D/D Chapter 8: Near Death Experiences - Parts 2 & 3.

Author's Note: Hey, it's me again, back with another chapter! This one was mostly written by a friend since I had exams this week, but don't worry—I reviewed and changed it before posting. So, if you notice any changes in the writing style, rest assured I'll be back to writing the next chapter myself. This is just a one-time thing... probably!

I see some of you are on board with the Cassandra ship, and I gotta say, I like that idea too. I was planning on having Al believe in her prophecies (cursed prophecies that no one believes—well, Al's immune to curses cough cough), but as much as I like Cassandra, there's not a lot of material to work with for her character. So, a lot of what I'd need to do would be OC stuff, and I'm not a huge fan of that, so I'm putting that ship on hold for now.

Also, to clear up some confusion, I don't plan on making this a harem (it's just too corny for me). So, no worries about that. But if you've got a character you want to see paired with Al, throw me a suggestion! Don't stress about how I'll make it work—I can make pretty much anything happen (you could suggest a Loki x Al ship, and I'd find a way to make that work! whisper Please vote for Ryuu... whisper).

Anyway, enough rambling—here's another chapter for you to enjoy!

"Speech."

"Thoughts."

The doors of the Hostess of Fertility swung open, spilling a crowd of curious patrons into the cool night air of Orario. Murmurs buzzed through the gathered spectators as Al and Bete squared off beneath the dim glow of the streetlamps.

Nearby, the Loki Familia members watched intently, their reactions a mix of curiosity, amusement, and unease. At the forefront, Gareth crossed his burly arms, letting out a deep sigh. "Poor lad's about to learn himself a hard lesson," he muttered, his voice low but carrying enough weight for those around him to hear.

"True," Riveria agreed, her sharp gaze fixed on Al. "He's a mid-Level 1 at best. This will only end one way—and not in his favor." Her tone was measured, almost clinical, but a faint edge of something else lingered in her words. She didn't voice it outright, but her keen eyes seemed to catch something unusual about the boy.

Standing in the center of the group, Finn observed quietly, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was neutral, but his eyes glimmered with a restrained curiosity. "I won't let Bete take things too far," he said calmly. "But I can't deny I'm intrigued. There's something... different about him."

Riveria tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing. "Different, yes," she murmured. "There's an edge to him—something unsettling, almost... malicious. It's faint, but unmistakable. Like a shadow clinging to him."

"Malicious, huh?" Gareth echoed, his tone more somber than usual. "I feel it too. It's not somethin' you can see—more like somethin' you just know. Can't tell if it's him or somethin' hanging over him, but it ain't right. Makes my skin crawl."

Finn's gaze flicked between the two, their observations aligning with the persistent ache in his thumb. It had started the moment Al approached their table earlier that evening, a dull, unshakable throb that seemed to match the ominous aura surrounding the boy.

His unease only deepened, and a growing sense of urgency stirred within him. Whatever this feeling was, it needed investigating.

A step away from the group, Aiz lingered near the edge, her golden eyes locked on Al. Though she said nothing, her lips pressed into a thin line, betraying her discomfort.

By contrast, the Amazonian twins, Tiona and Tione, were brimming with energy. Tiona punched the air lightly, her enthusiasm breaking through the tension. "Come on, plain boy! Let's see what you've got!" she called out, her tone more playful than mocking.

Tione smirked, her voice sharp and teasing. "Yeah, teach that bastard a lesson! Don't hold back!"

Bete's ears twitched at their comments, irritation flaring as he clicked his tongue in annoyance. Shooting a glare at the twins, his grin twisted into something darker.

Their taunts stung his pride, but he welcomed the sting—it only sharpened his resolve. With his focus snapping back to Al, malice blazed in his eyes as he took a slow, deliberate step forward.

"Let's see how long you last…" Bete muttered under his breath, his voice low and dripping with menace.

Then, without warning, He moved—his body a blur, faster than Al could track. In an instant, he closed the distance between them, as though he'd teleported. Al barely registered the movement before Bete's fist collided with his ribs. The blow was brutal, like a battering ram, knocking the breath from Al's lungs.

"Hrk!" Al gasped, his body recoiling from the impact. He struggled to brace himself, but it was too late.

But before he could recover, Bete was on him again. The sound of boots crunching against the cobblestones echoed in the night air as Bete pressed forward, relentless. Another jab—fast and precise—struck Al's face, snapping his head to the side.

His vision swam, and the world around him blurred. The pain was unbearable, but Bete didn't stop there, following up with a brutal combo of punches that battered Al from all angles, each blow landing like a hammer.

"Where's all that sass from earlier, huh, plain fucker?" Bete taunted, his grin widening. "Thought you had something up your sleeve with all that trash talk."

Frustration bubbled in Al's chest, boiling over. He lunged, throwing a wild punch, but Bete danced out of range effortlessly, laughing as he dodged. His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement, savoring the one-sided fight.

"Pathetic. You're just another weakling," Bete sneered, "One who doesn't even know his place!"

The words cut through Al like a blade. Rage surged up within him, but before he could act on it, Bete struck again—a vicious punch slammed into the center of Al's chest, sending him flying backward.

His body crashed against the cobblestones. His limbs scraped across the rough stone as he tumbled. His mind swirled in a haze of pain, his thoughts barely coherent.

The crowd, once eager for the spectacle, now watched in unease. The brutality of the fight had shifted the atmosphere, their excitement replaced by discomfort as they saw the one-sided beatdown unfold.

Al's legs shook violently as he struggled to rise. His hands scraped against the stone, but his body refused to obey. He got to his knees, but they buckled beneath him. Al collapsed forward, barely keeping himself upright. His vision blurred, but he never took his eyes off Bete.

The wolfish fighter loomed over him, casting a long shadow that seemed to consume the space around him.

"No way…" Al muttered through gritted teeth, his fists clenched, trembling with rage. His eyes burned with an intensity far beyond simple anger—raw, burning hatred, crackling with the weight of it. He could feel the fire in his veins, a fire that threatened to consume him.

"No way I'm letting that motherfucker walk away without a mark!"

Al's body trembled, and just as Bete opened his mouth to taunt again, something shifted. The air seemed to thicken, pressing down on them.

Al's glare intensified, a force not of the body, but of the mind, radiating outward. The space between them seemed to close in, and the oppressive weight of his fury filled the air.

Bete's confident smirk faltered, and confusion flickered across his face as a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. His movements grew sluggish, his body trembling under the unseen force that gripped him. His breath hitched, and his vision swam.

"What the…?" Bete muttered, his voice strained, his legs wavering beneath him, the arrogance draining from his posture.

Finn's sharp gaze narrowed, Noticing the change in Bete's posture. "So he does have something after all…"

Al could feel it—the way the air thickened around him, the pressure of his own fury choking Bete's movements. The sensation of power surged in his chest, and he channeled everything—his rage, his hatred, his pain—into his next move. With a growl, he forced himself up. His legs trembled, but he refused to fall again.

He focused on Bete's once-smug face, now flushed with fatigue. And with a roar, Al lunged forward, his fist moving faster than the air could carry it. The punch landed squarely on Bete's nose. A sickening crack echoed, swallowed by the splash of blood as Bete's head snapped back.

Pain shot up Al's arm from the force of the blow, but it didn't matter. It felt like victory.

The crowd, which had been eerily silent, erupted into a deafening roar. The air buzzed with excitement.

"He got him! He got Bete Loga!" someone cried, their voice breaking with sheer astonishment.

"Take a look at the bet pool—who thought he'd land a hit on Vanargand?!" one voice shouted in disbelief.

"I did! Fucker's making me filthy rich!" another yelled, grinning wide as the chaos of the moment unfolded.

On the other side of the street, amidst the chaos of the roaring crowd, a sudden, booming laugh cut through the noise like a crack of thunder. Gareth's deep voice rolled across the street, drawing attention as he threw his head back. "He got one in! The lad landed a hit on Bete, hahaha!"

Riveria raised an eyebrow, her sharp gaze flicking between Al and Bete. "Interesting…" she murmured, her tone laced with surprise. "Seems there is more to him than we thought."

Finn's eyes gleamed with quiet approval. "Impressive," he commented, his voice calm but tinged with unmistakable interest as he observed the turn of events.

Aiz stood silent, her golden eyes fixed on the fighters. She saw the raw determination in Al's eyes, the kind she knew well. But she also noticed the toll the fight had taken on him. Even so, there was something about the way he stood, beaten yet unbroken, that reminded her of a certain someone.

Tiona couldn't contain her excitement, bouncing on her feet. "Yes! That's what I'm talking about, plain boy! Show him!"

Tione, smirking with amusement, crossed her arms. "Didn't expect that, huh? That hit was clean."

Bete stumbled a step, disoriented, as his mind struggled to process what had just happened. His face contorted with pain and disbelief, the weight of the impact lingering in his skull.

He instinctively reached for his nose, his hand shaking as his fingers brushed the blood. His expression twisted further as he saw the red streaks smearing across his fingertips. Bete stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide, staring at the drops of blood collecting in his hand.

The crowd's cheers surged, but Bete barely heard them. His mind was consumed with a singular thought: "How?"

His eyes snapped to Al, who was standing only a few feet away, barely holding himself up. His face was a bloody mess—bruised and battered from the onslaught—but there was something different about him now.

Despite the crimson streaking down his chin, despite his body trembling with exhaustion, there was a wild, crazed smile on his face. Al was smiling at Bete.

Bete's chest tightened. His pride was bruised, and it stung worse than any punch he'd taken.

"What the hell are you smiling at, you fucker?!" Bete growled, his voice seething with venom. His hand shook as he wiped the blood from his nose, the pain reminding him that the damage was far more than just physical.

Al stood there, barely upright, his ribs protesting with every breath. Despite the agony, the look in his eyes wasn't one of submission. It was defiance—a fire that burned bright in the depths of his gaze.

Al's smile only widened, that same wild, crazed grin fixed on his face.

Bete lunged again, fury blazing in his eyes. This time, Al didn't move. He didn't even attempt to defend himself. His grin remained, even as the brutal blows rained on him.

Each strike landed with bone-crushing force, battering Al from head to toe. His ribs cracked, his skin split, but he stood firm. It was as though the pain itself fueled his grin; each blow a twisted reminder of the victory he felt in landing that single punch.

Bete wound up for a final strike, his fist drawing back with intent to end it—one that could cripple or kill. But just as the blow was about to land, Finn's calm voice cut through the chaos.

"That's enough, Bete."

Bete froze mid-strike, his fist inches from Al's battered face. His eyes snapped to Finn; his expression twisted with disbelief. "Hah?! What are you stopping me for?!"

Finn's eyes narrowed, his tone calm but unyielding. "I said, that's enough. You've had fun. There's no need to kill the boy over some bar talk."

Riveria's voice followed, firm but measured. "Finn's right. You've already made your point."

Bete snarled, his voice a guttural growl. "No way in hell I'm letting that fucker walk away alive after what he's done!"

Finn's gaze hardened, his tone cold and unyielding. "Don't make me repeat myself, Bete."

Bete clicked his tongue, frustration boiling over. But the weight of Finn's authority left no room for argument. With a final venomous glare at Al, he turned on his heel and stormed off, the sharp echo of his boots against the stone lingering even after he disappeared.

Al remained crumpled on the ground, battered and bleeding, but—miraculously—still alive. His limbs trembled, but the grin on his face never faded.

He had lost the fight. His body was broken. But in his mind, Al had won a victory no one could take from him.

Finn stepped forward, his calm expression unreadable. From his satchel, he drew a pristine vial, its delicate engravings and vibrant red liquid marking it as a potion of the highest quality. Uncorking it smoothly, he tilted it over Al's lips.

The potion's sweetness flooded Al's senses as he swallowed greedily. Its effects were immediate—a soothing warmth coursed through his battered body, dulling the sharp pain in his ribs and mending some of the shallower bruises.

It wasn't perfect. His body still ached, and the deeper wounds throbbed with each breath. But it was enough to drag him back from the edge of collapse.

Satisfied, Finn straightened, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. His voice rang out with calm authority. "The fight is finished. You can now leave and return to your occupations."

There was no need to shout, his words carried weight, and the crowd began to disperse, murmurs of excitement still lingering in the air. A few onlookers threw sidelong glances at Al as they moved away, their expressions a mix of disbelief and quiet respect.

The members of the Loki Familia followed, casting brief but meaningful glances at Al as they passed. No words were exchanged, but their gaze carried a silent acknowledgment: the boy had managed to land a hit on one of their own.

After everyone left. Al layed there motionless, each labored breath a battle against the pain coursing through his battered body. His muscles screamed in protest as he forced himself onto his knees, then to his feet. His vision blurred, and his ribs felt as though they would shatter with every breath.

Bloodied but resolute, he muttered through clenched teeth, "Bell… I need to find Bell."

His thoughts drifted to the boy. Despite Bell's shy demeanor, he had always carried a stubborn pride. After the insults and humiliation he'd endured, there was only one place Bell would go to restore it.

"The dungeon…" Al whispered, his jaw tightening.

But the thought sent a wave of dread washing over him. Entering the dungeon in his current state would be suicide. His body was barely functional; every step felt like a monumental effort. Yet the alternative—leaving Bell to fend for himself—was unthinkable.

If something happened to Bell, Hestia would kill him herself—long before Nyx's curse ever got the chance to finish the job.

With a bitter sigh, Al pushed forward, his uneven steps faltering but determined. Each step sent a jolt of pain through his battered frame, yet he pressed on, driven by a single thought.

He didn't notice the two pair of eyes watching him intently from the entrance of the Hostess of Fertility.

Mia Grande leaned against the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her gaze was sharp, following the battered boy's every faltering step. The lines on her face deepened into a thoughtful scowl. Beside her, Syr stood silently, her expression unreadable as she watched Al struggle forward.

Finally, Mia broke the silence, her voice gruff. "Go tell that troublesome elf to follow the lad. Make sure he doesn't get himself killed."

Syr blinked in surprise. "Why would you go out of your way for him, Mama?"

Mia exhaled heavily, her tone softening but retaining its usual bluntness. "The kid may feel off… but he stood up for his comrade. That's something worth respecting." Her gaze hardened again, sharp as a blade. "Now, quit yapping, get moving, and go call that elf!"

Syr flinched at the command but nodded hastily. "Hiiiii! Y-yes, Mama!" she stammered, before quickly spinning on her heel and dashing off.

Mia remained at the doorway, her expression unreadable, her gaze fixed on Al as he disappeared into the shadows.

Inside the dungeon, Al pushed forward through the twisting corridors, his movements steadier now, thanks to the potion's gradual effects.

Initially skeptical about its potency, having only seen it heal minor wounds—he could feel the difference now. The sharp sting in his ribs had dulled to a manageable ache, and although his body still bore the marks of his earlier battles, he was no longer grimacing with every step.

The unnerving silence pressed around him. Where were the echoes of growls and claws scraping against stone? The usual symphony of the dungeon was missing, and Al's gut churned with unease.

Then, he spotted scattered fragments of shattered magic stones glinting faintly on the ground, and it clicked. "Bell," Al muttered. "That kid must've cleaned the place out."

He pressed on, winding deeper into the maze. The air grew heavier as he descended to the seventh floor, the shadows here deeper, more oppressive. A pang of irritation gnawed at him as he surveyed the area. This was uncharted territory for their team. They hadn't even reached this far together. And yet—

"The seventh floor?!" Al growled aloud, his frustration boiling over. "Seriously? That little idiot thinks he can handle this on his own?"

He kicked a loose fragment of stone, watching it skid across the uneven ground. "When I get my hands on that little shit…" His words trailed off as a low, guttural growl shattered the oppressive silence.

The unmistakable sound of steel slicing through flesh reached his ears, followed by a chorus of snarls. Al's body tensed, his heart picking up pace as he darted down the corridor, the source of the commotion pulling him in like a magnet. He rounded a corner—and froze.

There, in the dim light, stood Bell.

The kid was a mess. Blood streaked his face and arms, his breathing came in sharp, ragged gasps, but he was still upright, daggers in hand. Surrounding him were kobolds, their claws slashing at him in relentless waves. Behind them, two frog shooters lurked, their grotesque tongues lashing out, trying to ensnare him.

Al's frustration dissolved into disbelief. "Oi, Bell!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip.

Bell didn't even look at him. "Don't interfere!" he barked, his tone sharp and resolute. He ducked under a claw swipe, his dagger flashing as he countered with a precise strike.

Al blinked, stunned. "Don't interfere?" he muttered under his breath. "Is he serious? Doesn't he see the state I'm in?"

For a fleeting moment, Al considered jumping in anyway. The kid was outnumbered, clearly exhausted. But the tone in Bell's voice when he yelled stopped him. It wasn't just desperation—it carried a steely resolve, a clear declaration that this was his battle to fight.

Al sighed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "Fine, kid," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the sound of battle. "Have it your way."

He watched, jaw tightening with each of Bell's moves, and made a silent vow. "The second you finish off these bastards, we're getting the hell out of here."

After some time, Bell's dagger struck true, slicing through the final kobold's throat. The creature collapsed with a gurgling growl, and silence fell over the corridor once more.

"Oi, get your ass back here, we're leaving—" Al began, his voice sharp with frustration.

But before he could finish, the air shifted. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the hallway, and at the far end of the corridor, shadows began to twist unnaturally. A single, glowing red eye pierced the darkness, growing brighter as the warped figure of a warshadow emerged.

Al froze, his blood running cold. "Shit. A warshadow?" The words slipped out in a shaky whisper.

Eina's lessons came flooding back: War shadows. Rookie killers. Physical attacks were useless unless they struck the eye, and magic was their only true weakness, something neither of them had. And in their current state, it could only mean one thing: death.

"Bell!" Al's voice cracked with panic. "Start moving! We need to get out of here, now!"

But Bell didn't react. His legs wavered, and his dagger dangled loosely from limp fingers. His head lolled forward, and Al realized with a sinking feeling—he was out cold, still standing only by sheer inertia.

The warshadow seemed to sense his weakness, its flickering form shifting as it prepared to strike. Then, with a bone-chilling screech, it lunged at Bell, claws aimed for his chest.

Al moved without thinking, a shout tearing from his throat. He threw himself between Bell and the monster, spear raised just in time to block the claws. The impact rattled his entire body, the force nearly tearing the weapon from his grip.

The warshadow snarled and withdrew momentarily, its glowing eye flaring as it assessed its prey. Al tightened his grip on the spear, his heart pounding. His mind raced. A monster immune to physical attacks unless you hit the eye—check. Two exhausted adventurers, one already knocked out—check. A narrow corridor with no escape—check.

"This isn't good," Al muttered under his breath. He needed a plan, and he needed it fast.

The warshadow lunged again, its grotesque form flickering in and out of the dim light like a living nightmare. Al thrust his spear forward, aiming for the glowing eye, but the creature twisted unnaturally, bending away as the blade swiped through empty air.

"Damn it!" he cursed, sweat dripping down his face. Every strike felt futile, the warshadow's erratic movements making it impossible to predict. It was like trying to fight smoke.

The warshadow screeched again, darting forward with terrifying speed. This time, its claws connected, slamming into Al and sending him flying into the wall. Pain exploded through his back as he crumpled to the ground, his spear clattering out of reach.

Gasping for breath, Al looked up, his vision blurring. The warshadow loomed over him, its claws raised for the final strike.

His body wouldn't move. He braced himself, heart pounding, as the warshadow loomed closer. This was it—he was done for.

For the third time today.

"Great", Al thought bitterly. "Maybe I should start keeping a tally. At least my bad luck's consistent—"

The claws slashed downward—but before they could strike, a blade shot through the War Shadow's eye from behind, the tip gleaming as it pierced cleanly through the pupil.

The creature let out a deafening screech as its body exploded into a cloud of dark mist, disintegrating into nothingness. The thick vapor swirled and faded, leaving behind a faint stillness.

Through the haze, Al's blurry vision caught sight of a figure standing tall amidst the fading darkness.

It was Bell.

He's awake.

Bell's voice wavered as he stepped forward, his eyes wide with uncertainty. "A-Al, are you alright?"

Al stared at him, his chest still heaving from the fight, his breathing heavy and uneven. For a long moment, the silence hung thick in the air, broken only by the fading echoes of the battle. Bell shifted uneasily on his feet, clearly waiting for an answer, his exhaustion written all over him.

Finally, Al exhaled sharply, his voice dry as he muttered, "You stole my kill."

Bell blinked, confusion flickering in his eyes. "W-What? I—"

"I said," Al interrupted, his tone gruff, "you stole my kill."

Bell's bewilderment turned to stammering. "I-I don't think this is the time for that, Al—"

"Then help me up," Al growled, cutting him off.

Bell hesitated for a moment before kneeling down, wincing as his battered body protested the movement. He reached out to help Al to his feet, but it quickly became clear that neither of them had the strength. The attempt ended with both of them collapsing back onto the cold dungeon floor, groaning in unison.

For a moment, they just lay there in silence, bruised, broken, and utterly exhausted. They stared up at the dark ceiling above them, their bodies aching, their minds clouded with pain.

"This is pathetic," Al muttered, his voice tinged with irritation.

"No argument here…" Bell replied weakly, his voice strained as he winced, clearly still reeling from the toll of his earlier battles.

Eventually, they managed to push themselves upright, standing shoulder to shoulder. They didn't help each other up—they couldn't—but they leaned against each other for support, each step toward the exit an agonizing struggle.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Eventually, Al broke it, his voice softer now but no less direct. "Why'd you do it?"

Bell hesitated, his eyes downcast as they dragged themselves forward. The question wasn't about the fight. He knew that much.

"Why dive this deep alone, at night?" Al pressed, his tone unreadable.

Bell's steps faltered slightly. He clenched his fists, his gaze fixed on the ground. "I… I felt ashamed," he admitted, his voice low and uncertain. "The werewolf's insults—they weren't wrong. I am weak. Pathetic, even." His grip tightened on his dagger, and his voice grew quieter. "I thought... if I could get deeper, prove something... maybe I wouldn't be."

He paused, the words sticking in his throat, before finally adding, "And… I felt ashamed for leaving you behind. When you took the wrong tunnel, I should've looked for you. I shouldn't have run off like that."

Al listened without a word, his face unreadable. When Bell finally fell silent, the dungeon seemed impossibly quiet. Then, after what felt like forever, Al let out a heavy sigh.

"Drop the tunnel bullshit," he said bluntly. "It was a coin toss. You didn't know, I didn't know. Things turned out bad. That's it."

Bell glanced at him, his face a mixture of guilt and relief, but Al wasn't done.

"And yeah, the insults from the werewolf? They're true," Al said, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "We are weak."

Bell froze, his wide eyes locking on Al, expecting some form of reassurance—but none came, at least not yet.

Al let the words hang in the air before continuing, his voice unflinching. "But we just started. You wanna be a hero, don't you? Like in those stories your gramps told you?"

Bell nodded hesitantly, the small movement weighed down by doubt.

"In those stories, did the hero start off overpowered?" Al asked, his voice gaining a sharp edge. "Or were they weak as hell when they began?"

Bell's breath caught. The question cut deeper than any blade. He thought back to the tales—the ones about heroes struggling, failing, rising again. He knew the answer.

"A story with nothing but powerful characters? That's boring as hell," Al said, his voice gaining momentum. "It's the struggle that makes it worthwhile. To get where you want, you're gonna have to face shit like this. You'll get insulted, knocked down. Hell, one day, you might even fight your own friends, clash over your goals, maybe even hate them for a while. But all that? That's necessary. It's part of the path."

Bell remained silent, his thoughts a swirl of confusion and clarity.

Al paused, his voice softer now, but still firm. "For you to become a hero… for me to lift my curse…" His voice faltered slightly, the enormity of his task flashing in his mind, but he forced himself to keep going, his gaze hardening with renewed resolve. "We can't just expect to succeed without earning it. This... this is the price, I know that much."

Bell was quiet, his mind racing as Al's words sank in. He understood now. This wasn't just about fighting or strength. It was about the journey—the hardships and sacrifices that would come with it. He wasn't naive; he knew this was just one step on a much longer road. And though the weight of it pressed down on him, Bell nodded. He accepted the truth of it.

They moved forward.

Surprisingly, there were no monsters on the way out.

Time passed, and the weight of the night seemed to drag on. Three hours had passed since Hestia left the Denatus, and five since her children should have been home.

Standing outside the ruins of their church, she stared into the distance, her worry growing heavier with each passing moment. Where were they? Why were they so late? Had something happened? The dark night and eerie silence did little to soothe her fraying nerves.

She paced the empty streets, her sandals scuffing against stone. A thousand worst-case scenarios ran through her mind. Were they caught in a monster attack? Did something go wrong in the Dungeon? She clenched her fists, her divine heart heavy with the weight of helplessness.

Then, just as her anxiety threatened to overwhelm her, two figures appeared in the distance. They moved slowly, their steps uneven, but they were unmistakable. Hestia's heart leaped, relief surging through her before fear quickly took its place.

Bell and Al, both of them were battered and bruised, their clothes torn and armor cracked. Bell leaned on Al for support, though Al didn't look much steadier himself. Blood stained their outfits, and their expressions were weary, but they were alive.

"Wh-what happened to you?!" Hestia cried, rushing toward them. Her voice trembled, and her eyes darted frantically between the two of them, taking in the extent of their injuries.

Bell gave her a weak smile, though it was clear he was struggling to even stand upright. "We… we're fine, Goddess," he said, his voice soft but strained. "Just… had a rough time."

Al, however, only grunted in response, his irritation evident as he adjusted Bell's arm over his shoulder. "Yeah... Long story," he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

Hestia's worry deepened, but she didn't press further. "Come on," she said softly, gesturing toward the church. "Let's get you both cleaned up."

Inside the church basement, the dim lantern light flickered against the stone walls as the two boys slumped onto stools near a basin of lukewarm water. Hestia busied herself setting out cloths, bandages, and a small jar of salve, her movements quick and purposeful.

The silence was heavy as Bell and Al began tending to their wounds. Bell, wincing slightly, dabbed at a scrape on his cheek, while Al struggled with a bandage around his arm, his irritation growing with every fumbling attempt.

After a moment, Bell glanced at Al, his curiosity breaking through the exhaustion. "Al…" he began hesitantly, his voice soft and cautious. "What happened to you?"

Al didn't respond immediately, his focus still on his arm.

Bell pressed on, his words faltering. "I-I mean… I know you're not that strong yet, but…" He paused, glancing nervously at Al before finishing in a rushed, innocent tone. "The monsters on the upper floors… they're something you should be able to handle, right?"

Al froze, the bandage slipping from his hand. He turned his head slowly, fixing Bell with an irritated glare. "The nerve of this brat."

"Oh, really?" Al said, his voice low and brimming with annoyance. He leaned forward, crossing his arms despite the fresh bruises. "First off, I'm way stronger than you stat-wise, even if I started Dungeon diving after you." He jabbed a finger in Bell's direction, his frustration evident. "And second, no, it wasn't the monsters."

Bell flinched, his cheeks flushing as he realized how his words had sounded. "I-I didn't mean it like that!" he stammered, waving his hands defensively. "I just thought—well, I mean, I thought maybe…"

"Don't worry about it," Al interrupted with a dismissive wave. He sighed and returned to wrapping his arm, his irritation slowly giving way to fatigue. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with."

Once they finished dressing their wounds, Hestia stepped forward, her hands trembling slightly as she placed them on her hips. "I'll update your statuses," she said, her tone calm but firm. "It'll help you recover faster."

Neither boy argued. Bell gave a tired nod, while Al offered a quiet sigh, acknowledging the decision without words.

Hestia guided Al to lie down first, motioning for him to rest on his stomach atop the bed. "Just relax, okay?" she said, her tone gentle as she climbed onto the bed and positioned herself carefully at his lower back. Al winced but didn't complain aloud, gritting his teeth against the dull ache. "She's my goddess. Just deal with it," he thought, trying not to let his discomfort show.

Sitting behind him, Hestia placed her hand softly on his back. She closed her eyes, focusing as divine energy began to flow from her fingertips. A drop of ichor fell onto his back, and the faint glow that followed lit up his skin, spreading across his back like a soft, radiant pulse.

But just as the ritual progressed, Hestia's brow furrowed. A strange energy pulsed through her hand—not her own, but something darker, sharper.

"Magic?!" she exclaimed suddenly, her voice loud and frantic.

Before Al could react, Hestia shifted, twisting and leaning over him to get a closer look at his back. "This is—oh my—this is magic!" she yelled, moving frantically as if trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

"Oi! Stop! Stop!" Al yelled, his voice sharp with pain as her weight shifted and dug into his sore back. "You're killing me here!"

Hestia froze, her face going pale as she realized what she'd done. "Ah! I'm so sorry!" she cried, quickly sliding off his back and sitting beside him on the bed. Her hands hovered nervously as if she didn't know how to help.

Al groaned, rubbing his sore muscles as he pushed himself up slightly. "What's this about magic?" he asked, his irritation obvious but mingled with curiosity.

Hestia, still flustered, grabbed the parchment from her side and handed it to him. "H-Here," she said quickly, her voice a mix of excitement and embarrassment.

Al took the sheet and scanned it, his brow furrowing as the unfamiliar details registered.

[Status Sheet]
Name: Alistair Altirias
Familia: Hestia Familia
Title: —
[Basic Abilities]

STR: 320 → 423 E
VIT: 315 → 513 D
DEX: 308 → 411 E
AGI: 307 → 418 E
MAG: 0 → 69 I

[Skills]

Osculum Noxis:

Curse granted by Nyx, goddess of the night. The bearer must slay the one-eyed Black Dragon. Failure to do so within one year will result in death.
Time remaining: 357:11:59:58

Curse Resistance:

Grants the user very high resistance against curses, sometimes nullifying them.

[Magic]

Aspectus Noctis:

Curse-type magic representing the various aspects of the night. The user will unlock more aspects as time goes on. (Chantless Magic)

• Aspect of Slumber – Hypnos.
Effect: Induces a deep slumber in the target, rendering them unconscious.
Drawback: Causes fatigue on the user upon repetitive uses.

Al stared at the parchment in his hands, his eyes narrowing as he read the words: "Osculum Noctis—Curse-type, chantless magic, representing the various aspects of night, more aspects will be unlocked?"

He muttered to himself under his breath, barely believing what he was seeing. "Must be that bitch's influence again…"

The irritation in his voice was palpable, but there was a flicker of something else—shock, maybe disbelief. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of it. He had magic. He had manifested magic. And not just any magic, but a curse-type one, in the image of Nyx. The very goddess whose curse had bound him to his fate.

For a moment, Al just stared at the sheet, his mind reeling as the reality sank in. "This is... crazy," he muttered, his eyes scanning the details again, almost in disbelief. He had barely started adventuring, and now he had this power?

Still, as the weight of it all pressed down on him, memories of his earlier battles came flooding back—the minotaur's sudden collapse, the werewolf staggering, their strength inexplicably fading. His brow furrowed. "So, that was... me?" he asked aloud, his voice heavy with realization.

He let out a low, frustrated sigh, but despite himself, a faint flicker of satisfaction crept into his chest. "Guess it's not all bad," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Might be useful in the future."

Hestia, who had been quietly watching him, gave him a concerned glance, but said nothing. Her eyes were wide, her mind clearly struggling to process what had just happened.

Al stood, wobbling slightly from the exhaustion in his limbs, and turned toward Bell's corner of the room. "I'll leave you to handle Bell's update," he said curtly.

Hestia blinked, then rushed to stop him, her voice stuttering. "Al, wait! I—there's something important I need to—" She paused, clearly overwhelmed by the sudden revelation of his magic. "I—wait!"

Al didn't give her a chance to finish, cutting her off with a weary wave. "Too tired," he muttered. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Without another word, he made his way to his bed, his limbs heavy, and collapsed onto it with a groan. The bed creaked under his weight, but it offered little comfort. His mind raced, but his body was begging for rest.

His head hit the pillow, just as he closed his eyes, a voice broke the stillness.

"Al!" Bell's voice was loud, enthusiastic, and childish, cutting through the silence. "Did you really unlock magic? What does it do? Can you show me?"

Al groaned, rubbing his eyes in frustration. "Can't I get a damn break?"

He forced himself to sit up slightly, but only managed to glare at Bell. "Too tired," he said bluntly. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Bell looked disappointed but nodded, sensing the exhaustion in Al's tone. With a pout, he gave up and returned to his own bed.

Finally, silence.

The only sound was the distant flickering of the lantern in the corner and the soft rustling of sheets while Hestia updated Bell's status. But his mind… his mind refused to quiet.

The night stretched on, and despite his body's desperate need for rest, Al couldn't sleep.