D/D Chapter 11: Monsterphilia.

Author's notes: Hey everyone, it's me again, back with another chapter! So, I originally wanted to cover the whole Monsterphilia arc in one big chapter, but it ended up being over 15k words, so I had to split it into two parts. That means the next chapter isn't far off, so stay tuned! I had a ton of fun writing these scenes, so don't forget to leave a review and let me know if you enjoyed them or not. With that, enjoy the chapter!

"Speech."

"Thoughts."

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Festivities. A word that carried many meanings, shaped by culture, purpose, and the people who took part in them. Some were celebrations of life, a means for communities to gather and revel in the joy of existence.

Others were steeped in tradition, honoring gods, ancestors, or the passage of time. They could be grand, spanning entire cities in a flood of music and laughter, or intimate, shared between a handful of people bound by the ties of family and friendship.

Some were excuses for indulgence, where feasts and drink flowed without restraint, while others demanded reverence, solemn occasions marked by rituals and quiet reflection.

Al was familiar with them. Back home, the harvest festival had been the biggest event of the year, a time when the village came together to celebrate the fruits of their labor. The streets would be lined with lanterns, their glow painting the night in warm hues.

Children would run through the fields with garlands of autumn leaves in their hair, while farmers shared their best crops, their laughter echoing into the crisp evening air.

But Al had never been one to take part. While the rest of the village immersed themselves in the merriment, he had kept his distance, content to watch from the edges. A loner, by nature or by habit—he was never quite sure. He'd always found excuses to avoid the noise, the people, the obligations that came with it.

And yet, here in Orario, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of curiosity at today's festival.

Monsterphilia.

A city-wide spectacle, a day where adventurers displayed their skill by taming monsters for all to see. The streets were alive with the buzz of anticipation, filled with people eager to witness the daring feats in the colosseum.

Exotic food stalls lined the roads, their scents mingling into a dizzying array of spices and sweets. Games and performances spanned across the city, merchants eager to seize the opportunity to profit from the influx of spectators.

For once, Al actually wanted to experience it firsthand, to feel the pulse of the festivities instead of just staying on the sidelines. The vibrant energy, the noise, and the sense of collective excitement—it was all so different from his usual routine. Maybe he could try some of the exotic food, wander through the game stalls, see what all the fuss was about. Maybe—

"Work faster! Those dishes aren't gonna clean themselves!"

The sharp bark of Mia Grande's voice nearly made Al drop the plate in his hands. He scowled, gripping the soaked dishcloth as he stood elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at an endless stack of plates.

"Oi! This wasn't in the agreement!" he snapped over his shoulder.

Mia's heavy footfalls thudded closer. "Oh?! Is that some sass I'm hearing, boy?!"

Al immediately shut his mouth, turning back to his work before she could find a new way to make his day even more miserable.

He should've known better. He had only stopped by the Hostess of Fertility with Bell for a quick meal, thinking they'd grab a bite before heading out to see the festival for themselves. But the moment they stepped inside, Al walked straight into a trap.

One second, he was taking a seat, and the next, a rag was being shoved into his hands. Mia's voice rang out, sharp as ever, declaring that if he had time to loiter, he had time to work. While Bell was sent off to look for Syr, who had forgotten her purse, Al was stuck washing dishes.

That had been... what? Thirty minutes ago? Maybe an hour? Time blurred together when you were stuck doing mindless labor. He wasn't sure how many plates he had scrubbed clean at this point—dozens, at least.

His fingers were starting to wrinkle from the constant exposure to water, and his shoulders burned from leaning over the basin for so long.

The sounds of the tavern buzzed behind him, voices shifting as customers came and went. A few familiar ones had passed through—an adventurer boasting about his latest Dungeon delve, a merchant haggling loudly over the price of ale—but Al had long since tuned them all out.

His mind wandered instead, drifting toward the festival. The city was alive out there, full of energy and excitement. People were stuffing their faces with exotic food, throwing themselves into ridiculous carnival games, watching adventurers wrestle monsters in the colosseum. And here he was.

Stuck, washing dishes.

How much longer was he going to be here?

If Mia had her way, probably until the festival was over.

He sighed, dunking another plate into the rinse water. His body was on autopilot at this point, moving through the motions without thinking. His fingers ached, and he was pretty sure the smell of soap was permanently stuck in his nose.

Maybe he could still salvage the day—if he ever got out of here. Maybe he'd try one of those skewers he'd seen people carrying around. Maybe he'd check out the game stalls. Maybe—

"Mister Altirias."

Al froze mid-scrub, his gaze snapping up.

There was only one person who addressed him with such formalities.

"Oh, it's you, Ryuu."

There she was, standing near the door with her usual, unreadable expression. Her green hair fell like a mop around her beautiful face, framing her features in a way that almost seemed too soft for someone who carried herself with such quiet composure.

Two pointy ears protruded from the sides of her head, a clear sign of her elven heritage. She stood tall but with an air of quiet elegance, her presence almost ethereal despite the simplicity of her appearance.

She held a stack of paper in her hands, the neat pile almost too perfect in contrast to the chaos of the kitchen around her. She didn't look out of place, though, her calm demeanor cutting through the noise of the busy tavern.

Al leaned back slightly, trying to strike up some small talk as he dried a dish, keeping his tone casual. "So... what brings you to the kitchen? Don't tell me you're here to help clean?"

Ryuu shook her head. "No, I am afraid not this time. I am here on Mama Mia's orders." She lifted the stack of neatly arranged papers in her hands.

"These are flyers. She has requested that you scatter them throughout the city to attract business. She also informed me that she has no concern for how you choose to spend your time while doing so, meaning you should have the opportunity to enjoy the festival as well."

Al blinked. Then blinked again. His hands, still damp from the dishwater, tightened slightly around the cloth he had been using. "Wait... what?"

He half expected her to clarify that he had misheard, that Mia had actually just found a new way to chain him to the kitchen. But no, Ryuu simply stood there, calm and composed, as if she hadn't just shattered his expectations for the day.

"You're telling me I can actually leave?" he asked, still processing.

"That is correct," Ryuu confirmed with a slight nod.

For a moment, Al just stared at her. Then, a slow, incredulous grin crept onto his face. "Hah! Never thought I'd see the day!"

He wasted no time stepping forward, taking the stack of papers from Ryuu's hands as if someone might suddenly snatch them away and tell him it had all been a cruel joke. "Thanks for this," he said, thumbing through the flyers. "And it looks like there aren't many dishes left, so it should be an easy job for you."

Ryuu simply nodded, her face unreadable as always. With that, Al turned on his heel, already moving before fate—or Mia—could change its mind.

Stepping out of the kitchen, he was immediately swallowed by the lively chaos of the tavern. The shift in atmosphere was almost jarring—the clatter of plates, the raucous laughter, the occasional slam of a tankard against wood.

The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and spilled ale, mingling with the distant, lively tunes of festival music drifting in from outside.

For the first time since stepping into this damn place, he finally felt like he had a way out. He started toward the door, focused on making his escape before—

"Where are nyou going, nyal?"

Al stopped mid-step, exhaling sharply before turning around.

There she was—Chloe Rollo, perched near a table with one hand on her hip while the other flicked a stray strand of black hair from her face. Her green eyes gleamed with mischief, a knowing smirk playing at her lips.

He tilted his head. "I don't know. Somewhere far away from whatever you're planning."

Chloe's smirk widened. "Aww, don't be like that, nyahaha~." She flicked her tail, tapping the stack of festival flyers in his hands. "If nyou can convince Mama Mia to let me tag nyalong, I can skip work and enjoy the festival too, nya!"

Al snorted. "Yeah, no. You wouldn't want to be stuck with some 'creepy stranger' all day, now would you?"

Chloe's ears twitched, and for a split second, she seemed to choke on her own breath.

"Wha—?! We got off the wrong paw, okay, nya? And nyou warmed up to me, didn't nyou?!" she shot back, tail flicking in protest.

Al gave her a flat stare. "Did I?"

But before Chloe could recover, another voice chimed in from across the room.

"Nyal is skipping work, nya? Take me with nyou!"

Al barely had time to process the ambush before Anya practically materialized beside Chloe, tail flicking excitedly.

"Oi, oi, oi, that was my idea first, nya!" Chloe snapped, ears flattening as she whirled on Anya.

"Doesn't matter, I asked last, nya! Means I win!" Anya shot back, grinning.

Al sighed as the two catgirls quickly devolved into a heated argument, tails whipping behind them as their words overlapped in a chaotic mess of nyas and exaggerated gestures.

"Gods help me."

He watched them for a moment, then clapped his hands together. "Alright, alright. If you two want to tag along that badly, there's only one way to settle this." He crossed his arms, meeting their expectant stares with a deadpan expression.

"Fight to the death. Winner gets to come with me."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Nya!?" Chloe's tail bristled, her ears shooting straight up. "Fight to the—what kind of brute do nyou take me for, nya?!"

"Yeah, nya! I mean, I'd win, but still!" Anya huffed, hands on her hips.

Al shrugged. "Then I guess neither of you are coming."

The two catgirls exchanged glances. A dangerous tension crackled between them, eyes narrowing like rival duelists waiting for the signal to draw.

Then, at the exact same time—

"Hyaaaah!"

"Nyaaaaah!"

The brawl erupted in a blur of flailing limbs, tails lashing wildly as they grappled like a pair of alley cats fighting over a fishbone. Fur—or at least loose strands of hair—flew through the air as they tumbled across the floor, knocking into chairs and barely avoiding upending an entire table.

Al took a step back, mildly impressed.

Lunoire, watching from behind the bar with a deadpan expression, sighed and crossed her arms. "You should leave now before Mama Mia sees this."

"Yeah," Al muttered, already turning for the door. "This is definitely her problem, not mine."

Behind him, Chloe had Anya in a headlock, while Anya was aggressively tugging on Chloe's ear, both of them hissing like actual cats.

Al stepped out into the fresh air, stretching as he took in the sight of the festival in full bloom. Lanterns lined the streets, music and laughter filling the air, the scent of freshly grilled food drifting on the breeze.

He exhaled in relief.

Finally. Freedom.

D/D

"Vendor! Give me another one!"

The festival air buzzed with excitement, laughter spilling through the streets like waves against the shore. The scent of sizzling meat and sweet pastries drifted past, mingling with the chatter of bustling crowds. But amidst the sea of joy and celebration, one particular stall had become the site of an ongoing battle.

Al stood before it, his eyes narrowed in stubborn determination. A half-eaten caramelized chicken skewer hung from his mouth, its sticky glaze clinging to the corner of his lips. In his hands, a paper net—his latest in a long line of failures.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he dipped the fragile net into the water, aiming for one of the small, darting goldfish within. The fish were tiny things, shimmering orange and white beneath the lantern light. He had seen children—literal children—win this game on their first try, plucking their prizes from the water with ease.

So why in the hell was he still struggling?!

The moment the net made contact, the paper gave out with a wet rip, and the fish slipped right through.

Al scowled, pulling up the useless frame of his net. Another one down. He didn't even bother counting how many had come before it.

The vendor just stared at him. "Kid," he said, voice flat, "if you want a goldfish so badly, just take one."

Al chewed his skewer, glaring at the tank as if it had personally wronged him. Then, without breaking eye contact, he held out his hand.

"Another one."

A long, tired sigh. But the vendor handed over a fresh net. "Suit yourself…"

Al crouched down again, moving more carefully this time. The fish were fast, but they followed a pattern—darting one way, circling back, never staying still for long. He exhaled through his nose, focusing. The paper of the net tensed as it met the water.

The fish twitched, but Al was ready. He moved with it, adjusting his grip just as the paper began to weaken. A split-second decision—one smooth lift—

And finally, he pulled it up, water dripping as a single goldfish flopped within the delicate net.

He froze. Then—

"HAH!"

A few festival-goers turned their heads at his outburst, but Al didn't care. He grinned down at the fish in triumph.

The vendor groaned and rubbed his temple. "Fucking finally. Take your goldfish, kid." He shoved a small wooden box into Al's hands. "And please go enjoy the rest of the festival before you bankrupt yourself."

Al barely heard him, too busy watching his hard-earned prize swim lazy circles in its new home. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, tucking the bowl under one arm as he turned away.

He wasn't done yet.

He tried everything.

The skewers had only been the beginning. Next came Takoyaki and now the crepes—light, fluffy, wrapped around fresh fruit and whipped cream. The sugar melted on his tongue as he walked, and for once, he let himself indulge in the simple pleasure of good food.

Games, too, demanded his attention. He tested his dexterity at a ring toss, only to come up one shot short of the grand prize. He tried his hand at an arrow shot, nocking a tiny festival bow and hitting a swinging target mid-motion, impressing the vendor with his precision.

He even let himself be roped into a random stall selling enchanted trinkets, where the vendor swore up and down that the tiny charm he bought would bring good fortune.

Whether that was true or not, he doubted. But at the very least, he was having fun.

It was a strange thing, this feeling. It wasn't the cautious, forced kind of enjoyment that came from trying to pretend he was okay. It wasn't the desperate search for a distraction from his problems. It was simple, natural, and—dare he admit it—kind of nice.

A part of him wondered if Bell was experiencing the same. Had he found Syr yet? Or had he been sidetracked like Al, wandering through the festival with wide-eyed wonder?

After finishing the last bite of his crepe, he exhaled and made his decision.

"Guess I should go find him."

He turned on his heel, intent on retracing his steps, when—

A scream.

High-pitched, sharp, cutting through the noise of the festival like a blade.

Al froze. The easygoing warmth of the day shattered, the air turning cold in an instant. The sound of laughter faded.

Then came the second scream.

And this time, it was much, much closer.

"Wha—"

Before Al could even finish the thought, a bystander, shoved past him. The impact knocked him off balance, sending him stumbling onto the stone pavement.

He hit the ground hard, but the moment his hands braced against the stone, he was already pushing himself back up.

And when he lifted his head—

The festival was gone.

Screams tore through the air, drowning out the laughter that had once filled the streets. Stalls burned, sending thick smoke curling into the sky, the scent of charred wood sharp in his lungs. coins and festival masks littered the ground, trampled underfoot as people ran for their lives.

And then—there were the monsters.

Some were massive, hulking brutes, their heavy steps shaking the ground as they tore through stalls and trampled anything in their path. Others were smaller, quicker, slipping between the fleeing crowds with unnerving speed, their claws raking across wood and stone, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.

The festival had become a battlefield. The city was drowning in chaos.

Al ran.

Not even a second thought—just pure instinct. His body moved on reflex—dodge, weave, escape. The shouts and screams around him blurred into a single, frantic noise, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

Every step put more distance between him and the chaos, but with each one, a heavy weight settled deeper in his chest, something cold and clawing at his gut.

"Wait…"

His mind was catching up now, finally processing what was happening. He was running. Running really fast.

From monsters, like a normal civilian, like a man with absolutely zero combat training, like someone who wasn't literally an adventurer.

His pace slowed.

His expression slowly twisted into one of dawning horror—except the horror wasn't at the monsters. It was at himself.

"Wait a goddamn minute—why the hell am I running?!"

His feet nearly tangled together as he skidded to a stop.

He blinked.

He stared at the panicked crowds still booking it past him.

Then he looked down at himself—at the armored coat, the spear, the fact that he had literally been fighting monsters in the Dungeon just yesterday.

Al smacked his forehead so hard it echoed.

"I'm an adventurer, for fuck's sake!"

A beat of silence.

Then, with a sharp breath, he spun on his heel and sprinted back into the storm.

The first thing he saw was a man, cornered. Three imps surrounded him, their wiry bodies hunched low, claws flexing in anticipation. The man's back hit a stall, eyes darting wildly, hands shaking too much to lift the knife he held. He wasn't going to last another second.

"Move."

Al didn't hesitate. His fingers twitched—"Hypnos."

The shift was instant. It wasn't something he could see, but he felt it. Like a ripple in the air, a pull at the edge of his senses. The imps faltered, limbs going slack, heads lolling as their bodies crumpled into sleep.

He was already swinging. His spear cut through them before they even hit the ground, a sharp whistle slicing through the air. The edge met flesh—brief resistance, then nothing. Smoke swallowed the remains before they could even hit the dirt.

"Go!" His voice was firm, sharp, his eyes never leaving the battlefield. The man stammered something, but Al wasn't listening. He was already looking past him, searching for the next threat. The festival was a warzone, and standing still meant dyin—.

A desperate cry rang out.

Al's head snapped toward the source. A woman, clutching two small children, was cornered. Two orcs loomed over them, their hulking forms casting long shadows across the street. Overhead, a bad bat flapped its leathery wings, its jaw stretching wide—

Then came the shriek.

A piercing, high-pitched wail tore through the air, rattling the stalls and shattering nearby glass. The sound drilled into his skull, a sharp, unbearable pressure that made his teeth clench. He staggered slightly, forcing himself to stay upright despite the ringing in his ears.

"Damn it." He knew orcs were durable—walking battering rams that could take a beating and keep going. But before he could deal with them, he needed to take care of that damn bat.

If he ignored it, another sonic shriek could throw him off balance mid-fight, and against orcs, even a moment's hesitation could mean getting turned into street paste

"HEY!" His voice cut through, loud and sharp. The bad bat twitched midair, wings stiffening as it turned toward him, preparing another blast—

But Al struck first."Hypnos!"

His magic hit instantly. The bat spasmed, its body twitching, then its wings drooped as sleep overtook it. It dropped from the sky, limp and vulnerable.

But Al's spear was already moving. He launched it with precision, the weapon whistling through the air before spearing through the bad bat's chest. Without stopping, he surged forward, catching his spear mid-motion as he leapt—

And dropped.

The first orc barely had time to react before Al's spear slammed through its skull. A deep, guttural grunt left the monster as it staggered—then collapsed beneath its own weight, dissolving into thick, black smoke.

He landed smoothly, exhaling. "Good. The surprise attack worked. "

The second orc hesitated, still reeling from how quickly its ally had fallen. Al didn't waste the opening. He yanked his spear free, pivoted, and thrust—only for something to lash around his arm.

His body jerked backward.

Thick, slimy muscle wrapped around his forearm, squeezing tight. His eyes darted to the side. "A Frog Shooter?!"

"Wha—?! Ough!"

Before he could react, the orc took full advantage of his distraction. A fist like boulder slammed into his chest.

Pain exploded through his ribs as the impact sent him flying, the force ripping the air from his lungs. The world blurred, his body twisting midair—

And the frog pulled.

The tongue flexed, yanking him straight toward the monster like a fish on a hook. His feet barely grazed the ground before he was wrenched forward, momentum carrying him straight into—

CRASH!

His back obliterated a wooden stall, the impact sending splinters flying. The remains of the festival booth collapsed around him, wood and shattered decor burying him in debris.

He lay there for a second, dazed—not out of fear, not even from the pain, but because—

"W-What the hell just happened?!"

One second, he had the upper hand. The next, he was eating wood.

A sharp tug on his arm snapped him out of it. The Frog Shooter still had him, its tongue tightening as it reeled him in for the kill.

Al's grip tightened around his spear.

"No you don't!"

Twisting midair, he flipped his wrist and stabbed his spear into the ground. The blade tore through the Frog Shooter's tongue, pinning it down. His body wrenched to a stop, but more importantly—

The monster's jerked forward, dragged by its own damn tongue.

It let out a garbled screech. Al didn't let it recover. He wrenched his spear free, still gripping the severed tongue, and with a sharp spin—

Yanked.

The Frog Shooter lurched forward, reeled in by its own strength.

Al, bloodied and battered, still flashed a smirk. "Not so fun when you're on the other end, huh?!"

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The monster barely had time to croak before his spear slammed through its center, impaling it straight through. A strangled cry—then black smoke.

He exhaled.

But before he could even turn around—

A fist erupted from the fading mist.

Fast. Brutal.

And heading straight for his face—

Al's instincts screamed.

His arms moved on their own, his grip shifting as he wrenched his spear up—

CLANG!

The orc's fist slammed into the shaft of his weapon like a battering ram, the sheer force rattling through his arms and nearly ripping it from his grasp. His boots skidded against the ground, his muscles screaming as he fought to stay upright.

"Gh—shit!" The impact sent a jolt of pain through his wrists, his grip faltering for half a second. Half a second too long.

The orc roared, stepping in for another swing—this one even faster. A hammer of flesh and bone cutting through the air, aiming to turn him into paste.

Al didn't have time to brace.

"Move!"

He twisted, shifting his stance at the last moment. The wind of the strike whipped past his face as he barely ducked under the massive arm, his coat flaring from the force. He jammed the shaft of his spear up between them, using it as a barrier to force space between himself and the monster.

The orc snarled, shoving forward with brute strength. Al gritted his teeth, his feet digging into the stone as he strained to hold ground.

"Too damn strong. If I try to match its power, I'll lose."

Al adjusted. Instead of pushing against the orc's strength, he let the momentum work for him. He shifted his grip, stepping to the side in one fluid motion while dragging his spear with him. The orc, expecting resistance, stumbled forward slightly.

"Got you!" Al snapped his spear around and drove the butt straight into its ribs. A solid hit. The orc grunted, staggering to the side—but it wasn't enough.

The monster roared, recovering faster than he expected, and retaliated with a backhand. Al ducked, his coat whipping from the force as the air cracked above his head. He retaliated immediately, driving his spear upward in a sharp thrust toward its exposed side.

The orc reacted on instinct, twisting just enough for the attack to glance off its thick hide instead of piercing deep.

"Tch. Didn't break through."

Before he could pull back, the orc grabbed the spear.

Al's eyes widened. "Shit!"

The beast gripped the shaft tight and yanked, trying to rip it from his hands. Al gritted his teeth, twisting the weapon sharply to break free—but the orc was too strong. It swung his own spear at him, using its sheer brute force to turn his weapon into a club. He barely had time to brace before the spear's shaft smashed into his side.

Pain flared through his ribs as he was thrown back. He hit the ground hard but rolled with the impact, flipping onto his feet in one smooth motion. His hands stung, his body aching, but he still had his grip on the spear.

"A-Alright. T-That didn't work. Let's try something else."

Al didn't hesitate. He dashed forward, his grip shifting—this time, when he thrust, it was a feint. The orc expected the strike and moved to counter, swiping at the weapon—only for Al to pull back at the last second and twist his spear in a circular arc.

The blade spun, whistling through the air as he redirected the force, turning the feint into a rapid, horizontal slash across the orc's chest.

This time, he felt resistance. The blade bit into flesh. The orc howled, stumbling back—but it wasn't down.

"Keep the pressure up!"

Al pressed forward, spinning his spear smoothly in his hands before delivering a series of quick thrusts, forcing the orc to stay on the defensive. Each stab kept it from regaining its footing, each move flowing into the next seamlessly, keeping Al in control. The orc swung wildly in frustration, trying to catch him, but he twisted around the attack, planting his foot and—

"Now!"

Al lunged.

A final, decisive thrust—straight through the orc's chest.

The beast let out a strangled snarl, its body twitching. For a brief moment, its bloodshot eyes locked onto his—then, with a guttural groan, the fight left its body. The orc crumbled into black smoke.

Al staggered back, his chest heaving, lungs burning as he sucked in ragged breaths. His grip on the spear tightened as the last wisps of black smoke faded. His body ached, his ribs throbbed, but—he was still standing.

He let out a strained chuckle between ragged breaths, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. "Tch—that one was a pain in the ass…" His words came out in a gasping wheeze as he struggled to catch his breath.

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Then—

Yet another scream.

Al's eye twitched, exhaustion flaring into outright frustration. "Oh, come on—can I get one damn minute?!"

He turned, and the words died in his throat. His breath hitched, his stomach twisted, his body locked up.

Because standing there, bathed in firelight, was something that made every instinct in his body scream to run.