Late at night. A narrow alley. A burly man.
Put those words together, and you might imagine something romantic, even scandalous. Unfortunately for Jack, what he felt was nothing but raw terror.
After returning from the dungeon, he had planned to disappear into the night—but instead, he'd stumbled into one of Kezman's acquaintances. That sharp-eyed bastard immediately noticed something was wrong. Which was how Jack ended up here, cornered like prey.
"Where are the others?"
Kezman's scarred face radiated menace without him even trying. Just standing there, he made the air heavy, as if pressing down on everyone in the alley.
No words were needed. Everyone present was a seasoned thug. You could read a man's soul from his eyes.
And from Jack's eyes, Kezman saw it—fear, guilt, and evasion. Which could only mean one thing: the rest of his party hadn't met a good end.
"Boss," Jack stammered, forcing a stiff smile. "I was just about to find you, to report. I'd only just revived and was still shaken by the dungeon monsters. My memory's fuzzy, so—"
"Bullshit."
Kezman's snort was like a slap. "I checked the resurrection records. You never died."
The scarred brute leaned forward, his voice low and seething. "So tell me—what the hell are you hiding? Where are the others?"
"Where are they!" Kezman's men roared together, their voices booming off the stone walls. Jack's knees nearly buckled.
"D-dead… they're dead…"
"Of course they're dead," Kezman snapped. "I'm not an idiot. I meant after that. Where are they now—after reviving?"
Jack hesitated, sweat dripping from his jawline. His lips trembled before he finally forced the words out.
"They're… still in the dungeon."
"What?" Kezman's eyes narrowed. "They revived and went back in? That's not their style… wait. You mean—"
The realization hit him like lightning.
"They never revived!?"
Jack gave a jerky nod.
In the next instant, two massive hands clamped around his throat. He was hoisted into the air like a ragdoll, his vision filled with the scarred man's burning rage.
"Talk! Tell me everything!"
Kezman's fury was volcanic, his grip almost crushing Jack's windpipe.
This old fool had begged to lead an exploration, bragging of great rewards, promising success. And now? Every single comrade was dead—except this worthless coward. It was enough to drive anyone mad.
And Kezman didn't buy it. No adventurer entered a dungeon without a teleportation crystal—that was the golden rule. Nobody risked their life that way. His men valued survival above all; there was no way they would have gone unprepared.
"I-I-I—" Jack sputtered uselessly, barely able to breathe.
"You worthless bastard!"
The slap came fast and brutal. Jack felt his head snap to the side, a sharp crack echoing as a front tooth flew loose.
Kezman hurled him toward another brawny thug. "You handle him. Get me answers. Now."
"Heh. Interrogations are my specialty," the man grinned, his smile jagged and twisted. To Jack, it was more horrifying than a hundred serial killers' stares.
Jack wanted to speak, to spill everything—but how could he? Who would believe him if he claimed the dungeon's gargoyles had suddenly gained intelligence, stolen their teleportation crystals, and then slaughtered them?
And worse—he himself did it. He'd sided with the monsters in the end, even serving them. If anyone heard the truth, he'd be executed as a traitor without a second thought.
Jack's teeth rattled. His whole body trembled. He prayed desperately for a savior—anyone.
And then… a face flashed in his mind. The gargoyle.
If only he had that kind of power. If he did, he wouldn't have to cower under scum like Kezman. He wouldn't have to grovel, deceive, or scrape to survive.
Damn it. I want power too.
Damn it.
"Stop."
The word rang through the alley, cold and clear.
Kezman turned, scowling. "Who the hell dares stick their nose in this late at night? Tired of living?"
But his breath caught.
She was beautiful. Too beautiful.
Her eyes shimmered like deep blue sapphires, luminous under the moonlight. Her midnight hair streamed like silk, framing her face and flowing over her black-and-red traveling clothes. Her elegance was effortless, her aura commanding.
But there was one discordant note.
The sword on her back.
Calling it a sword was generous. It was an enormous slab of iron, crude and heavy, far taller and broader than the girl herself. How could such slim arms even hope to wield it?
Yet something in her stance made Kezman's gut twist. If she swung that thing, even he wouldn't walk away unscathed.
"Tch. Tough girl," he muttered. "Stay out of this. That bastard got several of our brothers killed—we're making him talk."
He sneered. "We have the guards' permission, too. And you? Out past curfew. Want me to report you to the guards instead?"
It was a bluff, and he knew it. Nobody wanted trouble with the city watch. Surely she'd back down.
"Oh?"
Her voice was soft, almost curious. "Permission from the guards, you say? That's strange—I've heard nothing of it."
A silver figure stepped into the moonlight beside her.
"Unless, of course, the city guards dared to deceive me—which is impossible. Which leaves only one conclusion. You're lying."
Kezman's blood froze.
His mouth went dry. His tongue twisted. "S-s-s… Sali!?"
The Bedford family's third son stood before him. The noble himself! What was he doing here!?
"My friend," Sali said warmly, turning to the girl. "Would you do me a favor? Help me catch these criminals. I'll treat you to a fine dinner after."
"Okay."
Her reply was calm, almost casual.
The giant sword came free with a metallic roar, the air vibrating with its weight. When she dropped it into the cobblestones, the impact echoed like a death knell.
"My friend," Sali sighed, "are you planning to kill them? That wouldn't look good for a hero's reputation."
"Oh."
She planted the massive blade upright in the street with a dull thunk, leaving it quivering in the stone. Then, bare-handed, she stepped forward into a fighting stance.
Cold sweat poured down Kezman's face. He raised both hands frantically. "W-wait! Misunderstanding! All a misunderstanding—we were just—"
"Shut up."
By the time he blinked, she was in front of him. Her uppercut landed with bone-crushing force. His vision went black before he even hit the ground.
Jack stared, wide-eyed, slack-jawed. "A… amazing…"
The girl tore through Kezman's gang as though sweeping leaves from a porch. A single strike for each, all unconscious within moments.
Sali gave a low whistle, clearly impressed. "I'll have the guards pick up the trash later. For now—shall we? Dinner awaits."
"Okay."
Her voice carried the same calmness as before. She pulled her massive sword free from the street and slung it over her back, falling into step beside him.
Neither spared Jack so much as a glance.
Clink—
A small bottle rolled to his feet. A potion. Sali gave him a wave over his shoulder before vanishing down the street with the girl.
Jack stared at the potion, stunned, his heart pounding.
"I… I've met a benefactor," he whispered.
He stood there for a long time, dazed, until the realization slowly sank in.
"…Does this mean… I don't have to run anymore?"