Blake shook terribly as he took the first step on the massive staircase he had just fled down not too long ago. His arm stung but had crusted over turning the crimson dry and dark. His hands were coated in crimson, or more accurately smeared in a clotted hue. Within his shaking palm was the mana crystal he dug from the viscera of the goblin's chest.
He held it reverently.
Step by step, eyes never leaving the crystal.
A shaky smile crept alongside his trembling hand.
His eyes reflected in the glossy pebble—gleaming like it mattered.
His steps were light, but still echoed—slow and rhythmic, like a clock tolling each second of survival.
He couldn't hear it, though. Only the rushing in his ears.
The rushing drowned out even his own thoughts. He could only stare at the cold, blood-crusted rock in his palm, watching how it shimmered under flickering lamplight.
He muttered to himself, breathlessly, awe filled.
"I... I did it. This is real?"
His fingers curled tightly around the stone, pressing it to his chest as he climbed. A smile pulled at his lips—foreign, uncertain, but not wrong.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn one.
Beneath his hand, his chest burned—not with pain, but something deeper.
Like a mountain finally erupting, pressure too long buried breaking free in flame and breath and life.
He had reached the top of the stairs long ago. Did he sneak past the guards? He couldn't remember. The streets were empty. Lit only by flickering magic lamps—unsteady and thin. Blake walked slowly, like the city had stopped to make room for him. And when the first light of dawn spilled over the horizon, it felt like it had come just to watch him walk.
The sun revealed what didn't matter—blood-smeared hands, a torn sleeve clinging to dark, crusted lines he no longer felt. What he felt was the ember searing in his clenched fist.
Mira stood at the well, drawing water, her brow furrowed and heavy with worry.
Then she saw him.
Blake—running toward her, silhouetted by the rising sun.
His smile was wide. Radiant. Like the morning itself had been waiting for him.
She had never seen him smile like that. Never imagined it could be that beautiful.
The bucket slipped from her hands. Her walk quickened. Became a jog. A run.
They collided like the sun and moon in a rare eclipse—brief, bright, and tangled in laughter. Limbs and grins blurred in the mess of their reunion.
She clutched his tattered sleeves, fingers trembling as she scanned his face, his hands, his torn clothes.
"Blake! Where were you? I checked on you last night and you were gone and—"
Her voice cracked, caught somewhere between panic and relief.
Blake shoved the matted, crusted crystal into her hand like a crown jewel.
"Look! I did it! It's real."
She looked at the crystal, holding it to the rising sun. Her face filled with a range of emotions, first confusion, then intrigue, then the slight tremors of fear as she asked carefully "You went into the dungeon? You went through with it?"
Blake didn't answer right away.
The sunlight caught on the crystal in her hand—his proof, his relief.
For a heartbeat, he'd expected her to smile. Or say something like You did it.
But fear clung to her words.
He looked away.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I did."
She felt his distance before he stepped away.
The smile—the first real one she'd ever seen—faded as his lips tightened, folding back into that usual guarded line.
It tore at her. She wanted to share in it. To mirror it.
But instead, her voice came out brittle.
"You went alone? Into the Dungeon?"
The crystal felt heavier in her hands than it should've. Fear crept up her spine, quiet and cold.
He spoke again—tentative, cautious—but with an undeniable steel beneath it.
"Yes. I did."
She reached out, but her fingers faltered. In the end, all she could do was press the crystal back into his unflinching hand.
Then, gently, she took him by the sleeve.
"Come on," she said, forcing a small, tight smile. "Let's get you cleaned up."
She led him into the orphanage, her hand still curled around his sleeve.
Behind them, the bucket lay forgotten beside the well.
Blake sat on the edge of the bed as Mira worked in silence, dabbing at the matted blood crusted defiantly against his skin.
After a moment, she began to scold him—softly, more breath than bite—but each word was laced with care.
"You're an idiot, you know that? No one goes into the Dungeon without a god's blessing. That's suicide."
It stung, the wound and her comment. He let out a low, humorless chuckle.
"Yeah. But I did it," he said, quieter now. "I'm alive."
She shook her head trying to wrap her mind around Blake, like a puzzle with no answer.
"But why?" Mira asked, her voice rough with frustration. "If you need money, work at a tavern. A shop. Anything else."
She paused, then added, quieter now—
"If you're going to the Dungeon anyway... why not join a Familia?"
But she already knew the answer. Her shoulders carried the same weight, the same history. The silence between them said more than either of them could.
He finally spoke, voice low and tight, trying to mask the frustration creeping in.
He winced as the cloth tore across raw skin, fresh blood welling up again.
"I've tried," he muttered. "I have. But no god will listen. They're always full. Always looking for new recruits, but…"
He paused, his jaw tightening.
"They all have the same look in their eyes."
He looked at Mira as she worked, her hands steady but distant—focused on the wound, not on him.
"I can't stay like this," he said, his voice low, almost hoarse. "It's driving me insane."
He exhaled slowly.
"The same day, over and over. Nothing changes. But in the Dungeon… at least I can remember it. At least I'm moving forward."
They were quiet for a long while.
Mira wrapped the bandage in silence, her eyes fixed on the task. Stray strands of soft brown hair slipped across her face, veiling whatever she couldn't say out loud.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low—measured.
"You're going to die, Blake."
Her fingers paused on the fresh bandage, then brushed it gently—just once, a reminder.
"Salve and cloth won't change that."
She looked at him for the first time—really looked.
Her eyes were glassy, pleading, holding back something she hadn't let surface until now.
"Forget the sword," she whispered. "Just… move on."
Blakes heart ached, that look tore at him worse than anything he faced against the goblin. He set his jaw and matched her gaze. He smiled, regretful, but determined.
"I can't. I'm sorry."
Mira looked down, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair.
Blake caught the tremble in her lip.
But then—she let out a breath and forced it into a wide, heavy grin.
She slapped his freshly bandaged arm with just enough force to make him wince.
When he looked up, surprised, she was already standing with arms crossed, her gaze sharp and steady.
The softness was gone—but something else had taken its place. Something solid. Unshaken.
"Fine," she said at last, with a sigh of reluctant surrender.
"But don't die. Promise."
She held out her pinky—expectant, unblinking.
That forced a deep rumble from Blake's chest. A laugh.
He couldn't remember the last time they'd made a covenant like that. He took her pinky in his before he said.
"I promise, I won't die."
She smiled again; light returning to her eyes as they held the small gesture—simple, fragile, real.
It was warm.
Blake smiled, just a little, almost in spite of himself.
Hesitantly, she let go.
Stepping back, she dusted off her apron, still streaked with flour from the morning's baking.
"I've got chores to finish," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. "So why don't you take your prize and go exchange it?"
A pause. Then, with the ghost of a smile—
"Maybe bring back some sugar? It's been a while since we've had something sweet."
Blake nodded, watching her as she left the room. His gaze drifted to the cheap sword resting in the corner—still, silent, forgotten.
Then he looked down at the black stone in his hand. His fingers curled around it. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips.
"Next!"
The Guild worker didn't even look up as Blake stepped forward.
He placed the black crystal on the counter, expecting silence. He got a snort instead.
Blake narrowed his eyes as the clerk examined his meager exchange—a cracked crystal barely worth acknowledgment.
"Name?" the clerk asked, voice flat, already bored.
Blake straightened, steeling his voice.
"Blake. Blake Arclight."
The clerk flipped through the massive ledger, resting heavily on the oaken desk. His fingers slid down a column, then he paused.
"Blake… Blake Arclight."
He repeated the name, slower this time—tasting it, as if something stirred.
"Like Max Arclight? From the Zeus Familia?"
Blake stiffened. His teeth clenched, jaw tight. A flicker of something dark passed behind his eyes.
The air shifted.
The clerk glanced up, then around, as if realizing he'd stepped somewhere he shouldn't. He wet his lips before speaking again—quieter this time.
"Sorry. We can only exchange with registered Guild members."
Blake exhaled sharply through his nose, a low, frustrated sound.
"I've registered before," he said, voice flat. "But my file keeps going missing."
The clerk nodded quickly, nervously.
"Right. Yeah. That happens sometimes. One moment—I'll get my supervisor."
Blake had heard it before, it had almost become routine, but he was growing weary of it.
"I just need to exchange this one mana crystal; I can do that much can't I?"
The clerk, half out of his chair, cast a nervous glance at Blake—then paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Well… I could," he said. "But I have to ask—how exactly did it come into your possession?"
Blake's frustration faltered, replaced by a flicker of guarded unease.
"I… well, I—"
The clerk cut him off, voice firmer now.
"Because if you're not registered with the Guild, and not part of a Familia, then I'd have to question how you came across a Dungeon crystal at all."
Blakes mouth went dry, his throat bobbed as he tried to bring forth a response. A voice sounded from behind Blake, graciously interrupting.
"Where is he? There you are!" The voice announced as it drew closer.
Blake turned as the voice closed in, smooth and bright as polished silver.
The man who approached moved with the ease of someone who never had to explain himself—half swagger, half grace.
He wore travel-stained leathers cut with elegance, and a feathered hat tilted just enough to suggest mischief. A long red scarf trailed behind him like punctuation to every step.
His amber eyes flicked between Blake and the clerk, sharp beneath a lazy smile.
"There you are," he repeated, clapping a hand on Blake's shoulder as if they were old friends. "You had me worried."
The figure leaned in, draping an arm casually around Blake's shoulders. The clerk jolted upright, eyes wide.
"L-Lord Hermes?!"
Hermes took a single glance at the crusted onyx stone in front of the clerk as he asked Blake with an ever-present grin.
"Did you exchange that crystal yet? No? I had enough time to finish my errands and you're still not done?"
Blake stammered, still trying to catch up.
"I… I'm trying to—"
Hermes' eyes narrowed—just a flicker—beneath the brim of his feathered hat.
Then he turned that signature grin on the clerk, all easy charm and veiled steel.
"Then what's the hold-up?" he asked smoothly. "We've got things to do. The day's just getting started."
The clerk responded with a practiced, but wavering tone.
"Lord Hermes…Have to validate suspicious exchanges., especially with unassociated members."
Hermes laughed carelessly as his words trickled effortlessly from his lips.
"Ah, come now," Hermes said with a genial wave. "You've got enough on your plate without chasing down more paperwork."
He gestured to Blake with casual familiarity.
"He's one of my independent runners. Not officially in my Familia, of course—keeps things nice and clean. But I call on him when I need an extra pair of hands that aren't bound by all that delightful red tape you folks love so much."
The clerk nodded wordlessly—either convinced, or simply uncomfortable enough to let it go.
The clerk scrambled to pull a form from beneath the desk, his pen scratching hurriedly across the page.
"Blake Arclight… no Familia… independent…" he muttered, pausing only to glance up at Blake.
"Independent contractor," he declared, scrawling the final line. "Alright, that should be everything."
Hermes beamed.
"See, Blake? That wasn't so hard," he said smoothly. "No need to waste the day on paperwork."
Then, still smiling, he turned back to the clerk—his tone still velvet, but the edge unmistakable.
"Would you mind making me a copy of that?"
A beat.
"Just wouldn't want it to get lost again."
The crystal was exchanged as the clerk begrudgingly worked on Herme's copy of Blakes paperwork. When it finally returned, another guild member returned with a single coin saying.
"100 Valis, the crystal was cracked. Seemingly struck but not enough to destroy the crystal." The guild member shook his head as he commented. "I would be careful; this type of strike only comes on rare occasion." He muttered something under his breath about being lucky.
Blake took the one coin and stared at it disbelieving. Hermes walked Blake towards the door with his arm still around his neck, Blake's attention returned to Hermes as he asked with caution suspicion.
"Why did you help me?" Blake asked bluntly, his voice cutting through the bustle of adventurers threading through the Guild plaza.
Hermes spread his arms in a grand flourish, walking backward with a grin.
"Because I'm a benevolent and helpful god by nature."
Blake didn't smile.
He watched Hermes with a gaze somewhere between caution and disinterest, his expression flat and unreadable—like a blade still in its sheath.
Hermes smiled—this time, it felt more genuine.
"Call it a hunch. Maybe even nostalgia."
His gaze drifted for a moment, distant, as if remembering someone else entirely.
Then the grin returned, lighter but sharper.
"Anyway, I've hit my limit. So don't expect any more divine favors after this."
He leaned in, voice dropping into a conspiratorial hush.
"You can't always open the door by knocking—or by kicking it in.
But that doesn't mean it's the only way inside."
Then, with a single slap to Blake's back, he stopped walking—letting the boy pass him.
"Don't die easy, Blake."