No matter how well prepared they were, no matter how disciplined their formation or how refined their coordination, the battle proved one unavoidable truth.
Endurance had limits.
As time dragged on, fatigue became the true enemy. Movements slowed by fractions of a second, grips loosened, footing faltered. Small mistakes, insignificant on their own, accumulated into dangerous openings.
Wounded adventurers began to pile up and the death count slowly rised.
There were fewer and fewer free hands to replace those who fell, while others were dragged away and treated as quickly as possible in the center of the formation. Every replacement thinned another position, stretching the line thinner with each passing minute.
As if sensing this, the Dungeon changed its approach.
Rather than assaulting the formation directly, it targeted their lifeline.
The lights!
Flying monsters began to emerge from above, swarming toward the magic lamps. Their goal was clear, destroy the illumination and plunge the adventurers into darkness.
After that, it would be a easy win for the Dungeon.
The Venomoth- cough, Purple Moths, yeah, they were the worst of them.
Their wings released clouds of fine dust that induced sleep, paralysis, and toxic reactions all at once. A single breath was enough to make limbs go numb, vision blur, and consciousness waver.
Alongside them came the Will-o'-Wisps. Fucking balls of destruction.
Creatures immune to physical attacks, vulnerable only to magic, capable of unleashing bursts of fire and lightning while floating freely through the air.
Under that pressure, most of the archers and single-target magicians were forced to redirect their fire upward, focusing solely on protecting the sources of light.
That decision saved the formation from blindness.
But it came at a cost.
The strain on the front line intensified, and the shield wall became increasingly dependent on magic support, magic that was already running dry.
And the longer the battle continued, the harder it became to tell which would break first.
That stalemate lasted for three hours.
Three endless hours of pure terror, blood, and death.
No advance or retreat. But constant fighting for your life and of the others by your side.
Only exhaustion grinding against desperation, bodies piling up while the Dungeon and the adventurers bled each other dry.
Then, everything changed.
Because one person decided that it was enough.
Finn Deimne leapt.
He vaulted over dozens of meters of tightly packed adventurers and descended straight into the heart of the chaos. The mere impact of his landing sent a shockwave through the battlefield, crushing stone and bodies alike, killing dozens of monsters instantly before they even had time to react.
BOOOOOM!!!
From that moment on, the battle ceased to be a battle.
Like a god of war descending upon the field, his spear became the scythe of Ms. Death. His arm moved, and with each motion dozens of precise thrusts followed. Dozens of bodies collapsed.
Again and again and again.
Blood rained down. Broken carapaces, shattered skulls, and torn limbs flew through the air as the small Pallum tore through everything in his path like an unstoppable juggernaut.
This was no longer combat.
It was a massacre.
Those who stood behind him could do nothing but watch, caught between awe and fear at the overwhelming might of their captain.
It was as if they were realizing for the first time the true difference between a first-class adventurer… and the rabble they themselves were.
But the shock did not last long.
The fight was not over yet.
With Finn single-handedly seizing control of the front line, the dozens of powerful adventurers previously locked in place were finally freed to act elsewhere. They surged outward, reinforcing weak points, crushing emerging threats, and reclaiming control of the formation.
Monsters bursting from the ground and walls in the center of the ranks ceased to be a problem. The light sources were no longer in danger. The wounded stopped piling up.
And the death count finally stopped rising.
Less than ten minutes after Finn intervened, the long war of attrition against the Dungeon came to an abrupt end.
The other side simply stopped.
As if realizing that continuing to spawn its forces was nothing more than a waste.
The battle was over.
— It's finished. — Finn's voice cut through the lingering noise, calm and firm, breaking the rhythm of violence like a blade through fog.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then...
— UUUUUUOOOOOOOH!!!
The corridor erupted.
A single shout became dozens, then hundreds, voices overlapping in a raw, unfiltered cry of victory. Weapons were raised into the air, spears and swords trembling in exhausted hands. Some adventurers dropped to their knees where they stood, laughing breathlessly, others pressing their foreheads to the stone floor as tears of relief spilled freely.
Not everyone cheered.
Some only smiled faintly, too tired to do more than exist, their relief showing in the way their shoulders finally sagged, tension bleeding out of their bodies all at once.
Finn watched it all in silence.
A small, resigned smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He did not interrupt them.
He could have. Efficiency demanded it. Time inside the Dungeon was never something to waste. But Finn was an experienced leader, and he understood something just as important as discipline.
After a victory bought with blood, fear, and sheer endurance… people needed to let it out.
So he let it happen.
Only when the shouting began to fade, when adrenaline drained away and exhaustion crept back in to claim its due, did Finn raise his voice once more.
— Keep moving! Supporters, start collecting anything with remaining value. We travel light on the way back.
He scanned the exhausted formation with a sharp, calculating gaze.
'Forty minutes...? Nah, I think thirty is good enough.'
— Thirty minutes of rest. Then we move.
And just like that, the battlefield shifted.
People collapsed where they stood, backs sliding down walls, shields dropping from numb hands, weapons slipping from fingers that no longer had the strength to hold them. Heavy breathing filled the corridors, mixed with the smell of blood, burned stone, and ashes.
But even now… it wasn't truly over.
This was where the true value of bringing non-combat personnel revealed itself.
Field medics immediately went to work, moving from body to body with practiced efficiency. Deep wounds were treated just enough to stop the bleeding and prevent infection. Potions were used sparingly, not to fully heal, but to downgrade critical injuries into manageable ones.
Alcohol. Disinfection. Sutures. Bandages.
Old methods, carefully applied to conserve resources. No one knew how long the return would take, or what the Dungeon might still demand from them.
Meanwhile, the supporters finally took the stage.
Those who had been unable to contribute during the fight now ran across the battlefield with desperate urgency, scavenging anything that still held value before the Dungeon could reclaim it. Monster drops, intact cores, usable materials, anything left behind would be swallowed back into the labyrinth if they waited too long.
And there wasn't much.
Most of the monsters killed early in the battle had already been absorbed during the fighting itself. Others were halfway through the process, bodies cracking, dissolving into black dust.
Only the ones slain by Captain Finn remained untouched.
Those still in good condition after the battle were not allowed to rest yet. They moved among the exhausted ranks, distributing food and water, and most importantly, handing out mind potions to the spellcasters who had burned themselves nearly dry.
Everyone ate with voracty.
Now yes... it's time to rest
...
Bell slid her back against the cold stone wall and let herself drop to the ground.
— Haaah… — she sighed, long and shaky, lungs burning as she struggled to catch her breath.
— That's enough… I'm dead. I just want to go home.
Her white hair barely deserved to be called white anymore.
It was almost brown with grime and dried sweat, several strands plastered to her forehead and cheeks, constantly slipping down to tickle her eyes no matter how many times she brushed them aside. Her scalp itched, her skin felt sticky, and every movement made her painfully aware of just how filthy she was.
Her leather armor was in no better state.
The so-called "starter set" of the Loki Familia, a simple gift from her seniors, a gear that had survived months of surface training, drills, and preparation, all leading up to this day...
Had been torn apart the moment she was forced into real combat.
Well... at least it had lasted right up until the moment it mattered.
Sitting there, arms resting on her knees and head lowered between them, Bell let her thoughts drift.
Or rather… collapse.
Images surfaced unbidden.
The charge.
The screams.
Steel crashing against flesh.
Blood splashing across stone.
The spider that nearly killed her.
Monsters dying.
People dying.
A battlefield.
A slaughterhouse.
She lifted her head slowly, eyes unfocused at first, then began to take in the scene around her.
Adventurers just like her, some sitting, some lying down, some laughing weakly, others staring into nothing, people who had stood shoulder to shoulder with her moments ago, all having brushed against death and somehow lived.
And scattered among them… the results of it all.
Her gaze drifted to her left.
Then she noticed it.
Something was right beside her.
— IIIIIAAAAAH!
Bell recoiled with a sharp scream, scrambling back on instinct.
It was a corpse.
A dead adventurer, still fresh.
His stomach had been torn open, entrails spilling out through the gaping wound as the Dungeon slowly reclaimed him, stone creeping up his body, swallowing him inch by inch. He sat there in eerie silence, slumped against the wall as if merely resting.
His empty eyes stared straight back at her.
Bell froze.
She couldn't look away.
Something strange crawled through her chest, spreading into her limbs, tightening her throat. A sensation she couldn't properly name, couldn't rationalize.
Except that it felt… familiar.
— Ngh…!
She turned her head sharply and retched.
— B-blegh…!
Bell vomited violently, emptying what little remained of her breakfast onto the stone floor. Her body convulsed as she gagged again and again until there was nothing left inside her.
After that… there was nothing.
Nothing to throw up.
She felt empty.
In a way, she thought distantly, that made her luckier than him.
Wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, Bell dragged herself away from the mess with shaky movements and slumped back down against the wall once more.
Her breathing slowly evened out.
Her head felt clearer, lighter, as if she had quite literally purged something more than just food.
Even so, she couldn't stop glancing back at the corpse.
Looking.
Then looking away.
Then looking again.
Her expression remained blank.
Bell sat there without moving, her back pressed to the wall, eyes drifting slowly across the battlefield. Broken weapons. Dark stains on the stone. Adventurers laughing weakly or staring into nothing. Sounds reached her a moment too late, as if they had to cross some invisible distance before making sense.
— Adventurer-sama...
Her body felt heavy, yet oddly numb. She could feel the ache in her limbs and the tightness in her chest, but it all seemed muted, distant. Time stretched in strange ways. She blinked once and realized she had been staring at the same place for far longer than she meant to.
— Adventurer-sama.
This wasn't fear. Fear had been loud and sharp. This was what came after, when the danger was gone but the images lingered anyway, drifting through her mind without order or permission.
— Adventurer-sama!
Sometimes, after surviving something like that, thinking wasn't a choice. You just did, quietly. While she sat there, staring at the aftermath, her mind catching up to a war her body had already lived through.
— ADVENTURER-SAMA!!!
— IIIIIAAAAAH!!! S-SORRY!!!
Bell blinked.
Her vision swam for a moment before focusing on the figure standing right in front of her.
— Finally awake, huh? — the man said, sounding more amused than annoyed. — Do you have any idea how long I've been calling you?
The realization hit her all at once.
— Ah! I-I'm so sorry! — Bell blurted out, bowing her head repeatedly without thinking. — I didn't mean to ignore you, I was just- I mean- I'm really sorry!
The man just let out a short laugh.
— Heh.
He crouched slightly and held something out toward her.
— Here. Take this.
Bell stopped mid-apology and looked down at his hands.
He was offering her a bowl.
Steam rose from a thick, hearty broth, carrying a rich smell that made her stomach twist painfully in response.
— …W-What is this? — she asked before she even realized she was speaking.
— Bean soup with pork. Real stuff. — he said casually. — You should eat something.
— Th-Thank you very much… — Bell said softly as she accepted the bowl.
The man smiled, gave her a quick thumbs-up, and moved on without another word, already heading toward the next exhausted adventurer.
Only then did Bell realize—he was one of the people distributing food.
Food inside the Dungeon was nothing short of divine.
Especially good food.
Using large metal containers, almost like pressure cookers, it was possible to store huge amounts of soup and stew, keeping them hot and filling for hours. In a place like this, it might as well have been a gift from the gods themselves.
Bell didn't hesitate.
She brought the bowl to her lips and drank, not caring about the heat burning her mouth.
Warmth spread across her tongue, slid down her throat, and settled deep in her stomach, radiating outward through her tired body.
She let out a soft sigh, this one lighter, almost relieved. Taking away all ther worries.
— …Delicious. — she muttered without thinking.
And she kept eating.
With every sip, the tightness in her chest eased a little. The noise in her head softened, worries fading as her attention filled with something simple and immediate.
Maybe it was true after all.
Eating really did help when you were feeling down.