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.”
Chapter 23
32 min read