The guild hall stank of sweat, smoke, and desperation. The air was thick with the scent of cheap ale and worn leather, the clamor of adventurers laughing, boasting, and sharpening blades. I kept my head down, clutching the strap of the cheap satchel slung over my shoulder. Their laughter wasn't mine to share.
It never was.
"Oi, Bellet!" a voice rang out. One of the healers, smug grin plastered on his face. "Heading out again? Don't tell me you're still trying to play hunter. A slime might take your head off this time."
The table erupted in laughter. A couple of them even mimed being eaten alive, thrashing dramatically in their seats. I forced a smile I didn't feel, but my grip tightened until my knuckles ached.
They weren't wrong. Last raid, a slime — the weakest monster anyone could think of — had nearly melted through my leg. If not for someone else's healing spell, I'd have lost it. And my life.
But I didn't have the luxury of quitting.
Mother's coughing blood at home. Yuriel needs tuition for school. And me? I've got no class, no blessing, no future — except the one I bleed out for, coin by miserable coin.
I walked past them, ignoring the taunts, and picked up my assignment. A low-tier raid — scavenger work at the edges of a dungeon. Just the scraps no one else wanted.
The dungeon stank of rot and mold. Cracked stone walls, pools of stagnant water, the occasional ripple in the shadows. I held my rusted short sword close, every nerve on edge. My leather boots were worn thin, clothes patched and faded — blue shirt, blue pants, blue shoes. It was all I had. No armor. Couldn't afford it.
Something slithered in the darkness.
My breath hitched. The sound of wet dragging, the bubbling hiss — and then it came into view. A slime. Green, translucent, quivering as it pulsed toward me.
"Alright… I can do this," I whispered, though my voice cracked.
I lunged clumsily, blade sinking into its body. For a moment, relief — then horror, as the slime wrapped around the sword, melting the metal like it was wax. My grip slipped. Pain seared across my hand. The damn thing clung to me, burning through my skin.
I screamed. Stumbled. Slammed my arm against the wall, trying to shake it off. My vision blurred from the pain. If I went down here, no one would save me. No one ever did.
"Not like this… not like this…"
The slime surged upward, aiming for my face. My mind flooded with Yuriel's smile, with Mother coughing weakly in bed, with all the things I hadn't done yet.
And in that moment, trembling, bleeding, terrified — I realized just how weak I truly was.
I survived that day. Barely. Another hunter passed by, burned the slime with a simple fire spell, and walked on without a word. To him, saving me wasn't even worth a thank you.
But as I limped back to the surface, shame and anger choking me with every step, I swore something inside me:
If the gods weren't going to give me power,
then I'd crawl into hell itself until I found it.