The cavern walls pressed in around him, jagged rock formations jutting out like the ribs of some long-dead beast. The dim glow of luminescent moss did little to banish the oppressive darkness, casting eerie shadows that flickered with every movement. The air was damp, carrying the scent of stone and something more primal—predatory.
Calista's grip tightened around his bow as his sharp blue eyes traced the shifting darkness ahead. There—just beyond the uneven terrain, a slinking shape moved with unsettling silence. A Dungeon Lizard. Its scaled hide rippled, shifting colors to blend seamlessly with the stone. Its head flicked toward him, forked tongue tasting the air.
Before he could loose an arrow, a whisper of movement stirred behind him.
Instinct screamed.
Calista twisted, narrowly avoiding a blur of claws that slashed through the air where his back had been. His instincts saved him—but barely. The second lizard had emerged from the gloom, using the first as a distraction. A coordinated ambush.
He backflipped, boots skidding against the rough ground, and landed in a crouch. His bow already in hand, an arrow nocked in the span of a breath. The lizards, emboldened by their near success, surged forward.
Calista exhaled and let the arrow fly.
His Dexterity guided the shot. The aim was true, it found the first lizard's eye, sinking deep into the vulnerable orb with a sickening crunch. The beast screeched, thrashing wildly, its vision halved.
The second lizard reacted instantly, lunging in retaliation. Claws slashed toward him. Calista twisted, dodging most of the attack, but its tail clipped his ribs—a glancing blow that sent pain flaring through his side. His Endurance was low; even minor hits left their mark.
He gritted his teeth. Distance wouldn't save him now.
The bow slipped from his grasp, twin short swords replacing it in an instant. Steel caught the cavern's dim glow as he shifted his stance.
The lizards circled, one wounded but still dangerous, the other emboldened by first blood.
Calista darted forward, feinting left before pivoting sharply to the right. His blade found the injured lizard's throat. A single, precise thrust—clean, efficient.
The beast choked, blood spraying as its body convulsed. It collapsed, shuddering before going still.
The remaining lizard let out a furious hiss. Its partner's death sent it into a frenzy, instincts overriding caution. It charged, all strategy abandoned.
Calista met its wild attack with measured precision.
The claws came first. He ducked beneath the swipe, pivoting inside its reach. A flick of his wrist—his blade bit into flesh, severing one of its forelimbs in a flash of silvered steel.
The lizard staggered, howling in agony, but it refused to die.
Calista didn't wait.
He feinted right, baiting the wounded creature into lashing out.
It took the bait.
As it lunged, jaws snapping at empty air, he dropped low, sliding beneath its bulk. A blade flashed upward, burying itself deep into the exposed underbelly.
The lizard thrashed violently. Blood gurgled from its maw. A final, broken sound before its body collapsed.
Silence followed, the only sound left was his own measured breathing.
Calista rolled his shoulder, feeling the sting of the shallow cut along his ribs. Bruises were already forming. Painful, but not debilitating.
He wiped his blade clean before retrieving the fallen magic stones. The dim crystals pulsed weakly in his palm—proof of his victory.
He exhaled, allowing the tension in his limbs to unwind.
Then, with a graceful flick of his hair and a knowing smirk, he moved forward. The Dungeon wouldn't wait, and neither would he.
…
The Goblin lunged.
Calista shifted his weight, twisting aside as the crude dagger whistled past his waist. In one fluid motion, he stepped in close, short sword flashing. The blade sliced cleanly through the creature's neck, sending it crumpling to the stone floor. Even before the body hit the ground, he was already pivoting—another was behind him.
Twin blades. Not one wasted movement.
The next goblin barely had time to react before his second sword carved through its chest. A wet gurgle, a stumble, and then silence.
Two down. More coming.
Calista exhaled, resetting his stance. His sapphire eyes flicked across the dim passageway, catching the glint of shifting bodies in the gloom. Three kobolds, low to the ground, their hackles raised as they advanced. Clawed feet scraped against the stone.
Then they charged.
A feint—Calista stepped forward as if to meet them, only to drop low at the last second. The first kobold leapt, expecting resistance. It found none. His blade lashed out, cutting deep into its exposed belly. The creature howled, collapsing in a heap as he shifted his momentum, twisting to avoid the second.
The third lunged, snapping jaws aimed at his throat.
Calista's off-hand sword came up—too slow to strike, but fast enough to parry. A sharp clang as steel met fangs. The impact jarred his arm, but he recovered quickly, using the opening to drive his other blade into the kobold's flank.
It yelped once, then went limp.
Only one left.
This time, he didn't bother waiting. He surged forward, weaving past a desperate claw swipe. The kobold barely had time to snarl before his sword pierced its heart.
A heartbeat of stillness. Then nothing.
Calista rolled his shoulders, shaking off the tension as he surveyed the aftermath. The monsters lay sprawled at his feet, bodies already dissolving into shimmering dust. Magic stones remained, pulsing faintly with an eerie glow.
He sheathed his swords and retrieved a cloth, wiping off the remaining blood. Twenty-nine fights in. His movements were still sharp, but fatigue lingered at the edges, whispering in his limbs. He'd been at this for hours.
One more?
No. He knew better. He'd pressed his luck enough today. He wasn't in trouble yet, but pushing forward without a plan led to carelessness. And carelessness, in the Dungeon, meant death.
Time to head back.
With a final glance at the fading corpses, Calista adjusted the straps of his backpack, secured his magic stone pouch, and made his way toward the surface. The shadows stretched long behind him as he climbed. Another day survived. Another step forward.
Always forward.
…
The guild hall hummed with the usual midday energy—adventurers fresh from the Dungeon lined up at the exchange counters, muttering about near-death experiences and monster hauls. The scent of parchment, ink, and sweat filled the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of magic stones being weighed and recorded.
Calista moved with effortless grace, his steps light as he wove through the crowd. His long scarlet hair, loosely tied in an elegant half-ponytail, caught the lamplight as he approached a familiar counter.
Eina Tulle stood behind it, emerald eyes flicking up from a ledger at his arrival.
"Back early today," she noted, crossing her arms. Her long brown hair, usually pinned up, flowed freely over her shoulders—a rare sight. It softened the usual crispness of her uniform, making her seem less like an ever-diligent guild advisor and more… approachable.
"Efficiently early," Calista corrected, placing his bag on the counter. "And still profitable, I assure you."
Eina sighed, already used to his particular brand of confidence. She untied the pouch and tilted it, letting a cascade of magic stones spill onto the scales with a soft clatter.
"Looks like you had a productive dive," she said, tallying the stones before glancing at him. "No injuries?"
"None worth mentioning."
She gave him a sharp look, but he met it with his usual composed expression—unreadable, as always. The corner of her lip twitched before she returned to her work.
Calista leaned against the counter, watching as she scribbled down calculations.
"You're wearing your hair down," he observed, voice as smooth as ever.
Eina didn't look up. "I had a late night."
"Oh?"
"A bar invitation."
Now that was interesting. "A date?"
She scoffed. "Hardly. Maris invited me. She and her party just reached the tenth floor."
A flicker of amusement stirred within him. "And you disapprove."
"I do not disapprove," Eina said, though her furrowed brow said otherwise. "I just—" she sighed, setting down her pen. "She barely listened to me when we first met. Didn't take training seriously. I was sure she'd get herself killed."
"And yet, here she is, alive and advancing."
Eina leaned on the counter, rubbing her temple. "She apologized yesterday. Said she was young and reckless, and she regrets how she acted back then."
Calista studied her, noting the tension in her shoulders. "But you're still worried."
"Of course I am! She just got to the tenth floor, and instead of pacing herself, she's already planning another dive. It's like she thinks an apology makes her immortal."
Calista considered that. Eina had been his advisor for a month now, and he had a general feel for how she ticked—idealistic but pragmatic, diligent yet emotionally invested. He suspected she cared more than she let on.
He rested his chin on his palm, offering a slight tilt of his head. "Would it help if I took a reckless approach for balance? Perhaps an impromptu charge to the twelfth floor?"
Eina's eyes snapped to him, scandalized. "You wouldn't."
Calista said nothing, letting the silence stretch. Her brow twitched. He could practically hear the gears in her head turning, trying to gauge if he was joking or if she needed to strangle him with the nearest ledger.
A breath. Then—
"Calista."
The flat, warning tone was immensely satisfying.
He allowed himself a ghost of a smile. "I suppose I'll spare you the stress."
"Good," she muttered, shaking her head. Then, as if recalling something, she straightened. "Which brings me to my next point—you should form a party."
Calista exhaled through his nose, already knowing where this was going.
"It's safer," Eina pressed, arms folding. "I can even look for adventurers that fit your—"
"No."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "At least consider it."
"I have."
"And?"
Calista met her gaze with serene finality. "No."
She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
Eina shook her head but didn't push further. Instead, she resumed tallying his exchange, muttering something about stubborn nobles.
Calista waited patiently, letting the familiar rhythm of the Guild settle around them. The sound of scales, quills scratching against parchment, adventurers swapping exaggerated tales.
Eventually, Eina slid his earnings across the counter, emerald eyes still laced with lingering exasperation.
"Try not to get yourself killed, alright?"
Calista accepted the pouch with a graceful nod. "Only if you promise to keep your hair down more often. It suits you."
Eina blinked. A beat of silence. Then—
Her face turned a lovely shade of red.
Calista turned on his heel, leaving before she could recover.
…
The townhouse was quiet, save for the soft scratching of a quill against parchment.
Calista sat shirtless on the edge of his bed, his back straight, crimson hair spilling over one shoulder as Bastet traced a glowing fingertip across the divine script on his skin. The room's single lantern cast flickering light over the walls, mixing with the faint ethereal glow of the Falna being updated.
He could feel her presence behind him, warm and familiar. The sensation of the divine energy shifting in his body was… odd. Not painful, not quite pleasant either—just a subtle awareness that something fundamental was changing.
Bastet hummed thoughtfully as she finished marking down his progress.
"Not bad," she mused. "Your strength and endurance went up by two, dexterity and agility by a few points... Magic still nothing, though." She tapped his back playfully. "Are you sure you don't want to pick up a spell or two? It's never too late to develop some magical talent."
Calista exhaled, glancing over his shoulder. "I'd rather focus on what works for me now. Magic can come later… if it comes at all."
Bastet chuckled. "Always so pragmatic."
She set the parchment aside and stretched, her long dark hair swaying over her shoulders. The moonlight from the window highlighted the golden undertones of her tanned skin, the regal elegance in the curve of her jaw. For all her playful teasing, there was wisdom in her emerald eyes—wisdom and something else.
Guilt.
Calista noticed it immediately.
"You've been making that face ever since we moved in," he said smoothly, reaching for his shirt. "Go on. Say it."
Bastet sighed, sitting beside him on the bed. "I love it, you know. The townhouse. It's warm, it's safe, it's… more than I ever could ask for." She rested her hands in her lap, fingers tracing the fabric of her robes. "But I can't shake the feeling that I should've been the one providing this for you."
Calista pulled the shirt over his head with a graceful ease before turning to face her properly.
"You kept a roof over our heads for the month," he reminded her. "Even when you barely had enough valis to get by, you made sure we had somewhere to sleep. A single room may not have been much, but it was more than most gods in your position could have managed." He met her gaze, unwavering. "And now, as the first member of our Familia—and technically its captain—it's my responsibility to take care of my goddess."
Bastet scoffed, but the warmth in her eyes betrayed her amusement. "You say that like you don't get something out of this too."
He tilted his head. "I enjoy fine living. Is that a crime?"
She laughed, shaking her head. "No, but it makes you sound like a spoiled noble."
"I'm a former noble. The distinction is important."
Bastet smiled, though the guilt hadn't completely left her expression. "I just don't want you pushing yourself too hard for my sake."
Calista looked down at the parchment, at the numbers scrawled in Bastet's neat handwriting.
Strength: I-29.
Endurance: I-19.
Dexterity: H-105.
Agility: I-69.
Magic: I-0.
A month of diving into the Dungeon every day. A month of constant battles, carefully avoiding unnecessary risks, maximizing efficiency. And yet…
It wasn't enough.
He exhaled through his nose. "I'm going deeper tomorrow."
Bastet didn't react immediately. She simply studied him, her gaze measuring.
"Past the fourth floor?"
"Yes."
Still, no argument. No overprotective warnings. Bastet wasn't like other gods—she wouldn't coddle him. She had too much faith in his decisions.
A quiet moment passed before she nodded. "Then I trust you'll do so with the same intelligence you've shown so far."
Calista gave a slight, appreciative nod, then folded the parchment neatly and tucked it away. "We should celebrate our move, then. I still have enough valis. Let's go to the Hostess of Fertility tonight."
Bastet arched a brow. "You still have valis?"
He smirked. "Would I lie to you?"
She gave him a pointed look.
"…About something like this?" he amended.
Bastet exhaled, shaking her head. "Fine, fine. But you're paying."
"I expected nothing less."
She rose from the bed, stretching again before pulling on her outer robes. "Then let's get going. If we're lucky, we can grab a table before the crowd picks up."
Calista stood as well, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his high ponytail. "If we're lucky? My dear goddess, do you doubt my ability to secure favorable seating?"
Bastet laughed, leading the way toward the door. "Now that? That's definitely spoiled noble behavior."
He merely smiled, following her to get ready for the night.
…
The warm glow of lanterns spilled onto the cobbled streets as Calista and Bastet stepped into the Hostess of Fertility. The moment they crossed the threshold, the familiar scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and spices filled the air. Lively chatter and clinking mugs created an inviting atmosphere—one that felt both chaotic and comforting.
Dressed in one of his finer everyday outfits—a flowing blouse with intricate embroidery, a pleated skirt that ended mid-thigh, and golden accessories that glinted under the tavern's soft lights—Calista cut a striking figure as he moved with practiced elegance. His scarlet hair, partially tied up, cascaded down his back in a shimmering curtain. More than a few eyes flicked toward him, though most assumed what they always did—that he was a particularly noble-looking girl.
Which suited him just fine.
The moment they stepped inside, An elf approached them with her usual composed demeanor. The elven waitress, dressed in the tavern's uniform, inclined her head slightly.
"Welcome. A table for two?" she asked.
Calista gave a small nod. "Preferably something near the window."
The green haired elf glanced at the filled tables before leading them to a corner booth with a view of the street.
Once they were seated, Bastet stretched her arms with a lazy, satisfied hum. "Mmm, it's been too long since we last came here. Feels different knowing we aren't going back to a cramped one-room rental."
That gave Calista the perfect opening. "I did consider that when I chose the townhouse. Comfort is a necessity." He leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. "That, and if you ever decide to add more members to our Familia, there's room for two members."
Bastet blinked, her feline-like emerald eyes studying him for a long moment before a slow smile curled on her lips. "You really thought that far ahead?"
"I like to plan ahead," he admitted, brushing his fingers lightly against the wooden table. "And I know you, Bastet. You bring in strays. You offer warmth and protection. It was inevitable you'd want to add someone eventually."
Her expression softened, touched by the gesture. "That's… really sweet, actually." She tilted her head, playful but sincere. "But you do know I'd discuss it with you first, right?"
Calista exhaled through his nose, amused. "You don't have to."
"You're the Captain of the Familia," Bastet reminded him, voice warm but firm. "And more importantly, you were my first—my first Familia member. You matter. So, if we add anyone, you'll be the first to know."
He studied her for a moment before giving a small, approving nod. "Fair enough."
Before Bastet could say more, A different waitress approached their table, a pleasant smile in place.
"Decided on your orders?"
Bastet hummed, tapping her chin before nodding. "I'll have the seafood platter."
Calista, already knowing what he wanted, answered smoothly, "The pasta with white sauce and herbs."
She gave a pleased nod, silver eyes glancing between them. "And drinks?"
"Wine," Calista said without hesitation.
Bastet smirked. "Red for me."
She jotted it down before flashing them a knowing look. "I'll be back shortly."
Once she left, the conversation resumed, the quiet appreciation between them lingering.
Then, the food arrived.
The grey-haired waitress returned, balancing a tray with effortless grace, setting their plates down with a small, knowing smile. "One seafood platter for the goddess," she said, placing the dish in front of Bastet. "And pasta with white sauce and herbs for the noble adventurer."
Calista's gaze flicked to her, mildly intrigued by her choice of words. Noble adventurer?
Not young lady or miss?
That was rare. Very rare.
Most people defaulted to assumptions. It wasn't that he hid his gender—he simply didn't correct others when they got it wrong. But her… she had skipped the mistake entirely.
He arched his brow slightly. "You have a keen eye."
The waitress' smile widened, her silver eyes glinting with amusement. "I have good instincts."
Bastet, watching the exchange, smirked as she picked up a shrimp with delicate fingers. "Calista does have a habit of keeping people guessing."
"I imagine he does," She said, then placed their glasses of wine down. "Enjoy your meal."
She walked off, but not before sending one last glance Calista's way—assessing, playful, interested.
Calista tapped his fingers against the table thoughtfully. "She's perceptive."
Bastet took a sip of her drink, her grin decidedly too amused. "Maybe she's just interested in you."
He gave her a dry look. "You sound far too entertained by that possibility."
"I'm a goddess," she said with a teasing shrug. "Entertainment is part of my domain."
Calista shook his head, but there was no real annoyance in his expression. He twirled his fork around his pasta, savoring the comforting richness of the dish.
The night was young. The meal was good. And for once, there were no pressing dangers to consider.
Perhaps, just for tonight, he could allow himself to enjoy the moment.
The last remnants of their meal sat untouched on the plates, half-finished wine swirling in their glasses. The Hostess of Fertility had begun to settle into its late-evening rhythm—less chaotic than earlier but still lively, with laughter and clinking mugs filling the warm space.
Calista wiped the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, setting it aside as he leaned back slightly. "We should go shopping tomorrow."
Bastet, reclined comfortably in her seat, swirled her wine before taking a sip. "For what exactly?"
He tilted his head in consideration. "Furniture. Maybe some utilities. We still need a few essentials."
She exhaled through her nose, her emerald eyes watching him with a knowing amusement. "Ah. Yes. Essentials."
Calista met her gaze, ever composed. "Yes."
A long pause.
Bastet's tail—subtle, barely noticeable in the dim lighting—flicked behind her chair. "Isn't it interesting how every time we go shopping for 'essentials,' we somehow leave with more clothes than actual furniture?"
Calista didn't blink. "Coincidence."
Bastet hummed, setting her wine down. "Mmm. And yet, I have the distinct feeling that if I were to let you handle the shopping, we'd have a lavish wardrobe and an unfurnished house."
"That would be impractical," he said smoothly. "I am, if nothing else, an efficient planner."
"An efficient planner who already owns enough clothes to cycle through a different outfit every day for a month."
"Presentation matters."
Bastet gave him an unamused look. "Calista."
"Yes?"
"Just admit you want more clothes."
A sip of wine. "We need essentials."
She huffed, finally laughing. "You're impossible."
He simply inclined his head, serene as ever.
A familiar voice cut in. "Finished with your meal?"
The same waitress stood by their table, silver eyes glinting in the lantern light. She looked between them, clearly catching the tail end of their conversation, though she wisely chose not to comment.
Calista gave a nod. "We're ready for the check."
She retrieved the wooden slip from her apron and slid it onto the table. "Whenever you're ready."
Calista glanced at the total before drawing out the necessary valis, sliding the pouch across the table without hesitation.
The grey haired waitress took it with an appreciative nod. "I'll handle this for you. And," she leaned in just slightly, a playful smile touching her lips, "thank you for dining with us tonight."
He inclined his head in return, polite but unfazed. "Our pleasure."
Bastet, watching the exchange, simply smirked.
When they stepped outside into the cool evening air, the warm glow of the tavern casting long shadows behind them, The waitress personally waved them off from the doorway.
That was new.
Calista didn't react, stepping onto the cobbled street with the same composed grace as always.
Bastet, however, took great pleasure in leaning slightly toward him. "She likes you."
"She's a good hostess," he replied evenly.
Bastet's smirk widened. "That wasn't a denial."
Calista exhaled, adjusting his pace. "I have to wake early tomorrow. The last thing I need is wasted speculation."
"Oh, I'm not speculating," she teased. "I'm observing."
"You're enjoying yourself."
"Immensely."
Calista shook his head but let it drop. His mind was already shifting to tomorrow—new floors, new dangers, and the careful calculation of risk versus reward.
As they walked through the quieting streets, Bastet, despite her amusement, seemed to pick up on his shift in focus. She let the conversation drift into companionable silence.
Tonight was for leisure.
Tomorrow, the Dungeon awaited.
…
"Absolutely not."
Eina Tulle's emerald eyes bore into Calista with the kind of intensity usually reserved for reckless fools about to throw themselves headfirst into disaster.
Calista, ever poised, adjusted his stance slightly, the map in question still held delicately between his fingertips. "I'm simply preparing for future expeditions."
"You're preparing to make me age ten years in one conversation," Eina shot back, arms folded. "The story about Maris was not an invitation to go imitating her."
Calista let the moment stretch, calm and unreadable as ever. "That wasn't my intent."
Eina exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "You're moving too fast. You've only been diving for a month, and you want maps for all the upper floors? You do realize that people die past the fourth floor, right? You have no party, no backup—"
"I don't intend to go charging in unprepared," he interrupted smoothly. "You know I'm not reckless."
Eina gave him a flat look. "You're stubborn."
"A different trait entirely."
"Debatable."
Calista remained serene, waiting as she huffed in frustration before muttering something about impossible adventurers. Eventually, she pinched the bridge of her nose and relented. "Fine. Only the maps for floors five and six."
"I should've made you beg for them."
"I would have found another vendor."
Eina's eye twitched. "That's not the reassuring answer you think it is."
Regardless, she handed over the maps after scribbling down an additional note on their margins—most likely floor-specific dangers. As he tucked them into his pack, her expression turned firm again. "If you're really going deeper, you need to be aware of War Shadows."
Calista met her gaze. "Rookie killers."
Eina nodded grimly. "And that's when they target parties. When a solo adventurer faces one? It's worse. They're fast, precise, and relentless. If you let one slip past your guard, they'll rip your throat out before you even realize what happened."
"I understand."
"Do you?" she pressed. "Because all it takes is one mistake."
Calista adjusted the strap of his pack, regarding her with measured patience. "I have someone waiting for me," he said simply. "I'm not in the habit of dying."
Eina blinked.
For a moment, she seemed caught off guard—not by the words, but by the sincerity behind them. His tone was even, confident, but genuine. He wasn't humoring her. He wasn't brushing her off.
He was listening.
And that… pleased her.
She let out a breath, her shoulders easing slightly. "Alright. Just—be careful, okay?"
Calista gave a small, graceful nod. "Of course."
He turned to leave, but just as he reached the door, he glanced back. "Thank you, Eina."
She blinked again, then quickly straightened, schooling her expression into something not flustered. "Just—don't make me regret helping you."
…
The sixth floor of the Dungeon felt colder than the last. Calista barely noticed at first—he was used to the unnatural chill that clung to the deeper corridors—but as he took another step, a prickling sensation crept up his spine. Something was wrong.
The silence broke.
A shadow peeled itself from the stone wall ahead, fluid and seamless, like ink dissolving into water. A pair of crimson eyes flared to life, locking onto him with predatory intent. Calista barely had a moment to register the unnatural grace of its movements before it lunged.
A War Shadow.
His body moved before his mind fully processed the threat. He threw himself to the side, the monster's claws slicing through empty air where his throat had been an instant prior. Too fast. Too precise. His heart hammered against his ribs.
This wasn't like the kobolds or goblins he had dispatched so far. This thing was a predator.
The War Shadow twisted, recovering from its failed strike with terrifying efficiency. Calista didn't wait—he notched an arrow, muscles snapping into familiar motion as he aimed for center mass and loosed.
The shot missed.
Not because of his aim—his precision was one of his greatest strengths—but because the War Shadow moved with an eerie, unnatural fluidity. It didn't dodge so much as it adjusted, its body bending in ways that defied expectation. The arrow whistled past its shoulder, embedding itself uselessly into the dungeon wall.
Calista exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. So that's how it was going to be.
He slung the bow over his shoulder in one smooth motion, fingers already reaching for the twin short swords at his waist. The War Shadow wasted no time. It lunged again, its claws a blur of blackened steel.
He was too slow.
Pain flared across his torso as the creature's strike landed, cutting into the leather of his armor. Not deep, but enough to remind him how fragile he was in a close-quarters exchange. He grit his teeth, using the momentum of his stagger to twist his body, bringing one of his swords up in a retaliatory arc.
A near miss. The blade cut through air just shy of the monster's form. But the second sword—his follow-up—found its mark. He felt the steel bite into flesh, felt the resistance as he cut across its torso. The War Shadow didn't flinch. It had no breath to lose, no pain to register.
It moved again.
He needed to adapt.
Calista adjusted his stance, focusing not just on the creature's shape, but its movement. It wasn't erratic—it had a pattern, a rhythm. The way it lunged, the way it twisted mid-strike, how it never fully stopped moving. It was fast, but not invincible.
He could break its flow.
The next time it attacked, he was ready. As it lunged, he feinted left, forcing the War Shadow to shift its angle. At that exact moment, he darted right instead, twisting his body into a tight spiral. His left sword snapped up, catching the creature's claws mid-swipe, and with his right, he drove his blade into the monster's core.
A perfect strike.
The War Shadow jerked, its form trembling as its body began to break apart, dissolving into dark mist. It let out a distorted, rasping sound—somewhere between a screech and a whisper—before vanishing completely. Only the faint clatter of its magic stone hitting the ground remained.
Calista stood still for a moment, steadying his breathing.
That had been… difficult. The War Shadow was faster than anything he'd faced before. Stronger, too. He pressed a hand against his armor, feeling the shallow cut beneath. If that attack had been just a little deeper…
He exhaled softly and knelt, plucking the magic stone from the ground. The cold gem sat in his palm, a reminder that the Dungeon never stopped testing him. That every floor would be worse than the last.
He allowed himself a small, wry smile.
It was terrifying.
But he would only grow stronger.
With a flick of his wrist, he pocketed the stone and adjusted his stance, eyes turning toward the depths ahead.
There were more monsters waiting. And he had no intention of stopping.
…
The air became thick. Damp, heavy, clinging to his skin like the weight of a bad decision. Calista moved carefully through the narrow corridor, his footsteps muffled against the Dungeon's uneven stone. He shouldn't be here.
Floor 7 was a gamble. One Eina would have thoroughly scolded him for if she knew—but he had ensured she wouldn't. The map had cost him extra from a vendor who asked no questions, and the promise of extra valis had been too tempting to ignore.
Then the ground quivered.
Instinct took over. He stepped back, reaching for an arrow before he even knew what he was reacting to. A sharp crack split the silence as the wall ahead fractured, stone and dust bursting outward.
A hulking mass of red chitin lurched from the opening.
Calista's pulse spiked.
A Killer Ant.
It was nearly the size of a hound, jagged mandibles clicking as it scuttled forward, its movements wrong—too fast for something that looked so heavy. The sheer bulk of its armored body made it feel like a moving wall, its legs stabbing into the stone with every step.
No time to think.
He fired. The arrow struck clean, sinking into the monster's side—only to barely pierce the thick exoskeleton. His breath hitched. It didn't even slow down.
The Killer Ant lunged.
Calista moved—rolling to the side as mandibles snapped shut where his torso had been a moment prior. The force of the bite cracked the stone beneath it. He landed in a crouch, bow already slung over his shoulder as his hands found the hilts of his short swords.
Arrows wouldn't be enough.
Steel rasped against leather as he drew the blades, adjusting his stance. The ant turned, clicking its mandibles as if recognizing him as something worth its full attention.
Then it charged.
He sidestepped, barely avoiding one of its lunging forelegs as it slammed down with enough force to shake the ground. Too strong. Too armored. His blades wouldn't break through if he just hacked away aimlessly.
He needed to be precise.
He circled, forcing the ant to turn with him. Its size worked against it—it wasn't slow, but it wasn't agile either. Each movement carried weight, momentum that couldn't be adjusted easily.
There. A gap.
The underside of its body was softer, the chitin less reinforced. Calista dashed low, slipping past its forelegs and striking upward. The first blade found purchase, sliding between plates, biting deep. The ant shrieked—a shrill, alien sound that rattled his skull—but he was already retreating, avoiding the wild bite that snapped at empty air where he had been a second before.
Still alive.
The ant reared back, mandibles spread wide. It was preparing another lunge, another crushing attack. If he let this drag out, if it got a solid hit on him, he'd be in trouble.
Finish it.
He feinted left, drawing the ant's attention, then pivoted hard to the right. Its body twisted too late. He dove low, sliding beneath its thorax, and drove both blades up into the joint of its neck.
The reaction was immediate.
A violent tremor tore through the monster's body. Its legs spasmed, its mandibles snapping aimlessly as its movements became erratic. Then, with a final convulsion, it collapsed.
Calista exhaled. Hard.
His hands ached from gripping his swords so tightly, and his chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. He stepped back, watching the lifeless bulk of chitin settle into the stone. Unlike the War Shadow, it didn't dissolve into mist.
Which meant he had to carve the stone out himself.
Suppressing a grimace, he stepped forward and placed a boot against the creature's shell, steadying himself as he worked one of his short swords between the hardened plates of its chest. The exoskeleton resisted at first, but with a twist of the blade, the chitin gave way, revealing the faint inner glow of the magic stone embedded within.
Warm blood slicked his fingers as he pried it loose. The stone pulsed faintly in his palm before the glow faded, its energy settled.
He wiped his hand against his cloak before pocketing the gem, shaking off the lingering tremors of adrenaline. The fight hadn't been as exhausting as the War Shadow—but it had been a test of endurance, of patience. He glanced at his quiver, mentally noting the arrows he had wasted before switching tactics.
Armor-piercing arrows, perhaps? Something to punch through the shell.
He took one last look at the carcass before stepping away. The Dungeon rarely gave time for rest, and he had no intention of staying long enough to find out what else was listening.
He pressed forward.
...
Navigating the first few floors had been routine—goblins and kobolds fell like wheat before the scythe, their sluggish movements and brittle defenses making them little more than a formality. Even the Dungeon Lizards had proven manageable, their swipes predictable once he learned to bait their attacks.
But deeper down, things had changed.
A familiar screech tore through the passage ahead, thin and reedy, a sharp contrast to the heavier clicks and growls of the monsters he'd been facing thus far. He barely had time to react before a Frog Shooter flung itself from the ceiling, its sticky tongue snapping out like a whip.
Calista twisted, feeling the air shift as the strike missed by inches. He landed on the balls of his feet, bow already in hand, fingers dancing over his quiver. The creature perched on a jagged outcrop, its bulbous eye locked onto him, throat expanding as it prepared another attack.
He loosed an arrow. The shot struck true—sinking into its side—but the Frog Shooter let out a shrill croak and tensed, legs coiling.
It leapt.
A second arrow flew, catching it mid-air, but the damn thing refused to die. It twisted in flight, tongue lashing out.
Calista barely managed to duck. The appendage snapped against the stone with a sickening thwack, leaving a thin film of mucus behind. His stomach turned.
Not letting it try again, he pivoted, loosing a final shot that punched through its throat. The creature convulsed mid-air before crashing to the ground, its bloated form twitching before going still.
Disgusting.
He wiped his fingers against his cloak, ridding them of whatever airborne residue had clung to the air, before stepping past its corpse.
The Dungeon never allowed time for rest.
Calista tensed, ears straining against the rhythmic whirr filling the corridor. His eyes tracked the movement of shifting purple blurs, their delicate, powder-coated wings leaving trails of faint luminescence. Purple Moths.
Individually, they weren't much of a threat. But their dust—he'd heard enough from overheard conversations in the Guild to know it could paralyze an adventurer mid-fight if inhaled.
Which meant melee was out of the question.
He took a steady breath, knocking an arrow. The first moth flitted toward him, its delicate movements eerily mesmerizing. He didn't hesitate—his arrow pierced straight through its thorax, pinning it against the wall.
The others reacted instantly.
The swarm moved as one, shifting unpredictably, releasing a fine shimmer of glittering powder into the air.
Calista backpedaled, fast. The dust was nearly invisible in the dim lighting, but he refused to take chances. He forced his breathing into shallow bursts, minimizing exposure.
Three left.
His next shot skewered the closest, but the remaining two dove low—intelligent enough to avoid a straight approach.
One landed on his arm.
The sensation sent a cold spike of alarm through him—its tiny legs crawled over his bracer, seeking exposed flesh. With a sharp flick, he flung it off, stepping back just as the second dove at his face.
He ducked, twisted, and swung his bow like a club. The impact sent the moth careening into the stone. Before it could right itself, he ended it with a precise downward stab of his short sword.
The final one hovered erratically, as if weighing its options.
He didn't give it time to decide.
A final arrow, dead center. The moth crumpled, its powder dispersing harmlessly into the air.
Calista exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he surveyed the aftermath. His arms still tingled faintly where the dust had brushed against him, but it wasn't enough to take hold. He had been lucky.
...
The deeper floors continued to test him. Another War Shadow, another Killer Ant—both encounters forced him to refine his strategies, to fight smarter rather than harder. The War Shadow fell faster than the first, its tricks familiar now. The Ant, however, remained a lesson in patience, its armor forcing him to wait for the right opening rather than recklessly expending his stamina.
By the time he retrieved the last magic stone, his muscles burned, and his fingers ached from countless drawn arrows and precise sword strikes. He had pushed himself hard—but it had been worth it.
The satchel at his waist was heavier than before, its contents a satisfying reward.
Not bad for a day's work.
With a final glance at the cavernous expanse ahead, he turned back toward the safer floors. He had what he came for.
Now, he just had to make it back alive.
…
The weight of the coin pouch in his hands felt almost surreal. 12,495 Valis if he calculated the conversation rate correctly. It was more than he had expected, more than he had ever earned in one dive.
And it came with a cost.
Calista kept his movements fluid as he exited the Dungeon, though his body ached from the strain of battle. The twin short swords at his sides were stained with the remnants of his last fight, and his leather armor bore fresh gashes—marks of a struggle that hadn't been as clean as he would have liked. He had pushed himself, fought through thirty-two encounters, and exhausted all three of his potions before reaching his limit. His wounds were shallow, but they were there. A dull, pulsing reminder of his mortality beneath the unshaken poise that 『Grace Unbroken』 demanded.
He adjusted his grip on his loot bag, tilting his head just slightly as he entered the Guild. The moment he stepped inside, the warm lantern glow contrasted sharply with the cool exhaustion sinking into his bones. He had made it out. Now, he just had to survive Eina.
The half-elf was seated behind her desk, quill in hand, as she sorted through paperwork with practiced efficiency. She hadn't noticed him yet—good. If he could just slip past her, deposit the stones, and—
Her emerald eyes lifted.
Calista froze.
He had faced War Shadows, dodged disgusting Frog Shooters, and outmaneuvered Killer Ants in the past few hours. None of that compared to the weight of the look she gave him.
"Calista." Her voice was light, pleasant even, but he recognized the undertone. "You're late. That's... surprising."
There was a brief pause before she really looked at him—at the scuffed armor, the faint trace of drying blood at the corner of his sleeve, the way he carried himself with forced ease.
Her brows pinched. "You're injured."
"Lightly," he corrected smoothly, flashing a small, reassuring smile. "Nothing I can't handle. Just a few minor cuts."
Eina was already standing before he could deflect further. "How many potions did you use?"
He hesitated. The answer was clear, but he knew what it would lead to.
"...All three."
Her lips parted slightly before pressing into a thin line. "Calista."
He exhaled softly, shifting his bag onto the counter. "Before you get upset—"
Then the magic stones spilled out. A gleaming cascade of violet and blue, catching the light and pooling across the surface.
The air between them changed.
Eina stared. Her eyes flickered from the sheer quantity to his composed expression, her mind undoubtedly calculating just how much this meant in Valis. She had been his advisor from the start. She knew how to judge a haul. And judging by the tightening of her shoulders, she knew exactly what this meant.
"...How deep?" Her voice was quieter now. Less reprimand, more controlled disbelief.
Calista considered lying. He really did. But that would be an insult to her intelligence, and despite all the teasing, despite the way he enjoyed pushing the line, he respected her.
So he met her gaze.
"Deep enough."
Eina inhaled sharply, then let it out through her nose. She turned away for a moment, pressing her fingers to her temple, before leveling him with a look that could've withered a minotaur.
"Do you have any idea how reckless this is?"
"It wasn't reckless," he replied, measured but firm. "It was calculated."
"Calculated?!" Her voice rose, and a few nearby adventurers glanced over. She caught herself and exhaled, lowering her tone. "Calista, you fought through thirty-two monsters, burned through all your potions, and you're telling me this was calculated?"
"Yes." He crossed his arms, unwavering. "I knew my limits. I stopped before I reached them."
She gave him a look that clearly said, You expect me to believe that?
"You pushed your limits."
"That's how you grow."
"That's how you die."
The words hung between them, heavier than any sack of valis.
Eina wasn't angry—she was worried. It was in the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides, the way she held his gaze like she was trying to memorize him, just in case.
Calista sighed, softening just a fraction. "Miss Tulle."
She shook her head, pacing slightly. "No. No, you don't get to do that. You don't get to just walk in here, looking like you went ten rounds with a monster, drop a fortune on my desk, and act like this is fine!"
He tilted his head. "I walked in with grace, thank you very much."
"Calista!"
He couldn't help it—he laughed, light and unbothered, letting the tension roll off his shoulders. She, of course, did not find it amusing.
Eina huffed, crossing her arms. "You're unbelievable."
"And yet, I'm still alive."
"For now," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Calista reached forward, plucking one of the smaller stones from the pile and rolling it between his fingers. "You worry too much."
"You make that very easy," she shot back, exasperated.
They stood in silence for a moment, the hum of the Guild around them a distant thing. Eventually, Eina sighed, gathering the stones into a storage container with careful hands. "Just... be careful," she murmured. "I know you're talented, but talent doesn't make you invincible."
Something in her tone made him pause.
It was a small thing. A flicker of something more than just frustration. Fear.
He could brush it off. He could reassure her with another joke, another charming remark. But instead, he smiled, setting the gemstone down before straightening.
"Very well," he said smoothly. "To ease your worries, allow me to make it up to you."
Eina blinked. "What?"
"A drink," he declared, already turning toward the door. "I'll buy you one. No—several. Consider it repayment for your ever-enduring patience and the headache I so graciously bestow upon you."
Her brows lifted, suspicion creeping in. "Wait, are you bribing me with alcohol?"
"Bribing?" He gasped, feigning offense. "How little you think of me! This is a genuine invitation, from one friend to another."
She gave him a dry look, then sighed, rubbing her temples. "...Fine. But you're paying for everything."
Calista smiled, already leading the way out of the Guild. "Naturally. I wouldn't dream of making a lady cover her own tab."
"You are so lucky I like free drinks," she muttered, shaking her head as she followed.
…
The pub was a modest affair, a far cry from the rowdy, adventurer-packed Hostess of Fertility. It lacked the charm of boisterous cat girls or the warm, inviting atmosphere that kept people coming back, but it made up for it with cheap drinks and enough noise to drown out unwanted eavesdroppers. Dim lanterns flickered above, casting long shadows over wooden tables, the scent of ale and roasted meat thick in the air.
At a corner booth, Calista swirled the drink in his hand—something fruity and light, chosen for the sole purpose of keeping his wits intact—while across from him, Eina was already a few mugs deep into something much stronger.
"Two," she muttered, stabbing a finger into the table. "Two of my adventurers."
Calista took a slow sip, watching as she slouched forward. "And what exactly is the issue, dear advisor?"
"You and Maris," she huffed, gripping her drink like it had personally wronged her. "At least Maris had a year before she did anything reckless. She had a whole party. She built experience. Then she decided—stupidly, might I add—that she was ready to go past the tenth floor."
She lifted her mug dramatically, nearly sloshing its contents over the edge. "But you? A month, Calista. One! And you're already—where did you even go? Seven? Eight?"
He hesitated. A wise man would lie.
"...Nine."
Her emerald eyes widened.
Calista sighed. "Go on."
"You absolute idiot," she groaned, planting her forehead against the table. "Nine?! That's—do you even understand how dangerous that is?! People die there, Calista!"
"I'm aware," he said, nonchalant. "I was there, after all."
Eina lifted her head just to glare at him. "Oh, shut up," she muttered, then took a long swig of her drink before slamming the mug down.
Calista leaned back, eyeing her with amusement. "So dramatic."
"So reckless," she corrected, waving a finger at him. "But, ugh, it's really—" She cut herself off, brows furrowing as she seemed to debate whether or not to say what was on her mind.
Calista raised an eyebrow. "Really what?"
Eina exhaled loudly, leaning back. "Really impressive."
He blinked. "Pardon?"
She groaned, rubbing her face. "Ugh, don't make me repeat it. It is impressive. It's also completely insane, but still. I mean, you're alone, and you're actually winning against those monsters. I read the reports—I know how strong the War Shadows and Killer Ants are. And you're just... cutting through them like it's nothing."
Calista allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk. "Well, not nothing."
She ignored him, already continuing, her words slightly slurred but gaining speed.
"You know," she mused, tilting her head, "you might actually make it. Like—really make it. A First-ranked Adventurer. My adventurer, becoming a First-ranked! Imagine how cool that would be!"
Calista chuckled, shaking his head. "You're getting ahead of yourself."
"No, no, no, listen," she insisted, leaning in so suddenly that he had to steady her before she toppled face-first onto the table. "You could do it. I mean, you're already growing so fast! Maybe you'll even—" she hiccuped, then grinned, slapping the table—"maybe you'll even beat the Sword Princess's level-up record!"
Calista nearly choked on his drink. "Alright, now you're just spouting nonsense."
Eina, utterly undeterred, lifted her arms wide. "Picture it! A dashing, elegant adventurer, faster than Ais Wallenstein—"
"Not happening."
"—deadlier than the fastest Familia elites—"
"Flattering, but still not happening."
"—the great Calista Aldebrand, youngest to reach Level Six!"
At that, she attempted an exaggerated sweeping gesture, nearly tipping her mug over—Calista barely caught it in time.
"Alright," he sighed, setting the drink down safely before Eina could cause further chaos. "That is quite enough for you."
She pouted, crossing her arms. "You're no fun."
"I am the only reason you're still upright."
"You're also my greatest headache."
Calista smirked. "So you admit it."
Eina exhaled, rubbing her temples before giving him a half-lidded glare. "Do not make me regret saying you're impressive."
He chuckled, finishing the last of his drink.
The night was wearing on, and the crowd around them had shifted—some patrons rowdier, others slumped against tables, lost in drunken stupors.
Eina let out a long sigh, resting her chin in her palm. "...You know, I really should be yelling at you more."
"You have been yelling at me."
"Not enough," she grumbled. "But..." She sighed again. "Please be careful, Calista."
Something in her tone softened the usual amusement in his chest.
He glanced at her—her eyes were still sharp, even through the alcohol-induced haze, but beneath the exasperation, beneath the frustration, there was something deeper.
Worry.
It was easy to forget, sometimes, that for all her lectures and scoldings, Eina cared. She truly cared. And though she might've called him a reckless idiot, she was proud of him, too.
Calista let out a slow breath, resting his elbow against the table and propping his chin against his hand. "I'll be careful," he murmured, and—for once—he meant it.
Eina hummed, a lazy, tired sound. "Good."
Then, without warning, she slumped forward, head landing against the table with a dull thump.
Calista blinked.
"...Miss Tulle?"
A quiet, half-mumbled response. "Mm, five more minutes..."
He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Unbelievable."
Carefully, he flagged down a server, handed over some valis for the bill, and then—with no small amount of effort—shifted to prop Eina up before she could slide out of the booth entirely.
He adjusted her against his side, keeping her steady. She muttered something about ranking records in her sleep, completely unaware of the world around her.
With a smirk, Calista led her toward the exit.
"First-ranked, huh?" he murmured, shaking his head. "You really are ridiculous, Miss Tulle."
She didn't answer, lost in whatever drunken dream she'd found herself in.
Calista just chuckled, guiding her into the Orario night, where the cool air greeted them like a quiet reminder—of adventure, of challenges ahead, and, most importantly, of the very long morning Eina was about to have.
The streets of Orario were quiet at this hour, lanterns casting long shadows across the stone paths as Calista walked with practiced ease. The weight at his side—Eina, half-asleep and mumbling incoherently—was more of a hindrance than any wound he had sustained in the Dungeon today.
"You're surprisingly heavy for someone so petite," he murmured, adjusting his grip as she leaned more of her weight against him.
Eina made a noise of protest, her words muffled. "M'not heavy… you're just weak…"
Calista snorted. "Yes, yes, tell that to the War Shadows I cut through today."
She didn't respond, already drifting deeper into a drunken stupor. That was fine. He could handle her. The real problem was that she had utterly failed to tell him where she lived.
That left him with one option.
By the time he reached his townhouse, he was so ready to drop Eina onto the nearest flat surface and collapse. He managed to fumble the door open with minimal effort, stepping inside—
And stopped.
Bastet was curled up on his couch, fast asleep.
Oh. Right.
With a sharp inhale, Calista closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself not to groan. He was supposed to go shopping with her today. He had even mentioned it over dinner, using furniture shopping as a cover to add to his already extensive wardrobe. And yet, between the Dungeon, the massive haul, and Eina drinking herself into his custody, he had completely lost track of time.
Perfect.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed. "This is what I get for pushing deeper than I should have."
Eina mumbled something about ranking records again, shifting in his hold.
"Alright, alright," he muttered, stepping inside fully and shutting the door behind him. One thing at a time.
The guest room was simple but comfortable—barely used, given how little company he had beyond Bastet, and she rarely needed it. Still, it was better than leaving Eina sprawled in the entryway. With care, he lowered her onto the mattress, making sure she wouldn't immediately roll off.
Kneeling, he tugged off her shoes, then her socks, pausing only to remove her glasses and set them safely on the bedside table. That was the extent of his care. He wasn't about to attempt anything more—Eina was going to have a bad morning already, no need to add to her grievances.
She sighed in her sleep, curling into the blankets.
With that done, he slipped back into the main room.
Bastet was still asleep on the couch, her long dark hair spilling over the armrest, the soft rise and fall of her breathing the only movement in the dim lighting. She had forgone shoes, as usual, her golden jewelry catching the faint glow of the lanterns.
A familiar pang of guilt tugged at him.
She had waited.
With a shake of his head, he moved forward, slipping his arms beneath her in a single fluid motion. She was warm—soft, but heavier than expected, all lean muscle beneath the effortless elegance. She barely stirred as he lifted her, only shifting slightly as he carried her toward the bedroom.
The bed was still neatly made—he doubted she had even considered using it without him home. With care, he lowered her onto the sheets, making sure she was comfortable before beginning the delicate process of removing a few of her accessories. The gold bangles, the crescent-moon pendant, the delicate earrings—all set carefully onto the nightstand.
She murmured something, barely audible, before sighing in contentment.
Calista lingered only for a moment before stepping back.
Two down.
By now, exhaustion was fully settling in, crawling into his limbs like lead. He should check his Falna, considering the sheer number of monsters he had fought today. But the thought of waking up a grumpy Bastet… unbearable.
Tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.
Dragging himself back to the couch, he let out a long, tired breath and sank into the cushions. Of course, even utterly depleted, he couldn't just collapse. His skill ensured that even his exhaustion was elegant—he shifted, stretching out smoothly, head resting against the armrest in a posture that was almost deliberately refined.
He wanted to faceplant. He wanted to just drop. But no, even in near-unconsciousness, his skill dictated poise.
Ridiculous.
His last thought, before sleep took him, was a simple lament.
Tomorrow's going to be a headache.
---
Eina's head pounded before she even opened her eyes.
A deep, throbbing ache sat heavy in her skull, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Her mouth was dry, her body sluggish, and there was an unfamiliar weight pressing down on her limbs—blankets. That wasn't right. She didn't remember going home.
Her eyes cracked open to soft morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. A slow, creeping panic stirred in her chest as she registered her surroundings—a modest room, simple but well-kept. Wooden furniture, clean linens, a small bedside table where her glasses sat neatly folded next to a cup of water.
Wait. Her glasses?
She shot upright too fast. A wave of nausea slammed into her, forcing her back down with a groan. Gods, what had she done last night? A pub. Drinks. Something about adventurers. Her adventurer.
Oh no.
Her fingers flew over her clothes, checking—shirt, vest, skirt, everything still in place, her belt slightly askew but intact. A sigh of relief escaped her. No missing garments, no unfamiliar soreness. Just a raging hangover and a complete lack of memory on how she'd ended up here.
The scent of something warm, rich, and unmistakably delicious drifted through the air. A quiet hum of voices carried from below, muffled but distinct enough that she could tell at least two people were speaking.
Pushing herself up with considerably more caution, she reached for her glasses and slid them on. The room sharpened into focus, revealing just how tidy it was. Not an inn. A home. Someone's home.
Where was she?
Carefully, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her head protested the movement. The scent from downstairs grew stronger, mingling with the low clatter of cooking. Her stomach grumbled in response, though her nausea wasn't sure how to feel about it.
Swallowing against the discomfort, she forced herself onto unsteady feet and made her way toward the door. Her fingers hesitated on the handle before she pressed down and stepped into the hall. A narrow staircase led down to the source of the voices.
The moment she descended, she spotted him.
Calista stood at the stove, his movements fluid, precise—elegance ingrained into something as simple as flipping a skillet. His scarlet hair was loose this morning, cascading in soft waves down his back, catching the light like silk. He was dressed in something casual, an off-shoulder blouse and a fitted skirt, his usual blend of aristocratic refinement and calculated defiance.
Across from him, seated at the modest dining table, was a woman.
She was striking—tall, golden-brown skin, and an effortless sort of grace. Dark hair tumbled down her shoulders, catching faint glints of gold from the morning light. She had a feline quality to her, in both poise and expression, the way she watched Calista with a knowing, pleased smile.
Eina, still halfway down the stairs, groaned internally. Of course, he was making breakfast for a beautiful woman.
At the sound, both heads turned toward her.
"Good morning," Calista greeted smoothly, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. "You're awake. I was beginning to wonder if you'd become a permanent fixture in my guest room."
Eina felt heat creep up her neck. Gods, this was embarrassing.
"I—uh—" She cleared her throat, straightening her posture and pretending her headache wasn't trying to kill her. "Where am I?"
"My home," he said, turning back to the pan without missing a beat. "You were too drunk to get back to yours, and since you failed to mention where you live, I took the liberty of ensuring you had a safe place to sleep."
A fresh wave of humiliation crashed over her. She'd let her own adventurer carry her home. This was supposed to be the other way around!
The woman at the table chuckled, her voice warm and rich. "You must be Eina."
Eina blinked, focusing on her. "I—yes? And you are?"
"Bastet." There was something amused in her tone, but not unkind. "I've heard much about you."
That sent alarm bells ringing. "From him?" she asked, glancing at Calista.
"Who else?" Bastet's smile widened slightly. "He holds you in high regard, you know."
Eina gave him a scrutinizing look, but Calista was unbothered, plating a fresh serving of food and setting it down before Bastet with a flourish. "I'd have no reason to lie," he mused, before turning to her. "Sit. Eat. You'll feel better."
Her stomach was skeptical, but the smell was far too inviting. Reluctantly, she moved toward the table, hesitating only a second before Bastet gestured to the open seat beside her.
The meal was simple—eggs, toasted bread, something seasoned and warm that she couldn't quite place but looked delicious. Bastet was already cutting into hers with slow, appreciative bites, watching Calista with an expression Eina couldn't quite place.
"So," she started carefully, still wrapping her head around all this. "You're…?"
Bastet lifted a brow. "His goddess."
Eina nearly choked.
Calista just smirked, sipping at his tea like this was all very normal. "Ah, yes. You've yet to meet. How rude of me."
Eina braced herself, shooting him a glare before offering Bastet a formal nod. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Bastet."
Bastet waved a hand, dismissing the formality. "Just Bastet is fine. Any friend of my Calista is welcome here."
My Calista.
Eina stored that away for later scrutiny. Right now, she needed food and water, preferably in that order.
As she picked up her fork, she cast another glance at Calista. His usual teasing demeanor was intact, but there was something softer today. Less exhaustion in his posture, less sharpness in his edges.
Had he taken the morning off? She hadn't expected that.
Then she noticed the way Bastet was smiling at him. It was pleased, but also… relieved. Like something had been mended that Eina hadn't been here to witness.
Huh.
She filed that away too. There were questions to ask, but not now.
Now, she needed to focus on keeping her dignity intact for the rest of this meal.
Eina practically bolted the moment breakfast was finished, offering hurried thanks to both Calista and Bastet before rushing out the door. Her mind was already racing ahead—shower, change, work, damage control.
She hit the streets at a near sprint, ignoring the pounding in her skull and the way her clothes still carried the faint scent of ale and roasted meat from last night's disastrous drinking session. The morning crowd was already in full swing, vendors calling out their wares, adventurers gearing up for their dives, and guild staff hurrying toward their posts. She wove through them with practiced ease, her home thankfully not far.
By the time she reached her apartment, she was already stripping off her vest before the door had fully shut behind her. Boots were kicked off, belt unfastened, glasses set hastily on the vanity as she stumbled toward the washroom. No time for a soak—just a rinse. She scrubbed herself down, fighting off the lingering grogginess with cold water before yanking on a fresh set of clothes and redoing her hair in record time.
Ten minutes later, she was out the door again, sprinting toward the Guild.
When she finally arrived—out of breath, mildly damp, but mercifully freshened up—the first thing she heard was laughter.
"Well, well, well," Misha drawled from behind the front desk, her grin absolutely insufferable. "Look who finally decided to show up."
Eina braced herself, adjusting her glasses with as much dignity as she could muster. "I'm not that late."
"You're late enough," Misha sing-songed, leaning in with the unmistakable energy of someone who had been waiting for this. "And after leaving with someone last night, too? My, my, Eina, this is quite the development."
Eina felt her entire body stiffen. "It's not what you think."
"Oh? So you didn't leave the pub last night, drunkenly clinging to a very pretty redhead?"
Her stomach plummeted. "I was not clinging!"
"Eyewitness reports suggest otherwise," Misha teased, tapping a finger against her chin. "He carried you home, didn't he?"
Eina groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I hate you."
"You adore me," Misha corrected, smug. "So, come on, spill. What's it like waking up in Calista Aldebrand's house?"
"Misha!"
"Just curious!" She grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. "He's got that whole mysterious, elegant thing going on. I bet his place is all fancy—perfume-scented pillows, silk curtains, soft lighting—"
Eina held up a hand. "I am not discussing this with you."
Misha pouted. "Spoilsport."
Eina exhaled, forcing herself to regain control of the situation before her entire professional reputation unraveled before her eyes. "Nothing happened. I drank too much, and since I failed to tell anyone where I live, Calista—being responsible, mind you—brought me to his home so I wouldn't collapse in the street. That is all."
Misha hummed. "Mmhm. And breakfast?"
"…What about it?"
"Did you stay for breakfast?."
Eina immediately regretted mentioning that. "I wasn't about to refuse free food when I was already half-dead from a hangover."
Misha smirked. "So he cooked for you?"
Eina scowled. "You are impossible."
Before Misha could push further, a quiet shuffle of papers drew their attention.
At a nearby desk, Rose Fannett sat reviewing reports, her usual cold, analytical expression unreadable as she worked. She hadn't said a word during their conversation, but Eina knew she had been listening.
And from the way Rose's eyes flickered toward her, just briefly, there was no doubt in Eina's mind that she had opinions on the matter.
Disapproval. Concern.
A warning unspoken.
Eina swallowed. She knew why.
Getting too close to an adventurer was dangerous.
It was an unspoken truth among Guild advisors. Misha and Eina had yet to experience it firsthand, but they both knew how this world worked. Adventurers died. No matter how talented, how promising, or how seemingly untouchable, they died.
Rose had already lost countless adventurers after getting close to them.
And now, she was watching Eina fall into the same pattern.
Eina forced a small smile, trying to shake off the weight in her chest. "I should get to work before someone actually writes me up for being late."
Misha, completely oblivious to the shift in mood, gave her a playful salute. "Go on, then, Lady Aldebrand. Try not to daydream too hard about your mysterious savior."
Eina shot her a glare before marching toward her desk, determined to salvage what remained of her dignity.
But as she sat down and pulled out her paperwork, she couldn't quite shake the feeling of Rose's gaze lingering just a little longer than usual.
…
Eina immersed herself in her work, sorting reports, reviewing dungeon activity logs, and ensuring adventurers' records remained updated. The familiar rhythm helped—quill scratches against parchment, the occasional exchange of notes with colleagues, the steady flow of adventurers depositing magic stones. It was grounding. Reassuring.
And yet, she couldn't shake the feeling.
What if one of them didn't come back today?
The thought crept in, unwelcome. What if Calista hadn't made it out? What if she spent last night teasing him over drinks, only to have to record his death the very next day? What if Maris didn't return? Or any of the others she had guided through the process of becoming an adventurer?
It wasn't an irrational fear. It was inevitable.
She knew the numbers. She had read too many reports. New adventurers rarely survived their first year, and though Calista was—remarkably capable, he was still Level One. Still human. Still vulnerable.
She swallowed hard, forcing her focus back onto the paper in front of her, but the numbers blurred together.
A pouch of valis landed on the counter in front of her with a soft thud.
"Miss Tulle."
The voice—smooth, confident, infuriatingly composed—was enough to snap her out of her thoughts before she even looked up.
"Calista?" she blinked, processing the sight of him standing there—early. He had returned far sooner than she expected, his usual elegant air intact, not a single strand of his scarlet hair out of place.
He offered a small, amused smile. "I thought I should report in before you send out a search party."
Eina huffed, regaining her composure as she reached for the pouch. "You're earlier than usual."
"Yes, well, it seems I lost track of time yesterday and forgot an engagement." His lips quirked slightly. "I was supposed to go furniture shopping with Bastet, but certain distractions prevented me."
Her stomach twisted. "Calista, I—"
He raised a hand, cutting her off before she could even attempt an apology. "Don't. It wasn't your fault. I made the choice to stay out late." His expression softened, as if sensing the guilt that tried to settle in. "Besides, she forgave me after I spent the morning making amends. A few hours away from the Dungeon was a fair trade."
A few hours away—Eina blinked. "So you're calling it for today?"
"Indeed. However, I went as deep as floor 9 again today."
Her fingers tightened around the pouch, noting the weight of it. Heavy. Heavier than she expected.
Calista leaned against the counter, his tone casual but deliberate. "I'll likely be staying within that range for now. If I do decide to proceed deeper, I'll let you know in advance."
A promise. Not reassurance. Not meaningless words to placate her, but an actual commitment.
She exhaled slowly, nodding as she undid the pouch's drawstrings and began counting the contents. The number made her pause.
"…23,390 valis?"
That was—significant. Double than yesterday's 12,000 valis haul, despite spending less time in the Dungeon.
Her mind raced through calculations. A typical Level One party of five averaged 25,000 valis per trip. They had to split that between them. Yet Calista—alone—was earning almost as much without needing to share.
His growth rate was absurd.
Her lips parted slightly, but before she could formulate words, a low chuckle brought her focus back.
"You're thinking too hard again."
Her gaze snapped up, and—Oh.
That smile. That knowing, amused little smile.
Her face flamed. She hadn't even noticed herself spacing out. Hastily, she finished counting, calculated the proper exchange, and shoved the pouch back into his waiting hands.
"Here."
Calista accepted it with obnoxious ease, tucking the valis away before tilting his head ever so slightly. "I must say, I had a lovely time last night."
Eina's heart stuttered.
And then, just barely—his eyes flicked to the side.
Something about the movement made her pause, made her suddenly very aware of the presence lingering nearby.
Oh, no.
Before she even turned, she knew.
Misha.
The soft giggle that followed confirmed her worst fears.
Damn you, Calista.
Her entire face burned as Calista offered one final, maddeningly graceful bow before striding toward the exit, his amusement practically radiating off him.
And the moment he was gone— Misha was on her.
"Ohhhh, my gods," Misha squealed, grabbing onto Eina's arm with barely contained excitement. "Did you see that? The look. The little smirk. The way he just—oh, you are in trouble, my friend."
Eina covered her face with both hands. "Misha, I swear—"
"No, no, let's discuss this." Misha grinned, utterly relentless. "You spent the night at his house. You had breakfast together. He flustered you, on purpose, and don't even try to deny it because I witnessed it firsthand."
"Misha—"
"And now he's mentioning how lovely last night was?" Misha gasped, leaning in conspiratorially. "Eina. Are you being courted?"
"I AM NOT BEING COURTED!"
The words came out far louder than she intended, drawing the attention of several nearby guild employees.
She wanted to die.
But despite her utter humiliation, Eina felt lighter than she had all day.
The weight of inevitability—the creeping fear of losing the adventurers she guided—hadn't vanished. But it no longer consumed her.
Because as much as she worried, as much as she knew the risks… she also knew them.
The adventurers she advised, the ones she fought so hard to keep safe—they weren't just statistics in a ledger. They were capable, determined, and growing stronger every day.
Calista, Maris, and the others… they weren't doomed to fall.
She believed in them.
With a slow exhale, she slumped against the counter, letting Misha's merciless teasing wash over her like background noise.
She'd keep worrying. Of course, she would.
But she'd also keep believing.
---
If you're reading this, then you've wandered all the way to the end. I'm impressed. Stories are like wine—meant to be savored, not rushed. So if you took your time? Thank you.
Of course, the real thanks goes to WiseTL—the one who turned tangled words into something beautiful. I just got asked to wrap things up with a ribbon. Hopefully this counts!
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Go on. Be generous. They've earned it.
Until next time—read well, rest often, and maybe come visit me at the Hostess of Fertility sometime.
– Syr ✨