The last time Kairon cried, it was over a grave.
Not a proper one — no stone, no priest, no name carved into the earth. Just a shallow pit behind the old fish-drying shed, where salt wind never stopped blowing and the cliff's edge never let the ground settle for long.
He was twelve. The body had been light. Already cold.
His mother's hand — once soft, once always warm despite years of washing clothes and gutting fish — had gone stiff, curled inward like it was still holding onto something. Someone. Maybe him.
He buried her alone.
He didn't cry when the crops failed.He didn't cry when Mira started coughing blood.He didn't cry when the neighbor sold their last goat and never came back.He didn't cry when the last adult in town said, "I'm sorry, there's no more medicine. The priest left two seasons ago. He won't be back."
But he cried when he left. When he packed what little he had — some dried bread, the rusted knife, a letter half-written — and turned back to see Mira's small face in the cracked window.
Just a pale smear behind glass. Too tired to wave. Too proud to beg him not to go.
That was when he broke.
Now, three weeks later, he stood at the gates of Orario — the city of gods, legends, and blood-soaked dreams — and he hadn't cried since.
Not even when the guards ignored him.
Not even when the merchant who let him ride on the back of his wagon finally shooed him off like a stray dog.
Not even when he saw the Tower of Babel — so high it disappeared into the clouds — and realized he still had no idea what to do next.
The city didn't feel like the stories said it would.
Orario wasn't the golden beacon of opportunity told in traveling songs or whispered by desperate villagers. It was a machine — loud, filthy, grinding, constant. Its streets throbbed with life, yes, but not the kind that welcomed you. More like an open wound. More like something that chewed up its own people and spat them out in back alleys.
The south gate smelled of piss and scorched metal. Someone was already yelling about being short-changed. A drunk adventurer staggered past with a broken spear and blood on his leg. No one helped him. A woman on a corner whispered about potions and favors for coin, eyeing Kairon like she knew his type — young, poor, desperate enough to sell anything if the price was right.
He kept walking.
He found a tenement in the slums east of the gate. Eight valis a night. No bath. No food. No questions.
The man who ran it had no teeth and fewer morals, but he took the coin. The cot was stained. The ceiling leaked. The wall beside his head had the unmistakable marks of someone punching it over and over.
Still, it was shelter. That was enough.
He didn't sleep that night. Not really.
He lay awake, counting coins and trying to remember Mira's breathing — soft, ragged, but alive. He pulled out the crumpled letter. Still unfinished.
Still no idea how to write the part that said, I might not come back.
In the morning, he found the Guild.
It took hours. The marble facade looked out of place — like it had been dropped into this part of the city by mistake. Smooth pillars, stained glass windows, tall golden doors that reflected the dirty crowd back at itself.
Inside was worse.
The main hall was a storm of sound: adventurers shouting about payouts, arguments about kill counts, clerks trying to speak over the chaos. There were bloodstains on the tiles. One man vomited into a potted plant and then returned to arguing over whether a kobold had three horns or four.
No one noticed Kairon.
He stood at the entrance with his threadbare satchel and no armor, looking like exactly what he was — a nobody.
Then he heard the voice.
"You look like someone hoping the floor will swallow him."
He turned.
She was... unexpected.
Auburn hair, tied back in a professional knot. Green eyes behind rectangular glasses. Her uniform was crisp, her gaze sharper than the polished marble floor. She didn't look like someone who'd ever missed a night's sleep, but her voice was weary in a practiced way — like someone who carried more bad news than good.
The nameplate read: Eina Tulle.
"I— I need help," he said.
He hated how small his voice sounded.
She studied him. Not rudely. Not cruelly. Just... efficiently.
"Come with me."
Her desk was in the far back, past rows of half-empty quest boards and worn-out maps. Quieter here. Less blood on the floor.
"Name?"
"Kairon."
"Family?"
"Gone."
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
"Skills?"
He hesitated. "I'm good at lifting things. I can... run. Climb."
She didn't react. Just kept writing.
"Combat?"
"No."
"Magic?"
"No."
"Affiliated with any Familia?"
"None."
"Then why are you here?"
He exhaled slowly, hand gripping the strap of his satchel like it could hold in the truth.
"My sister's sick. The priest left. The herbs don't work anymore. I need valis. Fast."
For a moment, she didn't write anything.
Then, softly, "And you came to Orario. To the Dungeon."
He nodded. "Where else is there?"
Eina's expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes did. A tired understanding. Not pity — just recognition. Like she'd seen this story before. Too many times.
She pulled a sheet of parchment from her drawer.
"This lets you register as a freelance porter. It means adventuring parties can legally take you into the Dungeon to carry their gear, haul materials, and do whatever menial jobs they don't want to do themselves."
He leaned forward.
"But I get paid?"
"If they decide to pay you. The Guild doesn't regulate private porter contracts unless you file a dispute. And if you die before that?"
She shrugged. "Well. We'll write your name down somewhere."
He swallowed.
"...Alright."
She tapped her pen against the desk. "You understand you won't be safe. You won't be armed. You'll be expected to follow orders. You may be abandoned. You may be used as bait. You may be robbed by the very party you serve under."
"I understand."
"No," she said, meeting his eyes. "You don't. But you will."
She scribbled something on the form, then added a note in the margin.
"There's a party heading to Floor Five tomorrow. Not a good one. Not the worst. The captain's name is Lars. He won't protect you. None of them will. Come back tomorrow morning, seventh bell. If you're still serious, that's where you start."
"That's fine."
"It's not. But I'm still telling you."
She stood, walked around the desk, and offered him the parchment.
He took it with both hands. It felt heavier than it should.
Then, just as he turned to go—
"Kairon."
He looked back.
Eina's tone had changed. Not official anymore. Not businesslike. Quiet. Careful.
"Most people come here thinking they'll be the exception. That the Dungeon is just a stepping stone. That their god will watch over them. That their death will matter."
Her voice softened.
"But the Dungeon doesn't remember names. And the gods don't mourn strays."
Kairon's fingers curled around the paper.
"I don't care about gods."
"Then I hope you learn fast," she said. "Because the Dungeon's already watching you."
That night, he rented a bed behind a tanner's shop. The room smelled like mold and wet leather. The floorboards creaked when the rats walked across them.
He laid out his things in the dark:
A chipped dagger.A nearly-empty waterskin.Three rations of stale bread.One candle stub.A frayed rope.And a letter. Unfinished.
He didn't sleep.
He just stared at the ceiling and whispered her name.
Mira.
And when the sky began to pale, and the city's bells rang out the hour before dawn, he whispered one final promise to no one but the rats and the gods he no longer believed in:
"Just survive."