Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.03 - Chapter 6.2

“I’ve got a general idea of what’s going on, but insofar as I really had to rush, I hope you’ll remember to be grateful.” The nun who ushered you into the worship hall has stern words as she leads you to the altar. Perhaps this is her way of saying she shouldn’t have wasted her energy worrying about you. You decide not to ask.

Even the temple of the Trade God can’t entirely escape the repercussions of the Chaos that presses in on the town. People are crouched here and there in the stone building, groaning from their wounds, crying from their hunger, or howling with lament for lost loved ones.

A significant number of them have no doubt come here knowing that it is their last lifeline. Even adventurers fresh from the dungeon know better than to fight with the refugees here.

No… Perhaps it’s more than that.

Perhaps it’s that all those who give alms and seek salvation are equal before the Trade God. It is a tremendous thing, you think, and fearsome.

How many times has your own heart wavered during your adventures exploring the dungeon? The nun puffs out her well-formed chest proudly, as if to say her own heart of faith has never been shaken. “So. What brings you here today?” she asks.

“The…the girls. My sisters.” You leave it to Female Warrior, beside you, to stumblingly form the words. These words are not for you to speak. Instead, you accept her squeeze of your hand, so hard it hurts. “I want you to…bury them.”

“…” The nun blinks several times. “You’re quite sure?”

“N-no, but…yes.” Female Warrior’s expression is unreadable; with her free hand—the one that isn’t holding yours—she brushes the haft of her spear.

You find yourself remembering a haggard woman lying in a hut. She looks exactly as she always has, like she might get up and move at any moment, but there is no life in her. That makes her no different from any other object, and yet you’re sad to lose her from the world. It’s hard for you to admit that her loss will change not one single thing about the way the world works. In a few years, no trace of her worth speaking of will be left. Those are the facts.

You don’t know whether it was right of you to bury your master. Was it the right choice to bury her, request services from the local temple, and then set out on your journey?

Sometimes you wonder. As you wonder at this moment.

“I’m not sure, but…I need…I need to say good-bye.”

As for Female Warrior, perhaps she will regret this choice later, but for now, she has given her answer. She will part ways with her sisters, her former party members; she will stop looking back at the Death and the Life, and move forward.

The nun accepts her gaze: weak, broken, but still facing forward. “…I see,” she says, her response mercilessly brief. She speaks in a tone of voice that could be taken in almost any way, but there’s a hint of warmth there, in her near-absolute-zero look…

“You have a donation ready, yes? Then come this way, please,” she says.

All right. Just imagining it, maybe.

“…Yeah,” Female Warrior whispers, and then, not without regret, she lets go of your hand.

The nun leads her deeper into the temple, and you watch her go. If she had held on to your hand, you would probably be going with her. But she didn’t.

Instead, you mingle with the other adventurers in the worship hall and wait for her.

There are times when you want someone to understand you, times when you want support—and there are times when you need to deal with something alone. At this moment, she has entrusted you with waiting for her, and it is not your place to reject her.

You look up at the symbol of the Trade God raised high above the worship hall. Despite the considerable confusion within the hall, it somehow feels severe and silent.

That makes you think: Until now, you’ve never spent much time here in the middle of the day. The longest stretch you’ve spent at this temple was the night when you yourself wandered on the border between life and death.

You brush the scar on your neck unconsciously, your eyes fixed on the symbol of the Trade God, shaped like a windmill.

Prayer is not a thing that you know. You think it’s very impure to pray in the hopes that your wish will come true. Yet you also think that if one were to pray, knowing such a prayer is impure, might the gods not acknowledge such a prayer as pure?

If the gods could not heed such a prayer, they would be derided as useless, as evil, as villains.

How small a thing you are! How selfish and prideful!

Hence, you decide not to pray.

Instead, you resolve to describe and report roughly where you have been and where you are going. Not forgetting to add that, if the gods are not too busy, perhaps they might lend you a hand. If you’re going to ask for help, why hide it? Why not just ask?

To ask of the gods, to request of the deities—there can’t be any harm in doing it, just in case. You need all the help you can get.

You close your eyes and think of all of it. Communicate all of it. Give it over to them. Then, slowly, you open your eyes.

You find yourself still looking at the windmill symbol of the Trade God.

Well, naturally enough.

How many adventurers do you think there are in the Four-Cornered World praying to the Trade God, asking for help? You can hardly expect the god to focus on you alone. The best you can hope for is that perhaps, when you really need it, you might get some modicum of assistance of some kind you hadn’t imagined.

You don’t forget to grab some coins from your wallet and offer them on the altar. This town has taught you well: No request is answered for free.

“Well, aren’t you devout?”

“…”

It seems more time has passed than you realized. The nun has reappeared behind you and fixed you with her cold gaze. Female Warrior stands beside her, sniffling. She’s no longer holding her spear.

‘All good?’

“No, but…yes,” she whispers, much as she did before, and shakes her head. It sends a gentle ripple through her dark hair. She smiles and says, “I’m going to make something good of it.”

Ah is all you say. However, things are not entirely problem free.

“Wha…?” Female Warrior’s eyes widen with unease, and you point out in utter seriousness that she has no weapon. “Oh… Y-yeah. That. Sheesh.” She pouts a little—but this is a grave matter.

She needs a weapon, one suited to her skills and fit for delving the dungeon’s deepest depths. You asked the guy at the weapon shop for one, but you doubt he’ll procure it in time. If push comes to shove, maybe you can have some old sword converted into a long-handled blade or what have you.

“Tell me something,” the nun says with a discreet cough. She gives you a look of curiosity, as if this is no more than intriguing gossip to her. “May I take this to mean you’re going back down into the dungeon?”

You speak the word yes as if nothing could be simpler.

Now that you think about it, nothing could. Long ago, very long ago, you resolved to face the depths of the dungeon. It seems so obvious in this moment.

When and why did you decide? Maybe you already knew from the day you came to the fortress city, or maybe your feelings have simply been numbed as you work your way through the dungeon. In any case, it’s not as if something has abruptly changed between yesterday and today—it just is what it is. Simple fact.

There is a place unknown, a threat unknown, monsters unknown—and beyond them, the Dungeon Master.

What you must do hasn’t changed.

The nun listens to your answer, then closes her eyes and is silent for a moment. At length, she says, “So—you too, Miss?”

“…Yes,” Female Warrior says, quiet but firm.

The nun sighs defeatedly. “Then I think you should take this.” She offers something to Female Warrior: a long object wrapped in purple felt.

Female Warrior reaches out, hesitant, and takes it. It appears light in her hands. “May I look at it…?” she asks.

“Well, yes. I wouldn’t have given it to you otherwise.”

Female Warrior pulls away the cloth, revealing…

“A wooden…spear…?”

That’s right: a spear. Polished and carved from tip to hilt, a wooden weapon that could almost be mistaken for the real thing. Yet it’s such a superlative weapon that Female Warrior unconsciously sighs to see it.

“It’s a hardwood spear,” the nun informs her. “Made of oak and blessed.”

“Is this the holy…?”

“It’s modeled after the holy spear, the one the blind sage gave to the warrior who would harrow the dark fortress.”

That makes sense. From that perspective, it certainly is appropriate for your party’s warrior. Knowing how faithful your bishop is, it wouldn’t surprise you if one day she’s hailed as a holy woman.

“To be clear, this isn’t the real holy spear,” the nun says, looking at you. “But it was blessed by the hand of a sage just the same. I think it can help you.”

‘A sage?’

“That would be me. What of it?”

You can’t help but smile at her laconic response.

Ah, this must indeed be a wondrous and wonderworking weapon, then. Surely nothing compares.

‘How about it?’

“Give me a second…”

There’s a thump—Female Warrior’s sabbatons striking the floor of the worship hall and launching her as they did many times before. The blade of the oak spear whistles through the air, cutting through the darkness, stabbing at empty space. It already looks comfortable in her hands; it responds to her movements like a living thing. The spear seems to leap on its own, it almost looks like it’s dancing with Female Warrior.

The eyes of people in the worship hall begin to focus on Female Warrior; people who had hung their heads helplessly or had been lost in prayer. Female Warrior and the oak spear appear among them like a miracle.

There could be few weapons more valuable, even those from the hand of a storied master.

“It’s wonderful. I think it’s…wonderful,” she says as the dance ends. She holds the spear close to her ample chest with both hands. It’s just how she looked when you came to the temple, and yet different.

That is, when you came to the temple moments ago—and long ago.

You suddenly wonder when that was; you try to remember the first time you encountered her. Female Warrior’s movements were so light footed back then. Looking back, you realize it was born of a desire never to go backward.

Completely different from how she moved just now.

“The dead are not beside us, nor is the Death something to be despised,” the nun intones to you and to Female Warrior, who is holding the hardwood spear. Or rather, the nun is speaking to all those gathered here in the temple of the Trade God. She’s dispensing divine teaching. “Thoughts, feelings, life, death—all travel, all come and go.”

So too pain, fortune, joy, sorrow. So too the thoughts of the dead. So too the prayers of the living.

“Therefore the wind is by your side, and will be, so long as you journey.”

“Yes…” The delicate smile is hardly on Female Warrior’s face before you dip your head to the Trade God, and to the nun.

If you cannot be grateful for this, when will you ever be grateful?

Yes… It’s always worth asking.

“Yo, Captain! Got a few tidbits for you!”

Upon your return, you’re greeted by your scout, who’s sitting cross-legged on the plush bed. You and Female Warrior, who’s still hugging the oak spear, share a look when you hear the jovial note in his voice.

“Turns out, way back when, that place used to be a proving ground or a treasure store or somethin’. Went a whole ten floors down.” He watches you both closely as he continues explaining. “They say—they say, mind you…”

What’s now known as the Dungeon of the Dead was built as a proving ground, a labyrinth to help a king of old choose his soldiers by putting them through trial after trial. That room on the fourth floor was the final test; what’s beyond it is unclear. A treasure hoard, maybe, or else some other important room…

“Couldn’t dig up anything else, though. No idea what the dude in black’s been up to down there.”

Your scout doesn’t claim that he doesn’t know, but that he couldn’t find out. Rather than relying on half-baked assumptions, it will be much safer for you to go in with the mindset that you’re stepping into terra incognita, a place unknown.

You can agree with that—but that’s not the part that surprises you. You want to know how your scout came by all this information about the dungeon without ever leaving the inn. Did he hear it from some adventurers who ducked into the establishment trying to get away from the ruckus outside—or perhaps he heard it from a royal guard who came to make sure things were staying calm around here?

Half-Elf Scout sees you looking at him and waves his hand in a gesture you know well by now. “You want to catch a wolf, ask the pack,” he says. You sigh. So even the infamous Bandits Guild has set up shop in this city.

All right. More important things.

Does this mean he plans to go?

“Sure. If you do, Cap.” He gives you a smile, seemingly unconcerned. You find yourself oddly embarrassed that he saw through you so easily, not that you were trying to hide anything. “Pretty sure the lady there feels the same way. Can’t be slackin’ then, can I?”

Female Warrior looks pointedly away, as if to say that this is perfectly ordinary. It seems she feels the same way. She won’t quite look at you, either; instead, she strides into the room on her long legs. She’s going for a corner of the luxurious chamber, toward someone sitting next to your cousin (who has her face buried in a spell book, completely absorbed). Female Bishop.

Female Bishop was playing with her blue ribbon, but when she senses Female Warrior sitting down beside her, she looks up. “Are you…okay?” she asks.

“…Yeah,” Female Warrior says, giving her a small nod. “What about you?”

“Me, I…”

That’s the last of their conversation you really hear; you make it your business not to catch the rest. Female Bishop isn’t speaking to you, and anyway, you know she’s the kind to move forward. So instead you go over to Myrmidon Monk, whose massive frame dwarfs the sumptuous chair he’s sitting in.

He breaks his cross-armed silence long enough to wave his antennae and say, “I don’t care either way,” after which he closes his mandibles with a clack.

Hoh. Casual as anything, you sit down across from him and look into his face with its unreadable expression. You’ve known him for more than just a short while now. You don’t have to be able to read his expression to know what he’s feeling.

“I heard the rumors that the royal capital is in a bad way, too. Something about a Vampire Lord.”

You nod the affirmative. After all, the Knight of Diamonds never said not to tell anyone, which implies that the quick-eared already know.

Still, there’s no pleasure in talking much about that No-Life King, the literal ruler of the dead.

“The Army of Darkness. The uproar in this city. Hoarding treasure from the dungeon. Seems there’s a fair few things going on,” Myrmidon Monk says.

Mm. The world is indeed in danger. Still, there are those who continue just the same with their daily toil. Some of them might want to raise the money to use Resurrection on their comrades. Others, to support their family. Still others, to eat good food, drink good drink, play at leisure, and live a life of ease.

To those ends they go down in the depths, returning to the surface with loot and nothing more. Are their adventures less than yours? No, no they’re not.

Just because an adventure is about saving the world doesn’t make it worth more.

To think so would make you no different from that young magic warrior and their party, wouldn’t it? No different from the man in black controlling them.

For that reason, Myrmidon Monk’s words sink deep inside you.

“I’m okay either way. I don’t care where we go. I’m versatile. The day I lose that versatility is the day I cease to exist.”

However… When you hear him, you deliberately adopt a grim look, crossing your arms and even throwing in a groan for good measure. Sounds like you and the others will be the only ones facing the depths of the Dungeon of the Dead.

“…Fine. Twist my arm,” Myrmidon Monk says, his mandibles clacking. You’re almost certain it’s what passes for laughter with him.

In order to maintain his versatility, he has to go. That’s what he claims, at least, and you respond with a nod. Sure. No choice at all.

“I’m going!” someone chirps from the corner of the room—your cousin, who has extricated herself from her book. She doesn’t actually look up; her focus simply seems to snap to the present moment, her voice easy and light. “Don’t forget me. I’m going, too!”

That’s the extent of what she tells you. Then her mind is right back in the sea of letters, once more seeking the words of true power.

Didn’t really have to tell me at all.

You hardly have to think to know why she’s focused so hard. So you reply, simply, that you understand. That’s enough to settle the point.

“A-and me, too…!” Female Bishop says anxiously, and her words are not much more surprising than your cousin’s. You hesitate to point out that it’s the same face she made on coming back from the dungeon; consider it a show of faith in your cousin. The very fact that your cousin can focus on her own pursuits is proof that Female Bishop is able to stand on her own two feet and make her own choices. “I’m going… I have to.”

She squeezes the blue ribbon tight, like it’s the hand of a precious friend. She drops her sightless gaze to the ground for an instant, then fixes it firmly on you. “Because that’s why I came to this city.”

Her words are strong and clear, a declaration of her will. She will not be shaken.

What reason could you possibly have to doubt her? She’s on her way to becoming a hero.

Lastly, your eyes settle on Female Warrior, who crouches beside Female Bishop. She holds the oak spear and looks up at you.

“…Yeah,” she says with a nod and a little smile. “Shall we go?”

Well then. You tell them that settles it.

These six people are going to save the world.

Once adventurers make a decision, they are quick to act. It takes only a day for each of you to prepare your equipment, your consumables, your provisions, potions, and everything else you need. Meanwhile, you take the opportunity to let the man at the armor shop know what happened with the spear; you pick up your sword and leave an apology.

“Think I did good work here,” the man says and offers you your weapon. You take it with a respectful word, draw it from the sheath, and have a look.

Yes. Fine work indeed.

The sword hasn’t been reborn. It’s the same faithful blade to which you’ve entrusted your life all this time in the dungeon, meaning you can trust it again in the next battle. Such is its edge—it’s a fine blade.

“Whether you win or not, that depends on how you use it,” the armorer says as you inspect the sword. Then he adds, “But you’ve got one thing the other guy doesn’t.”

Well, what might that be? You give him a curious look, and he grins.

“A decent smith and polisher! They don’t have one of those in the bowels of the Dungeon of the Dead, I can promise you that!”

He’s right. Yes, truer words were never spoken.

You offer your thanks amidst the armorer’s laughter and then slide the sword into your belt. The familiar weight of the large and small blades is comforting—it roots you somehow. It says to you this is as things should be.

Even though skill is not lessened by the lack of a weapon or enhanced by the possession thereof.

A passing thought, and then you work your way along the bustling street, almost swimming through the crowd. You reach the inn—and there they are. Standing ready, or with a book open, or leaning patiently against a wall, waiting for you.

When Female Warrior spots you, she gives the butt of her oaken spear a good kick, twirling it around in her hand. “Took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

“Now everything’s ready!” Female Bishop clenches one hand into a fist and squeezes the sword and scales with the other.

Beside her, your cousin puffs out her chest and adds, “Ready and waiting!”

You look to Myrmidon Monk for confirmation, and he doesn’t say anything; he waves his antennae in the affirmative.

In that case, best to go. You nod to him, and then you lead the party out into the fortress city.

The city is still lively, still bustling—but the atmosphere has changed. It’s no longer talk of adventure that people trade as easily as the weather, but talk of the world’s danger. The vivacious spirit that circulates along with the loot is gone; grim, downcast faces line the roads, refugees crouching with vacant eyes.

You hear yelling, angry voices, adventurers arguing with these people. Each time the sounds reach your ears, Female Bishop looks up. She glances back several times, almost as if something is pulling at her, but then she bites her lip and moves forward.

The right choice. At this moment, in this place, it doesn’t matter if it’s roughnecks or goblins making those sounds—if the world isn’t saved from its crisis, everything is going to end.

Even so, you can’t help but feel it’s a shame that this might be the last image of this city that you have.

It’s not as if the city is so important to you. Even your memories here barely cover an entire year. Still, you walked these streets almost every day, going to the dungeon, then you walked them almost every day going back to the inn. Those accumulated days are now on the cusp of vanishing, being taken away. It’s the most natural thing in the world to mourn for them.

It’s not just the city streets, either. As you pass by the Golden Knight, you see it defended by a barricade made of chairs and round tables. No doubt someone, or many someones, tried to force their way in in search of food or cash or women. There are adventurers standing under the eaves, apparently doing guard work in exchange for their tab. They watch the people passing by like hawks.

Beside them is a padfoot waitress, gripping a broom like a weapon for little reason. When the rabbit-eared woman sees you, she comes bounding over. “Are you going on an adventure?!” she asks. It seems by now she remembers you as more than just customers.

“Sure are!” Half-Elf Scout answers. “Today, we’re headin’ down to the very deepest depths!”

“Wow! Now, that’s an adventure!” She claps her padded hands together audibly. Then with a perfect little smile, she gives you a great wave and exclaims, “See you, then! Be sure to stop by for a drink when you get back!” Then she adds, “We’ll have everything ready for you.”

You all understand what she’s saying.

You give the waitress a wave in return and keep walking. Behind you, you can hear other people chatting with the waitress.

Your footsteps are light. It feels just like any other morning when you’re working your way to the dungeon’s entrance on the edge of town.

There she is, the royal guard standing watch.

“Hey, you’re here!” she says, friendly as ever, but her face betrays how tired she is. You can’t blame her. Those in charge of maintaining public safety must handle all situations at all times, and it’s only natural that they need rest. They can only take that rest, though, if they have someone to back them up, to take their place. Otherwise, that rest has to be qualified: Rest as much as possible.

In this situation, relief from the fortress city cannot be expected, and the woman before you is the product of “as much as possible.”

You tell her, sincerely, that you respect the job she’s doing and ask after her younger sister.

“Thankfully, she’s well.” She gives you the weariest smile you’ve ever seen. “Just make sure you come home. Otherwise, I don’t know what I’ll say to her.”

So that little girl is also on your side—and has great expectations. That is a grave responsibility.

“Damn straight,” the royal guard says seriously. “All you adventurers are like that.”

“…We’ll do everything we possibly can.” Female Bishop nods firmly, with much gravity.

There are some people, too clever for their own good, who say they should just send the military down there.

There are some who say there must be safer ways to make a living—as if they knew anything about it.

Others mock adventurers as fools and idiots.

You, however, do not agree.

There are some things that only adventurers can do. Things no one but an adventurer could do. Things only adventurers know. That does not change, whether they seek to earn money, to reach the top, to take revenge, or conquer the world.

That is adventure.

What’s more…

With that in mind, you pause on the threshold of the dungeon and turn back, taking in the vista that spreads out before you. The wind comes whistling from the fortress city, bringing with it the rattling of the windmill. All the way to you.

If you should die down there in the dark, if you are setting out on your last journey, this is as good a send-off as you could wish.

As an adventurer, you cannot hope for more.

The darkness of the dungeon greets you as it always does, unconnected to the chaos engulfing the Four-Cornered World. You’re almost nostalgic for the nervousness you felt the first time you set foot here; now, oddly, you feel practically safe.

You think you can have some sympathy for what those scruffy men living in the dungeon must have felt.

“All right…let’s head for the elevator,” says Female Bishop, snapping you back to reality. “Here we go.”

Mm. You give a quick nod and then lead the party, in formation, toward the dark zone. Conversation is at a minimum; the group exchanges only necessary words. You’re walking a path you went down just the other day—so why does it feel so long?

You’re nervous. It’s only natural. It’s a bad start, you tell yourself. Worrying won’t make you any more effective in battle. Of course not. How can you expect to fight at your full capacity if you behave differently from normal?

As you walk through the darkness, you wonder what you should say, how you can open a conversation.

You lose your chance when Half-Elf Scout announces, “We’re here, Cap.”

Just as before, you’re faced with a pair of doors with a line running down the middle. You feel for the terminal, then give it a good press. The doors open.

Let’s go. The party doesn’t need your encouragement—the adventurers pile into the elevator.

You press the terminal again so that the elevator will take you to the fourth floor, down into the heart of the maelstrom, and the box begins to descend.

You feel like you’re floating; like you’re falling into the abyss.

You see the faces of your comrades for the first time in several hours—or maybe several minutes, or maybe several days—and to you, they look pale. Maybe it’s just because of the strange magical lights that illuminate the interior of the elevator. You hope it is.

“Fwoooo…boom,” Female Warrior whispers, reminding you of something she said before. You goggle at her, and she chuckles, looking back at you. “What, are you scared?”

Her face is tense despite her jibe, but you pretend not to notice; you shrug and say it’s only natural.

She’s trying to be thoughtful toward you, and you don’t want her consideration to be in vain. Above all, you’re thankful.

“Well, whatever happens down there, we’re gonna be the first to know about it,” Half-Elf Scout says.

This is where you would expect your cousin to chime in with something like, “Ah, so we’re the tip of the spear!” But from her, you hear nothing. You search for her in the dim light inside the elevator box and find her deep in thought.

So she’s thinking about something. You’re smart enough to know what that means. Instead, you reply on her behalf.

‘In other words, depending how you think about it, we’re the tip of the spear…’

“Which means we can keep all the treasure for ourselves!” Half-Elf Scout exclaims, although his voice is unusually high-pitched.

“Not that we’ll have much time for sightseeing,” Myrmidon Monk clacks. “Not that I care either way…”

You never find out what he’s going to say next. There’s a heavy thunk and the elevator comes to a stop. The doors open.

Ahead, you see…the same thing you saw the last time. A single hallway, and beyond, a bizarre rock step that looks like some sort of altar. The design carved into the floor is dark and black, nongeometric lines running to it. An unmistakably magical glow suffuses the area, illuminating the design.

It’s the center of the maze. The heart of the maelstrom.

On the floor, you see piles of ash—and weapons. Weapons that have lost their masters.

Nothing, not one thing, has changed since you withdrew from here the last time.

“…!”

Something darts in front of you: a young girl with golden hair. It’s Female Bishop, who said nothing in the elevator; she’s the first of you to race out, kneeling in the chamber. You hesitate over whether to call out to her and then take a step forward.

“It’s okay.” Female Warrior’s outstretched oak spear bars your path. Her face is far less relaxed than her words; she looks fixedly at Female Bishop’s back and says quietly, “Right?”

“…Yes,” Female Bishop replies and nods, then gets to her feet. She takes care not to step on the piles of ash, not to tread on former friends. Leaning on the sword and scales for support, her bandaged eyes stare directly at the doors far beyond. “Because,” she says, and still her voice is small, “I have to go.”

You, too, look ahead. Now that you focus on it, the darkness into which the man in black vanished does somehow remind you of the elevator. Beyond the double doors, there’s a coffin-like box, waiting for you.

A casket?

You can’t resist a grim smile as the word flits through your mind. Death waits for you beyond. To enter a coffin first would be backward.

“Fwooo…boom,” Female Warrior whispers in your ear.

Third time’s the charm, eh?

Female Warrior shrugs and looks away. You pat her on the shoulder, then look around at the others and announce:

‘Let’s go.’

You stride through the doors of the elevator and look for the terminal. Four, five, six, seven, eight, and finally nine. Once you’re sure everyone is on board, you punch the number for nine. And then, once more, you’re falling into the abyss.

All very easy to say…

The sight that greets you as you step out on the ninth floor of the dungeon, however, is disconcertingly identical to everything else you’ve seen. The world, built only of shapes and shadows, shows you doors to the right and left, and a turn of the hallway up ahead. That’s all. The way the place is dim, yet faintly illuminated; the aura of the unreal that pervades the hall—even the chill is the same.

It’s the dungeon you know so well, the very same.

That goes some way toward calming you down.

“Thought something might jump on us the minute we got here. Guess not,” mutters Myrmidon Monk from somewhere above your shoulder. Talking to himself. He has his machete in his hand, a sign of his abundant caution.

You figure this is the moment to have your scout check for enemies. You pat Half-Elf Scout on the shoulder.

“Urk! What, me?!” he says.

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” Female Warrior retorts with a chuckle, and your scout groans, “Gah…” A moment later, though, he steps out of the elevator.

The first tile in front of the elevator doesn’t appear to sink or explode or anything. Half-Elf Scout takes a few more steps forward, silently, then he waves back to you to show it’s safe.

“…Nothin’ on the floor here, but there’s somethin’ down the way,” he calls.

“What kind of something?” Female Warrior replies, readying her spear. “Is it a monster…?”

You hope you’re not dealing with goblins or slimes.

Your very serious pronouncement earns you a look from Female Warrior, but she quickly faces forward again. She can tell that this isn’t your usual ribbing—you really meant what you said. You want to minimize the unnecessary expenditure of energy and resources. Having two of your party members in a traumatized state is the last thing you want.

“…It’s hard to believe this is really the lowest floor,” Female Bishop notes, pausing in her work on the map.

“Doesn’t matter. Got to keep going forward…,” Myrmidon Monk says.

Of course.

You check the fastenings of your sword, then make sure everyone’s got their gear before you take your first careful step onto the ninth floor. You might be in the hallway, not a chamber, but there’s every chance you could encounter a wandering monster. Then there’s whatever Half-Elf Scout has found—it could easily be a monster or a trap.

The lowest floor of the infamous Dungeon of the Dead lies ahead of you.

As you get closer, you can make out what Half-Elf Scout has found. It’s some kind of pale thing on the wall.

And it’s horrifying.

It’s a woman in battered armor—but just half of her. That’s the only way you can describe what you see; the other half is trapped in the wall. Her adventure ended here.

She’s filthy and badly wounded, but blood still flows through her veins; you can even feel a faint warmth from her. The gentle tremors you see running through her body imply she still has breath. To your horror, you realize she is alive.

It would be bad enough if it was just the one woman, which is already terrible enough.

But she’s not alone.

There are people whose arms stick out of the wall. Or just their feet. A bit of hair. Half a face.

All of them adventurers, all of them entombed within the wall.

“They—,” Female Warrior starts, her voice breaking. “They’re alive? These…kids?”

“…Their bodies are,” replies Female Bishop in a strange tone. Yes, their bodies continue to live and breathe, but what about their hearts, their minds, their souls? How long could you last trapped alive, unable to move, all your senses cut off?

Maybe some monsters had found them and had a little fun with them, or maybe not. It’s hard for you to tell.

Whatever has or has not happened, these people are embedded in the rock.

Their minds are shattered, their sparks guttering into cold ash. Their souls, you feel sure, are gone. Even if you were to break through the rock and set them free, it wouldn’t change anything. You could rescue them, but you couldn’t save them.

These adventurers’ adventures are already over. They ended here.

“…The dimension is warped.” The words come from the one member of the party who has been lost in silent thought until this moment: your cousin. “I’ve been thinking about it, researching it, ever since we saw that room on the fourth floor…”

She looks at the adventurers in the stone with a mix of repulsion at their pain and genuine curiosity.

It’s true, you think. It’s been true since you encountered the succubi. Creatures that normally exist on the dream plane can be powerful enough down here to manifest in the physical realm. You’d assumed that was simply because you were getting deeper into the dungeon—but if that altar on the fourth floor is really the dungeon’s heart, then it would make sense.

You’re not surprised that your cousin has gleaned some important bit of information from that.

“The rumors of Gate traps. The lost forbidden spells. But I’ve never heard anything about people getting trapped.”

You think you hear her whisper Of course I haven’t, but if so, it’s swallowed by the emptiness and disappears.

Of course she hasn’t: Anyone who ended up trapped wouldn’t be around to tell the tale.

Sometimes an adventuring party disappears, leaving no sign, no trace. The rumors spread. A Gate trap. A trap sent them somewhere—but where?

Here?

You look at the arm stretched out in front of you, which still grasps a knife. You think it belongs to a woman. Or maybe it’s a male elf—their arms might be this slender. You’re not sure.

Will the adventurers who come after you think the same about you, if your party is annihilated in the dungeon?

There’s no answer. These bodies are just corpses now.

“Be careful,” your cousin cautions. “We don’t know what might show up down here.”

You nod, then steady your breathing and give your orders. If you want to advance in this ninth level, whether to find the stairs or an elevator or whatever might be out there, you’ll have to move forward, go deeper in.

It’s you, Female Warrior, and Half-Elf Scout up front. Your cousin, Female Bishop, and Myrmidon Monk are on the back row.

With your formation settled, the party sets out into the Dungeon of the Dead.

You proceed through the twisting hallway, kick down the farthest, deepest door you can find, and leap into the chamber.

You sense…nothing. No trace of any foes. There’s only a door, leading farther on. Forward, ever forward.

You should have thought harder about what your cousin said, that the dimensional space is warped here.

You are all soon given a visceral reminder of what you’ve walked into.

Several giant things stand in the middle of the chamber.

Bluish-black, they have no skin; they look like bundles of sinews and muscle given human form.

No, no; the form isn’t in imitation of humanoids. These creatures have simply found it the most effective shape for killing.

Twisted, curling horns. Massive claws. Sharp fangs. Eyes that burn in the dark. They fix you with a gaze that is utterly emotionless, except for the desire to kill.

With their horrendous odor and natural chill, these are certainly not creatures that have any right to exist in your dimension.

“Gr-greater demons…?!” The threats before you tear the scream from your cousin’s lips.

This is no longer the human world.

This is dead space.