Moonlight filtered through the curtains of Calista's townhouse, casting silver streaks across the bedroom's wooden floor. The warmth of a single candle flickered beside the bed, its golden glow softening the cool night air. Bastet sat behind him, her fingers gliding over the smooth expanse of his back, tracing the divine script of his Falna with deft precision.
The process was routine, yet tonight, something felt different.
Bastet's emerald gaze flicked to Calista's profile. He was still, as always, his composure, a flawless veneer of tranquility. Yet, beneath the facade, she could sense it—something unsettled, a tension buried so deep that even his body refused to betray it. Her fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary before she withdrew, finishing the update with a light tap between his shoulder blades.
"It's done."
Calista exhaled, rising to his feet with practiced grace. He reached for his discarded tunic, pulling it over his head before moving to sit at the edge of the bed. The mattress barely dipped under his weight, and Bastet remained where she was—seated in the middle, watching him with quiet patience.
He didn't speak immediately, only resting his elbows against his knees, fingers laced together. Then, finally, "Eina was acting strange today."
Bastet tilted her head, feline ears twitching. "Strange how?"
Calista didn't turn as he spoke, staring ahead at the candle's wavering flame. "We left on good terms yesterday, but when I saw her this morning before heading into the Dungeon, she felt… closed off. Not unkind, not rude, but like she put up a wall. It was still there when I came back to trade in my stones." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "It wasn't just professionalism. She was distant."
Bastet propped herself up on one elbow, her tail flicking lazily behind her. "Calista," she said with a soft huff, "she's fifteen. Just a year older than you. You're overthinking it."
"I considered that." His gaze remained steady, unwavering. "Thought maybe she was trying to be stricter, testing a more professional front. But it didn't feel like that. It felt… off."
A knowing hum left Bastet's lips as she stretched out across the bed. "And you're sure it's not because you refused her invitation last night?" A playful glint entered her emerald eyes.
Calista exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh, not quite a chuckle. "That crossed my mind. But I doubt she even realized what that implied."
Bastet's tail flicked again, this time with amusement. "Probably not," she admitted. "She's not the type."
Silence lingered between them, comfortable yet contemplative. Bastet studied him for a moment longer before rolling onto her stomach, arms folded beneath her chin. "Then give it time," she said simply. "Whatever's bothering her—if it is something—it'll come out eventually. If she wants to talk, she will. If not, pushing won't do you any favors."
Calista didn't respond immediately. He turned the thought over, weighing it against his instincts. The unease gnawed at him, but Bastet had a point. He had enough to focus on without adding the moods of a teenage half-elf to his worries.
"Just keep doing what you're doing," Bastet murmured, her voice quieter now, gentler. "If she needs you, she'll let you know."
A slow exhale left him, tension easing from his shoulders. "You're probably right."
A satisfied purr rumbled from Bastet's throat as she stretched, languid and unbothered. "Of course I am."
"Now," she mused, her voice laced with teasing warmth, "since you're done brooding for the evening, how about we talk about something more interesting? Like—oh, I don't know—what you plan to do with that ridiculous amount of valis you're sitting on?"
Calista sighed, shaking his head. "You'll just spend it all on silk and gold."
"I'm a goddess of luxury," Bastet said, flicking her tail playfully. "It's only natural."
He sighed, rolling his shoulders as he leaned back slightly. "We should save it."
Bastet, draped across the bed like a lazy cat in the sun, arched a delicate brow. "Save it?" she echoed, stretching one arm over her head. "That's not nearly as fun as spending it."
"With the rate I'm earning valis, rent isn't a concern," Calista continued, ignoring her playful protest. "But if we find new Familia members, we'll need to be prepared. Equipment isn't cheap, and I doubt we'd want our new recruits wandering into the Dungeon with a rusty dagger and an empty pocket."
Bastet hummed thoughtfully, her emerald eyes watching him in quiet appraisal. "Practical," she admitted, tilting her head. "I suppose it wouldn't do to let our future little strays struggle too much."
Calista only nodded, arms folding across his chest as he mentally calculated his finances. With over 150,000 valis in hand, and not even halfway into the month, his pace was steady—if not impressive for a solo adventurer. His expenses were minimal compared to what he earned, meaning that for now, they had security.
"Speaking of future Familia members," Bastet mused, propping herself up on one elbow, "have you tested the other aspect of your skill yet?"
Calista glanced at her, brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"
"The effect that strengthens your allies," she said, tapping a finger against her cheek. "You've been delving into the Dungeon alone, but if it's as potent as I suspect, it might make quite the difference in a party." She smirked. "But right now you're… solo leveling."
He let out a slow breath, not quite amused but not entirely dismissive either. "I haven't had the chance," he admitted. "And considering my current approach, I don't know when I will."
Bastet hummed, but said nothing more on the matter. Instead, she watched him with a knowing gleam in her eyes, her tail flicking lazily behind her.
Calista exhaled and pushed himself to his feet. "I should get some rest," he murmured, turning toward the door. "I'll use the guest room."
"Oh?" Bastet's voice carried a teasing lilt. "You could always sleep here."
He paused at the threshold, glancing over his shoulder. "Tempting," he said, his tone smooth but final. "But no."
Bastet merely grinned, shifting comfortably against the sheets. "Suit yourself."
As he stepped through the door, her voice softened, losing its playfulness. "Calista."
He stopped.
"Depending on how strong that skill of yours really is, people might try to take advantage of you."
He didn't turn, but he listened.
"I know," he said after a pause.
Perhaps that was why he hadn't joined a party yet.
Bastet didn't call out again as he left, and the night ended on that quiet note, the weight of unspoken possibilities lingering in the air.
…
Calista moved quickly, weaving through the empty corridors of the upper floors, the familiar pathways of Floors 1-4 slipping by in a blur. His boots barely scuffed the ground, his pace light, unhindered. There was no point lingering here. The weaklings above wouldn't do much for his growth.
The real work began on Floor 5.
He descended into its open, dim-lit expanse, a web of tunnels and chambers lined with jagged walls. The air was different here—heavier, more stagnant. The scent of monsters clung to it, thick and unmistakable.
The first opponent came within minutes—a Frog Shooter, its bulging yellow eye snapping toward him as its throat inflated, the sickly croak that followed heralding the extension of its tongue.
Calista sidestepped before it could finish. He was already in motion, blades sliding free with a whisper of steel. The Frog Shooter tensed as he closed the distance, its throat swelling for another shot. Too slow. A clean arc of silver flashed through the dim light, severing the monster's bloated throat in one smooth motion. It collapsed with a wet gurgle, its body dissolving into black ash before it even hit the ground.
One down.
The process repeated itself. War Shadows lurked from the edges of his vision, their ink-black bodies slipping between the dungeon walls, their crimson eyes gleaming in the dark. Calista didn't wait for them to lunge—he stepped into their reach, twin swords flashing. The first collapsed with a soundless scream, its core split in two. The second lashed out, clawed fingers slicing toward his ribs.
He let it hit.
Pain lanced through his side, a deep, biting sting that sharpened his senses. His breathing hitched, but he didn't stagger. He was used to this by now. The wound wasn't deep. It would scar, but scars were proof of growth.
The War Shadow reeled back, adjusting to its own success—an opening. He took it. A downward thrust buried his blade deep into the creature's chest, its body evaporating into black mist a second later.
Another one. Another lesson learned.
A Killer Ant followed, their thick exoskeleton making them annoyingly sturdy, their movements deceptively fast for their size. They came in pairs, clicking mandibles snapping with mechanical precision. He struck at a leg joint, forcing one to collapse under its own weight before driving a blade through its head. The second managed to swipe a claw across his arm before he took it down in three swift motions—sidestep, slice, pierce.
The Purple Moths were more nuisance than threat. Their wings stirred the stagnant air, scattering a fine dust that could disorient the unprepared. He kept his breath steady, striking them down before the powder could take effect.
Hours passed in this cycle.
Strike. Dodge. Take a hit. Move on.
His body burned from the accumulation of bruises, shallow cuts, and the occasional throbbing ache where his armor absorbed most of the damage. He welcomed it. Every impact, every sting, every dull ache was a mark of progress, a sign that his endurance was growing.
By the time he reached a resting spot, his body was sore, but his mind was sharp.
His fingers brushed over the fresh cut on his arm. It would heal. Everything did, in time.
For now, there was only the next fight.
Calista shifted his weight, steadying his breath even as the tremors of countless clawed feet reverberated through the dungeon corridor. The air was thick with the pungent musk of insect pheromones—a sickly-sweet warning of reinforcements. Someone, somewhere, had pissed off Killer Ants, and now he was caught in the aftermath.
Eight of them.
His first instinct was to pull back. Space was his greatest ally in a fight like this. Without hesitation, he yanked an armor-piercing arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and loosed. The projectile thunked into the lead ant's carapace, punching clean through—but it barely staggered, the rest of the swarm surging forward without pause.
Not enough.
He turned and sprinted, feet barely touching the ground as he fell back through the narrow tunnel. He reached for another arrow, firing as he moved. The second shot found a weak joint in one of the Ants' legs, making it stumble, forcing the others to adjust—but it wasn't enough to stop them. The swarm pressed in, closing off his exits one by one.
Not good.
He fired once more, his last ranged option before they got too close. The arrow buried itself deep into the nearest monster, but the formation held. Then the walls around him shrank—the once-spacious cavern constricted into a tight corridor, and in the blink of an eye, escape became impossible.
Nowhere left to run.
Fine.
His bow was gone in a flash, slung over his shoulder as he drew both short swords. His grip tightened around the hilts, the cool steel a reassuring weight in his hands. The swarm attacked.
The first lunge came fast—a gnashing pair of mandibles lunging for his side. Calista barely twisted out of the way, letting the rush of wind from the attack brush past his skin. His blade flicked out in return, redirecting the ant's momentum just enough to keep his balance. Then a second one came from the left—too fast.
A sharp pain tore across his side.
Mandibles scraped against flesh before his armor stopped a deeper wound. The pain was immediate but manageable. His feet slid against the dungeon stone as he pulled away, gritting his teeth.
They were fast. But he was faster.
He pivoted, launching into a backflip as another ant lashed out, its forelimbs swiping at his legs. He cleared it, landing light—but the moment his foot touched the ground, another strike tore across his arm.
The shallow cut stung, but the swarm wasn't slowing down. They were pressing him tighter and tighter into a kill zone. He had to keep moving.
Another lunge. He vaulted over one of the monsters, using its thick exoskeleton as a launching point. He twisted in the air, but the landing was rough. His boot skidded against uneven stone, just enough of a slip to leave him open—
A sharp impact slammed into his ribs.
His body lurched, the force sending him stumbling sideways. The pain lanced through him, breath hitching as he fought to stay upright. Too many hits. His breath was coming faster now, heart hammering in his chest. They were coordinating, boxing him in, limiting his movements.
He exhaled sharply. Adjusted. And stopped getting hit.
The next wave came, but this time, he was already moving. His agility sharpened his instincts—he ducked, twisted, sidestepped, weaving between mandibles and chitinous limbs with unnatural precision. The ants snapped at empty air, his footwork carrying him through the assault untouched.
A forelimb lashed out, catching his leg—but he twisted, forcing the impact to glance off his armor. He felt the shift in their formation—their movements pushing him backward, toward something.
A way out.
His feet ghosted over stone, his pulse quickening as he spotted it—a small break in the swarm, a gap just big enough to slip through. They didn't even realize they'd given him an escape route.
This was it.
Calista moved.
A final burst of agility sent him sliding through the narrow gap, his blades carving through a pair of antennae as he squeezed past the last ant. The swarm lunged—but too late. His body hit open space, momentum carrying him up onto a rock formation.
And then… nothing.
The Killer Ants stopped.
They lingered at the edge of their territory, chittering, but unwilling to pursue. The pheromones that had dragged them here dictated their behavior, and leaving their domain wasn't in the script.
Calista stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his back. His arms trembled, his wounds throbbed—but he was alive. Barely.
He let out a breathless chuckle, pressing a hand to his ribs. That was close.
Bruised. Bleeding. Hanging by a thread.
He needed a potion. And a long break.
But more than anything…
He needed to find out which idiot triggered that pheromone swarm.
…
The surface hit like a hammer.
Even after descending back into the city countless times, stepping out of Babel always felt jarring. The Dungeon's air—stale, oppressive, tinged with the lingering scent of blood and monster decay—was replaced by the crisp, open atmosphere of Orario's towering heart. The white stone streets stretched wide, bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon, the towering divine spire looming overhead like an omnipotent observer.
Calista took a measured step forward, his posture impeccable despite the dull ache gnawing at his ribs. His breath came steady, not a single tremor showing in his hands, his expression untouched by exhaustion.
He was a mess.
His reinforced leather armor, usually durable enough to withstand most blows, was torn and battered. The side near his ribs was slashed open, revealing deep bruising underneath. His forearm bracers, where he'd taken the worst of the Killer Ants' relentless strikes, were in even worse condition—scratched, dented, and barely holding together. The right one's strap had nearly snapped, forcing him to adjust how it sat against his wrist.
He didn't sigh. He didn't slump. The wreckage of his gear, the stinging pain thrumming through his body, the sheer frustration at how that dungeon run had spiraled into chaos—none of it showed. It never did.
Because it couldn't.
A commotion stirred ahead.
A group of Guild medics and emergency responders—broad-shouldered men and women clad in white-trimmed uniforms—were rushing toward the Dungeon entrance, stretchers in tow. Their boots pounded against the stone as they wove through the gathered crowd, shouting for space.
Calista's steps slowed.
His gaze flicked toward them, sharp and calculating, his mind slotting the pieces together before he even needed to ask. The swarm. There was no way he'd been the only one caught in it. Some poor bastards had gotten hit harder than him—maybe a reckless group got trapped, maybe some first-timers never made it out.
His jaw tightened. The words that curled at the edge of his mind were ones he refused to speak aloud.
Where no one is left behind.
That was what she had said. The Familia she wanted. A place where those with nowhere else to go wouldn't be abandoned, wouldn't be cast aside like they didn't matter.
And yet here he was. Watching as others got carried out on stretchers while he walked away.
His fingers twitched, but he pushed the thought aside. He couldn't afford to dwell.
Not now. He's too weak.
The medics disappeared down the stairwell, their hurried voices fading into the depths.
Calista let his gaze linger for a moment longer before exhaling through his nose. The world around him carried on—adventurers coming and going, merchants shouting their wares, conversations blending into the eternal hum of Orario's pulse. Nothing stopped. Nothing changed. Someone had nearly died today, and the city would keep moving like it always did.
He finally turned away, rolling his shoulders despite the sharp protest from his wounds.
His armor was wrecked.
The moment he let himself actually look, the damage felt infuriating. His bracers, ruined. The reinforced leather near his ribs, practically useless now. He was lucky the Killer Ants didn't tear through completely. Every movement sent a fresh wave of discomfort pulsing through his side, but he ignored it. There was no point dwelling.
His hand lifted slightly—his fingers ghosting over the torn edges of his armor before he let them drop.
He started walking. The Guild was next.
Today had been going so well, too.
…
Calista stepped into the Guild, the familiar hum of voices and the sound of paperwork rustling mixing with the occasional clink of Valis exchanging hands. Even in his battered state, he moved with the same fluid grace he always did, his posture betraying none of the exhaustion or pain that pulsed beneath his skin, the only thing that kept him standing was the smooth, unshakable composure instilled by his skill, [Grace Unbroken].
The line at Eina's booth was longer than usual, likely because everyone had been forced out early due to the Killer Ant swarm. As he took his place in the queue, Calista's sharp eyes caught sight of Eina, her usual polite demeanor giving way to something more stern. She was scolding someone—probably Maris, if Calista remembered correctly. He couldn't hear much, but he caught snippets of the exchange. Maris, standing tall despite the reprimands, seemed to be taking it in stride, trying her best to keep things light.
The wait dragged on, but Calista didn't mind. He let his thoughts wander, trying to ignore the creeping ache in his side. It wasn't until the line moved forward that he realized it was his turn.
"Calista!" Eina gasped, her gaze immediately flicking to his injuries. Her hand fluttered to her mouth, eyes wide with shock and concern. "I... I'm so sorry. I didn't realize—"
He blinked, confusion flickering through him for just a moment. His exhaustion dulled his reaction, but he couldn't help wondering why she seemed so upset. "It's... fine," he replied softly, even though the words felt far too hollow. He didn't have the energy to explain.
Eina's shoulders slumped, her face drawn with concern as she hesitated before continuing. "I... I heard about the Killer Ant swarm on the upper floors." She took a quick glance around, as if making sure no one else was close enough to overhear. "I'm glad you made it out alive, but... I shouldn't tell you this, but..." She lowered her voice, as though whispering a secret. "Maris... she told me. It was actually one of her party members who triggered the swarm. He was too busy showing off—bragging—and when he realized what he'd done... he bolted. Maris and the others rushed to help, but..." Her voice trailed off as she looked back up at him, her eyes filled with worry.
Calista felt a strange, hollow emptiness churn in his chest. He didn't hold it against them—not Maris or her reckless companion. It was hardly the first time someone had failed. In a way, it seemed almost fitting. He could almost feel the weight of their mistakes, their panic.
But for now, he only sighed inwardly. His body felt like a fragile thing, threatening to crumble beneath him at any moment. There was no energy left to truly process the conversation.
Eina's gaze flicked to the blood soaking into his clothes, and the bruise blooming along his side where the gash had torn through. She visibly flinched, her hand gripping the edge of the booth for support. "You... you're covered in blood," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Most of it... it's yours."
Calista barely registered the words. He didn't care. It didn't matter to him. The exhaustion, the pain, the coldness that gripped his limbs—he pushed it all away. It didn't need to show. It wouldn't. That was the point of [Grace Unbroken], wasn't it? Even if his body was falling apart, the outside would remain perfect. He moved with a fluid ease, unbothered, even if it felt like his insides were slowly unraveling.
Eina's eyes narrowed, a small flicker of disbelief passing through her expression. "Doesn't it... hurt?" she asked, almost pleading, as if expecting an answer that would make sense of the chaos she saw before her.
It didn't matter.
Calista simply gave her a soft, tired smile, his voice soft. "It's nothing. Just another day in the Dungeon."
He handed over the magic stones, letting the conversation die there. Eina didn't press him further, but he could see the concern etched on her face as she took them. The conversion was quick, and when she handed him the Valis, he took it with the same detached grace, almost mechanical.
"26,446 valis," she said, her voice low. She looked at him again, her eyes lingering on the injuries she couldn't ignore, the blood that soaked into his clothes. "Please... be careful next time."
He gave her a polite nod, the faintest hint of a smile curling his lips. "Good day, Eina. Rest well." The words felt stiff, forced, but they were all he could muster.
Eina watched him leave, her expression drawn, her eyes troubled. The sound of his footsteps echoed softly in the Guild hall as he disappeared into the bustling crowd, moving on without a second glance.
Behind him, Eina stood at her booth, staring after him, unsure of what to make of the boy who couldn't be broken, even when he was clearly falling apart.
…
Calista walked through the streets of Orario, his steps light and precise despite the weight pressing down on his body. The scent of the city was a sharp contrast to the stale dampness of the Dungeon—fresh bread from bakeries, the faint tang of metal from nearby smithies, the ever-present hum of people going about their lives.
Eyes followed him.
First, they flickered to the blood—his tunic soaked through, the ruined leather armor hanging in tatters, the deep gash in his side. Then came the confusion, the way his posture never wavered, his movements never faltered. He wasn't limping, wasn't hunched over in pain.
He knew what they were thinking. An adventurer that bloodied should be struggling.
Instead, he moved like nothing was wrong.
Gods, this better not start any rumors.
The last thing he needed was people making a spectacle out of him. He was already whispered about often enough.
His townhouse wasn't far, tucked away in the quieter northeastern district, near the workshops and tailors. When he finally reached the door, the exhaustion clawing at him sharpened. A simple lock, reinforced panels—nothing extravagant, but enough to keep out casual thieves. His hand barely hesitated as he turned the handle.
Inside, the air was warm, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and something softer—Bastet's presence filled the space like it always did. She was sprawled across the couch, her feline ears twitching at the sound of the door opening. A lazy stretch, golden-brown limbs shifting against the fabric. She had probably just returned from whatever odd job she'd taken today.
Then she saw him.
A single emerald eye cracked open. For a moment, it widened, but she didn't leap to her feet, didn't rush over in a panic. Instead, her gaze swept over him—assessing, understanding.
Her lips curled in something almost wry. "That must hurt."
It did. It really, really did.
But she didn't ask him to confirm it. Didn't press him for details. Just uncurled from the couch with the same quiet grace he knew so well and walked toward him, tail flicking lazily behind her. She didn't hesitate, her fingers finding his wrist, a silent invitation rather than a demand.
She led him toward the washroom.
No words were exchanged because none were needed.
The warm water was a relief, washing away the blood that had dried stiff against his skin. Bastet's hands moved with practiced ease, unbuckling what remained of his armor, sliding the ruined leather from his shoulders, peeling away the fabric where it had stuck to his wounds. She was careful—her touch light but firm, knowing where to press and where to avoid.
She worked in silence, rinsing the grime from his skin, her fingers steady as they massaged the tension from his shoulders. Not a single question. Not a single demand for him to explain.
Just quiet.
A space where he didn't have to hold anything up.
By the time he was clean, the weight in his limbs had grown unbearable. He barely registered the softness of the bed as he sank into it, exhaustion making his body feel distant. He heard the quiet sound of a knife, felt the faintest sting against his back as Bastet pricked her finger and let a drop of her blood touch his Falna.
The moment it updated, warmth pooled beneath his skin, the faint glow fading as quickly as it had come. Before he could move, Bastet shifted.
She curled around him, arms looping gently over his waist, her warmth pressing against his side. Her tail brushed against his leg, a quiet presence more than anything else.
He let out a slow breath.
Then, finally, he spoke. "There was a Killer Ant swarm today." His voice was even, light as always. Composed. "I got caught in it. Almost died."
The hold around him tightened.
She didn't speak. Didn't interrupt. Just held him, letting him decide how much he wanted to say.
"I was lucky," he murmured. "Got out. But I didn't realize until later—others were caught up in it, too. I left them behind."
His breath didn't hitch, his voice didn't waver. Grace Unbroken ensured that much. But Bastet knew.
Her fingers curled lightly against his back, smoothing over his shoulder in slow, deliberate movements. "No one left behind," she murmured, echoing the words she had spoken so many times before.
Then, softer, "That doesn't mean you should leave yourself behind, either."
He said nothing.
But for the first time since stepping out of that swarm, since standing in the Guild dripping in his own blood, since walking the streets of Orario under scrutinizing stares—
He let himself relax.
—
Maris took a slow sip of her ale, letting the bitter burn settle on her tongue before exhaling through her nose. The tavern was warm, filled with the murmur of adventurers unwinding from their dives into the Dungeon. It was a familiar scene, the kind she usually welcomed after a long day—laughter, the clinking of tankards, the occasional boast or grumbled complaint about Orario's dangers. But tonight, it barely registered.
Her fingers drummed against the wooden table, restless energy coiling in her limbs. Damn Orin. The idiot had gone and triggered a Killer Ant swarm, nearly getting them all killed. Again. That reckless little bastard would be the death of them one day if he didn't start thinking before acting. They had barely made it out, scraping by on sheer luck, teamwork, and a lot of running. It had been a mess.
Not that Eina had let her off easy.
She stole a glance at the half-elf seated across from her, sipping her mead. It wasn't often she convinced Eina to come drinking with her—usually, it was a calculated peace offering after being scolded at the Guild. She figured a glass of wine and some decent conversation would smooth things over.
Except, for once, Eina wasn't glaring at her. She wasn't even really focused on their conversation. No, her emerald eyes were distant, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Maris leaned back, crossing her arms. "You're not even listening, are you?"
Eina blinked and looked up. "Huh?"
"You've been staring at your drink like it insulted your ancestors for the past five minutes." Maris frowned. "What's got you so worked up? I already said I'll make sure Orin doesn't do anything stupid for at least a week."
Eina's grip tightened around her glass. "It's not about that." She hesitated, then sighed, shaking her head. "It's... someone else. Someone who got caught up in the swarm."
That pricked Maris' interest. "Oh?" She swirled her ale, watching the foam cling to the sides. "One of your other adventurers?"
Eina let out a slow breath. "Calista."
Maris frowned. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn't place a face to it. "They alright?"
Eina's lips pressed together, and for a moment, she didn't answer. Then, with quiet frustration, she said, "She—" a pause, then a barely concealed smirk, "—they came into the Guild after the swarm, covered in blood, armor ripped open, a nasty gash on their side, and acted like it was nothing."
Maris raised a brow. "What, too proud to admit they were hurt?"
Eina shook her head. "That's the thing. It wasn't pride. It was like... it just didn't matter to them. No anger, no frustration, not even exhaustion. They just walked in like it was another normal day, even though—" her voice lowered, "—you could see the blood soaking into their clothes. I don't understand how someone could be so unshaken after that."
Maris let out a low whistle. "Shit."
Eina ran a hand through her hair. "It's not just that. They should be mad, right? Anyone else would be, after getting dragged into a mess that wasn't their fault. But they weren't. Not even a little bit." She exhaled, shaking her head. "I can't tell if that's terrifying or sad."
Maris took a moment to process that. Some newbie—because if they were Eina's, they had to be fresh—had walked out of a Killer Ant swarm with their side slashed open and hadn't even flinched? That wasn't normal. Even she had been rattled after today, and she'd been doing this for over half a year.
"Alright, you've got my attention," she said, leaning forward. "Who's this Calista? What floor's she on?"
Eina hesitated. "Nine."
Maris nearly choked on her drink. "Floor nine? Solo?"
Eina nodded, her lips curling slightly.
Maris stared. "How long have they been adventuring?"
Eina took another sip of her wine. "A little over a month."
The words hit like a brick to the face. "You're shitting me."
"I'm really not."
Maris leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. "One month and a week, and they're already pushing floor nine? By themselves?" Her voice edged into disbelief. "Do you know how long it took me and my party to get to floor five? Four months. Four. And that was with a group."
Eina smiled into her glass. "I know."
Maris groaned. "And they're younger than me, aren't they?"
Eina let the silence hang for a beat too long.
"Oh, fuck off." Maris dragged a hand down her face. "That's ridiculous."
"I thought you'd appreciate the challenge," Eina said, a teasing lilt in her voice.
Maris exhaled through her nose. This Calista was... something else. Younger than her, moving through the Dungeon at a pace that made her look like a damn rookie, and apparently unfazed by nearly bleeding out. And they were solo? That was beyond reckless—that was madness.
She took another drink, glancing at Eina. "Think I'll run into them sometime?"
Eina hummed, tapping a finger against her glass. "Maybe. Though, if you do, I'd be careful."
Maris snorted. "What, you think they'll be pissed about the swarm? You said they didn't seem to care."
Eina's smirk widened. "You never know. People can surprise you."
Maris rolled her eyes. "Please. If they hold a grudge, they can take it up with Orin."
Eina chuckled, and Maris let herself relax slightly. Despite the frustration of the day, this wasn't a bad way to end it. A drink, some company, and the promise of meeting someone who might actually be interesting.
Still, she'd keep her dagger close. Just in case.
---
A/N: hehe i acc messed up the timeline, i forgot that a certain month.. was a thing, so ye still the one month thing is accurate though! Also if you dont know Maris is Einas first adventurer, and when she died she cut her long hair and started developing her Fairy Break title by being super strict. uhhh let me check what the timelinne is AH its June 20, when this chapter starts, i skipped May :((((
Also shoutout to Kreuz! they convinced me to post another chap :)
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If you're reading this, then you've wandered all the way to the end. I'm impressed. Stories are like wine—meant to be savored, not rushed. So if you took your time? Thank you.
Of course, the real thanks goes to WiseTL—the one who turned tangled words into something beautiful. I just got asked to wrap things up with a ribbon. Hopefully this counts!
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Go on. Be generous. They've earned it.
Until next time—read well, rest often, and maybe come visit me at the Hostess of Fertility sometime.
– Syr ✨