Time stretched as we walked through the floor.
We saw many parties cross through. Some fought, survived, then left with tiredness and the drop items they'd collected.
We did the same. Our bags filled with drops and magic stones I'd never seen before. Last expedition, we'd avoided fights—saved our strength for Floor 14.
It ended in vain.
We were just… casually tossed around. Played with like rag dolls.
"Something ahead."
"Another frickin' Imp pack."
Nothing serious. Not even Orcs. Definitely not the High Orcs we'd fought before.
All cut down by other adventurers. Mostly crushed bare-handed by the girl beside me.
A few minutes ago, other parties were still here. Now? Gone. Deeper floors. Upper floors. Somewhere that wasn't here.
But Silverbacks weren't easy targets when you needed specific drops from them.
Raska's eyes looked bored. Annoyed. Her tail lashed in uneven rhythm.
Then she started.
Fingers threading through her grey hair. Slow. Methodical. She'd pull a strand taut, inspect it like she was checking for damage, then let it slip through her fingers and move to the next one.
Over and over.
It wasn't grooming. Not really.
It was what she did when there was nothing left to punch.
"Hey. Why are you so silent?"
The eerie silence stretched.
"Because it's been hours. We didn't even find one of those."
"Makes sense." Her ears twitched once. She tugged another strand free, twisted it around her finger. "This isn't my lucky day."
We stopped near a rock jutting from the ground—natural seat. She pulled a meat skewer from her pack. "Want one?"
"Thanks. I was starting to get hungry." I took a bite. "Why don't we dive deeper?"
She started to nibble it. Slow. Savouring every bite.
Unlike a certain someone in a tavern I know.
"Because fighting them on this floor gives us advantages. Below the thirteenth, their levels are too high. Hard to mess with. On Floor 11? Too much fog. Fighting them there would make ambushes easier for them."
"How come? Do they have better eyesight or something?"
"They do. But that's not the only thing." She bit into the skewer again, chewed thoughtfully. "Better sense of smell too."
"Oh."
I forgot that fact.
First target drained my patience. Second one? Straight-up nightmare.
No fun.
---
The mist clung to everything.
Thick. White. Magical enough that it didn't move when Raska waved her hand through it—just reformed, patient, like it had been waiting here longer than the dungeon itself.
Visibility? Maybe a few meters on a good breath. Four if she squinted.
The stone beneath her boots was damp, cold, pale enough to reflect the mist back at itself. Wide corridors that should've felt open instead felt compressed—like the fog was slowly closing in.
She hated the 10th floor.
"Anything?" The boy's voice came from her left. Barely.
"No." Raska kicked a rock. It skittered into the white and vanished. "Not a single irregular spawn. Not even a hint of Infant Dragon activity."
"Shocking," he muttered. "It's almost like rare monsters are rare."
She shot him a look. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.
They'd been at this for nearly half a day.
First Silverback—failed. Now?
Searching. Waiting. Watching adventurers pass through the mist like ghosts, none of them carrying anything worth buying.
An Orc shambled past in the distance. Raska didn't even bother to look. It wasn't worth the effort.
"This is stupid," he said finally.
"Now you realize?"
"I realized three hours ago. I'm just saying it out loud now."
Raska exhaled slowly. Felt the damp air settle into her lungs. "We could keep searching."
"We have been searching."
"I mean properly. Floor 19. Where they actually spawn."
He turned his head slowly. Stared at her.
"So," he said, voice flat, "why don't you just gift-wrap me and dump me to the monsters here so I won't die miserably?"
Raska snorted despite herself. "You'd last at least five minutes on 19."
"Generous."
"I'm feeling kind today."
He pushed off the wall, shaking his head. "No. We're not going to 19. Not with just the two of us. That's not strategy. That's suicide with extra steps."
"Then what do you suggest?"
He rubbed his face. Thought for a second. "Plan C. We wait."
"Wait."
"Yeah. Right here. At the exit zone." He gestured vaguely toward the stairwell corridor. "Adventurers come back from the lower floors all the time. We buy the magic stone off someone who's already risked their neck for it."
Raska tilted her head. "And if no one's selling?"
"Then we recruit more people and make a proper expedition to 19. Like functional human beings."
She considered it.
Hated that it made sense.
"Fine," she said. "We wait."
They found a spot near the main corridor—close enough to the stairs that returning parties would pass through, far enough from active hunting zones that they wouldn't get ambushed by bored Orcs.
Raska sat against the wall, legs stretched out. He was a few feet away, rummaging through his pack like he'd find something other than disappointment in there.
"You know," Raska said after a minute, "for someone who talked a big game back at the shop, you're really bad at dungeon crawling."
"I'm broke," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"One implies poor planning. The other implies no planning."
She grinned. "Which one are you?"
"The one currently waiting on a rock in the mist instead of dying on floor 19."
"Smart."
"Cowardly."
"Same thing down here."
He didn't argue.
The mist shifted. Footsteps echoed—distant, muffled. Another party passing through. Raska glanced up, watched their shadows blur and fade.
Not carrying anything dragon-sized.
She sighed.
This was going to take a while.
Then he sat up.
Not quickly. Not obviously.
Just... differently.
Raska noticed. "What?"
"Shh." He was staring into the mist. Focused.
She followed his line of sight.
At first, nothing.
Then—
Voices. Young. Nervous. A supporter's sharp tone cutting through the damp air, telling someone to stay in formation, Mr. Bell.
And then—
Light.
Faint. Barely there. A soft white glow threading through the fog like something strange was happening.
His eyes widened.
His mouth curved into a grin—sharp, excited, completely at odds with someone who'd been complaining thirty seconds ago.
"Jackpot," he whispered.
Raska frowned. "What?"
But he was already on his feet, moving toward the glow.
She pushed herself up, following.
"What are you—"
"Just watch," he said, not looking back.
The mist parted.
And she saw them.
A white-haired kid. A small supporter. A red-haired adventurer with a great-sword slung over his shoulder.
Rookies.
The kid's hand was glowing.
And somewhere deeper in the fog—
A roar split the air.
Low. Guttural. Wrong for the 10th floor.
Raska's instincts screamed.
Infant Dragon.
Raska's hand was already moving—instinct pulling her toward the scene—when fingers locked around her wrist.
She stopped.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she couldn't.
The grip was iron. Casual. Unshakeable.
She turned, ready to snap—
His eyes were calm.
And his other hand—index finger raised, rocking left and right slowly.
Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.
Then he pointed.
At the white-haired kid.
The air changed first.
Not temperature. Not pressure.
Sound.
A ringing—low, deep, resonant—that wasn't coming from anywhere.
It just was.
Raska's teeth ached. Her breath caught.
The mist trembled.
And the kid's hand began to glow.
Not fire.
Not magic circles or chants or the usual flicker of a spell forming.
Just light.
Pure white.
Clean.
Ignoring the damp. Ignoring the fog. Ignoring the logic that said dim places stayed dim.
It built.
Slow.
Steady.
Like a bell filling with sound before it rang.
The dragon turned.
Opened its maw.
The supporter inches from her death door.
The kid raised his hand.
The light sang.
Fiiireeebooooolttt—
BOOM.
Raska's vision whited out for half a heartbeat.
When it cleared—
The dragon was gone.
Not dying. Not collapsing.
Erased.
The shot had punched clean through its skull, through its spine, through the stone wall twenty meters behind it, and kept going until the dungeon swallowed it whole.
Silence.
Then the scrape of claws on stone as the dragon's body remembered it was supposed to fall.
It hit the ground in pieces.
Mist.
Ash.
A magic stone the size of her fist, glowing faintly in the rubble.
Raska stared.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
"What the hell—." The word came out flat. Shocked. "That's one hell of an attack."
She looked at the kid.
"Little Rookie!"
Level 2. Fresh. Barely out of his rookie phase.
She looked at the wall.
The hole was still smoking.
She looked at the boy beside her.
The boy now, few meter in front of her.
He wasn't surprised.
He was smiling.
"Are all rookies nowadays like this?" she asked, voice faint.
He shrugged.
Said nothing.
Just let go of her wrist and started walking back toward their waiting spot.
Casual.
Like he'd just watched someone pick up groceries.
Raska stood there a moment longer, eyes sharp, staring at the scorched stone.
At the impossible output.
At the wrongness of a Level 2 hitting like a Cursed Tool or a god's favor.
Then she followed.
Because she had questions.
And he clearly had answers he wasn't sharing.
"The dungeon. Orario.
Both hide more mysteries than I thought..."
***