Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.03 - Chapter 7

Step 7 - Lair of The Evil Samurai

The way to the tenth floor is not a staircase, but a hole, one that leads into the abyss.

You stand at the farthest extremity of the ninth floor and peer into it, into a darkness that seems to lead to the very bowels of the earth.

There’s no wind.

You didn’t expect to be able to see anything in the blackness, but there isn’t even the breath of a breeze coming up from the depths.

This does not feel like a place people should tread—but it’s awfully late to be worrying about that.

This was surprisingly close to the elevator. You mutter, purposely, that you ended up taking quite a detour.

“Whoever built this maze was rotten to the core, I tell ya,” Half-Elf Scout says, picking up the thread with a theatrical shake of his head.

Female Bishop giggles. “Unlike on the fourth and fifth floor, it doesn’t seem like there are any hidden areas down here.”

After this calm assessment, she brushes a hand along the dungeon wall. The one packed full of trapped adventurers, bristling with arms and legs and other body parts in a wretched array. There can’t possibly be some secret hidden within it. It’s merely an adventurers’ graveyard.

“Which makes me think…if we want to get to the tenth floor, this is the only way to do it,” Female Bishop says.

“Gives me the creeps…,” Female Warrior grumbles, frowning openly. She taps the edge of the pit with the butt of her spear and looks at you. “How do we know it’s not just full of spikes at the bottom?”

Maybe she’s needling you, maybe she’s worried—or maybe both. You tell her you figure it will work out somehow, as you peer into the hole.

“If they wanted to set a trap, I think they would have picked somewhere more traditional,” Myrmidon Monk says, his antennae bobbing. He offers that he thinks there’s a bottom to this pit. “What bothers me more is that there doesn’t seem to be a way to get back out.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” says your cousin, who nonetheless looks nonplussed as she looks into the pit. You move around behind her, ready to grab her collar at any time if she should get too close and start to fall. You’re not sure what she’s thinking. “I mean, think about it. He managed to come up here.”

The man in black. Now that she mentions it, that’s true. If he can come and go at will, then there must be some way to get down to the tenth floor, and some way to get back up.

At the very least…you pick up what your cousin is saying, thinking about the sight of the sun as you do.

At the very least, we should be on the right track—he took the elevator himself.

Meaning that this floor, this area, should offer some way down to the bottom level.

A giant, yawning hole, perhaps.

“That’s assuming this isn’t a clever trap he set because he knows we’ll think that,” Female Warrior snaps. You’re actually grateful for it. Vigilance, suspicion, and even cowardice are all necessary things.

You nod, then jerk your chin in the direction of Half-Elf Scout and Female Bishop; one of them the most perceptive member of your party, the other not distracted by what she sees. Not even Myrmidon Monk and his antennae can quite match them.

“……I do feel something. A strange aura,” Female Bishop begins haltingly after listening closely to the hole. “If it was just a bottomless pit, I don’t…I don’t think it would feel like this.”

“The thing about a trap is, ya usually try to hide it,” quips Half-Elf Scout, carefully surveying every inch of the rim of the hole and finally standing up.

There was one spot with a door that wouldn’t open; when it was pried open, on the other side was a wall. That would seem to imply that this pit is the only path left.

“Gotta wonder if our rope is long enough to get us down there…,” says Half-Elf Scout.

“I know the Slow Down spell—that should let us down gently,” replies your cousin. With that, the final problem is solved. Meaning…

“Meaning today is the day that fool dies,” Myrmidon Monk clacks out. “Very interesting.”

Lastly, you take a look around at your party. Everyone looks squarely back at you. Your feelings, and your answer, are united.

The tenth floor, eh?

With this appreciative murmur, you tell your cousin you’re counting on her, and then you throw yourself into the darkness, into the abyss.

“Terra…semel…levius! Earth, for a time, grow lighter!”

Your cousin’s words of true power follow you down—still it feels like they take an eternity.

“Just don’t look up, okay?” Female Warrior jokes.

You hear the others come after you, one by one. “Eek!” cries one of the girls—Female Bishop or your cousin, you can’t be sure.

One thing’s clear: Whatever happens, this won’t be boring.

“…Huh! Looks about the same as everything else,” Half-Elf Scout says, and he’s exactly right.

You land in a dark, cramped, and very familiar dungeon hallway. You still see nothing but wire frame. The only appreciable difference is a stone stela standing in front of you. It bears a gold plaque inscribed with words in an ancient language:

FOR YOU—DEATH.

The Dungeon of the Dead.

Yes, that’s what this is, why it bears that name.

You look in each direction, trying to decide which way to go. You’re about to set foot into the darkness when—

“Be careful!” your cousin shouts, and you freeze.

Slowly, you bring your foot back to where it was and turn around. Your cousin’s face is pale and bloodless.

“This space is warped. Even worse than on the ninth floor…” She hugs herself and shudders as if from cold, then she looks up at you and says hoarsely, “If we aren’t careful where we step, who knows where we might find ourselves…?”

“Well, how are we supposed to walk anywhere like that?” Female Warrior says, a tremble in her voice as if she might start crying at any moment. “I don’t want to end up like…them…”

You know what she must be thinking of: the adventurers buried in the wall on the ninth floor. Nobody would want to end up condemned to spend all eternity as a plaything, providing “comfort” to the dungeon’s inhabitants.

You pat her on the shoulder in an attempt to calm her down and ask your cousin if it’s at all possible to see the distortions.

She looks very thoughtful for a moment, chewing on her thumbnail and staring into space. “I almost feel like it’s…sort of like a whirlpool…”

It’s Female Bishop who finally provides the real answer. “To the left, I think.” She stretches a long, slim finger, pointing down the left branch of the hallway. “It’s sort of…” She makes a spinning motion in the air with one hand. “It’s like the flow of the whirlpool goes from left to right. That’s what it feels like to me. So…”

So going to the left would take you toward the center of the whirlpool, the center of the distortion. As for what you’ll find there—that’s clear enough.

The man in black.

“That settles it, then.” The clacking of Myrmidon Monk’s mandibles sounds like a falling gavel. “Left’s the only way to go. With our scout investigating ahead, of course.”

“If I suddenly get whipped off somewhere,” says Half-Elf Scout, “I hope you’ll at least put up a tombstone for me.”

You tell him that if he expects to get teleported away, maybe you should hold on to the loot.

“Oof!” He laughs.

“Yeah, nobody wants you giving us the slip,” Female Warrior agrees. “Right?”

You say that you agree completely.

Female Bishop and your cousin look at you, still a bit disbelieving.

We’ve come this far. If we can’t trust our party members by now, what can we trust?

It’s the same way everyone has entrusted you with leading them in combat, even though a single wrong move on your part could get everybody killed. If the two of them are wrong and their suggestion wipes out the party, so be it. It’s nothing to worry about.

So your scout leads, and you take a confident step after him down the hallway.

Nothing happened.

Hmm.

You sigh demonstratively, and then for the umpteenth time: ‘Let’s go.’

You can hear the footsteps of the others behind you over the rattling of your own armor.

“What if he’s not there?” Female Warrior asks tartly. “I mean… You know. What if we don’t find him?”

“He practically invited us down here! I’d tell him to post some dang office hours!”

You glance behind you as you listen to Female Warrior and Half-Elf Scout chat. Myrmidon Monk is vigilantly watching everyone’s back, while your cousin and Female Bishop look at each other and giggle.

No problems at all.

If you’re going to die here, then your time to die has come. It’s as simple as that.

Without reluctance, without hesitation, you kick down the first chamber door on the tenth level.

Can’t spend very long exploring this floor.

A giant who exudes poison gas. Hordes of terrible vampires. A fire dragon, a frost giant.

As each monster blocks your path, you, and your party with you, take them down and advance farther into the dungeon.

Your blade sings, the spear thrusts, the knives glint, the spells are deployed, and you leave monster corpses in your wake.

Each time you get through a chamber, there’s the dimensional warping again. You follow it to the next room.

Break in, fight, kill, and move on to the next thing. Break in, fight, kill, and move on to the next thing.

You hardly even know where you are anymore, but what you must do is obvious enough.

You and your party now move within the realms of the very greatest adventurers in the Four-Cornered World. If you cannot make it through this, then perhaps no one in the world can survive this dungeon.

There is only one possible thing that could stand in your way.

Death itself.

Finally.

You arrive before the door. For better or for worse, you arrive.

Standing before you is a thick door, just like all the other doors to all the other chambers you’ve entered thus far. As you stand and look up at it, though, you feel sure:

Whatever happens, this is the end of the adventure.

You take a breath in, then let it out. You look at the others. They all nod.

By now, you need no time to steel your resolve, there’s no time to confirm with everyone. You only need to check your equipment and that of your companions and make sure everything is ready.

You’ve managed to conserve your HP, and you have spells remaining as well. Your equipment is in good order. No problems anywhere.

No pointing getting scared now: Even if you wanted to turn tail and run, you’ve been given no way home. If you turn around, all you’ll find behind you are hallways that lead nowhere.

You murmur quietly, asking whether you and your companions should go. They reply that yes, they should. That’s all; nothing more.

You give the door a powerful kick, knocking it down, and then your party piles into the room.

The dim chamber beyond is—much as you expected—just like all the others. Empty, desolate. Only wire frame, defining a stone square.

This is the nexus of the Death?

Frankly, the altar on the fourth floor would have seemed more appropriate than this.

There is, however, proof that you have indeed reached the innermost room of the deepest level of the dungeon: a throne. An ornate chair is sitting at the far end of the chamber, and on it, a hunching, shadowy figure.

It seems to grow as it rises up, assuming human form and standing before you.

The man in black.

“Ha! Excellent work. Simply excellent.” You hear slow, measured clapping. On the man’s face, as the shadows fall away, you can see a smile of appreciation. It makes your skin crawl. “I had high hopes for you, it’s true. But few are the adventurers who have made it this far.”

“Dungeon Master…,” says Female Bishop, in a voice that trembles for only a beat. “Who or what are you?!”

It’s not really a question; it’s a simple confirmation. Who is this person at the world’s northernmost extremity, from which the Death spreads out over the land? This root of all evil? This greatest enemy?

Female Bishop, however, has a reason for asking—as does Female Warrior, with her oaken spear.

Anyone who has lost someone in these halls would have a reason.

“I don’t care if you’re an immortal wizard or the king of demons! What drove you to all of this?”

Female Warrior’s question hangs in the air. Then the man in black laughs, a burbling sound.

He says only: “He’s dead, you know.”

The man shrugs. He sounds so calm.

Beside you, the tip of Female Warrior’s spear trembles. “What did you say…?”

“I killed him. Or perhaps I should say, we killed him. It all works out to the same thing in the end. Ahhh, what fun that was.”

The man in black rests a red-bladed sword, held in his right hand, on his shoulder and strokes his chin, speaking almost to himself. He sounds like he’s recalling the taste of a pleasant meal from a few days earlier.

“I don’t know who or what that was—so with many apologies I assure you, I can’t answer your question.”

The man in black almost sounds like he really feels guilty, as if to say, So very sorry for defeating them before you got here.

“If he’s dead, why is there still dimensional warping around this dungeon?!” Female Bishop cries in disbelief. Even as she shakes with fear, she retreats not a step, her voice loud and clear. “We lost so many adventurers, and for what?”

“Please, please, don’t misunderstand. I can’t have you going around thinking I want to destroy the world or some silly business like that.”

While Female Bishop and the man in black talk, you spare a glance at your comrades. Your cousin reacts first, sliding her short staff to one side, getting line of fire on him. The others follow.

Each of you moves slowly, ever so slowly, fanning out from the clump in which you entered the chamber to find your place. One gripping a short staff and focusing her awareness, one with a machete in one hand, the other forming a holy sigil. One with a spear, another with butterfly-shaped knives, each closing the distance.

You slide forward, too, inching ahead, judging the gap. You’ll charge in and strike. One stroke.

“This is simply the loveliest place.”

You’re nowhere near close enough yet.

The man in black sounds like he’s talking to a friend he bumped into on the roadside; he moves like he has all the time in the world, but his movements give nothing away. You watch as closely as you can, seeking any possible opening.

“Adventurers die, monsters die, and all of them come here, where they feed my power.”

The Death.

“What do you want? According to legend, the Platinum ranks are practically beyond human understanding.”

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

“And if you delve into the depths and stand on the border between life and death, and come back to the surface… Then what?”

“Isn’t it the Death coming back all over again?”

The Death is power.

Adventurers kill monsters, monsters kill adventurers, and the cycle continues. The law of nature is being upset.

If that power, the Death, is in the hands of this man…

“All I did was put out a few treasure chests,” the man says. “The adventurers did the rest—they went and died on their own.”

“Don’t get cute…!” Female Warrior spits at him.

“You wound me,” the man in black says, then he chuckles and shrugs. “Everything depends on the roll of the dice cast by the gods. So why not do everything to stack the odds in your favor?”

“Gotta warn ya, Cap, it’s no use listenin’ to this guy. He don’t make any sense,” Half-Elf Scout insists.

“I don’t care what he says,” Myrmidon Monk clacks. “It’s just the howling of an animal.”

You take another tiny, sliding step.

You couldn’t cut him before. What about now? Can you land a blow? No…

The red blade turns toward you, leisurely.

“It’s of no consequence, really,” the man in black says. “It comes down to nothing more than this: Kill and get stronger. Kill and be victorious.” He’s speaking to you. Of you. Yes, even you… “Even you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

Strike him down.

The light is faster than the sound: A red blade slices past your eyeballs, followed by a belated whoosh. One half of a dungeon tile. That’s how narrowly you avoided death, just a shuffle of your feet.

You react immediately, closing in and bringing your katana up in a diagonal strike. There’s a ringing of metal, and you feel a dull numbness in your hands. The sword bounces back. You were too slow, frustratingly slow.

Grasping the hilt, you sling your beloved weapon over your shoulder. No follow-up attack comes.

You see just the ghost of a smile in the dim light. It’s laughing at you. Well, let it laugh.

“Hey, you, over here…!”

A spear comes stabbing in from the side. The voice seems so soft for one with a weapon so sharp. It’s a female warrior. The two of you no longer need words to coordinate your actions. But that doesn’t make you infallible.

“Hrrr-agh?!”

Another red flash slices through the darkness, and again the sound comes late, a clash of steel. Sparks fly, and the spear is deflected. Now the red blade describes a great upward arc. A strike from above. Her face tenses, anticipating the blow. But then—

“Whoa—!”

Parried.

A half-elf scout, holding a butterfly-shaped dagger in a reverse grip, just manages to push the blade off its path. Female Warrior smiles at him as best she can, in acknowledgment of his fine, light-footed entrance. Spear in hand, she struggles to get back to her feet. “Sorry, that one’s on me.”

“All good, but…I can’t handle this one alone!”

With each flash of red light, Half-Elf Scout’s body sports fresh wounds. He’s a scout, after all. One-on-one combat isn’t his calling. I could use a little help here, he seems to be saying.

When you ask if she can stand, Female Warrior says, “I’ll try.” Good.

You advance once more, your sword still across your shoulder, charging straight ahead and swinging three times. But the red blade blocks each cut, sweeping your attacks aside and always moving ever backward as smoothly as if it were melting away. Then suddenly, you feel a chill down your spine and jump back. The blade flashes through the space where your neck had been an instant before.

That would have been a critical hit!

“This sucks—it’s six-on-one, and we can barely hold on! It don’t make any sense!”

You agree with Half-Elf Scout. You would certainly like to settle this if you could.

There’s an exclamation from behind you: “It’s worse than that—look!” Myrmidon Monk sounds unusually agitated. It doesn’t take you long to figure out why. Something is bubbling up from the darkness—or rather, somethings.

“GHOOOOOOOOOOULLLLL!!”

“GGGGGGGOOOULL…!”

Red eyes, pale, dead flesh grotesquely swollen. Dressed in rags and flashing fanged mouths, they must be vampires. Nightwalkers, nightwalkers, nightwalkers! And a great many of them, as if every adventurer to die in these depths has been summoned back from the grave. You have no idea how many of them might wait in the dark of this unknowable expanse.

“So much for six-on-one. Think your numbers were a little off,” Myrmidon Monk says, his antennae bobbing vigilantly. He clacks his mandibles together. “Though it makes no difference to our plan—to kill them all. We and they have that much in common, at least.”

“Well, there goes complaining about how we can’t win despite the advantage in numbers,” Female Warrior says. “Now they’ve got the numbers, and they’re some tough customers.” Not fair at all.

Your face is tight as you nod at Female Warrior, then ready your sword in a low stance. You slide forward, taking care to not lift your feet as you close the distance to your opponents, trying to find their presence. Where is the red blade? You can’t make out even the silhouettes of your foes in the darkness. The idea of being able to sense an enemy’s presence is a rather nebulous one anyway. Honestly, there probably is no such thing. There’s only sound, the rasping of breath, traces of body heat, eddies in the air. The five senses tell all there is to tell.

Female Warrior looks at you, and you can feel the trust her eyes convey. She seems to have noticed how calm your breathing is.

“So,” she says, “what’s the plan?”

The edges of your lips curl up as you tell her that there is only ever one plan: Destroy each and every one of them.

Heh. She gives a good-natured shrug, her pale face breaking into a smile. It seems you’ve successfully relieved the tension.

“Mm.” Myrmidon Monk grunts thoughtfully. “Would you like me to switch to the front row? I don’t mind either way.”

“Get outta town!” Half-Elf Scout says, despite the cold sweat drenching him. “Only one of us can chop off that bastard’s head, and it’s gonna be me!”

“Excellent!” Myrmidon Monk laughs, clacking his mandibles approvingly at the scout’s show of enthusiasm. At the same time, he works his knotty fingers, tracing a complicated sigil. The Seal of Return.

“There’s a good chance these undead are weak to Dispel…!” The one who calls this out is the party’s female wizard, your cousin, who’s incidentally also charged with resource management. “Three moves after Dispel! Let’s do it! Coordinate with me!”

“Right!” comes the eager voice of the bishop beside your cousin, holding the sword and scales. The light has long since gone out of her eyes, which are covered by a bandage, yet her gaze contains the utmost resolution. She was weak once, but now she is a seasoned adventurer.

Even as you marvel at the bishop’s growth, you grunt your own acknowledgment of your cousin’s instructions, tracing a sigil with your free hand.

“O my god of the wind that comes and goes, send home these souls!”

Opening gambit: Myrmidon Monk’s Dispel fills the space with a fresh, violent wind.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The rotting corpses are unable to withstand this purifying air, akin as it is to the Resurrection miracle that restores life. The legions of restless dead in this dungeon were not summoned by a curse, but before a high-level miracle, they succumb just the same.

As the nightwalkers crumble into dust, your cousin’s voice sounds loudly: “Ventus! Wind!”

“Lumen! Light!” continues Female Bishop. She brandishes the sword and scales, intoning the words of the spell as if delivering a proclamation from her god.

The words of magic invoked by the two women overwrite the very logic of the world, refashioning it and producing immense power. The wind turns to a gale, and even your eyes can perceive the light condensing.

And finally, you, too, speak a word of true power, unleashing it all with the sigil formed by your hand.

‘Libero! Release!’

A storm of wind.

Blinding light.

Roaring noise.

And heat.

The grave-dark room, having nearly become an alternate dimension, is flooded with piercing light. Those undead who escaped the effects of Dispel now scream as their flesh boils away. There is nothing in the world that can flee Fusion Blast.

“Captain—!”

“Oh crap…!”

At least, not if it is of this world.

You are lucky. In response to your friends’ shouts, you dodge, rolling along the stone floor. The red blade flashes before you, and there is a spray of blood. The spray is accompanied by a whistling sound. Like a rain of crimson, it spills from the throat of Female Warrior, right in front of your eyes.

“Hhh—rrr…ahh?!” She presses her hands against her neck, her face bloodless, before she collapses to her knees. The red blade slides through the air again. Overhead in a grim repeat of last time. It’s moments away from decapitating her.

“You—son of a—!” Half-Elf Scout shoves the blow aside. But the butterfly-shaped blade is smacked away, once, twice, and then his abdomen opens. “What the—? Hrrrgh—?!”

You can hear the blade bury itself deep in his bowels. Blood comes pouring from the scout’s mouth. With your companions fallen before you, you grip your blade and rise to your feet. That was two of them.

“…!” Your cousin speaks quickly: “They need healing! You focus on the front row; I’ll worry about the back!” You’ve always respected the way she keeps her cool in even the most extreme situations. And so, even as your companions desperately invoke healing miracles behind you, you slide forward. You can still feel the lingering heat of Fusion Blast on your skin as you jump, lashing out toward the red blade with your own.

Your hands feel little resistance in response. The ash, all that’s left of the nightwalkers, wafts up from under your feet as you slide forward again, trying to control your distance. Your opponent has pulled back, laughing at you all the while. You can see the grin through the rising steam.

This is bad.

“You have to get back…!” Female Bishop’s voice comes at almost the same moment you bring up your sword. You heard it, you’re almost sure: a mocking voice forming the words of a spell.

“Ventos…lumen…libero! Wind and light, release!”

You don’t have time for a single passing thought. You don’t sense pain or agony so much as simply emptiness. Sound disappears, the world around you vanishes. You don’t know whether you are standing or sitting.

In reality, you’ve simply been knocked on your side. You open your mouth, but the groan that comes out along with your exhalation of breath means nothing to anyone. Only one thing is sure—the weight of your katana in your hand. You lean on it as you rise unsteadily to your feet, wavering like a ghost.

The presence—There.

Your companions lie fallen in this chamber. Female Warrior in a heap like a ragdoll, Half-Elf Scout utterly motionless. Myrmidon Monk is slumped against one wall, your cousin kneeling beside him. Female Bishop lies prone on the ground—and then your eyes meet her sightless gaze.

“I…an…till…fight…,” she manages, her voice shaking as she uses the sword and scales to stand, looking like she might collapse again at any moment. You feel the way she looks. Your chest armor hangs off you; you undo the ties and throw it away.

“A shame, a great shame. But I’m afraid your adventure ends here.” The red blade is in front of you. The bastard is laughing. That armor won’t do you any good now.

At last, you hold your sword straight and true before you, though it might be meaningless. The red blade is the symbol of death. You, and your cousin, all your companions, are going to die.

There will be no exceptions. Not one.

For no one can escape the Death.

Very well.

Does it mean anything meeting your end with your sword at the ready?

“…!”

Someone is calling you in a voice like a scream. You hear the rattle of the gods’ dice rolling.

And then before you can answer the red blade comes running, and blood sprays.

A dark hut. The smell of medicinal herbs. The odor of a sick woman. A tiger laughs in your ear.

“You’re a master.” Her finger extends suddenly, pointing at you, then at the air beside you. “And so is your opponent. However!”

The tiger watches you with languid eyes.

“Your opponent holds the masterpiece weapon, you the piece of junk. Now what do you do?”

You answer.

The tiger smiles.

“Wh—wha?!”

The sword seems to jump back of its own accord.

You feel as if you looked back over everything in a single racing instant. Is this what it means for your life to flash before your eyes? You don’t know. But you don’t have to—your body knows.

Your life turns like a great wheel, propelling your body forward.

A movement that avoids a critical hit.

The clear clang of swords, the first sound of surprise the man in black has made, all go swirling past you. Everything seems hazy except the feeling of the blade in your hand.

Magic Missile. Draw, attack. Two swords. Leap. You use all the skills you can bring to bear, yet you have more left.

Yeah. What’s left…?

You smile. At the same moment as the smile crosses your face, the tension leaves your shoulders. Your breath flows around your body. You ready the sword in your hand with ease. You take what you assume cannot be called a fighting stance; you simply lift the blade up with both hands. That’s all.

Here’s the moment.

You come in from the side with a thunderclap strike from above, then flip the blade around. One diagonal stroke, then again in the other direction. Strike with the grip. Swipe across into a hassou stance.

There’s a flash of light, and then another. Each collision of the blades fills the room with blinding sparks.

“In—incredible…”

Is that Female Bishop who spoke just now? It doesn’t matter; you aren’t distracted by it.

At this moment, the man in black stands before you with his red blade.

He said he enjoys winning. Getting stronger.

You can’t disagree with him.

Yet—is that all there is to it?

Surely not.

What you’ve enjoyed to this point is not killing enemies or being victorious.

There’s a difference there, thin as a sheet of paper, but there—like the difference between death and life and ashes.

You’ve delved the dungeon, survived deadly battles with your friends, been overjoyed (or sometimes gravely disappointed) by the contents of treasure chests.

It is not only victory that you’ve met on your travels.

You were decapitated by a ninja, attacked by succubi, to say nothing of goblins and slimes.

With fear, with clamor, hesitation, confusion, and the occasional stopping short, you’ve walked ahead.

What is it that has brought you so much pleasure?

Adventure.

You are an adventurer.

You heard rumors of the notorious Dungeon of the Dead and came to the fortress city to brave its very depths. Now here you are, confronting the source of death. If this isn’t thrilling, what is?

It all rides on the dice.

Yes, you see now, it’s true.

Even the gods don’t know which way a battle will go.

Even the gods can’t intervene in your fight.

All that is with you are Fate and Chance.

No one else’s will is involved; nothing to force you to do one thing or another.

This is the true blessing of the gods. Could there be anything more wonderful?

If the dice are to roll, let them roll.

You are free.

If that’s true, then…

“Wh—wha?!”

With effortless ease, your blade flicks back off the red blade and turns around.

You need only match your sword strokes to the flashes of light that burst out of the darkness.

Is it really such a great thing, to attain victory by killing?

Is it really such a foolish thing to die in failure?

Nonsense, all of it.

No one can determine the value of your adventure.

Not the man in front of you.

Not the companions who have walked this path with you.

Therefore, you need only shout.

Therefore, you need only howl.

The value of this moment, this instant, this adventure you’ve chosen.

This adventure is fun.

If you make one wrong step, you’ll die. But so what?

If it goes well, you will live. Nothing more and nothing less.

Well then, what is there to worry about?

His skill and yours, the fate of the world, your companions, all recede into emptiness.

The ancients say: “Have you a thousand foes, it is victory simply to face them with the conviction that you will fell them all.”

Your opponent is a master, and so are you. He has the master blade, and you a piece of junk.

No need to worry.

There was never anything to worry about.

Roll the dice, adventurer.

Whosoever you face, the outcome of the battle you have chosen is already decided.

If one is the heavens and six is the earth, well, the chances of rolling one or six are the same.

Even if your chances were one in a hundred, the chance of that one is as good as any of the other ninety-nine.

In which case, all possible results boil down to just two.

Win or lose.

In other words, it’s fifty-fifty.

You no longer need to think. You need no intellect.

Once you have decided to do battle, you need simply act as you have determined.

Nothing influences your free will but you alone.

Nothing can stand in your way but you alone.

How you move, how you swing your blade, are all at your discretion.

Form, skill—and fortune.

Your will and body, free now of all things, are in perfect harmony.

Mind and action are one! Let all be in concord!

What’s useless?

You laugh. Free, clear, heartfelt.

There are no more doubts.

There is only prayer.

Pray and play, adventurer.

Just as you’ve come this far, treading on ashes that continue to glow and smoke.

Yes. You know.

You’ve known since you turned the first page that led to this dungeon.

Everything is for this stroke of the blade, for this samurai’s sword.

This is, in other words…