Chapter 38: Aftermath and Acclaim
The silence in the Drake's lair was profound, broken only by the steady drip of condensation and the wet, methodical sounds of harvesting. The colossal corpse of the Crimson Drake lay cooling, its hellish light extinguished. Reginleif worked with her whispered-steel dagger, carefully prying free a massive, serrated fang longer than her forearm.
Azazel was a few yards away, using a combination of his kilij and controlled applications of Black Ice to fracture and harvest shards of the crimson scale. The material was incredibly dense, resisting his blade until he focused the cold to make it brittle.
"Reginleif," Azazel said without looking up, his voice echoing slightly in the vast chamber. "If you try to make a dagger out of that T-Rex fang, it'd be a hell of a backup weapon. The material density is… insane."
"I was thinking the same," she replied, wiping gore from the tooth with a cloth. "But before we leave, we need to find the other investigation unit members. The quest."
Azazel paused, a scale halfway to his violet storage cube. He let out a low breath. "Oh. Shit. I completely forgot about the quest."
Reginleif shot him a flat look. "It's because you were too interested in the Drake. You get a certain… focus."
"Sorry, my bad," he conceded, not sounding particularly sorry. The discovery of a terrestrial apex predator in a fantasy dungeon had been a significant data point. "We should try to find them. Or what's left of them."
They finished their quick harvesting—taking only the most valuable, portable parts: a claw, several fangs, a palm-sized scale, and a vial of thick, fiery Drake blood—and moved deeper into the ravaged hatchery. The signs of the Alpha's pack and the Drake's passage made navigation a grim task.
It was Azazel who spotted it first. Near a collapsed wall of fibrous nest-matter, a pile of Bloody Raptor corpses was heaped unusually high.
"Over here," he called, approaching cautiously.
Reginleif's green scarf fluttered, her wind-sense reaching ahead. "Wait. There's something breathing under it."
Azazel nodded, a tendril of shadow—You Shadow—coiling around his wrist just in case. Together, they began hauling the heavy, scaled bodies aside. The stench was overwhelming.
Underneath the third corpse, they found him. A man in tattered guild investigator leathers, pale and bleeding from a scalp wound, but alive. His eyes fluttered open as the weight lifted, and he gasped in a huge, shuddering breath of foul air.
"Who… who are you people?" he croaked, trying to sit up.
"The question is, who are you?" Azazel replied, his tone neutral as he assessed the man's injuries. Non-critical.
"My name is Dylan. I was sent here by the guild to investigate the dungeon after the 20th floor was opened…"
Reginleif knelt, offering a water flask. "So you're from the investigation unit."
"Yes," Dylan gasped after drinking.
"The guild sent us down here to look for you guys," Reginleif said. "Sorry, but one of you is dead. We found his body on 25."
Azazel pulled the water-stained notebook from his storage and handed it over. "He made good notes."
Dylan took the book, his face grim. "I'm sorry. Two of us died in this dungeon. The others… they escaped and went to the guild to report what was happening."
"Very smart, using the dead corpses as cover," Azazel remarked, genuinely impressed by the brutal practicality.
"Bloody raptors have a keen sense for human blood," Dylan explained, his voice growing stronger. "The only way to hide from them was to use the dead bodies of their own kind. Muffles the scent. I played dead under them when the Alpha's hunt passed through, then the big one arrived… I just stayed put."
"We should leave and try to go back to the guild," Reginleif said, helping him to his feet.
Dylan nodded. "Okay."
Their exit was slower with the wounded investigator, but uneventful. The dungeon seemed spent, its greatest predator slain. Halfway back through the 25th floor, Dylan's eyes went wide.
"Wait. Stop." He pointed a trembling finger at a side passage, where the massive, horned skull of the Crimson Drake was visible. "This is… a rare specimen. I guess the raptors must have killed it…"
He moved closer, his investigator's instincts overriding his pain. He examined the clean, precise cuts around the harvested claw, the surgical removal of the fang, the shattered scale edges. His brow furrowed. He looked from the Drake's fatal wounds—a combination of incredible piercing damage and what looked like internal trauma from massive pressure—back to Azazel and Reginleif.
"Wait," he said slowly. "By any chance… did you guys fight this thing?"
Reginleif shrugged, sheathing her dagger. "Yes. He was not fun."
Azazel stared at her. "What do you mean 'not fun'? We just fought a freaking T-Rex with dragon wings and flamethrower breath! What part of that falls under 'not fun' for you?"
"Are you out of your mind?" Reginleif shot back, her calm breaking into exasperation. "You know how insane that was? The wind shear from its wings alone nearly dislocated my shoulder! My ears are still ringing from its roar!"
"Your ears are ringing? I had to teleport inside its mouth to avoid being roasted! That's not a Tuesday!"
They continued arguing, a rapid-fire debate on tactics, risk assessment, and the definition of "fun" that involved increasingly graphic descriptions of near-death experiences.
Dylan just watched, his initial shock melting into bewildered awe. Well. These guys are… something. They're arguing like they just cleared out a wasp's nest, not slain a Crimson Drake. And they did it with just the two of them? I don't believe it. But the evidence is right here.
"Enough talk," Reginleif finally snapped, turning to Dylan. "Please, take whatever samples you need that we haven't, and let's leave. This place smells worse than a troll's laundry."
---
Hours later, they emerged from the dungeon entrance into the fading afternoon light of the fortress city of Korvath. The return to the guild hall was anything but quiet.
Chaos reigned. Adventurers were arming themselves in frantic haste. The air buzzed with panic and urgent shouts. At the center of the storm were the Hands of Scouting, their story tumbling out in excited, terrified bursts.
"…a Crimson Drake! I'm telling you, a full-grown Drake on 26!"
"We barely escaped! It breathed fire the size of a house!"
"Azazel and Reginleif stayed behind to hold it off! We have to mount a rescue! A Gold-rank party, at least!"
Kael was trying to organize a relief party when Rin's sharp eyes spotted the trio entering through the main doors.
"REGINLEIF!" Rin shouted, her voice cutting through the din.
The hall fell silent for a heartbeat, then erupted in new noise. The Hands of Scouting rushed over, surrounding them, questions flying.
"You're alive!"
"What happened?!"
"Did you outrun it? Where is it?"
Reginleif held up a hand. "Everyone, calm down. The Drake…" She paused for effect, her gaze sweeping the stunned crowd. "Remind us we killed it on the 26th floor. So it won't be a problem."
A wave of disbelief crashed through the hall. Murmurs of "Impossible," and "Two Iron-ranks?" rippled through the crowd. Some veteran adventurers snorted in outright derision.
Azazel ignored the commotion. He guided Dylan to the main counter where the dog-eared receptionist was watching, wide-eyed.
"Here," Azazel said, his voice flat and businesslike. "One member of the investigation unit. Sorry, we could only find him. Two are confirmed dead." He placed the dead investigator's guild ingot on the counter next to the notebook.
The guild girl took the items, her professional demeanor warring with her shock. "Th-thank you for your hard work. As usual." She turned to Dylan. "Dylan, please, go to the guild master and explain everything that happened. He's in his office."
Dylan nodded, turning to Azazel. "Thank you again. For saving my life."
Azazel gave a single nod. "No problem. This is what I'm going to get paid for."
As Dylan left, Reginleif joined Azazel at the counter. "Sorry for any trouble," she said to the receptionist.
"It's okay," the guild girl said, lowering her voice. "The important thing is that you came back alive. But… did you guys really kill the Drake?"
Without a word, Reginleif touched her inventory bracelet. With a shimmer of green light, she produced the massive, obsidian-tipped claw of the Crimson Drake and placed it on the wooden counter with a heavy thud.
The nearby conversations died instantly.
The guild receptionist's hands shook as she picked up a magnifying lens, examining the claw, the texture of the scale, the residual, faintly warm magical signature. Her face paled. "You… you really killed a Drake. This is… unbelievable." She looked at them not as Iron-rank newcomers, but as forces of nature in human guise. "Please, come back tomorrow. The guild master must see you. He's dealing with the crisis report right now. I'll have your full completion bonus and… and a substantial hazard adjustment ready. Okay?"
Reginleif retrieved the claw. "Okay."
As they turned, the Hands of Scouting approached again, their earlier panic replaced by dazed gratitude. Kael clapped a massive hand on Azazel's shoulder. "Drinks. At the Stumbling Minotaur. Our treat. You both… you saved our lives down there. The least we can do is buy you a barrel of ale."
Azazel looked at Reginleif, a silent question in his eyes. Social interaction. With people. After a day like this.
Reginleif looked at the expectant, relieved faces of the party they'd fought beside. She thought of their shared story, their lost home, their quiet quest. She gave a small, tired smile.
"Sure," she said. "Why not."
The walk to the tavern was filled with the excited, overlapping chatter of the Hands of Scouting, already weaving the tale of the Drake's fall into legend. Azazel walked slightly apart, listening, his mind already cataloguing the value of Drake components and the inevitable, troublesome attention their feat would bring.
The work was done. The pay was coming. And for one night, at least, they could let someone else pick up the tab.
End of chapter 38.