver-haired scout follows him, falling into line behind you.

You’re grateful for this, it must be said. This is not something you wish just anyone to overhear.

“So… I take it from your look that something happened to you. Care to fill me in?”

Mm. You nod.

The worst possible outcome would be if, on top of everything else, you and your party were to disappear down in the darkness and take everything you know with you to your graves. You know you must tell someone what you’ve learned, immediately; ideally, the other party you trust the most. There is no point in telling some half-baked crew of adventurers; it has to be someone of proven mettle, someone you have faith in.

Here in the fortress city, where ranks and tags have no meaning, the only basis for such faith is how many floors a group has descended.

In other words, the Knight of Diamonds and his people are the only ones.

The man who waits in the innermost chamber of the Death, red blade in hand. The source of all this evil; the Dungeon Master.

The route to the fifth floor, the elevator to the abyss. The path you’ve found, be it by Fate or Chance.

All of this you tell the Knight of Diamonds, calmly, sticking to only what he needs to know. The young woman’s eyes widen—in surprise or horror, you’re not sure—but the diamond knight seems impressed. He listens to you in silence, then there’s a beat, and after a moment he says, “I see.” He pauses again, then adds, “If that’s the case, then we should go down and behead that bastard straightaway. But…”

But we can’t do that?

“…sadly, we can’t.” The Knight of Diamonds sighs. “If the leaders of our nation don’t do something about this, no one will. I don’t know whether it’s the end of the world, but it’s certainly the end of our land.”

He’s exactly right about that. You are no merchant. You can’t even keep track of your party’s finances. But as its leader, you’ve handled a fair amount of cash. The fortress city is overflowing with loot. Treasure wells up endlessly from the dungeon.

But that’s all it does.

The money swells up like a bubble, and the price of everything goes up. There is no ceiling. Eventually, no matter how many riches you have, there will be nothing left to buy. Food, clothing, will all disappear until there’s only money, adventurers, and the Death.

It seems like a situation in which the king should act. But judging from the state of the city…

“He’s only interested in saving his own skin at this point,” the Knight of Diamonds spits. “As long as his lavish palace is in one piece, he doesn’t care. It’s foolishness.”

The silver-haired girl goggles at him—but you agree. The only thing supporting Order in the fortress city at this moment is the wind the Trade God’s temple blows through the area. There can be no free acts of goodwill—or if there are, it would be wrong to force them. Without that teaching saturating the city, the refugees would be allowed to eat everyone out of house and home in the name of compassion.

It’s the merchants attempting to uphold that Order—the merchants, and the guards, as well as the adventurers. They have gathered in this city, survived the dungeon; they are given nothing from outside. From outside come only people with starvation and thirst and nothing else to their names. People who take their circumstances as an excuse to steal from others, or people who lurk down in the dungeon; they are both the same.

In the end, there’s only one way to survive in the fortress city: hack and slash.

All will sink ultimately into Chaos. Even if someone did slay the Dungeon Master, it would mean nothing.

All that there is, is the Death.

“I’m going to kill him,” the Knight of Diamonds says. You look at him. There is no laughter in his eyes; this is no joke. He is absolutely serious. “He’s a Vampire Lord already, entranced by the Death.”

Who is “he”? Even you can tell.

Nearby, the silver-haired girl looks from you to the knight and back, ill at ease.

“I’m going to chop off his head, I’m going to take command of this country, and then I’m going to push back against the Army of Darkness. However…”

Victory would be meaningless if the world is still suffused with the Death.

“What I’m saying is you and I share the same interests here. What do you think?”

There is one hope: to cut this evil off at the root.

The knight smiles at you, the smile of a mischievous child, and your own expression is much the same. You nod. No hesitation. That is, after all, why you came to this place, even back in the beginning.

“I’m not about to let some No-Life King have his way in the capital. I’m going into that evil grotto.”

And when the Dungeon Master’s head goes flying, everything will be over.

You share another nod. It’s all you need.

You were truly fortunate to make this man’s acquaintance.

“With that settled, I do have one favor to ask you.”

By all means.

“It’s this young lady.” He places a hand on the silver-haired girl’s shoulder, but at first, you’re not sure of his intentions. She looks at her leader, as confused as you are, but then he continues. “The rest of us, we were like this from the start. But the girl came later. She was caught up in things, you might say.”

He’s probably about to ask you to take her on as part of your party, or so you suspect. But she’s faster than he is.

“…I’m going with you,” she says. She speaks softly, and yet you feel as if she shouted. She brushes away the diamond knight’s gauntlet with a slim hand, then looks him right in the eye and insists, “I absolutely will not be left behind…!”

You and this girl don’t know each other all that well. You have no idea what road she and the Knight of Diamonds have walked together, what adventures they’ve been on. Just as he and she don’t know about you and your party’s adventures.

You can see, however, the tears in the girl’s eyes, the way she grits her teeth, the force of will that causes her to insist on accompanying him. How could you miss them?

“I’m your scout. No one else’s. That was my choice that I made by myself. For myself.”

Doesn’t look like you can shake this one.

You don’t have to say it—the Knight of Diamonds gives an awkward scratch of his cheek, then sighs, the gesture and the sound more eloquent than any other answer he could give.

You grin in spite of yourself, and that’s when the silver-haired girl turns to you. This time she says, “There is someone I want you to take care of. The girl.”

You nod, accepting her request.

You had always intended to do everything you could.

The silver-haired girl’s cheeks soften at your answer, then she gives you a sort of exasperated smile and says, “I knew it would be something like that.”

“Spear, huh? That’s a tough one.”

Down in the grimy hole that is the weapon shop is an old man so small, so curled into himself, that you could mistake him for a dwarf. He strokes his chin and shoots you an unenthused look. You were asking him about Female Warrior’s broken spear, but his answer doesn’t sound promising.

“Most people who go down in the dungeon, they want a sword at their side, or a mace—or a staff.” He casts a glance around the shop; you follow suit and see that most of the merchandise is of those varieties. Broadswords, pulverizing hammers, padfoot killers, and mage slayers. Not much resembling a spear. When you do spot the rare polearm, it inspires a look on your face not much more pleased than that on the owner’s.

“Mass-produced trinkets, all of ’em. Break after a few good hits. Not terrible products, but not what you’d call superior weaponry.”

You cross your arms and mumble that you were afraid of this.

They say an accomplished warrior can fight with any weapon, but that doesn’t mean they should. It doesn’t help that you’re not shopping for yourself, but for your comrade. You want something suited to her expertise, if you can find it. The man in black broke her last spear—so at the very least, she needs something stronger than that, or there may be no point at all. In which case, she will have to either acquire a new weapon outside the fortress city or get one smithed up here.

“With things the way they are…,” the owner says, “it’s not impossible.” But it’s obvious that the chances of a successful roll are agonizingly small.

There are times when it’s acceptable, even necessary, to stake your life on a roll of the dice—but now is not that time.

So it’s difficult to find a superior spear in the fortress city at this moment?

“I can try to look, and I will, but it won’t come cheap.”

You would be grateful, even for that. If anything, you’d worry if it didn’t cost much.

There’s one other thing…

“That sword of yours?”

Mm. You nod, taking your weapon, scabbard and all, from your hip. It’s nameless but sharp. Trustworthy. Though whether it can stand you in good stead against that red blade and the man in black who wields it, you don’t know.

It’s gotten you this far, you suppose.

When that red blade was in the hand of the young magic warrior, this sword was indeed a match for it. Perhaps, then, it can be counted upon in the next battle as well.

“All right, I’ll take care of it,” the owner says. You pluck a gold coin from your purse, purchase a medley of consumables, and then squeeze your way out of the cramped den.

The suffocating claustrophobia, however, doesn’t go away when you reach street level. The sensation, the feeling of the wind that blows through the crossroads among the close-packed stone buildings is different somehow. The square of sky overhead seems farther away than it did before, and the townspeople’s voices don’t reach your ears.

Instead, all you can hear is the arguing of the adventurers and the refugees; all you can feel is the tension; all you can smell is the ever-present Death.

For just a second, you even fancy that you’re down in the depths, exploring the dungeon. Will there come a day when the buildings of the four corners look like nothing more than wire frame to you?

That will be the day you’re no different from those bushwhackers.

With a faint chuckle, you are about to set off with your purchases when:

“…It’s not easy being you, eh?”

A familiar voice blows to you on the pleasant wind, and you stop.

It’s her.

A small woman crouches, smiling like a cat in the shadows of the buildings just at the edge of the street. Grinning from under her cloak, the informant trots toward you.

Well, she’s right—times are tough. Whether they’re much tougher than usual, you’re not sure about.

“Hmm?”

For what you must do hasn’t changed, not one bit.

When you tell her so, the informant goes quiet with an expression difficult to describe. She stares at you, her lips a single, taut line. You fold your arms and wait for a response.

Each time she appears, it’s because she has something she wants to tell you. And what she tells you has always come in useful. She seems to change the very situation around you, as if sending up a signal flag.

So today, you resolve to hear what she has to say.

“…I don’t think things are going to just conveniently go your way,” she murmurs after a moment, sounding somehow tired. “People aren’t that smart, and the ones who think they’re smart just waste their time yammering. There might not even be any help, eh?”

Yes, well, that’s about the long and short of it. You meet her probing gaze with unhesitating agreement.

That’s the way people are. No big deal. But it’s not worthless, either. It just is what it is. One doesn’t blot out the other—much as many people are prone to flit between different extremes.

Therefore, you tell her, you intend to do exactly what you can. If it proves futile, so it goes. You have no interest in placing blame on others, yet neither will it be your fault if the world is destroyed.

Adventurers commuting between the first chamber and the surface like ash that comes from no fire; you yourself, bulling ahead, chasing a Death that might not even be there.

There’s no big difference between the two. Perhaps only the sense of self-satisfaction in your respective hearts.

You repeat with a shrug that this is the way things are—that’s enough.

“ ”

For a moment the informant stares at you, wide-eyed and seemingly speechless. She looks almost as awed as she does exasperated. Beneath the hood of her cloak, her lips curl into a smile like the bud of a flower, and she lets out a breath. “Well. Looks like there’s no stopping you.”

So it seems.

You agree easily, not thinking much of it.

“In that case, take my advice and drop by the temple of the Trade God.”

You echo: ‘The temple?’

“That’s right. The temple,” she replies. “I find that at moments like this, it never hurts to ask the gods for a friendly boost. You can never have too much help.”

You realize you agree with her. Besides, you think maybe you should see that nun one more time. This might be the last.

“…Yeah, maybe,” the informant says after a moment of silence. “Might be a good idea.” With that, she slips past you and starts off down the street. Two steps, three, almost as if she’s dancing; next, she turns back toward you with a swirl of her cloak. “The Trade God is the patron of meetings and travel! Take your time getting there!”

Then she’s gone with the wind, leaving behind only a faint aroma.

You look vacantly up at the sky over the fortress city. That cutout piece of air still looks far away—but a little closer than before. Has the sky come down a little closer to you, or have you climbed up toward it? Who can say?

You entertain these silly thoughts as you amble in the direction of the temple. You don’t have much time, but then, you never do. It’s precisely at moments like this that you need to slow down and enjoy the walk. Nothing wrong with that.

To live is freedom. You can do as you like until the moment you encounter the Death.

The temple of the Trade God is the last bastion of justice in the fortress city.

Refugees press in, as do those who have been robbed by refugees.

The temple takes in all but spits back out those who, in the name of goodwill, seek protection and compassion at no price.

Of course, compensation is sought from those who are accepted within the temple grounds: save others, as you have been saved. Do a bit of cleaning or cooking, be it ever so humble, and if you cannot do those things, do what you can. Like money, goodwill flows among people: a pleasant breeze.

But even so, there are limits.

Goodwill does not come from nothing. It is born of the heart. Something is always needed to fill the heart—and that thing is nearly gone now.

Soon all will be in tatters.

The clerics of the Trade God, however, bustle back and forth in a way that betrays none of this. They look like people at prayer, and they minister to believers.

You take all this in as you climb the long staircase to the temple. Everything seems poised precariously, one step from the edge of a cliff. One large step, though the precipice looms.

Only the relentless effort of those who have dug in their heels is maintaining Order at this moment.

You climb silently past the line of supplicating refugees. When you look up, you see puffing smoke, although this is not some dragon’s mountain home.

The molten earth under that mountain isn’t inexhaustible. One day, the cauldron will still, and the smoke will cease.

At this moment, however, that’s your guidepost, and you expect it to be for some time.

You climb the stairs. With each step you take, you hear the metallic click of sabbatons behind you.

You continue forward. The sound comes again. You jump a stair. So does the sound. You stop, and the sound stops, too.

Well.

That certainly does make the sound seem very deliberate. Intentional.

You think for a moment, and then ultimately without really thinking at all you offer: ‘Want to climb to the temple together?’

The click comes again, louder than before. You stop and wait.

“……”

In lieu of an answer, footsteps walk up beside you. You glance to the side and find hair as dark as a damp crow bobbing by your shoulder.

‘Weren’t you looking after the inn?’

You try your best not to make it sound like a rebuke, but she still flinches. You scratch your chin, wondering if you’ve made a mistake. As gently as possible, you ask if she told the others she was coming.

“…Mm,” she responds with a bob of her head. You’re sure it was a nod, albeit a subtle one.

She’s clutching the broken haft of her spear to her ample chest. To the uninformed observer, it might look like nothing more than a ruined weapon, but you, you understand what it means.

With a word of encouragement, you start up the steps. Hesitantly, the sabbatons click out beside you.

A couple instances, you pass adventurers coming down the stairs with vacant expressions. A couple more, adventurers rush up the stairs past you, a party member cradled in their arms. Some of the refugees waiting for food open their mouths to complain, then shut them again at the air of urgency.

Adventurers who walk side by side with the Death are going to the temple. No one would dare get in their way. Whatever may be happening beyond the city walls, what goes on in the dungeon hasn’t changed. Not a bit.

That includes us.

“…?”

The thought brings a smile to your face for some reason, and it’s only then that you notice Female Warrior watching you with a questioning look.

You shake your head and tell her it’s nothing. You exhale.

“…I thought so,” Female Warrior murmurs at that moment. “We’re going, aren’t we?”

She doesn’t say where. She doesn’t need to: You’re both adventurers.

Before you can answer, she comes to a halt and grabs your sleeve, tugging hard.

The violet eyes you see just a step below you are damp, wavering; they look ready to overflow at any moment.

“You know…we might…die down there.”

You respond without hesitation that yes, you might. In fact, there seems a very good chance.

“Then why—?!”

People die. It is what they do.

Every person, of every kind. You yourself. Those people over there.

In this, you are all the same.

A smart person would probably be able to come up with a host of reasons to avoid this fight. Then they would mock you, eager to show how much more intelligent they are than you.

Just as you used to, when you looked with contempt at the adventurers who stayed on the first floor of the dungeon.

That contempt, however, is now gone from your heart.

Is it because every day, morning and evening, you have hardened yourself against the prospect of death, the knowledge that you might die today or tomorrow?

It’s funny—it’s only now, when things have turned so serious, that your heart is calm, like a still lake.

There’s no difference between those who wander the first level of the dungeon and those who seek to delve its darkest depths.

You will challenge the Death. In that, there is no change at all.

You fight, you kill, you win, you survive, you go on to the next thing. Or you “go to 14,” and end up dead as a coffin nail.

That’s all there is.

You are an unclouded blade.

A keen weapon pointed at the enemy.

You are a spark, burning brightly.

Therefore, you tell her, you want her to come with you, but you will not—cannot—order her to do so.

“…!”

Female Warrior bites her lip. Her bleary eyes narrow in a glare.

If you indeed ordered her to accompany you, she would probably offer a smart remark, but she would come. That was what she was hoping for, and you know that. You understand.

But that isn’t right. Your reason comes from within yourself, not from within her.

She was robbed of her name at birth, forced to adventure against her will.

Her family and friends went into the dungeon, and so she went with them.

To save her lost sisters, she sought out the Death.

All that is meaningless now. She doesn’t have one single reason to risk her life adventuring.

With the money she’s made to this point, it would be easy to buy her freedom.

It’s impossible to resurrect her sisters. And in the deep depths of the dungeon, all that waits is the reeking Death.

She has no reason to try herself against the dungeon.

“E-everyone else…”

They’re all going. Well, most likely—you laugh.

You’re sure that Female Bishop, like you, will clutch her sword and scales and get to her feet. This has been her lifelong duty. She knows already why she lives and why she may die. She won’t abandon the fight against the Death, you suspect, if only to make sure her friends can rest in peace.

She’s no different at all from when she was an identifier.

Your cousin is the same. She might get on your nerves, the way she treats you like a little brother, but you know she’s coming from a good place. Now that you know the man in black is using magic for evil ends to spread the Death, that he used the source of the evil that afflicts this world—you now know you are the ones who can do something about it, who must do something about it. Or anyway, so you figure your cousin thinks.

As for Half-Elf Scout: He’s lighthearted, cowardly, and facetious. But you also recognize that he’s always the one who risks himself against the treasure chests; that he fights a lonely fight for the party’s fate. He can rely on no one else to fight it, yet he keeps winning. He is a brave, strong adventurer. You’re sure he’s as good as his word: He’s in this dungeon to lop off the head of the Dungeon Master. Whether he wants fame, fortune, or whatever else from it, he risks his own life, and that makes him an adventurer.

Then there’s Myrmidon Monk. What about him? He’s the most mysterious member of your party—or at least, you never quite seem to know what he’s thinking. But there’s also no doubt in your mind that he is a man to be relied upon. He may say he doesn’t care either way, but whenever there’s dangerous exploring to be done, he’s with you. You suspect he will be again. “I really don’t care either way,” he’ll clack, and then down he’ll go into the depths of the dungeon. You don’t know if it’s faith or some unique way of thinking that the myrmidons possess, but for you, that’s something that doesn’t matter either way. His resolution is always clear and firm.

With all that in mind…

‘What will you do?’

“M-me…?” Female Warrior is unable to answer. She looks up at you, still clutching her spear, then drops her gaze to her feet.

She’s a child about to be stranded on her own, told that if she doesn’t hurry up, she’ll be left behind. Just a little girl.

True, she may very well decide to go down into the dungeon purely because everyone else is going, too. She’ll fight the monsters. Even gripped by the fear of slimes—no, gripped by the fear of the Death, she’ll fight.

But that wouldn’t be right. It can’t be. When she finally died, if it happened like that, no one would be happy. Not her—and not you.

“Not…you?” she asks.

That’s right.

You, as party leader, are entrusted with the lives of all your party’s members. You feel a responsibility if someone dies. It’s not something you can shrug off by saying These things happen. It doesn’t matter if it was just a bad roll on the dice of Fate and Chance; it will feel like your fault.

And yet, despite that, death is the outcome.

Your companions chose their own adventure, and this was the result.

If you feel responsibility for that, that’s your problem. You have your own adventure.

It doesn’t change the fact that your party member died at the end of theirs.

Whatever the outcome of that adventure, all you can do is accept it. No one can fight it.

But what if, instead… What if it wasn’t an adventure?

What if it was someone who simply tagged along with you, who wouldn’t have died if you had only told her to stay home?

That would not, in the end, be something you could accept.

And so you say to her that if she is to journey into the dungeon, if she is to challenge the Death that lies in the deepest depths known to this world, then you want her to do it for her own sake, by her own volition, for the adventure.

“M-me…?” Her shoulders are shaking. Her slim, elegant shoulders; the shoulders of a young woman. “What I want…” The violet eyes waver, droplets falling from them, running down her cheeks.

The sabbatons step forward, hesitantly but at the same time full of volition.

“I want…I want to be…with you!”

With her next step, she veritably flings herself at you, collapsing into your chest, clasping you, pitching forward—it is the greatest step she can take.

She weeps as if she has no other way to communicate that she doesn’t want you to die.

“Is that…is that not enough?!”

Some passersby stop and look on with interest, but you couldn’t care less. It’s all you can do to place a hand on the shoulder of the woman crying into your chest, to brush her hair.

Never intended…

To make her say anything like that.

Lost between yes and no—but let us be clear, not frustrated by this—you gaze up at the sky. It looks strange—or, perhaps, ordinary. Blue and clear as far as the eye can see.

Whatever may happen on the board, the blue of the sky never changes; the sun and the twin moons and the stars will continue in their rounds.

No, no—even to say the sky is blue shows how narrow your vision is. The sky isn’t just blue. It turns red sometimes, or purple. And sometimes it’s dim. Black. A rich, velvety darkness.

All those times when she visited you, when you chatted together—those times, the sky was ensconced in the curtain of night. It’s strange, to realize that the night sky seems a deep violet to you. Maybe it’s the lights of the town. It’s the color of her hair.

You let out a breath. You can feel the small tremors of her body through your palms.

Yes, the sky you look up at right now is blue, somehow congratulatory. The wind blows, making the windmill creak. You say:

‘How could it not be enough?’

How could anything not be enough?

If that’s what she wishes, if that’s what she’s decided, then that is her adventure. You cannot, and would not, speak against it.

At that, she continues to stare at the ground for a moment, then rubs her eyelids and looks up at you.

“…Hmph. You!” she says softly. She manages to work a small smile onto her face. The violet eyes gaze at you. “Making a girl embarrass herself like that… You’re going to make it up to me, you hear?”

There’s no more intimidating place to make a commitment like that than before the temple of the Trade God, patron of merchantry and promises.

Your response evokes a whisper of “Dummy,” and a jab in your side. Then she takes your hand.

She’s already looking pointedly away as her fingers intertwine with yours.

You laugh out loud. You laugh, and then you start climbing the stairs. Slowly, surely, one step at a time.

As you crest the top of the stairs, the long climb finally over, a shadow falls on you.

“…And what exactly do you think you’re doing in front of my temple? Unbelievable.”

It’s a devout believer running her hand through her hair—which is a mess, as if she ran to get here.