"Wah! That woman just made Boss kneel! She's trying to enslave him for sure!"
Ya-1 and Ya-2, Morgan's two scrawny lackeys, panicked the instant they saw their boss lying on the ground. Both started shouting at once, voices cracking with fear.
"What do we do? Should we save him?"
"Save him? I think Boss will forgive us if we run!"
"Yeah, Boss, please forgive us!"
"You two…!"
Morgan, sprawled in the dirt, reached out a trembling hand toward his retreating henchmen. His glare was weak, pitiful even.
"Get… back here…"
Blood filled his mouth. The coppery taste burned his tongue as he coughed. His mind spun, refusing to believe it.
How? How could a thin, delicate elf like her… have that kind of strength?
The truth? Stella wasn't monstrously strong—but she was strong enough to send Morgan flying like a ragdoll.
A shadow fell over him. He turned his head and froze. Stella stood above him, spear in one hand, her long silver hair cascading over her shoulder like moonlight. Her eyes were cold, sharp as blades, her presence radiating contempt.
Morgan shuddered so hard his teeth rattled. His lips twisted into a trembling, sycophantic smile.
"L–Lady Elf, please… spare me…"
She didn't answer. Her expression didn't even flicker. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her spear and thrust it straight down at him.
"Waaah! Somebody help me!"
For the first time, the bystanders saw a grown man shriek louder than a startled maiden.
Morgan squeezed his eyes shut, heart pounding.
This is it. I'm dead… Why doesn't dying hurt?
Wait. No pain?
Cautiously, he cracked one eye open—and froze again. The world was still the same. No hell. No afterlife. No holes in his body. Except…
"My hair… it's gone?!"
His scalp felt icy cold.
Stella twirled the spear once, the blade catching a glint of sunlight, then spoke with icy calm:
"First—this is a civilized city. Buying and selling slaves is illegal. Second—"
With a deafening BOOM, her massive shield slammed down beside his head, close enough for the impact to rattle his teeth. Dust and gravel flew, the ground itself quivering from the blow.
"Don't let me see you outside the city again, bastard. Next time, I won't hold back."
Morgan exhaled in a shaky rush, relief washing over him like a wave.
"Th–Thank you for sparing me…"
Stella didn't reply. Her sharp gaze flicked toward the city guards standing nearby, hands on their weapons, eyes full of warning. Silently, she sheathed her spear and slung her shield over her back.
If not for those guards, she would've put a hole straight through Morgan's gut. Bedford's law enforcement had a reputation: arrest first, sort it out later.
With so many outsiders flooding the city every day, brawls were inevitable. The only way to maintain order was zero tolerance—meaning everyone involved in a fight got locked up without question.
Veteran adventurers like Stella knew better than to tempt fate.
"You've completely ruined my mood for the day." She stomped his face with a sharp twist of her boot heel, then turned on her heel and strode away without looking back.
"Cough—ack—cough… I think… a bone's broken…"
Morgan lay limp, barely able to twitch a finger. His voice cracked as he muttered to himself,
"How… how does she have that kind of strength…?"
Stella paused mid-step. Without turning around, her voice drifted back, faint but cutting:
"Because I've been training in the Dungeon."
The Dungeon? Training?
She hadn't meant anything by it, but the words ignited a spark in Morgan's dazed mind. So… training in the dungeon makes you stronger?
That didn't make sense. Killing monsters inside didn't magically grant power. Which meant—
She must have found some kind of treasure in there!
Why he jumped to that conclusion, no one knew. Maybe his brain was wired strangely.
Morgan groaned, coughing up another mouthful of blood.
"But… I'm a member of the Anti-Dungeon Association…"
"Then go die, idiot."
Stella didn't even glance back this time. She just walked faster, leaving him sprawled in the dust like a broken doll.
Morgan stared after her, mind racing despite the agony.
"Interesting… She's gotten that much stronger? Could it really be the dungeon…?"
On a rooftop above, a shadow stirred. A slender figure lowered a polished monocular telescope, lips curling into the faintest smile.
"I suppose… I should take a look myself."
She brushed a few strands of dark hair behind her ear, revealing the sharp, elegant point of an elven ear.
(***)
Recently, two peculiar things had happened within the Bedford family.
First: the eldest son, Charon, had abruptly left the city with a band of men. He left behind only a short letter claiming he'd discovered a golden business opportunity—one that would make him a fortune.
Second: the second son, Vilde, had suddenly become obsessed with the dungeon. Every single day, the moment he woke up, he dashed straight there—alone, without attendants, without explanation.
Of the two, Vilde's behavior was far more baffling.
Charon's actions were at least logical. Everyone knew that Count Philip, patriarch of the Bedford family, was old and frail. For the past two years, he'd been weighing his children to choose a successor.
The prime candidates? Charon, the eldest, and Sali, the third son. And frankly, Sali outshone his older brother in nearly every respect. So it wasn't shocking that Charon might take risks to rack up some achievements.
But Vilde?
Who in their right mind would even consider making that good-for-nothing wastrel the family heir? Hand him the fortune, and he'd probably gamble it all away within a week!
Vilde's reputation as a shameless hedonist was infamous throughout the city. He drank. He partied. He gambled until dawn. Once, he'd even accomplished the legendary feat of gambling away his underwear—a scandal so humiliating that Count Philip nearly beat him to death.
Sure, he had a bit of talent in mineral appraisal. But that tiny flicker of skill couldn't redeem his name.
Everyone thought his future was finished. That without the family's shelter, he wouldn't last a month.
And yet… something had changed.
Recently, Vilde had shocked the entire household by diving headlong into the dungeon. True, he got beaten half to death on a daily basis—but dungeon exploration, at least, was considered respectable.
When Count Philip heard this, he was so stunned he actually supported the boy—by gifting him a chest of teleportation crystals.
Since then, Vilde had thrown himself into the dungeon with fanatical zeal.
Rumor had it, though, that despite all his enthusiasm, the second son still hadn't made it out of the swamps.
"What the hell are my brothers up to?"
Sali paced back and forth in his private chambers, frustration twisting his handsome features.
On the sofa, Hero Elsa lounged lazily, legs crossed, flipping through a novel while munching on sugared nuts. She looked every inch the carefree shut-in—something Sali had basically turned her into.
Annoyed by his restless pacing, she flicked her eyes up at him briefly before returning to her book without a word.
Every day, the two of them holed up inside, poring over reports about the Sein Dungeon gathered from adventurers. Recently, a few specific entries had caught their attention.
[Anonymous Adventurer's Report:]
["Last time I went, there was a stone near the swamp. If you jumped on it a few times, all the nearby monsters froze in place. But when I tried it again later, it didn't work! Instead, some monster crawled out from under the rock and killed me! This dungeon's cursed—it changes every single day!"]
"Every single day…"
Sali murmured, his voice low, then turned toward Elsa.
"Don't you think this fits our theory?"
"What theory?" Elsa didn't even look up, too engrossed in her book.
Sali sighed, exasperated.
"That theory—the one that says…'If a dungeon changes this frequently, then it must mean inside it lies—'"