There is nothing so dangerous as a dragon’s open jaws. But knowing that and seeing it for yourself are two different things. “Whoa-hoh!” Half-Elf Scout flies back out of the proverbial tiger’s jaws—here it would be the dragon’s jaws, you suppose—but you aren’t as nimble as he is. At almost the same moment as you shout—you’re not sure if you say get down or get away or what—the dragon roars, and its throat expands. The next instant, a great rush of superheated air fills the dungeon chamber, scorching your skin. That’s both figuratively and not figuratively. The great, hot breath isn’t actually fire, to be sure, but it’s more than enough to swell your skin even as you watch. “Ngh—hrrgh—hkk!” Behind you, your cousin collapses, clawing at her throat, sounding as if she’s being choked. Her labored breathing makes it clear her life is in danger. You spare a glance behind you to find her not so much pale as ghostly white. You stop your feet from their instinctive urge to turn around, forcing yourself to step forward onto the front line. If the battle line breaks now—if you go to her—the only thing that waits for all of you is certain death. Myrmidon Monk is clearly thinking the same thing; he waves his antennae, looking as agonized as you feel. “It’s poison—don’t breathe!!” Dammit! You drop to one knee but force yourself to rise again, desperate to find some way to fulfill your duty as part of the front row here and now. No—you try to make yourself stand up, but the powerful poison gas saps the strength from your body moment by moment. A burning pain runs through you; with every breath, your lungs feel like they’re on fire. Beside you, Female Warrior clings to her spear, gasping as if drowning even though you’re on dry land. Neither of you has many hit points left, and another swipe from the dragon’s claws or jaws or tail will be enough to finish you off. And that’s those of you in the front row, who have trained and strengthened yourselves. How much worse will it be for those in the back row? So you must go on. You have to try to block the gas from reaching your cousin and the others, even just some of it. Well, look at this. The exact size of the dungeon never seems quite clear, but apparently it can accommodate that mountain of a body, those wings folded atop it. You wonder how many years the scales, dark green as if covered with moss, have seen. One need hardly mention the claws and teeth and tail that would trample the average adventurer like dust underfoot. And above all, there’s the dark red eyes that burn in those deep eye sockets. Down in these depths where there’s no cover but only the endless wire frame—to think you would meet a monster like this down here. A green dragon! Legend has it that the former hero, a Platinum-ranked adventurer, faced such a creature all alone… The very attempt would merit being counted among the brave. If the dragon gets one more turn, you will die. You’re surprised to discover that, confronted with that simple fact, you’re still calm enough to reflect on old tales. “You’re…mine!!” Just another way of saying that if we don’t give it one more turn, we’ll survive. A cape flutters as it flies over your head from behind you. Half-Elf Scout, who stopped only briefly in the gas’s area of effect, drives straight at the dragon with all his agility. The butterfly-like blade flashes in his hand, making a whining sound as he throws it. “Graahhh!!” A flash of light. To the dragon, it must have looked like a silver beam piercing through the dungeon. In reality, it’s the knife lodging itself in the dragon’s eyeball. The creature roars hideously, thrashing around, its neck flailing as it gazes up at the ceiling. You see blood dribbling from under the knife, and if a dragon can bleed, then it can die. “Here I go!” Female Bishop manages to cry, perhaps emboldened by the sight of the injured monster. “Ventus…crescunt…oriens!! Arise and go forth, wind!!” She manages to get just enough air into her lungs to call out these words of true power and then to blow on the horn she pulls from her belt. A tremendous gust springs up at once, filling the room and dispersing the dark green gas. The Blast Wind spell! Female Bishop’s utter force of will was able to surpass that of the reeling green dragon and rewrite reality. You’re literally seeing the fruits of all her study of magic with your cousin. Speaking of your cousin, though, she isn’t able to overcome the effects of the toxic cloud; she remains slumped on the chamber floor. Female Bishop finally manages to get some air into her delicate chest and hurries over to your cousin. “I’ll leave the rest of the fighting to you…!” “Good by me!” Myrmidon Monk clacks, then intones the words of Blessing on you and Female Warrior: “O my god of the wind that comes and goes, may fortune smile on our road!” The Trade God is the deity of travel and the wind. Your blade is enveloped in a swirl of holy breeze. With this tailwind at your backs, you and Female Warrior rush forward toward the dragon. “Yaaahh!” One! Two! Your weapons strike out in turn at the dragon’s exposed throat. Your master once told you that a would-be dragon slayer ought to aim at the weaker scales of the throat… You’re not sure if that’s completely true or not, but your katana, with the vacuum around it, plunges easily into the dragon’s flesh. The creature’s blood is hot like molten lava as it spews forth, a dark, gruesome red. Female Warrior, who stabbed the creature in the side, jumps back from the mess with a shout. She doesn’t sound too anxious, just as normal. But out of the corner of your eye, you can see her face is slick with the sweat of terror. “I’m fine; I’m fine…!” she says quickly, noticing your gaze. You likewise reset your blade in a fighting stance. “Try this on for—hack!—size!!” your cousin calls out (interrupted only by a weak cough), leaning on Female Bishop for support. Her hair—her pride and joy—is frazzled out everywhere, her skin is red and swollen where it’s visible under her torn garments, and her eyes are tearing up. Nonetheless, she sticks her hands out in front of herself, intoning the words of her spell melodically: “Tonitrus oriens iacta!” The white flash of lightning drives away the darkness of the dungeon chamber. The branching bolt describes a series of geometrically impossible angles, lashing out at the dragon faster than the speed of sound. “Hrrrgh…ghh…!” Your cousin’s fingers are singed by the tremendous outpouring of magical power, but she never flinches. Even a mighty dragon, subjected to a blow like this— “No—you’ve got to be kidding…!” Female Warrior cries, shattering your optimistic assessment. As the last speckles of lightning fade from your vision, you see the huge body is still twitching. The creature is bleeding from its eye, throat, and belly, smoke rises from its scorched scales, and yet it’s still staring you down. Its gaze is deadly; the monster has no intent of letting you escape alive. But… You feel the same way. The instant the dragon opens its jaws, you slide forward. ‘Sagitta…inflammarae…raedius.’ Three words of true power. A will-o’-the-wisp flies from your fingers and neatly down the dragon’s throat. “” You can almost hear the creature swallow, and then there’s a long beat. You hold your breath. The dragon starts to swell from inside, then flames come spurting out from its wounds, and finally it explodes. “Fwoooo! Sure never expected the likes of a dragon down here!” Half-Elf Scout exclaims as he retrieves his knife, which lodged itself in the wall after being flung free of the exploding monster along with copious amounts of dragon gore. Ever since he got that butterfly blade, he’s shown himself to be a stalwart member of the front row. It takes a load off your shoulders to know you have another capable fighter, but he’s still a bit nervous in the thick of combat, and you can hear the fatigue in his voice. When you consider that there may yet be a treasure chest to deal with after all this, you start to question the wisdom of your formation, but… “Pshaw. Of course dragons live in the dungeon. Always have,” Myrmidon Monk scoffs from the back row, and it’s hard to ignore how reassuring it is to have him there. You’re learning every day that there is no single, perfect way to approach an adventure. “Yeah, maybe, when you take a dragon quest. They’re not supposed to be just wandering around down here,” Half-Elf Scout shoots back. “These days, you’re lucky if one doesn’t jump out of the tall grass at you.” “Yeah, that’s great.” You ignore the two of them—their conversation isn’t going anywhere—and pat Female Warrior on the shoulder. “Hmm?” she says, turning to you. She’s smiling, but her face is distinctly pale. You’re not one to talk—but you do think maybe a long weapon like her spear takes a lot of energy to use. Especially against a dragon. You don’t blame her for looking a little spent. “Aw, I’ve still got plenty of fight left in me,” she says, pursing her lips. “I guess I was just a little surprised, you know? I’d be happy not to meet any more dragons today.” You agree completely. It’s time to call it a day on this delve. You inform the rest of your party of your decision, then ask Female Warrior to keep watch for a moment while you get your breathing under control. “You got it. I’ve got my eyes peeled,” she replies promptly, sitting down against one wall. You nod, then turn to the other members of your party. You figure you can trust Myrmidon Monk to look after Half-Elf Scout; what really concerns you is… “Your big sis is fine; don’t worry!” …your second cousin. You frown at her where she sits against the far wall of the room with Female Bishop attending to her. Her fingers are still slightly blackened from the overcasting attempt, and Female Bishop bandages them. They look quite painful. “Thankfully, it’s not a life-threatening injury—no need to supplicate for a miracle,” Female Bishop mentions as she puts away her healing implements and wipes the sweat from her brow. “But those fingers will need some first aid when we get back to the surface, or they might end up scarred.” “Yuck, I don’t want that,” your cousin says, but her tone is lighthearted—even though it could be a real concern. You reiterate that the party will withdraw for the day and urge your cousin not to overtax herself on the way back. “Sure, of course not… Still, I’m sort of shocked that my Lightning spell didn’t do the trick.” You, mulling it over, say that you don’t think it’s that surprising. Your opponent might not have been a very powerful dragon, but it was still a dragon. Without the wind spirit’s blessing, even your and Female Warrior’s blades might have hardly scratched it. You suspect it was chiefly luck that your Firebolt worked as well as it did. The dice of Fate and Chance refuse to let any contest be decided purely by the difference in level. “Guess you aren’t the only one who needs to keep brushing up on their magic!” your cousin remarks. Still, anyone who belittles the worth of real effort can’t even dream of questing in the dungeon. You grin a little at your cousin, who’s suddenly champing at the bit, and remind her not to overwork Female Bishop. Female Bishop shakes her head furiously. “Oh, it’s okay! It’s all very helpful—I actually asked her to include me…” She seems to be smiling. “Every time we open a spell book, we make all kinds of fascinating discoveries. It’s wonderful!” “That’s so true!” your cousin says. “I’m amazed at how good she is at finding things in those old texts.” Come to think of it, she has been studying these things for a long time—or at least, so she claims. “But I still have so far to go,” Female Bishop says. When you point out that she seems to be putting her experience to good use, she blushes and looks at the ground. “I still haven’t even been able to shape a spell to extract that Demon Core we found…” Hmm? That’s an expression you don’t recognize—but, well, as long as Female Bishop is around, it’ll be all right. You think. Regardless, you reiterate your warning not to overexert herself on the way home, and then you let out a breath. If your scout is feeling up to it, you think it’s time to investigate that treasure chest. You’ve defeated the monster in this room, but there’s no sense hanging around for too long. “Yeah, they’ll be here before long,” Myrmidon Monk says, sensing your approach as he stands vigilant guard. As you proceed in your delves, even you’ve noticed the shadows that seem to float in the corners of the chambers and the halls. An armored man, a man who looks like a robed wizard, and a young woman who appears like a priest… The best you can hope for is that they might be skaven or ogres. “More newbie hunters? Or maybe…rotting corpses.” “What a nasty thought… And a lot of trouble,” Female Warrior remarks—whether or not they were simply attracted by the Death in the dungeon, or if they sprang forth from the Death itself. You shrug gently and say that at least they’re not slimes. Female Warrior smiles and jabs gently at you with the butt of her spear. You dodge neatly and call out to Half-Elf Scout. “I’m on it, Cap. Good to go. Let’s take a look at that chest and then get on out of here.” He stands up with a nimble movement, taking a swig from his waterskin and then wiping his mouth. He works his seven tools carefully in the lock, feeling for traps—as you know by now, his technique is something to behold. As one of your party’s warriors, it’s your duty to stand by as he works, keeping a careful watch. Half-Elf Scout has the most dangerous job of all, and you have no desire to leave one of your friends high and dry. So the exploration of the fourth floor went smoothly. Except for the distressing failure to find any staircase. You sigh almost without realizing it…and then yelp as Female Warrior takes advantage of the instantaneous lapse of attention to get in another jab. The truth is, to your surprise, the fourth floor is of tremendously simple construction. Nothing more than a single long series of chambers. Compared with the first floor, with its mysterious dark zone, and the third floor with its traps, this level is almost disarmingly straightforward. Yes, the monsters seem tougher than what you’ve encountered above. The awful green dragon is a rare occurrence, but giant spiders, vampires, and werewolves roam the rest of the floor. It would be wrong to call it easy, exactly, but it is different. You explore carefully, walk slowly, fight bravely, and survive all the way down the series of rooms to find…nothing. Only more of the endless loot that comes welling up out of the dungeon. There appears to be nothing more, nowhere further to go. That simple fact, more than any powerful monster, thwarts your attempts to proceed—your attempts to reach your goal. “…Got it,” Half-Elf Scout says, and you hear the lid of the chest open with a click, gold coins shimmering inside. You take it in from the corner of one eye, but you can’t restrain a great sigh. You return to the surface, and when you get back to the fortress city, you and your party find yourselves caught up in a dizzying spectacle. Adventurers are rushing everywhere, lights are burning though it’s deep in the watches of the night, and silver and gold are veritably flying. The endless loot that comes welling up out of the dungeon has turned this into a city that never sleeps. “Well, what with all the work we’ve done, maybe we oughtta consider the Royal Suite tonight,” Half-Elf Scout jokes as you dodge the crowd. You aren’t exactly following a vow of poverty, but it’s true that you’ve spent all your nights thus far in the stables. The women have been afforded a large single room in the economy accommodations, but finer living is within your grasp. After the party’s shared expenses are deducted, everything else goes to your individual purses, and you can do with it what you like. You toss back that it doesn’t make much difference to you either way. “Me, I’m…I’m quite all right where we are now,” Female Bishop says, uncharacteristically (though hesitantly) voicing an objection. She walks smack in the middle of your group, and you’re honestly thrilled to hear her express an opinion. Your cousin evidently feels the same way, because she claps her hands, smiling. “Heh-heh-heh, it’s fun to chat together till the wee hours, isn’t it?” Your second cousin is obviously tired—you chide her, saying she’d better get right to sleep; otherwise, tomorrow is going to be awfully difficult. “Not even!” your cousin replies a touch hotly, but it’s all good. Well, not all good. But good enough. You worked your way through a lot of chambers today. You suppose tomorrow could be spared for a day off. Thankfully, you have plenty of money. And your level, it seems, is now high enough that you can take on a green dragon. No reason to feel remotely concerned. “Hmm…,” Female Warrior says to this, favoring you with a glance. “I think I’ve got another day of hard work in me yet.” “Eh, when we want to rest, we can rest,” Myrmidon Monk interjects before you can say anything. He fixes you with his compound eyes, and suddenly you find yourself wondering how you must look to him. How this whole world must look. “I don’t much care either way,” he adds, somehow both casual and weighty at once, and you take in a little breath. You look into thin air as if you might find the words there, and finally—actually, it probably only takes a second—you open your mouth. ‘We rest, then.’ Myrmidon Monk’s mandibles clack at your pronouncement, and Female Warrior replies with an unenthusiastic, “Yessir.” “A day off…,” Female Bishop murmurs, sounding somewhat melancholy. “I wonder what I should do with it.” “Studying would be good—but so would shopping!” your cousin says eagerly, and they start in on an energetic conversation. You continue forward silently, the girls’ voices behind you… “Hoh, Cap. Not gonna drop in at the tavern today?” Half-Elf Scout asks, and you suddenly realize you’ve walked straight past the Golden Knight. You stop and look up at the sign. The chatter of adventurers produces a rowdy, friendly sound from within. Maybe youngsters who have just arrived in the fortress city with nothing but a dream. Or maybe a party that’s fought a successful battle in the dungeon today. Then again, maybe some inside are drinking to the memory of lost companions. Seeking the endless fortune of the depths, they come to this town, try themselves against the dungeon, fight, kill, survive… …And eventually are swallowed up by the Death. Is the fourth floor the true extent of that Death? You don’t know. You don’t know, but somehow, you can’t muster any desire to drink tonight. You don’t feel like seeing other adventurers, either. Least of all the Knight of Diamonds. You let the others know that you’re going to skip the tavern and get some rest, but you pass the party’s purse to Half-Elf Scout so the rest of them can enjoy themselves. It’s no bad thing for them to have a few moments without their leader every once in a while. You say good-bye to them and head for the inn. “Oh…” Female Bishop seems about to say something to you, but nothing follows this short interjection. You stop for a moment but figure that if she says nothing further, it must not be that important, and you resume walking. As you make your way alone through the city, the thing that most catches your eye is the ever-increasing number of adventurers. They’ve all come with an eye on the endless loot that comes welling up out of the dungeon. If the extreme end of the fourth floor is as far as they ever go, they won’t care. You look up at the sky, the starry night slightly diluted by the lights of the town, and see a thin ribbon of smoke drifting into the air. It comes from the fiery mountain where a dragon is said to live. But that has nothing to do with the adventurers in this town. Suddenly, you’re seized by the impulse to stop everyone you see and tell them that the dungeon is a dead end, that it stops at the fourth floor. You want to demand whether they understand what that means, mock them, rant and rave at them. But you know they would only stare at you with blank eyes. It’s not long before you arrive at your accustomed inn. Today’s delve has left you immensely tired. Is it because of that green dragon? No; that encounter was at once unexpected and totally expected. The dive itself went largely without incident. And yet your body is like lead. Once you sit down, you feel the strength drain out of you; it’s like your arms and legs are lashed to the earth, and you can’t move. Well, some days are like that. It’s not such a big deal. Tomorrow you’ll rest, and then it will be fine, won’t it? And nothing will change. Not even a little. You’ll dive back down in the dungeon, fight monsters, survive, find treasure, and come back home. When you think about it, isn’t that simple loop enough? Even if there’s nothing more? Still feeling like the last, smoking ashes of a burned-down fire, you drift off into a restless sleep. When you open your eyes to a gentle rustling sound, you don’t know how much time has passed. You see the familiar silhouette of Half-Elf Scout moving through the dark. “Bah, just couldn’t settle down in the bigwigs’ room,” he says with an apologetic smile, as if by way of explanation. He seems to have realized he woke you up. “Bed that soft, feels like it makes y’older instead of better.” You nod your understanding, to which he says, “Night, Cap,” and throws himself down on the hay. That must be Myrmidon Monk you see in the other corner. With his compound eyes, you don’t know whether he’s awake or asleep. Your thoughts still leaden from sleep, you peer outside the stables. In the distance, the lights of the inn flicker faintly. You try to remember which room is the economy one. Maybe she’s not coming tonight, you think suddenly. It would make sense—you have no business together—so why does it leave you feeling so lonely? You smile at the ridiculous question, force your eyes shut again, and try to find some sleep among the hay. Whatever happens, dawn will break in another few hours. Even if it won’t solve anything. “Let’s go shopping, O leader!” Female Bishop chimes, and you drop your spoon as you squeeze out an E-er… You don’t worry about the spoon sinking into your breakfast bowl of barley porridge but turn slowly to Female Bishop. Things are always a little slow at the Golden Knight first thing in the morning. The patrons are mostly those who have finally returned from a night in the dungeon or those who are about to go back down, sipping a drink and grabbing a bite to eat. Those who have just arrived in the city look around for companions, nervous expressions on their faces. Some sit quietly as if hoping someone might come to them, but they’ll learn better by nightfall, you suspect. A wizard or a monk, they might get offers, but the no-name third son of some farmer from the countryside—not happening. “Ooh, then maybe I’ll ask you to pick something up for me. Let’s see, I’d sure like to eat something sweet.” “Good idea. I think…I need some catalysts. And something sweet, too!” “Come t’think of it, we’re gettin’ a little low on potions. Be a big help if you could grab some while you’re out.” “Makes no difference to me either way.” While you’ve been busy thinking, your companions have evidently already concluded that you’re going out. You wish they would wait—take a step back. You tell them you can take care of those kinds of chores on your own. A party of one. That’s all you need! You think you’re being considerate, but Female Warrior immediately exclaims, “Whaaat?” deeply scandalized. “The girl actually got up the courage to invite you along, and that’s how you respond? Poor thing!” She doesn’t seem genuinely worried; it’s more like she’s teasing you. She reaches out for Female Bishop, wrapping her arms around the girl protectively, even as Female Bishop protests, “No, it’s fine…” “Hrm!” your second cousin announces, suddenly the polar opposite of her usual cheery self. “How dare you embarrass a young woman like that!” Hey, that’s not what happened! You pick up your spoon—sunk up to the handle in your porridge—wipe it off as best you can, and make a show of resuming your breakfast. From the amused gazes that settle on you, though, you gather that this didn’t come out of nowhere. Who was the instigator? You express your doubts that your second cousin is capable of such a thing (you ignore her “How rude!”). “Gosh, look at this guy, am I right?” Female Warrior says, nuzzling Female Bishop’s cheek. “S-sure, you’re right,” Female Bishop replies with a nod, looking embarrassed but not exactly unhappy. As for you, you’re certainly pleased that she’s getting along so well with the other girls, but… “Not that unusual for another party member to invite you shopping, is it?” Myrmidon Monk clacks out while you waffle. “Or what? Is there some reason you don’t want to go?” “Oh my!” your second cousin exclaims immediately, but forget about her. True, you have no special reason to turn Female Bishop down—and yet… You’re assaulted by an anxiety you can’t find any reason for, and Half-Elf Scout cackles aloud. “This is what’s called checkmate, Captain. Be a good boy and go on a quest that doesn’t involve the dungeon.” Grr. It sounds like that settles it. It’s true, of late you’ve been focusing on nothing but delving and training, delving and training. Cutting enemies down and moving forward. You’d been working on the assumption that otherwise you wouldn’t be able to resist the Death that squirms in the dungeon, but now… Maybe that isn’t the same thing as Life. On the far side of one is six. And how foolish it would be to roll a die focusing only on that single pip. Of course, just entertaining these thoughts while you sip your porridge isn’t going to be enough to change how you really feel. The head and the heart are separate things. But they can be brought into alignment. If one acts to make them so. All right. You nod and finish what’s left in your bowl in a single great gulp. You suddenly realize that everyone else has already finished eating. You’re well behind. Well, time to go. Shopping. Not alone but together with Female Bishop. “Okay!” she exclaims, her expression bright enough to blind you as she nods eagerly. The girls exchange little congratulatory high fives—you knew this was a setup. But strangely, you don’t mind. You like knowing those you’re close to are thinking of you, and it would be terrible to waste such affection. You stop one of the passing padfoot waitresses—the harefolk girl—and ask for a cup of water. “Coming right up! Hee-hee—I heard it all, you know. Everyone needs a break now and then!” She claps her fuzzy hands, and you smile wryly. Apparently, you’re just that easy to read. But, well, it’s all right. It’s all good, you think again. Just by deciding to take a rest, to take a break from your normal routine, you feel something like a trapped breath escaping your body. You nod, bring your hands together, and place the party’s shared purse on the table. Let’s begin with what everyone wants, then. “Come one, come all! See the dungeon’s strangest mystery—this living gold coin!” “That’s outrageous. How can the identification cost the entire value of the item? That’s highway robbery!” “Oh, please—this statue is of a bear who killed millions of enemies. It’ll bring you luck and profit for sure…” “Now, now, this key is made of solid gold, you hear me? Surely you’ll give me a good price for it!” You venture out into town, the fortress city packed to the gills with people. Shouting voices are everywhere, and you can hear adventurers arguing with merchants about their wares. In this city, there’s no end of new equipment to buy, nor of money to buy it with. To see this place, you would never imagine the end of the world was nigh. You see a few people in tattered clothing whom you take to be refugees, but they look almost relaxed. Maybe it’s relief. Unlucky as they are, they’re still alive, and they know it. It’s hard not to feel that the good wind that blows through this town is somehow generous. “I guess we can thank the Trade God for this,” Female Bishop says as she patters along beside you. She’s working hard to keep up but likewise looks almost relieved. “So many refugees, though… I guess the war isn’t going so well.” Perhaps it’s her sense of vocation that lends an extra touch of melancholy to these words. When you consider what she told you about her life back in the temple, you can hardly blame her for feeling this way. The world needs saving. With that burden on your shoulders, one could be forgiven for lapsing into rueful rumination when confronted with the way things are. After walking alongside you silently for a moment, though, Female Bishop says, “Right,” nodding with conviction. “Our shopping today will bring us closer to that goal!” Then with an enthusiastic “Let’s go!” she rushes forward. Now it’s you who struggles to keep up with her—you smile at the idea. How invigorating this is. “Where should we go first?” Female Bishop asks gaily, turning toward you and fixing her gaze on you from behind her bandage. You’re not on any adventure now, and she’s in civilian clothing, without her weapons and armor; she looks truly alive. She could easily be mistaken, you think, for some young princess somewhere—and it’s not just because she was actually born to a noble house. Is this her true self, then? From before the goblins, even before her parents educated her in the ways of the nobility? You suggest maybe you should start by taking a look around to see what’s available. The armor, weapons, and potions should all be easy enough to get from the weird old guy whose shop you already frequent. All the other little things, though, and the treats Female Warrior and your cousin want, are another matter. Might not be such a bad idea to take a look at the shops. She is, after all, a bishop of the Supreme God. With her ability to identify items, you won’t get bilked on your purchases. You tell her you’ll be counting on her, and she happily responds, “Great!” Now, wander around long enough and you’re bound to bump into something interesting. Among the many wares spread out in the street are several that catch your eye. A sword, for example—a classic-looking blade. “Ah, my young lord and lady, I see you are people of discernment! Come see my collection of swords, masterworks unparalleled anywhere in the world!” The merchant, his voice heavy with some accent you don’t recognize, tries to convince you to have a gander. You suspect the ordinary clothing Female Bishop is wearing today has kept the man from realizing what she is. You glance in her direction, and she gives you a wicked little look from under her bandage. She nods, suppressing a laugh, and you squat in front of the swords as if deeply interested. Hmm…indeed. At a glance, it would be easy enough to take these for famous works of great craftsmen. They have the right look, and when you pull one out of its scabbard, the blade gleams brightly. It certainly puts on an impressive show… “…Would you like me to look at it for you?” Female Bishop whispers, sounding almost excited. You remark that yes, you would. The sword you picked up bears the name Dragon Slayer. Others have names like Were Slayer and Mage Masher, but you figure you might as well start with dragons. You just felled one, after all. If you’d had this blade along, maybe it would have been a little easier. “This one? Let’s see…” Female Bishop touches the hilt with her slim fingers. She runs them up to the blade as if in a caress, an ambiguous smile on her face. You ask if it’s a fake. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s the real thing. However… How do I put this…?” She spares a glance for the merchant, her eyes hidden by her bandage, then leans in close to you. She stretches out ever so slightly, bringing her lips close to your ear, and whispers: “It has no desire to act.” Hmm. She giggles like a child at your response and continues softly: “It was created to fell flying beings. It won’t be of real value against earth dwellers.” So there are many different types of swords that might be called dragon slayers. Think, for example, of Dragon Buster and Dragon Valor, known from the old songs and legends… The fact that so many dragon-slaying swords are understood to be just normal weapons when wielded against any other foe means there would be plenty of fakes. After all, how many people are likely to encounter a real dragon in their travels? Judged against such forgeries, at least this sword has the virtue of being the real thing. Even if it wouldn’t be of any special value down in the dungeon. “If I were to pick one…,” Female Bishop murmurs. “Let’s see…” She moves among the wares with the grace of a dancer, her hand finally settling on one sword in particular. “Yes, this is the one I would pick.” It is a most mysterious weapon composed of several blades joined together. The make looks somewhat old, and it has clearly seen its share of passing years. “I knew you had a good eye. That’s the work of a very famous smith, sir. How about it?” At the merchant’s urging, you take the sword in hand, recognizing its unusual lightness. With his permission, you give a few gentle swipes with the weapon, and even these mild strokes produce a whoosh of air. Yes—this is indeed good work. With a single swing, you could rend an enemy’s flesh, turning them to mincemeat. You are aware of only one shop in the city that would sell something like this. And since you’re not there right now, you wonder aloud if this came up from the dungeon. “Heh-heh, I’ve had a big shipment in just recently. Couldn’t be happier.” You look around and see it’s true; swords of all descriptions seem to be lying around. And not just swords. The cloth laid out on the ground also hosts staves, rings, and more besides. You know a little magic. It isn’t lost on you that one of the staves lolling around nearby contains a powerful fire spell. Your cousin, of course, or even Female Bishop, with their magical abilities, might find such equipment a stalwart companion. But… You’re suddenly overtaken by a strange sense that something isn’t right; you set the old sword down on the cloth. The feeling is hard to articulate, and it might be nothing more than your imagination. But you can’t shake it—it’s the same prickle you felt stepping into the chamber with those rogues. “Satisfied for today, sir?” You return the merchant’s pleasant smile, lightly patting the sword at your hip. You’d rather place your trust in a familiar weapon for now. “I see, of course,” the merchant says with no obvious distress—probably used to sales slipping away. The concern, however, is yours alone. If there’s anything Female Bishop wants, well, as party leader, it’s of course your job to help her equip herself. So you inquire her opinion. “” Female Bishop, however, shows no sign of hearing your question, her unseeing eyes fixed on a single point. You follow her gaze to find it resting on a shiny but otherwise unremarkable ring. Even you can tell the item must be expensive. Expensive enough to make you hesitate for a moment. But you’re the one who charged a dragon head-on—you won’t quail at buying an item, if it’s exceptional enough to be worth it. “…No,” Female Bishop says, her voice quaking terribly. “No… It’s all right. I don’t—I don’t need it.” She shakes her head several times and then promptly walks away. You hurry after her. She looks out of sorts, but her footsteps are precise and careful, as an adventurer’s steps always should be. When you catch up to her, you don’t even have to ask. She says, “That ring… It’s cursed.” Cursed… You mutter to yourself, and her shoulders shake again; she looks as distressed as a child who’s seen a monster. “I don’t know…how to describe it… It was cold, like I was being sucked in…” Mm. You grunt. Perhaps it’s the same strange force you felt coming from that sword. It wasn’t simply frightening. It was something cold, chilling, that sneaked up on you. Something this fortress city is overflowing with. Something that accompanies almost every adventurer, almost every step they take. You stop walking, looking back over your shoulder and peering into the busy marketplace. The shop, with the sword and the ring, has vanished amid the bustle. And yet… Say… Could it be…? Could that have been the chill of the Death? “Oh…” Female Bishop, who’s been moving so quickly she almost seems to be running away from the marketplace, suddenly stops and looks up. This allows you to catch up with her and ask what’s going on, but she shakes her head and says, “Nothing. Ahem, it’s this way. I think…” She turns and sets off down a side street with complete confidence despite her impaired vision. She’s running, yet nothing about her movements makes you worry that she’ll bump into anyone or fall. Once again you hurry to catch up with her, but at least she seems to be able to make her own way around. Maybe she’s more of a tomboy than she looks. The thought flits through your mind, not that it serves much purpose. Think of her, back before the misfortune befell her, before she was brought up as a hero. Even more meaningless, such speculations. There’s no way to know what’s inborn and what comes from experience. Besides, the experience is part of what makes us who we are. Here’s what it works out to: She’s a bit of a tomboy. “…I believe it’s this way,” Female Bishop says, stopping at a crossroads and tilting her head as if listening closely, then turning down the next street. You follow after her with no idea where she might be going. You ask, but she only says, “I don’t know.” Geez. Wherever it is she doesn’t know she’s going, though, she soon arrives there. It doesn’t take long for you to realize what she’s been looking for. A young girl. A child, ten years old or so, her hair in a braid—perhaps done by her parents or maybe her older sister. Her eyes are open wide and round, her mouth is drawn up in a line, and her hands are clasped together. It would be easy to point out that she’s trying to contain herself, yet somehow also embarrassing. Despite the child’s best efforts, a very slight whimper is escaping her… ‘You heard that?’ “Um, well… Yes,” Female Bishop replies shyly, hurrying over to the child as if to say she’s what’s most important right now. Female Bishop kneels down in front of the girl, heedless of the dust and grime that get on her white clothes, so she’s eye to eye with the child. “Whatever is the matter…?” she asks. You find yourself simultaneously impressed, surprised, and even smiling at her in this moment. You get a rush of warm, fuzzy feeling. But it doesn’t last long. You walk over to a man who’s loitering nearby, shaking your head in an exaggerated motion and shrugging. This is pathetic. To think any adventurer would bully a little girl so badly as to bring her to tears. “…I haven’t been bullying her.” The man turns to you, looking deeply distressed. It’s the Knight of Diamonds. Standing next to him is a silver-haired girl—no, the silver-haired scout, not much taller than a child herself. Her expressions—indeed, perhaps her emotions—always seem slight, but it’s clear at a glance that she’s quite annoyed. You mention how Female Warrior would no doubt fall on the floor laughing if you told her about this exchange. “Hrmph!” The silver-haired scout pouts. “Then I’ll make you an offer: I’ll tell you an embarrassing story about her instead.” You nod and say you’ll accept the offer later, then ask the Knight of Diamonds what the problem is. The child looks a little more at ease with Female Bishop talking to her, and you decide Female Bishop is better suited to handling that part of things than you are. “Ahh, see…,” the knight begins, “I thought she might be lost, so I tried talking to her and—” “The very first words out of your mouth were, Don’t you dare cry!” Sheesh. You join the silver-haired scout in leveling a disappointed gaze at the Knight of Diamonds. How truly pathetic. “No need to say it again. I doubt you know how to deal with children yourself,” he tells you. You’ve never seen the young knight look so much his age before. Still, you can’t ignore what he just said. Maybe he’s right; maybe he’s wrong. Even as you tease him with the words of a certain wizard, you think about what to do next… That’s when Female Bishop speaks up. “Um… May I?” You nod; she takes the child gently by the hand and guides her over to you. Well, now. You crouch on one knee so you can look the dark-haired girl in the eye. She seems quick and clever, and she’s obviously doing everything she can not to be afraid—a good girl. “My big sis and I, we…we got separated,” she says haltingly. Hmm. You consider, then nod. This is a world-ending catastrophe in and of itself. You conclude that you’ll have to find this sister of hers, then. “Right!” Female Bishop replies as if she foresaw all of this, making you idly bashful. Thus, you stand without quite meeting her gaze, gently brushing the dirt off your knees. “” The Knight of Diamonds and the silver-haired scout are looking at you incredulously. “Er, you see… I thought I had you figured out after that scuffle in the tavern,” the knight says, and then with a wave of his hand, he urges you to forgive him. “…It turns out getting to know a person is indeed difficult yet delightful.” You laugh aloud. Ha—there’s a logic to all things, if you look hard enough… You know the words to say at a moment like this. Trust an adventurer to handle it. “I see, so you and your older sister…” “Uh-huh. We went shopping, but then I couldn’t find her anymore.” That leaves you without many options. Female Bishop walks ahead of you, holding the girl’s hand and chatting amicably with her. Her footsteps still don’t falter despite her visual impairment; the smooth flagstones of the street are nothing compared to the difficult footing of the dungeon. Her steps are sure as she listens politely to the young girl’s chatter. “I can’t believe this…” Holding the child’s other hand is the silver-haired scout. Maybe the little girl thinks the scout is about her own age, because she treats her differently from Female Bishop, though she clearly likes them both. As the girl talks, holding their hands, they reply “Oh” or “Hmm” or “Huh!” as appropriate. Then they whisper something back to her—and you see that though they may not be used to it, they’re surprisingly good at this childcare thing. However… With them there, you’re not sure what’s left for you to do. Finding things is a scout’s business, and Female Bishop seems ideally suited to keeping the child company. At least you look like you’re feeling more at ease than the Knight of Diamonds, who walks alongside you. Well, you’ve experienced the known depths of the dungeon, and compared to that, finding someone on the streets is an absolute pleasure. Isn’t it wonderful to help someone, to see the fruits of your labors, to know there’s a future? “Sounds like hardly anything bothers you… Or at least, nothing serious.” I was wondering what he might say next… You laugh out loud. You never imagined having such insight. Indeed, it wasn’t that long ago when you didn’t think very highly of yourself. It’s because of your party. You tell the Knight of Diamonds that they helped you gain something difficult to come by. “I see,” he says quietly in response, the tone of his voice like a man observing a stunning treasure. “And here I thought you might be concerned about the progress of your exploration.” You reply immediately that, in fact, that is bothering you. Could the dungeon really go down only four levels? Is there nothing further? If there isn’t, then is there really nothing else to do besides kill and loot for as long as one can survive? The Knight of Diamonds looks for a moment like he doesn’t have an answer, then he grunts. “Mm. We’re continuing our search, as well… It’s undeniable that there’s a lot more white space on the map than there was on other floors.” You start to nod: That makes sense. You already know that the dungeon isn’t a square—or perhaps you should say a rectangular solid. After all, you already know that the coordinates for the stairway down from the first floor are different on the first floor than they are when you arrive on the second. You don’t know if it has something to do with the dungeon’s physical construction, or if some magical distortion of dimensions is involved, but it doesn’t matter. You know, she was the one who noticed that. You glance in Female Bishop’s direction. She’s smiling and chatting with the little girl, making sure the child doesn’t fall—you think you’re seeing the real her. You can only imagine how much of a burden she must have been bearing to have shrunk into herself the way she had when you first saw her at the tavern.
Chapter 16
40 min read