Disclaimer! Listen to Fate Stay Night Rap by GameboyJones ft. several others.
PLEASE BE CAREFUL BECAUSE AROUND THE MIDDLE OF THIS CHAPTER IT GOES SLIGHTLY GORY! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Two weeks until the Loki Familia reaches the surface.
The smell of coal, old wood, hints of metal, and leather.
This is how he would describe the Forge. A familiar scent that puts him to ease.
But, it's not something he can help.
Something draws him in.
Even now, twirling in his chair trying to take in the majesty of the Forge, his mind is running amok with ideas. With weapons of divine make, mundane, magical, holy, demonic, dragon-slayer, and of the legends.
His hands twitch, itching to start working.
'No,' one hand restrained the other, 'it isn't time yet. Level two, remember?'
Reluctantly, his hand redraws from the heavy hammer left on the table.
The hammer is a strange one. Its appearance is the same Cross peen that he saw back in the village. Simple rectangular head and fine wooden handle twice the size of the head, its entirety is around the same size as his forearm. It's heavier than it looks though. The metal head was made by compacting the original metal until it became a fifth of what it originally was. The handle, simple and unassuming, is heavy and durable as well. Made from wood found on the 18th floor. Otherwise known as Rivira.
But what is strange about it, then? As exotic as it is its make, surely other adventurer-blacksmiths use something similar as well.
'Because I bought it.' He slumped in his chair, a frown tugging at his lips, 'How is it that I won't buy something that can literally save my life but I'll buy something I'll probably never use?' Really, the only thing missing is dark clouds around his head.
Crossing his legs on the simple he took the hammer into his hands. Running his nails through the simple carvings centered on the inside of the hammer head. Say what you will, simplicity has a certain beauty to it. The handle is free from anything like that, no craftsmen worth their salt would give up capability for beauty.
Though he would like a nicer hammer.
He couldn't help it, okay? The night before he bought it Loki-sama told him stories again.
The Heroes of Old.
Something set ablaze in his soul when he hears about them. Something so similar to the sheer joy he felt after killing the War Shadow. But it's not quite that.
'But who would have thought there are so many heroes?'
She told him many legends. Some of her pantheon, some from others. Stories so old that only people like her remember.
Siegfried, The Dragon-Blooded Knight.
Cú Chulainn, Hound of Culann.
Matthias Corvinus, The Black Army.
Solomon, The Wise King.
Leonidas of the Three Hundred.
Ragnar Lodbrok, The Berserkr.
These are but a few she spoke of. All of the, before Orario, even before Babel. Back when monsters ravaged the world, when peace was a word unknown.
"Heroes always exist, Bell." Loki-sama told him one night, "People that rise up, people that fight until their dying breath for their conviction. Listen here Bell, heroes are not the people that are the strongest. Heroes are those that are the strongest when protecting something. Dreams, people, love, conviction, duty, it matters not."
Out of all the stories, legends, he heard one that stuck with him.
Beowulf, Hunter of Monsters. One of the oldest heroes still remembered. He, who killed not only Grendel and his Mother but a Dragon.
"He was a strange fellow," According to Loki-sama, "A king who never should've been. Warrior with an extinguished spirit, yet apathetic to all that is but battles and his people. Even more bullheaded than a Minotaur but still someone that would listen to others. Mad he was, yet I never met someone saner. Someone the old man would've welcomed with open arms."
His weapons, Hrunting and Naegling, feel like they're etched into his mind. Bare shapes, shadows and reflections. Devilish swords that drank in the blood of monsters. Gifts from an unknown spirit who held a grudge against Grendel.
What did they look like?
How did they work?
Were they heavy, or light?
How were they made?
How did it feel holding them?
I want to make them.
Burning within him was a fire like no other, his right hand closed around his hammer like it always should have.
He can see it in front of him. Feel the grasp of the handle. The never-ending bloodlust. The urge to kill all Monsters.
Hrunting, a twisting sword of brutal simplicity. Anyone gazing upon it drenched in the Bloodlust of Hounds. A sword drenched in the blood of a Dragon. A sword with a never-ending desire to Hunt.
Just as he prepared to light up the smelter a voice flowed into his ears. The fire burning within him felt drenched in cold water. Sighing with a wry smile he put down out the matchstick and stepped away from the smelter.
"~Songs and Sagas of a fate determined~"
As he opened the door the familiar voice of his Goddess flew into his ears, bolstering his resolve and intensifying the need to get stronger. Her voice is unreal, what else explanation is there for him smelling freshly fallen snow? The salty ocean on his tongue, the feeling of fur while welcoming brothers and sisters from a battle fought for. The crackles of a bonfire honoring the fallen on their way to Valhalla.
Looking back from the doorstep into the primed and ready Forge he made a vow.
'Soon.'
One week and four days until the surface.
The feeling of blood on her lips.
Heat burning from the inside.
Bare hands tearing through opposition, weapons discarded.
Legs tearing into rock, shaking the ground beneath.
Her lungs burning, breaths shallow and quick.
Throat tore open by her own screams.
Nothing can get to her like this. Every moment, every breath, every step, every wound only increasing her enjoyment.
Her hands tore out the core of another monster foolish enough to approach her.
She can hear Captain's shout directing the weaker members behind the frontline. As she is, she doesn't care about it as much as she should.
How can she, when there is so much to kill in front of her?
Who would've thought they'd run into a Monster Party? After the battle against Virga she would've been satisfied. Even if it wasn't her that dealt the last blow. Sure, Captain might grumble about not reaching their goal floor but in the end they got what they came for. Hell, if she heard it right then a few of the Second Line are on the verge of leveling up so that's good.
But who cares?
She is in her element.
No tactics to keep in mind like against a Rex. No holding back so that the lower level members can get more excelia.
Only her and the hordes she needs to kill.
From the corner of her eye she can see her sister drawing in a large group Molten Golem. Those bastards are always hard to hit due to their Lava bodies. Plus it slows most weapons due to resistance.
"Tiona!" She screams with a savage grin matched only by her sister and Bete. Her landing takes out two of the golems quickly, "Leave some to your big sister!"
Tiona's only answer is an indignant shout, "OI! These are mine!"
Tione cackles, befitting of an older sister, "Not anymore!"
Her hands thrust –'Where are my kukri?'- into the damned golems and tear out their cores. Misty breath blow through her grit and bloody teeth. Hands dropping the cores she stares at the hesitating monsters before her.
"What's wrong?" Her tone could have been mistaken as concerned, if not for the blood and burns on her body, "Will you not fight? Have you given up?" Her face, before blank, turns into a sneer, "COME ON," The scream tore itself out of her abused throat.
"I'M RIGHT HERE!"
One week, two days until the surface.
"LEEEEEEROOOOY JEEEENKIIIIINS!"
"Noooo!" Agonized screaming sounded through the living room as the greatest card in existence flew through her defenses and took her Shaman's health to zero, thus ending the game.
She clutched at her head and growled, "What kind of fucking luck do you have?! I get like the greatest fucking combo the world has ever seen and I still get donged! I fucking pull out two The Ancient One that would decimate you in one –FUCKING- turn. But nooo, nooo that would be too easy. You have like one card that can hit me in the same turn, and what do you do!? YOU FUCKING PULL IT OUT OF YOUR ASS!" She is this close to flipping over the table, but Rabbit manages to calm her down enough to simply slump back. A few minutes go by filled with the palpable nervousness of Rabbit and her panting.
…
"One more game." Finally, she growls, making Rabbit beam before reshuffling both their decks.
As he played with the cards –'Where did he learn to shuffle like that?'- her thoughts wandered back to a few days ago.
'Ohhh, nice start.' She was momentarily distracted by the very nice minions she draw.
'Wait, no. Don't get distracted!' She shook her head, garnering an unseen curious look from Bell.
Frankly speaking, Bell Cranel makes no sense.
At all.
And now she is starting to get it.
Back when they first met –'Only a week or so ago? Dear fuck.'- she only saw a dirty and scrawny kid willing to do anything to be a hero. To go into the Dungeon without Falna is nothing short of suicide. And yet -and yet- she has no doubt that he would've done so. Such was the light in his eyes. She got curious, how could she not, for he is something that tricksters like her are always on the lookout for.
People that change the status quo.
Or at least has the chance to.
So she took him, dirty and desperate, and fed him in a nice little restaurant that wouldn't talk.
It was… strange.
Unexpectedly nice, mind you, but strange nonetheless. But who would she be if she couldn't deal with some strangeness. Hel, strangeness is what she deals with as a trickster Goddess.
Speaking of tricksters, as lucky as Rabbit is, she still has some cards up her sleeve. Literally.
And then came the report. The War Shadow incident. She genuinely, honestly, started planning the funeral papers as she read the paper sent to her by his little advisor. Failing to realize that the report was far from apologetic or mourning.
Hel no, instead what greeted her halfway through was that Rabbit won.
Against a War Shadow. A variant at that. Who, by definition, was stronger than your usual War Shadow.
As someone with no real Status to his name, barely stronger than the average person. As someone who only had a day of Dungeon experience.
He won, alone.
And yes, she did factor in that, according to what Bell told her, it had less Endurance than normal. But that only meant it was stronger in other areas.
There really is no way to underestimate the significance of what he had done. Nothing less than a miracle was needed for that to happen.
Perhaps it was simply adrenaline. It wouldn't be the first time that sheer tenacity won the battle, in this Age or the last. Still, something smelled fishy about it.
And then she understood.
She simply had to update his Status.
[Liaris Freese]
A Skill forever stuck in her mind.
A Skill that enhances one's own growth. Infinite possibilities, and infinite ways for glory to bloom. The perfect skill for someone with an iron will and a soul unbending.
And it is in her Familia.
Even the thought makes her giddy.
'Take that, you slut!'
From the boy before her she can feel something similar to what she felt when she found Finn. Or Riveria, Gareth, Bete, Tiona, Tione, Ais, Lefiya.
It is her special ability. The ability to feel a person "Weight" in fate. Something similar to what Deities like Freya has.
Trickster Deities, especially someone of her status, are connected to Fate itself. Not as much as Deities with domains directly related to them but to trick the whole world one must know where to start. Some mortals have deeper "Presence" or "Weight" in the world, people that might very well change common sense as it is.
Tricksters like her crave amusement. Someone turning the whole world upside down is right up her alley.
Why do you think the Divine aided the mortal of old, people that later became known as Heroes, Legends, and Myths?
That is how she made her family as grand as it is today. She picked up those that she knew would later become one of the Great. Should they realize their potential at least. Otherwise she never would've suggested Gareth to buy Ais a sword costing a million as a level 1. Never would've allowed for some no-name drunk punk like Bete to join her Familia. Every executive, or soon-to-be-one, were handpicked by her after all.
And Bell will surpass them all.
She is certain of this.
She peered over her cards to catch him meticulously planning his next action before visibly thinking 'Fuck it'. Perhaps sensing her gaze he looked up –giving her a nice view of his cards- and caught her eyes. His ears already begun to redden but his eyes stayed on hers. Smirking behind her cards she glances at the window.
'Especially with that magic of his.'
A shudder ran through her body.
'I can't wait until they meet him.'
"LEEEEEROOOOOY JEEEEENKIIIINS!"
"DAMNIT!"
One week until the Surface.
It galls him.
Sheer indignance fills his every step. The people on the streets looking at the frowning –in his mind at least- teenager stomping on the ground as he walked.
It's a shame that from an outsider's perspective he's pouting.
Sighing, he crossed his arms and slowed his steps. Instead of fuming about something that he knew would come sooner or later, he just simply took in the energetic air of Orario.
Rare occasion, since most of the time he is in the Dungeon. The only air he breathes is the morning dew, the stale air in the Dungeon, or the night's.
It is still strange for him how different Orario is at different times. Vendors shouting their prices, customers haggling, and children running between the legs of their parents are just a few things he can hear and see.
Hmmm, speaking of vendors-
"Excuse me," he called out to the oddly bored merchant who perked up, "how much for Mruit?" he pointed at the red fruit he came to appreciate since he arrived at Orario. Or at least since he had money to buy them.
"Ah, for those? 10 Valis for one, 55 for five."
"I take one then." He flicked the coin signaling ten Valis and swiped the best-looking Mruit from the stall.
Continuing on his way he tasted the familiar meaty flavor with hints of orange. A bit chewy for a fruit but tasty nonetheless.
As he walked the odd-but-comforting weight of Eina-san's gift drew his attention. A smile tugged at his lips as he marveled at how it shone in the high noon sun.
It might not be anything much for the normal person but it means so much to him.
It has been so long since someone other than Loki-sama gifted him anything that he almost forgot how it feels like.
Simple green –the same color as Eina-san's eyes- arm protector hastened to his left forearm. Green Supporter, Eina-san called it, made to not only to be used as a shield but also as a sheath. He didn't mean to sound rude but in his awe, he couldn't stop but question why she gave him something nice.
He didn't get an answer beyond a blush and a hasty "We are even now" before she ran back into the Guild.
Wait where was he again?
Oh right, he is angry.
His previously smiling turned into a frown –a pout more like- as he remembered Loki-sama's "suggestion". He stomped his way up the empty stairs of Babel until he reached his destination.
The 8th floor.
So why is he fuming? Offended, even.
Because he needs to buy armor.
Insulting.
He knows.
Apparently getting into various troubles every other day in the Dungeon –like yesterday- is bad for his health. So Loki-sama decreed it that he needs to buy some armor.
Stopping in front of the first shop he took a calming breath and pushed the door open.
"Welcome! What can I get'ya?" Manning the counter was a happy-go-lucky dwarf with a big smile. A simple work apron that saw cleaner –and better- days tied around his neck and waist. Perhaps a blacksmith that runs the shop as a side?
"Hi," he didn't stutter! Sweet, sweet, victory, "do you sell armor?"
"Depends, what kind?" The dwarf took a look at him, "Lemme guess, light?"
First of all, rude. Second of all, "yes please." He had to accede, he doesn't want heavy armor. What he can't tank with light armor he'll dodge.
"In the back kiddo, don't be afraid to shout 'kay?"
"Yes, thank you." He nodded and sent back a wobbly smile to the grinning dwarf.
Maybe Loki-sama is right, he should socialize more.
…
Or maybe not, it'd cut into his Dungeon time.
In the back many shelves lined up neatly. Boxes, old and new, packed on them and the surrounding floor. Shields and weapons lined the walls. Perhaps a premium spot? Or maybe they are there to look good. There is a noticeable lack of armor stands, or just general armor on them. But then again, this shop seems mostly for level 1 adventurers. Ergo people that don't need full armor.
Now that he thinks about it he didn't see many people with complete armors.
As his fingers swipe over slightly dusty equipment his mind wandered to how they were made. Little scratches, slightly off hammer hits, curling edges, places where the heating was too much or too little. Little things that couldn't be noticed by most.
He can see it.
It's like he sees how they were made. The hammer hits, the sparks fly, the searing hot flames, the sweat and blood and soul that went into making these.
His eyes, trying to take in everything, lock on a conspicuous crate on the ground.
White with red lines cutting from one piece to the other say that the whole armor is a set. Picking up the chest plate which should be the heaviest he is surprised when its actually very light.
'This,' his mind stopped as he run his fingers through the excellent workmanship, 'who made this?' It might not be some divine artifact or armor made by spirits but this is nothing to scoff at. There must be some signet right? Some signature or a seal.
He turned the chest plate over and his eyes zeroed in the noticeable symbol as well as the name below it.
'Welf Crozzo, huh?' For some reason, the name sounds familiar. Like he should know him.
His eyes drew to the symbol –the blacksmith's signature no doubt- above the name that he previously ignored in favor of the name.
He slumped, awe forgotten, and smiled wryly, 'A rabbit? Really? Will I never live down this name, Loki-sama?'
Somewhere, somehow, a red-haired Goddess had the sudden urge to laugh menacingly.
Six days until the surface.
''Make him stronger.'' She ordered.
''Make him show me the Magic I gifted him.'' She said.
Fine, if it makes her happy he'd burn the world. Some more instructions would've been appreciated though.
As it is, he has few ideas. But none feel quite fine. The only one he finds anything worthwhile or remotely efficient.
Training him personally. The boy has no Familia members to teach him yet, no bonds formed between them. They should be nothing more than concepts of camaraderie for the boy. If, instead, it was him that the boy formed some familiar bond then the transition from the Loki Familia to his Goddess' should be far simpler. And it's not like he dislikes teaching. It is the duty of the senior members to teach the juniors, he has done so on many occasions. Even if they never last.
Plus, the boy must meet the bare minimum to be worthy of his Goddess' attention.
'Wait,' never one to show much emotion, he simply blinked as a thought struck him even while cleaving a monster in two, 'what day- yes. That could work.'
His face hadn't changed but if one knew where to look one would have noticed a calculative gleam within his eyes.
3 days until the surface.
The witching hour.
A special time in the night, when the hour feels both like a minute and a day. A remaining superstition from before Babel was founded, when monsters roamed the world.
When the air tastes crisper than ever. The stars far above shine brighter than he ever saw, the moon cleaner than within the reflection of a silent lake. The hustle and bustle of Orario not quite faded but muted.
A time when one's thoughts wander freely in the wind.
It is at times like this that he really thinks about his life. Of what was, what is, and what can be.
It is lucky that he found this little place on the roof. It seems like whoever lived in the Tricksters' Hideout had an appreciation for the night sky. So much so that they made a hidden little stairway in their room. It's not much, just a flat little platform overlooking the courtyard.
And yet at this very moment, he feels as if he became part of the world.
At times like this, he thinks of the before. Before Loki-sama, before Orario.
Before Grandpa's death.
He misses his home.
"Home is not a place, but a person." A quote he read somewhere mumbled under his breath, not even the wind answered him.
Well, the wind might not. But a tricky Goddess might.
"Truer words have never been spoken." He almost jumps out of his hide because of the voice beside him. Whipping his to the side he stares at Loki-sama's face, eyes open and melancholic, staring at the sky. She catches his look and smirks her usual smirk but it feels muted, "Want a blanket, snow-white?" He sighs at the newest nickname before looking curiously at the blanket offered to him before shaking his head. She simply shrugs and takes it back, though he notes that instead of wrapping it around her to ward off the chilly night she lays it over her lap.
"… I didn't know you knew this place, Loki-sama." Maybe not the best conversation starter but he'll take what he can get.
Judging by the knowing look and quiet snort she agrees, "I know this house like the back of my hand, kiddo. Do you know many people I heard fucking from here?"
Blushing, he stiffly looked back at the stars, missing the teasing grin but not the quiet snickers. They lapse into a comfortable kind of silence that happened more and more this week. It's strange, not the comfortable part, mind you, but the silence part. Whenever Loki-sama comes over –which meant almost every day in the last seven days- it usually means a lot of noise. Whether from raging at the games they play, her teaching old songs that were sung by her people, regaling stories of new and old or shenanigans in the dungeon, or just simply making noise for the sake of making noise. Either way, she was just simply the kind of person that couldn't stay silent.
He appreciates it a lot. There is just something relaxing about it.
But that became less and less in the past few days.
It took an embarrassing amount of time until he figured out the reason. The Loki Familia should be up in a few days after all. He guesses that she is worried. Adventuring, and most importantly Exploring, is not the safest of jobs after all.
He also thought a lot about them, how they'll welcome him, if he can befriend them, if he can ask for advice, if they'll even like him.
He is… nervous.
Nervous if they'll accept him like Loki-sama did.
Excited because he'll soon meet the people that are so treasured by his Goddess.
And a small part of him, the same part that urges him to become a hero, wishes to get to know some of the strongest people in the whole world.
"Have I ever told you about Valhalla?" The disturbingly quiet voice of his Goddess snaps him out of his reverie so abruptly that it takes a few moments to recognize that he has been asked a question, and another few to actually understand the question.
"The halls ruled by Óðinn's, right?" He asks uncertainly, when she shows no sign of correcting him he continues, "The place where people falling in battle goes to. As long as they chose that afterlife, right?" That was a very educational night. Apparently, depending on which pantheon they worship, or who is their god, they go to different afterlives.
She smiles something less than her usual smirk but still distinctly Loki, "Have I ever told you about it?" She repeats her question with the same smile.
It takes a moment for him to read between the lines before shaking his head. No, she only sometimes mentioned the place and even then it was only after she was well into her wine bottle. For some reason, she always avoided the topic.
"Then boy, do I have stories for you! There was this one time when my brother dressed up as a bride…" and just like that, two people wishing for their home found companionship between each other. Tales of the beauty and greatness of Valhalla, interwoven with snarky comments, were told to the night winds.
To say he was enraptured would be an understatement. Tales, different from the usual legends, spoken with great laughs and shenanigans described Valhalla as something beautiful. Not only in looks but the people living within its halls. But it was truly her voice that convinced him. She spoke in a voice full of nostalgia, happiness, wonder, and so much more. Like something that she treasures as much as her Familia.
However, something struck him more than any word she said.
Of how empty it echoes with no more warriors to laugh merrily.
Of how sad she said this.
He really meant to keep his promise. It was simple, don't be an idiot. She even said its okay to play hero but only if he is strong enough. He meant to get stronger quick hence why spending yet another day in the Dungeon.
So why the hell is he jumping into a veritable horde of Hellhounds?
"RUN!" the scream tore itself out of his throat before he realized what is happening. As he fell from the mouth of a cave his feet found purchase on a monster's neck, thus softening his fall while killing it. He didn't look back at the small party even as he could feel their eyes on his neck. His knife flashed into his awaiting hand and bit into two Hellhounds that regained their wits quicker than the others.
Mad rustling sounded from the bloody and beaten group before it was replaced by rushing footsteps.
"Stay alive." Even as his heart pounded in his ears the quiet request reached it.
His mouth opened but slammed close as the ragtag pack circled him, he can't afford distractions now. His nose wrinkled at the heavy panting coming from behind him.
Feeling the disturbance behind him he reversed his knife and, in the same motion, buried it hilt deep in its skull. Barely drawing it out he dodge another hound to its side and halving it the long way. Using the momentum he flew over another dog and landed just outside of the dozens of monster.
"COME ON! I'M RIGHT HERE!" The scream bounced off the cavern walls in an echo, followed quickly by him rushing in the opposite direction of the group.
Credit where it is due, he never knew the saying 'Running like Hellhounds are nipping at one's heels' is so true.
However, he stopped thinking when one of them bit into his leg and refused to let go until he crushed its skull. By the time he killed it another jumped on him only to meet a similar fate. Giving up running in the face of dozens of Hellhounds he took a stance that put less pressure on his bad leg.
Knife flashed, monster died. Around him in a circle lay dust and cores. In a breath of a moment he managed to down a potion.
'Thank you Loki-sama.' He doesn't know if she can hear it or not but he had to thank her.
After another three monsters turned into dust under his knife's tender care he deemed his leg good enough. Using another Hellhound's back as a platform he jumped over the pack and ran into one of the many cave entrances with the monsters biting the air behind him.
Unheeding of the sweat and blood sticking to his skin, he brought out another potion and drank it as quickly as the first. Stomping his right foot down so hard he felt something crack –either the floor or his leg, he doesn't know- and stopped dead still. Turning, he didn't even need to thrust his knife, the dog ran into it.
'Take that you daufi mutt.'
One tried to blindside him but he jumped away. Unfortunately, right into another. However, instead of only taking it, he gave a wound as well. It managed sink claws into his forearm but he took away its eyes. The blood feels warm against his cheek.
Kicking one overeager puppy back into the pile won him some needed potion time. As much as he dislikes wasting potions he needs to be in tip-top shape to deal with…
'One, two, four… twenty Hellhounds. Huh, did some of them split off?' he frowned in thought even as he turned and sprinted away, 'What if they went after the group?'
Not wasting more time with getting as far away from the injured as he could he quickly turned and jumped into the fray. It's times like this that he regrets not buying a second blade.
He plunged the nameless knife into a Hellhound's throat while kicking another away.
With every kill shining mist formed from shining dust. Uncomfortable warmth coated his knife hand in the form of dried blood. Left hand didn't fare any better. Bloody knuckles, odd pressure on his fingers, the torn sleeve barely hiding claw marks left on him. And that's only from the elbow up, below that the sleeve is but a memory of a shredded arm and singed cloth. The less said about his legs the better. Rugged mutts learned not to let him run.
'I need a breather.' Jumping over a Hellhound –and ignoring the searing pain- he used its back to drive it into the ground as well as a platform. Clamping down on the small cliff in the wall, he swayed slightly before mouthing his knife and switching hands. Using every bit of his willpower –since that is the only thing keeping him together- he swung himself up. Rolling onto his back he wasted no time downing the potion and relishing in the temporary numbness.
The pressure –which he only now realizes were broken fingers- disappeared, his left arm looked more like an arm, sleeve still missing- a shame, he liked this shirt. However, his legs still didn't feel quite right. Even as he panted something fierce one hand sneaked into his strangely light pouch and withdrew another potion. Not giving any thought to the barking down below he uncapped the bottle and put it to his mouth-
-Only to fling himself off the cliff half a gulp later when scorching fire burnt his back. Wasted potion crashing against a wall ignored, he shut out the screaming and throbbing and focused on his fall. Rolling and not listening to the dark spots dancing around his eyes that tell him to stay down, he broke into a dash towards the monsters.
Even as he dived away at the last minute from a slash his mind worked overdrive questioning where the fire came from. Not a second later his mind screeched to a halt, and laughter that sounded suspiciously like Loki-sama filled his silent mind.
'Right, Hellhounds. They have a tendency to spit fire.'
Dumbass.
His face burned and it wasn't because of the fire,' Shut up.'
If one good thing came from his burnt back, then it's that they finally decided to use their signature annoyance. Ergo, their numbers are dwindling.
'Now, if they stopped shooting.'
Unfortunately, the potion focused on his burn back instead of his legs. While its nice not having to worry about it, it'd have been better if his legs healed instead.
Oh well, he'll make do.
With this nice rock he found.
The rock flies true and bursts through the fireball and hits the Hellhound in the head. Diving behind it and using it as a shield made the fire stop. One hand holding its mouth to keep it from thrashing he takes in the room. Five, plus one in his hand, remained from the original dozens.
He can do this.
Kicking the mutt into a group of three that made them tumble like drunks gave him enough time to rush at one of the lone ones. He could see its throat inflating. Diving to the left avoided him cooking to a crisp.
Knife, throat. Only the core remained.
'One down.'
The group of four at his left regained their bearings, while the other one, to his right, is finally getting ready to shoot him down.
A plan forms in his mind. A plan that reminds him of his hero's words.
''First! Don't be an Idiot!''
'Sorry Loki-sama, I don't have a better idea.'
His legs burst away from the ground, leaving only kicked dust. However, instead of being sensible and attacking the lone monster, he rushed smack dab into the no-man's land between the two groups.
Two groups were ready to fry him alive.
Two groups launched their biggest fire yet at the same time.
Him, who is right between them.
The result?
BOOM!
Opening his eyes he wasted no time. Diving at the group of four blind monsters. After killing the first two with ease the knife in his hand flipped, going for the eye instead of the throat. Thus, three fell. The fourth, and last, may have been blinded but wasn't deafened. When it heard the knife whistling it dodged. It couldn't dodge a kick, nor the butt of his knife.
He never believed he'd be proud to say the blood on his face isn't his. Nevertheless, it isn't.
The warmth of it makes him want to puke.
Speaking of warmth, his weary eyes search for the last Hellhound. There, on the ground, lays the monster. It isn't dead, high-pitched whimpering filled ears instead of the flowing blood it was before, just burned. And blinded.
It was too close to the explosion. That, and it couldn't counter four of its kind with only itself.
Walking, stumbling really, over he took one look at it in as much pity as he could. Grandpa taught him to not prolong a prey's suffering. Hellhounds might not be something you'd hunt in a forest but he gives it a pass this
Kneeling –more like falling to his knees- he lifts the knife in an iron grip. Placing it just above the monster's skull, he supports the knife's butt with his other hand.
Knife, skull.
Dust remains.
The silence that engulfed the room is eerie. After fighting for what felt like hours the quiet just feels wrong. The pounding in his chest slows, focus wavers, iron grip stays the same. The blisters and scratches take center stage in his mind. Like for the last… who knows how long he ignores it.
Summoning strength he didn't know he had he started crawling to the nearby wall. It didn't take long but it certainly felt like it. Leaning back carefully so that his back doesn't start wailing he takes a look at the room.
Simple, rocky room scattered with dust, blood, monster cores, scorch marks, and cracks on the floor. The monotone bedrock of the First Line is ever present on this Floor. Though, he notes, the room is strange in that there are only two entrances. The one he came in, and the ledge he used before that is the mouth of a cave. One leading to confusing routes scattered around the First Line no doubt. Though it'll take him some time to get used to the moist air down here. So different from the Upper Floors.
Left alone with no will to move yet, he started thinking.
'I wonder if they're okay.' This, of course, refers to the group he helped. They didn't look to good the last time saw them, 'I hope they reached the surface.' A farfetched dream, it takes longer to get up from the middle floors even if they're barely out of the entrance. They were lucky to be stopped before they could go deeper, they could still leave. It also allowed him to hear them from the entrance to the 13th Floor thus leading to him jumping into the fray.
Why was he at the entrance?
Well, uh, he might've been debating the pros and cons of asking for forgiveness rather than permission. Loki-sama gave rather clear instructions on what not to do. Going down to the Middle Floors as a Level 1 is rather high on the list.
Alas, here he is.
With, he dimly notices, a lot of monster cores scattered around. Actually, it's not only this room. He can see a small trail leading up to the entrance and further, like a trail of flickering crystals.
'That's a lot of money… Money that is on the floor.' He should get up actually. His lungs didn't feel like exploding anymore so he should be good enough to get home.
Reaching into his bag yielded him no potions. Apparently, he used them all up before and after the whole Hellhound accident. After frowning down at his bag like it offended him –which it did- he sighed. Gathered courage, and a wall, helped him stand. Wobbly and with the wall supporting him, but stand. Taking a moment to breathe he took his first step-
And almost fell on his face if not for the wall.
Slowing his beating heart he paused to think. There are not many options he really can do. No potions, no reinforcement, he is so far from the main path help can't get to him before a monster does, no healing magic-
Magic.
…Should he use it? He used it a lot today so his Mind should be pretty low.
…Maybe he should've used it before getting banged up by a horde of Hellhounds? In his defense, it hadn't exactly crossed his mind while he was a chew toy. You try to sing while fighting for your life! Concurrent Chanting is nothing to scoff at, either in difficulty in learning it or actually achieving it. Plus he only used it twice, including today. After testing it out when he got it Loki-sama told him to wait until she got someone to help him out with it since it is fairly complex along with being draining. Not exactly a good combination for a rookie.
…And as much as he adores it for not only being his first magic but for what kind of magic it is, the activation requirement is a bit embarrassing.
Oh well, it should give him the boost to get to the surface. It also would be nice to check out where those split-off Hellhounds went, just in case.
Breathe in.
Small humming swept through the silent cavern like a gale of wind. So out of place, it seemed like the Dungeon itself held its breath. The humming intensified before a small voice took its place. The lyrics of the song that enchanted him fell unbidden from his lips.
As he chanted to an unheard -but not unfelt- beat his injuries numbed. Exhaustion purged itself, giving way to the sweet taste of victory. Strength filled his body as fragility gave away to hope. His heart burned with the fires of determination. The bloody warmth coating his body transformed into the cozy heat of a hearth.
Breathe out.
He moved his body to get more comfortable in his skin as his magic took effect fully. As much as he wishes to loose himself in the euphoria for a moment longer he knows this is but a temporary fix. As great as his magic is, it does not heal. It simply gave him the last push to get home.
He can already predict what will happen when he gets home and he can't say it doesn't bring a smile to his face. Loki-sama will undoubtedly scold him and praise him at the same time. Ruthlessly criticizing every detail of his tale before ruffling his hair and opening some wine to get him drunk, laughing all the while. They would probably play some rounds of Hearthstone, maybe Loki-sama would even suggest betting something outlandish. They would be up until dawn cracked the sky, laughing and talking and singing and playing and so many other things that makes him treasure every moment with her. She would tease him relentlessly for weeks too. It would be lie to say he is looking forward to it, but it would also be a lie to say he hates it.
Either way, he needs to get going if he wants to get out of the Dungeon before his magic gives out. Simply casting it is something to be proud of already, what with his probably bone-dry Mind capacity.
Hesitantly letting go of the wall and taking a tentative step forward showed him that he can still move, albeit not as well as he hoped. However, he should be good enough.
His second step faltered when the ground moved. His sand gripped the wall in fear of slipping but when he didn't fall, nor did vertigo hit him like a Level 7 Adventurer, he frowned.
'What was-' his thought got cut off by another tremor, this one far closer than he'd like. Good in the bad, at least it isn't his mind playing tricks on him.
Bad in the good, the Dungeon isn't exactly known for having earthquakes. There are like three reasons he can say off the top of his head and one is worse than the other.
The next tremor was more felt than seen, traveling from his boot to his spine and making goosebumps along the way. It also felt far softer than the first one, less of an earthquake and more of a-
Cold sweat coated his body like a second skin. He needs to get out now!
Not giving any thought to the monster drops on the floor, he semi-limped across the floor as fast as possible. He could feel the tremors getting closer and closer like an ever-looming heartbeat. One particularly harsh shake would have knocked him off his feet if not for a nearby stalagmite. With panting breath, he tries to shove himself off of it only for rankling coughs to stop him. His vision blackens momentarily as the last cough shakes him –or was it another tremor? He doesn't know anymore.
But when he looks back up his body freezes. The Dungeon is silent so similar yet infinitely worse compared to a few minutes ago. It's like time stopped, only the blood pounding in his ears signals that it didn't.
Festering, coppery smell fills his nose.
Bestial, animalistic rumbling cut through the haze of his mind.
As he looks upon the crooked hand of leather and scars he is reminded of that time when he was a child. Wandering forest alone and searching for princesses to save. It was silent just like now, only filled by something that lurked in the shadows. The thing spoken in lullabies and bedtime stories that was just outside of the campfire. Hiding within shadows stretched by the fire, patient and unseen but forever there. Waiting for the moment when there are shadows no longer but only the moonlight.
It's just like when he was almost killed by a goblin.
Except no goblin that stands before him.
He watches in fascinated despair as the wall crumbles under claws. He sees a breath blow out just hidden by the same crumbling wall, like steam from a boiling lake.
It is no goblin that stands before him.
It is a Monster in the truest sense of the word.
For the abomination that stands before him is a Minotaur.
If time felt slowed before then it's crawling now. Just like the scream at the back of his throat.
It opens maw wide –he can see the spit sparkling in the dim light- and Howls.
"▅▄▅▃▃▅▆▇█!"
Sheer, unfiltered, horror filled his very being. Throes of thorns shackled his lungs, his throat constricted until he couldn't breathe, his vision darkened and sharpened in tandem with his heartbeat, and the blood in his ears felt muted and deafening at the same time.
It lumbered towards him with heavy steps causing the ground to shake. By some miracle, he hadn't fallen over yet.
Yet, it only made the impossibility of his survival more real, almost touchable. So close It was.
His vision darkened around the edges while spots of every color flowed in the middle of it.
The shadow in front of him moved. He could feel the wind picking up as It raised something heavy.
"Rabbit, dodge!"
In the end, what made him jump away was a desperate scream from the back of his mind.
The next thing he knows is that he is panting like he almost drowned, greedily gulping down air. The world sharpened into focus around him, changing from formless shadows into real shapes and colors.
He is still down here, still in the Dungeon, still with a Minotaur in front of him.
As the dust that picked up from its mighty swing settled down he caught a better view of it.
It is tall, standing at least two heads above him. With brown fur matted with blood and grey stomach riddled with scars. Both of its horns jut out from its head proudly although he can see they are damaged. That gives him a pause, either there is a nearby, higher level, adventurer or- or there it was a monster that gave him the wounds.
He really hopes it's the first option.
His thoughts are cut off as the hulking mass of muscle and rage charges at him almost too fast for him to follow. Its right arm swings into a black blur and whistles just under his chin. He jumps back as far as he can while the Minotaur struggles with its… sword?
Since when do Minotaurs have swords?
He frowns, hands instinctually moving to his neck to check if it's still there even as he thinks. However, when something familiarly warm and stick hits his hands he looks down. There, on his hand, was freshly spilled blood. Tracing his throat he can feel a shallow cut just below his Adam's apple.
'Okay,okay,okayokayokayokay!' He says the word like a mantra that'd save his life.
The Minotaur managed to tear the sword out of the stalagmite with a cloud of dust. It opens its mouth and-
"▃▅▆█▆▇█▆!"
And terror filled him once again. This time muted somewhat.
'Howl, the special ability of Minotaurs.' The words he read drowns out the cacophony of 'okay's echoing in his mind, 'Causes paralyzing fear in people below level 2.'
That means he can fight it. If he can move he can fight.
Something logical -cowardly- whispers in his mind that it doesn't mean he should.
No.
The thought is unformed, less of a word but more of a rejection of the very thought.
He will not run.
He will not cower.
Valhalla welcomes no cowards.
Then he will be no coward.
Breathe in.
The last remaining tremors in his hands even out. The world snaps into focus. Senses sharpen. Hand grips his loyal knife tighter. The air fills with static as silence rules true in the Dungeon once again.
Both, as one, took their stances. As the world deepens around him he takes its movements apart. There is something disturbingly Adventurer-like in how it keeps itself.
It is no longer Monster and Prey in the room.
From this point forth there is only Monster and Warrior.
Breathe out.
As the used air travels between his gritted teeth he lets a last prayer- nay, a request, a question, a plea.
"Will you accept me, Valhalla," so I may make her happy?
He thinks no longer as it leaps at him. Its hand whipped back with all the strength to shake the world. He waits patiently, eyes narrowing into slits as he watches the swing reach its apex. The ground cracks as it stomps on it, its whole body turning into a whip of destruction.
Still, he waits for the perfect opportunity.
"If it takes twenty minutes, then it takes twenty minutes. Don't rush a battle."
'Now!'
His shifts so just to the side. A few strands of his hair fly away. For a moment he can sees himself glance at the sword.
The next moment, his knife screeches against its torso as he rushes past it. He ducks under the wide swipe of furred hands ready to take his head. He somersaults and uses his hands to gain distance. His body whirls in the air as his thoughts do in his mind.
'I can't cut it. I'm faster. I'm smarter. I'm smaller. How can I use this?'
The Minotaur rushes at him with abandon and leaves him no room to breathe. The wind made by heavy swings ruffles his clothes. His nose twitches by the disgusting smell coming from it even as he ducks under the crude sword. More than familiar. Not the coppery blood that he expected- though there is more than enough of that.
Suffocating sweetness that spits at life itself.
'Smells like it's rotting from the inside.'
The Minotaur's punch misses just to the side of his head. He can feel a warm trickle flowing down his chin. Not wasting an opportunity, he plunges the knife into its wrist using both hands. Only for his eyes to widen as it glances off harmlessly, barely even cutting the fur.
The air moves below him and he moves with it. Without thinking he leaned away from the leg that would have liquidized his insides. Bell's leg lashes out in the mimicry of a whip. Cutting might not work, but everyone feels a kick to the kneecaps.
The Minotaur buckles with a pained roar that shakes the room. He goes in for the attack only for a raging fist to crash against his hastily raised hands.
Something cracks in his mouth as he tries to bites down the scream. Emphasis on the tries.
A moment before he hits the ground he manages to roll into the momentum and soften the impact. He tumbled until he flipped to his feet, just in time to avoid breaking his spine on the wall. Not wasting a moment on the pain, Bell rushed at the slowly rising, and enraged, Minotaur.
His eyes widened as instead of slashing him or punting him it tried to skewer him. Hastily dodging to the right saved his life.
It didn't save his arm.
Pain and sickly warmth exploded out of his shoulder. He could feel his magic faltering and throat giving out under his screaming. Darkness engulfs his mind.
The next thing he knows is sharp throbbing in his… well, everything, bestial roars echoing in the cavern along with his pained panting. Focusing through the black spots, he sees it clutching at its head and roaring on the ground.
'What happened?' The question is barely formed in his mind, more like formless curiosity than anything. As it writhes on the ground like an animal –like Bell- he catches a glimpse of what its clutching. Or more like what it isn't.
'Wasn't there two horns…?' He gives no more thought to it as his addled mind registers something digging into his hip. Looking down, he sees something rather weird in his hand. The same hand that he can't feel from the shoulder down.
'Where did I get this?' He slowly blinks before his tired eyes widen. Glancing from his hand to the Minotaur -still writhing but occasionally throwing him glares- he puts together the confusing puzzle after a few moments.
'Huh. Good job past-me.'
He unsteadily climbs to his feet and discards the horn. Bell needs a plan. His knife can't cut deep enough, he would brake himself trying to bash its skull in, he doesn't have any traps, and a battle of attrition is just a bad plan in the Dungeon. Especially since his magic should end any moment now. Hell, even with his full magic he isn't sure about punching it. That is, if he doesn't pass out on the spot with a Mind Zero.
He slowed his breath, curses the Hellhounds, his lack of potions, his idiot self for not buying a better knife, and just the Dungeon in general under his breath.
But it's okay now –the Minotaur climbs to its feet with heavy heaves- he has a plan.
Well, something that resembles a plan.
More like a thought if he is honest.
'Loki-sama is going to kill me.'
For a moment of eternity, the cave remains silent. Cut off from the noise of the world. No blood in his ears, no breaths, no beating heart, no throbbing pain.
For just a moment, all that he could think of was the victory before him. The sweetness of Victory mixed with blood and exhaustion. The same euphoria as he had after the War Shadow.
And then the silence was broken by him. Not by an echoing step, not by a roar of challenge, not by defiant eyes, but by his magic. By the song, he heard by mistake but he would never think of it as one.
"Fara á brott með víkingum," Inexplicably, it was not his own voice. His own voice that broke the silence split bit by bit. Old, young, men, women, reedy, melodic, and all kind of voices joined until his own was drowned out.
The Minotaur took rumbling steps toward him. He mirrored it with a calculated walk. He can't pray to anyone willing to listen that he doesn't mess this up.
This is his last resort. Now or never.
"Standa upp í stafni," The chant echoed off of the walls with grim determination. His eyes sharpened the world into a fine blade. Useless thoughts filter out- no, don't even form.
The Minotaur opens its mouth and he can see the air warp as it roars. He doesn't hear it though, even then he can tell its intent.
Its sword raises in slow motion.
'Dodge left.' His mind command. His body obeys.
The sword falls to his right, close enough to shave a bit of his shirt away.
'Attack inner wrist.'
Its whole hand spans and drops the sword. His bones shake at the unheard roar of pain above him.
'Dodge below.'
Ducking under its left-handed swipe gives him access to its back.
'Continue chant.'
"Stýra dýrum knerri!"
'Kick inner knees.'
The monster goes down with an angry shout. It buys him barely a moment. More than enough.
'Climb.'
He grips the fur and skin on its back and swings himself to its shoulder. It sways and tries to grasp him but he dodges by the skin of teeth.
'This is it,' his concentration wavers at phantom feeling of exhilaration, 'I win.'
'Finish chant.'
"[Baldr Afli]!"
An inferno of hope blossoms in his chest. The ever-present pain fades into obscurity, and his body strengthens.
'Attack brain.'
His knife is nothing but a flash as he swings his blade. The attack is perfectly aimed at the center of its eerily glowing red eyes.
Every moment plays in slow motion before his eyes. His knife slowed by his perception, the widening of its eyes as it gets closer and closer, its skin's shudder, and, if he focused hard enough, he could see the blood flow in his veins.
The knife plunges into its eye-
And then it stills.
Something snaps his wrist.
His stomach churns as he suddenly becomes airborne. His eyes barely have the time to widen as he is slammed into the ground so hard his ears pop and he even bounces back a bit. The world blacks out for a moment but even then he can feel himself rolling away due to Dungeon-beaten instincts. A good thing too because not a moment later the Minotaur the stomps where his head used to be hard enough to cause a mini earthquake. But he doesn't really focus on that. Instead looks at the broken remains of his knife and hopes of leaving this place alive and proud.
It must be the blood loss but he mourns for the blade for a moment before being snapped out of his grief by a rather rude roar.
"▇██████▇▅!"
Bloody eyes slide from shattered knife to thrashing monster. Though this time instead of clutching its now not bleeding stump where a horn was it claws at a very much bleeding eye socket.
'Serves you right, you bastard.'
Still, he needs to stand. Heroes do not give up. Warriors die standing.
'But I'm tired.'
He should get up, he really should. Otherwise, the Minotaur will and that's not good.
'Do I have to?'
What would Loki-sama say? What would Grandpa say?
He grunts and would have turned over like a petulant child woken up by his mother if not for the fact that everything hurts. Now that he thinks about it there is less pain now.
Do you really want to die at the hands of a dumb cow with a pointy stick? Valhalla would resound by the laughter. And Loki-sama would just return to Heaven to smack you.
That does the trick, 'Fine. Last time?'
Last time.
Slowly, carefully, he props himself on his right elbow, the arm with the broken wrist. There is something digging into his skin there but he barely notices. As he gets to his knees he searched his surroundings with dazed eyes for something to brace himself against. Fortunately, he quickly found an oddly shaped stalagmite with a V shape carve into it halfway to his right. Gritting his teeth tightly he rose up with unsteady feet. He can still use his right hand. No idea what good it'll do but at least he has that.
"▄██▇▃▇██▇▉!"
"Oh, won't'ya shaddap already?!" Apparently, his throat is still good enough to scream at the oversized cow.
"▅▆▇███▇!"
Disregarding the damned menace's answer, he steadies himself. Okay, he is standing. Now what?
"Rookie, catch!"
The voice startles him so bad that he almost tumbles back down onto the hard bedrock. Wildly glancing around him results in finding himself squinting at six- or seven? He can't tell- shadowy, but distinct, figures off to the side. One of them has their arms stretched out towards him. Tilting his head, he look around him. His eyes widen as his eyes trail forward. There, stuck at face level close enough to almost have off his nose, sticks out one proud kukri. He couldn't hold back an impressed whistle that almost turned into a bloody cough.
'How did I miss that?'
However, he cares not for such useless questions. Because what blocks his sight of the Minotaur is the finest blade he has ever laid his eyes upon. Circular butt and hand guard encase a colorful handle just a bit larger than his hand. Though you couldn't pay him to tell you what colors they are. With a pained grunt he slid the sword right out of the stalagmite with the ease of a butter melting in the forge. It's light, light enough that his wrist barely burns. The balance is exemplary, he could place the blade's point on the tip of his finger and it would remain there. And the blade –dear Loki- it's beautiful. Around the size of his forearm even with its slight curve distinct to kukris. It combines the beauty, meaningless carvings a bit up from the handguard and the deadly grace that radiates from it into an intimidating blade. However, it feels strangely lonely in his hand even though he knows he can barely move his left arm, the one with the busted shoulder. Perhaps it has a twin?
Life-or-death battle notwithstanding, he wonders how he would have forged it. How he could make it better.
"▆▇██████▇!"
Okay, this sack of useless beef is getting annoying.
Looking away, with heavy reluctance, from the kukri in his hand he stared with indifferent eyes at the Minotaur. With unsteadily steady steps he prowled forward.
The monster, sensing its coming demise, decided to make a last stand. Altogether discarding the sword still on the ground, instead choosing to get down on all fours. The almost black blood coming from its eye flowed freely down its face and dripped on the ground so loudly it echoed. The Minotaur shot steam out of its nostrils. Whether to intimidate, breathe, or for some Skill he doesn't know. It won't work anyway.
It's good that it still wants to fight though. Winning by striking at a downed enemy feels like cowardice.
Valhalla accepts no cowards.
After a moment he sprang into action. Ironically mirroring the monster's earlier charge that lost it an eye. Bell has no intention of losing one though. As cool as Óðinn sounds he doesn't want to be one-eyed.
With a battle cry befitting berserkers, he charges forward, meeting the horn thrust towards him head-on. For a moment kukri and the remaining horn battle for dominance. The kukri wins when the horn shatters into million pieces.
The Minotaur lets out a blood-curdling scream but it still tries to grapple Bell. Bell, correctly predicting it, ducks just under the neck of the monster.
He can see its red glowing eyes track him and widen in realization as it puts together what it just played right into Bell's hand.
He lets go of the ground momentarily as he spins a little above the ground, gathering as much momentum as he possibly could.
A flash is all that signals the blade's path.
A kick to the ground gets him away from the swung fists of that would have turned him into a paste. Another kick, still spinning in the air, gives him more than enough distance. When he looks back up, fully expecting only a bleeding wound, he is left with tilting his head as the Minotaur stopped dead-still.
A heartbeat passed already when its left wrist slides right off of its arm. Closely followed by its head. He stares dumbfounded as the corpse turns into dust mid-fall.
He glances down at the inconspicuous kukri in his right hand. No scratch nor blood to be seen on the blade.
The last thing he felt is himself falling forward.
When Ais went after an escaped Minotaur she didn't mean to explode a tunnel. Honestly, she doesn't even know how that happened. One moment she is about to cut into cubes, the next rocks are raining on her head. It didn't take long for the rocks to fill up the tunnel and cut her off from her prey.
She was annoyed.
After she turned around and left she searched for an alternative way. The Middle Floors are good because there are many ways to go from one point to another. She likes them. Though, on her way back she ran into Finn and Riveria who had similar experiences with raining pebbles. When she told them that the same thing happened to her the two exchanged a look and rushed to gather up the remaining executives, since they are the only ones still in the Dungeon, and report back to the Guild about the heavy damage the Dungeon sustained.
Juggernauts are nothing to scoff at even if they spawn on a weaker Floor.
It wasn't hard to find them really.
For Tiona and Tione they simply followed the bickering and line of monster cores. It kind of reminded her of an old bedtime story about breadcrumbs.
Bete was similar. If she changed bickering to property damage. Wait, is it still property damage if it's the Dungeon?
Gareth quite literally fell on their lap. Specifically on Finn's. Strange, when she glanced up there was nowhere he could've fallen from.
Riveria's and Gareth's bickering ended when a roar loud enough to rattle the ground reached them. She could tell it was far and in the direction she originally chased her Minotaur.
When she arrived she didn't expect for someone to fight it already. But he injured it first so it's his kill… unless he dies. Then its fair game.
"Ha?! The fuck's the weakling doing? Suicidal much?" She doesn't even turn around at Bete's voice. It is no surprise that he caught up first.
"Are you sure that's okay?" Tiona questions, eyes fixated on the fight before them, "Isn't it your monster?"
She shakes her head. She never managed to hurt it so it isn't hers.
"So…why are we watching a rookie?"
"I do not have the time nor willingness to watch a child cornered and slaughtered." Riveria declared and took a step that put her in front of the group. She barely opens her mouth before something changes before their very eyes that has her reconsider her action.
All of them spent much of their life fighting, in or out of the Dungeon. Sensing the course of a battle by instinct was beaten into them.
They saw the exact moment the battle changed.
The white-haired boy is no longer running. No longer playing the part of an unfortunate rat caught by a dragon.
The fight before them is no longer Monster hunting Prey.
It slowly, almost imperceptibly, forms into a proper stand-off between Monster and Warrior.
The silence is broken by an echoing question that raise their hair.
"Will you accept me, Valhalla?"
Though the question is finished Ais can still see him mouthing something that is lost to the Dungeon.
The next moment the Minotaur leapt at him with speed that he must've trouble following.
"His knife can't cut it." Finn makes the idle observation like it isn't obvious.
"Fuckin' cheapskate." Bete almost spits on the ground, "too poor to get better equipment? The fuck's he using money for?"
"Hey… is it just me or is that a Guild knife?"
Finn hums in the dumbfounded silence as they realize that yes, it is indeed the Guild-issued knife, "So it would seem."
"…What kind of dumbass is he?"
Predictably, when he tries to cut its skin -after a well-executed strategy if Riveria's and Finn's nod is anything to go off of- the knife sparkles against its skin but doesn't actually draw blood. After gaining some distance he goes in for a second serving, this time with supporting the end of his knife with his other hand.
Bete clicks his tongue, "Idiot. The problem is the knife. Not your weak-ass arms."
"At least he tried?" Tiona tries to praise him but it falls flat.
Ais watches with a tilted head as instead of panicking he kicks its kneecaps that has the Minotaur go down. She hadn't thought of doing that before.
"If you can't cut it then kick it, huh?" Gareth comments.
Their attention snaps back when an absolutely gut-wrenching scream fills the entire Floor before it is cut off a moment later. Several breaths hitch as he flies towards the wall far too fast before hitting the ground and bouncing a bit. At the last moment, he rights himself and instead of breaking his spine it is only his breath that is knocked out. She watched with wide eyes as he barely stopped to gasp before kicking off the wall and diving back into the fight.
"Tsk, idiot."
"Too young."
A moment later he screams again as its horn thrust clean through his left shoulder. However, in the next instant, he breaks the cracked hold pinning him with the butt of his knife. The result is him being thrown into a stalagmite with a heavy thud.
The urge to help got stronger after she doesn't see him breathe.
"Leave it alone." She, and several others, levels a glare at him. He matches them all easily and opens his mouth before they help anyway, "The boy's becoming a man. Fight his battles for him and he'll forever be weak."
"Better to be weak than to be dead."
"Tomato over there thinks differently." He nods at the slowly raising and heavily panting boy. He sways dangerously for a moment but doesn't fall. It is easy to see that even half-broken his eyes search for anything that he could use. Incidentally he looks everywhere but at the group watching him.
Ais can see his mouth move. The things she can make out would have his feet clad in adamantium and thrown into a lake if Riveria had anything to say about it.
But she doesn't think anything about it as he opens his mouth again, and instead of the calm and determined voice she heard before, something… more comes out in a language that inexplicably tugs at her. It slowly raised in volume as he started walking towards the Minotaur before the…song? Chant? Reached its peak when the monster tried to cleave him in half length-wise.
"Concurrent Chanting?"
Not a moment later he climbed the monster's back in a clearly suicidal move and attacked its eye with a shout.
And with the shout hope blossomed in her heart. It was like a breath of fresh after drowning in the sea. She felt strength like never before, like she could rebel against the very world and win. Like coating herself in [Ariel] times a hundred. Victory's taste numbed her tongue.
Then she gasped, mirrored by others, as a scream and bestial roar cut through the air. The next thing she sees is Minotaur stomp kicking up dust where his head used to be.
She couldn't help a sigh of relief. The others couldn't either from what she hears behind her.
"Oh, won't'ya shaddap already?!"
Despite herself, she let out a giggle at his annoyed shout and the answer. However, she frowns as she searches for his knife.
"Rookie, catch!" Tione's voice startles everyone. Especially the boy who looks like he would've had a heart attack if he had enough energy left. He glanced at them with dazed eyes, not even reacting when Tiona waved at him. He also missed Zolas almost hitting his head, only noticing it when he almost bumped his head into it.
"Oi, bitch! What'd I say about not helping him?!"
"Fu- get lost, Bete! Besides, I'm not fighting. I just lent him Zolas."
"You wanna fuckin' go you pining bitch!"
Tiona snorted.
"You little-?!"
"Tione, Bete, shut up."
Ais filters out the bickering as she watches him swing Zolas against the Minotaur's remaining horn which broke under Tione's kukri.
She could hear Tione mutter, "If he gets a scratch on my baby…"
The white-haired boy ducked into the Minotaur's guard, swirl in the air for a moment, and use the momentum to cut through its left wrist and head. Then he, still whirling in the air, kicked at the ground twice to land safely away and took a low stance.
"Good technique." Finn muttered.
She tilted her head again because he didn't let up his stance even after cutting straight through its neck. Why? He already won.
In the end, she watched him watch as the monster crumbled and turned into dust before hitting the ground. He glance down at Zolas with something akin to awe before falling forward with closed eyes.
Fortunately, Tiona was already there to catch-
Before he fell into her waiting arms he stomped on the ground –still with closed eyes- and held himself up.
She blinked.
"Did he just…."
Bete burst out laughing, "Guess he didn't want to break his skull on the board you call tits! Fuckin' gold!"
Tiona yelled back something indescribable at Bete then Tione as she laughed. Still, she kept close to the boy just in case. Ais turned away from them, instead focusing on the conversation between Finn, Riveria, and Gareth.
"Riveria, could you check his status? And what Familia he belongs to if you are at it."
"Without permission? Absolutely not."
"Come on, it's barely covered up."
Gareth raises an eyebrow at Finn's attempt to convince Riveria and points out a rather obvious flaw, "The only thing remaining of the shirt is on his back."
"…I'll take over rookie duty for a week."
Riveria's silence only deepens with her unimpressed stare.
"Two weeks."
Her stare reaches unknown heights but Ais could see that she is slowly getting won over by the promise of more reading time.
"Three weeks and a week of paperwork duty."
"Deal." They shake hands and dutifully ignore Gareth's snort.
Ais watches as she goes around the boy –since his front is towards the Loki Familia- and gently tears away the last strands holding the shirt together with a quiet "Excuse me". She startles as Riveria's breath hitches loud enough to draw the attention of the still bickering trio. She watches as Riveria looks over at them with a slight smile.
"I believe you would like to see this, Finn."
With only a raised eyebrow Finn walks around the boy and looks at his back. For some reason, Ais has a feeling that he is doing that kind of grin. The one disturbingly similar to Loki-sama's. The feeling intensifies after Riveria murmurs something to him.
She is not alone in her quiet shudder.
"Well, well, well, who would have thought we would meet someone like him? Yet another reason to drink tonight."
"Um… Boss?"
"Yes, Tione?"
"Uhhh, wha- what did you find?"
At this Riveria and Finn exchange a look, like they are into some secret only known to the two of them. This is probably true now that Ais thinks about it.
"Would you like the honors…?" Finn questioned with an amused smile.
Riveria returns it before looking at them with supremely amused eyes, "All of his abilities are S-rank."
…
"Wait, really?"
"Holy shit!"
"All?"
"A fuckin' wonder why he has that god-awful butter knife…"
"I knew it! He is the Argonaut!"
Finn quieted the ruckus with a cough in his hand.
"Also, he is a member of our Familia."
And that's a wrap, folks!
Only *checks calendar and wheezes* forty-two days late.
Yeah, I- uh- I'm really sorry about not updating for a while. I just... I just kind of lost my confidence, then my motivation. It didn't help that school sapped my strength like Nidhogg did to Yggdrasil.
Honestly, around three thousand words of this monster of a chapter has been collecting dust for weeks now. But I didn't want to post a chapter that felt incomplete.
Also, speaking of this chapter. I hope you notice that it is no less than 12k words sheer plot. I didn't want to poke your eyes out with a standard 5k long chapter after so much silence so you got this! Admittedly it was originally planned to be 10k. Do you like it? I had surprising amount of fun writing it as much as I've been dreading doing so. Kind of felt easier to keep my flow with less scene breaks. But, because of its size, I didn't really edit this chapter so there might very well be a lot of errors. I'm sorry about it but if you point out the ones that annoyed you the most I'll fix it!
I want to answer some question regarding the chapter that might crop up.
No, Bell doesn't miraculously know Concurrent Chanting. However, he was in a high stress situation that quiet literally forced him into a Flow state that basically told him 'Do or Die'. And Bell Cranel doesn't know the word giving up. However, he will learn it for real. I wonder who'll teach him…
Yes, this was the scheduled Minotaur fight that'll level him up. However, this Minotaur is actually the same one that Ais killed in the first episode. We officially entered Cannon! ...and broke it before even starting. It was also somewhat weaker than the original since *SPOILER* Ottarl didn't train it, only gave it a sword and some instructions while the Familia Executives regrouped.
Yes, Bell is going to have more, newer, and better knives soon. Armor too!
If you have any more questions please don't be afraid to ask but be warned that if it relates to the future of the fic it might change since I'm an expulsive little shit.
Also, did you notice the foreshadowing?
And so, in the immortal words of Atlas and NeonZangetsu.
Review, would you kindly?
(Author out!)