Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.03 - Chapter 6.4

It’s only natural to take a short rest after that. You draw a circle with holy water to keep monsters at bay, then each of you finds a place for yourself, relaxing in whatever manner you choose. You might be in the dungeon, you might be right in the middle of a chamber, but uninterrupted exploring is not a good idea. This is necessary.

How many times is it now—stopping for a rest in the dungeon like this?

What happened the first time you visited the first floor? You think about it, about how many times you’ve braved these depths since then. Over and over.

You mull the thought as you head to the corner where Half-Elf Scout is crouched. He’s positioned himself in front of the treasure chest that appeared as if from nowhere, working with his seven tools to break the lock. He told you to keep your distance—this is dangerous business, after all—but it’s SOP for you to station yourself nearby while he works.

“What, wonderin’ if we’re gonna find ourselves a magic weapon down here?” Half-Elf Scout asks, sparing you a glance as you come up beside him. “With our luck, we’ll get holy armor or a paladin’s cloak or something. Lotta good that’ll do us.”

But if you live to go home, you could sell it for a nice price.

“True enough,” Half-Elf Scout responds with a laugh.

Those particular items might not be of use to your party, but there’s always a chance that a magic sword might appear.

This time your words are half-serious. “Also true.” The scout nods, then adds almost in a whisper, “Hell, this is like a dream.”

Hoh, you breathe. How unusual, for him to give you any hint of his inner life. He’s always considerate of the other party members, always trying to do things for them.

You cross your arms and lean against the wall, indicating that you’re listening to your scout. If he wants to talk, he can talk. To listen is your job; at least, that’s what you think.

“Me, I was just a penniless scout,” he says. “A washed-up adventurer, or at least getting there.”

One wrong move and he would have been just a runner, he says, as his tools rattle in the lock.

You’re more than familiar with this scout’s skill by now—he would have made a very good runner.

“Naw, can’t think that way. I joined a party ’cause I felt like I had to, but it all sorta went to hell.”

He shrugs, a half grin on his face. There’s another rattle from the lock.

That must’ve been when he pissed off the wizard and wound up in a tree—you laugh, remembering how the two of you met. Maybe he stole that spell book and maybe he didn’t, but whatever, he ended up with a spell of bug attraction on him, up in a tree and hounded by bees.

You and your cousin were passing by on your way to the fortress city when he begged you for help.

“And now the likes of me is on the deepest floor of the Dungeon of the Dead. Wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been there.”

You remind him that you all might still die before you get there. “Oof!” He groans and looks at the ceiling.

There’s one more metallic scrape, and then the lid of the chest pops open, revealing what’s inside: money, treasure, equipment. A pretty good take.

“Gotta get back alive so we can see exactly what we have here,” Half-Elf Scout says softly with a glance in Female Bishop’s direction. You nod and pat him on the shoulder. One more reason, you suggest, that you need to send that guy’s head flying.

“Wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you,” Half-Elf Scout warns with a grin that shows his teeth. It makes you think of a shark.

You leave him to collect the loot in a sack while you sit down to get a little rest yourself.

We…

You sink into thought. We, your party, were not chosen by the gods, not burdened with some destiny. Female Warrior’s oaken spear is blessed, yes, but it would be absurd to take that as evidence that either of you has been divinely chosen. It was, after all, the nun of the Trade God who blessed the spear, and to borrow her words, it is all things and everything that support the formed and formless alike. To be connected to that doesn’t mean anything special about you.

You’re just adventurers. Not different from anyone else. The moment you arrived at the fortress city, you were:

Just a warrior.

His cousin.

A wrung-out scout.

A girl raised to become a hero.

A young woman sold off to pay her taxes.

A monk from a foreign land who keeps his own faith.

That’s all.

The six of you are no more than that, yet here you are, standing on the ninth floor of the dungeon.

Fearing goblins, fearing slimes, tussling with bushwhackers, all but decapitated by a ninja, fighting with other adventurers. Now you stand on the very doorstep of the man in black who rules over the Dungeon of the Dead.

It is a strange and wonderful thing.

In your mind, the danger facing the world never meant that much, yet here you are.

Feel sorry for the diamond knight. Oh well.

You get just a few winks of shut-eye, cradling your sword. As the thoughts pass through your mind, you smile.

Think it’s time to get going.

It’s a bit later.

You stand up, tighten the fasteners on your armor, and call out to your party. Your sense of time is hazy, but you think the Knight of Diamonds and his group must be getting started about now.

You check the state of your blade, make sure the handle is firm, and then slide it into its scabbard with an audible click.

The miasma in the dungeon is familiar by now, the cold stone and oppressive wire frame like old friends. The very fact that you can relax at all down here could be considered proof of how experienced you are.

The same is true of the rest of your party. They’ve been sitting and taking a break, but at your words they stand up and start to get ready.

“Are you going to be all right?” your cousin asks, going over to Female Bishop, who seems somewhat out of it.

“…Yes,” she says after a second. “I’m fine.”

“Well, if you need anything, just tell me. He wouldn’t know how to be nice to a girl if his life depended on it!”

Yeah, sure. Second cousin. This offhanded dismissal is all you offer to her barbed remark before you turn to Myrmidon Monk and ask him how he’s doing. You want to get everyone’s perspective before the party moves out.

“Well, whatever, we have to decide whether to go forward or head back. Haven’t gone too far from the elevator yet.”

He unfurls the map with a flutter. He must have borrowed it from Female Bishop while they were resting. This myrmidon is your party’s most skilled cartographer.

Myrmidon Monk runs a sharp claw along the map, tapping your current location. “Distance-wise, we’re right in the middle. Go on to the tenth floor, or go back. I don’t care either way.”

“We’ve been pretty conservative with our spells, so at least we’ve got some leeway there,” Half-Elf Scout pipes up from beside you, peeking at the map. He’s not a spell user himself; it’s your cousin who’s responsible for managing the party’s resources. As such, if he’s saying something so reasonable, it must be in large part a show of consideration to the others. “Stamina’s another thing, though. Won’t do us any good to get down there wheezing and bloodied.”

“What, tired already?” Female Warrior coos, smiling her catlike smile. By this point, you know what’s behind this act. You glance at her, and she winks at you coquettishly. “Well, that won’t do. Girls don’t like a guy who gets tired too easily.” She nudges Half-Elf Scout with the butt of her spear.

“Aw, shaddup,” the scout shoots back.

Female Warrior makes sure to strike the coup de grâce by calling back to Female Bishop, “Am I wrong?”

The two of them are often at the temple together. They became fast friends practically before you noticed. The thought would bring a smile to your face—but you’re too busy asking Female Bishop what she thinks of the situation.

“Wha—?” She looks at you, surprised to be the focus of attention. “Um, well…” She seems hesitant, unsure, and isn’t able to answer immediately. You don’t get annoyed at her but simply wait for her to collect herself.

You think this is only natural. If someone called on you the same way, you wouldn’t simply instinctively agree. The six of you are all different people. You have different thoughts, different origins, different classes—everything about you is different.

“If you ask me… I think we may not get another chance,” she says.

That’s why you need to hear what Female Bishop thinks. Her experience of adventure to this point has enabled her to give confident voice to her feelings.

“I want to put an end to this,” she adds.

You feel sure that it’s the strength that has been inside her from the very beginning. It had simply been obscured by all the stuff that had piled up on top of it. You’re genuinely happy to see it emerge again.

Then let’s go.

Thus, as clearly as Female Bishop, you render your decision.

The members of the party look at each other, and then, as one, they nod.

Myrmidon Monk: “Go straight to settle this with the Big Bad? Sounds interesting. Count me in.”

Half-Elf Scout: “Heh-heh-heh-heh! Even a Demon Lord would be child’s play for me!”

Female Warrior: “Well, well. Sounds like if we lose this fight, we know who to blame.”

“Oof…” (The scout again.)

“We’ll be just fine. I’m counting out all of you!” your cousin says. Very in character, but you’re going to need her to help out, too. So you inform her of this with a bit of a smile, and then you set out at a slow trot for the depths of the dungeon.

You have no way of knowing what awaits you.

No…

In one way, you know exactly what’s waiting. Monsters, loot, the maze—and beyond, the man in black.

No different from everything else you’ve experienced down here. Meaning that what you must do hasn’t changed, either.

You don’t know how many of you will survive. You don’t know how badly this fight may injure you.

But…

What do you care?

Harboring no doubts, you press forward. All of you, together.

That’s what it means to be an adventurer.