Steel rang. Boots scraped. The air smelled of dust, old blood, and iron.
Big Mute stood toe-to-toe with the dungeon boar.
The beast was heavy and thick-skinned, tusks yellowed, skull built for impact. Its breath hit Big Mute's bare forearms. He wore no shield and no real armor—just raw muscle and empty hands.
A tusk grazed across bare skin, tearing a shallow line before sliding off bone.
Big Mute twisted, caught one tusk under his elbow, stepped across the front leg, and drove the monster sideways.
It slammed into the wall. Stone dust shook loose.
It surged back.
Big Mute planted and took the hit head-on. The impact jarred through bone and tendon, his boots sliding before they found purchase again.
Muscle strained against muscle, neither giving ground.
Around them, other teams cleared the boars quickly. Footsteps passed. Carcasses dragged away.
A properly equipped F-rank trio worked two lanes over—shield up front, spear striking from behind it, a third member rotating to the rear to keep flanks clean. Their boar lasted less than half a minute. Clean formation. Minimal risk. They dragged the body out before Big Mute finished trading the first series of blows.
He and Big Mute were still on the same boar.
Big Mute drove his fist into the flank, but the hide absorbed the blow, thick fat and muscle dulling the impact.
He stayed midline, tracking distance to the wall, movement along the perimeter, and the retreat lane behind them as it narrowed. The crowd was getting tighter, and space was becoming a liability.
The boar lunged again.
Big Mute moved to intercept, but the angle was wrong.
The beast's head snapped sideways instead of forward, slipping past Big Mute's guard.
It came straight at him.
For a fraction of a second he misjudged the distance. All F-stats meant slow correction.
The tusk filled his vision.
Big Mute reacted before thought caught up. He caught the boar by the jaw and twisted, dragging its momentum off line. The impact still clipped him at the hip and sent him stumbling into the dust.
Stone scraped his palms.
Big Mute planted one foot between him and the beast and took the full rebound as the boar thrashed.
The impact drove Big Mute back a full step. Stone cracked under his heel and his stance dipped lower than before.
His gaze snapped to Big Mute's trailing heel as it started to slide. Too far.
The boar's tusk raked across Big Mute's ribs, shallow but hard enough to split skin. Blood welled immediately. Someone nearby inhaled sharply.
The boar pressed its advantage, shoving again and again, each impact forcing Big Mute another inch off center as the retreat lane behind them collapsed into bodies and stone.
If he lost footing now, he would go under it—no shield, no armor, nothing between tusk and bone.
The boar twisted violently, trying to hook and lift. Big Mute's left foot skidded and for half a second he nearly went down.
A nearby party stepped back to avoid being bowled into.
"Your tank's doing all the bleeding," someone said.
"No shield, no blade, just headbutting a boar like idiots. Learn basic formation."
The laughter that followed was thinner.
The boar drove forward to finish.
Big Mute dropped his weight and slammed his forehead into the beast's skull. Their heads collided with a dull crack. He roared—not rage or fear, just effort—while his boots clawed for friction.
He tried to pivot as the boar overcommitted. The tusk scraped along his side, tearing cloth. Big Mute's footing was already failing when the beast's hind leg suddenly slipped in loose dust. For a heartbeat, both of them lost balance.
It wasn't control. It was collapse.
Big Mute lunged blindly, catching whatever he could—hide, bone, joint—and wrenched with everything he had left. His knuckles struck the softer seam behind the leg by chance more than precision. Something shifted wrong. Cartilage tore under raw force.
The boar went down as much from its own misstep as from his grip.
The chamber filled back in around them—steel, boots, laughter—indifferent to how close it had come.
Big Mute stood over the carcass, breathing hard. Blood traced his forearm, already clotting along the cut. A dark bruise was already forming along his hip where the tusk had clipped him, swelling beneath the skin.
He stepped in close and read the signs in muscle and breath. The left arm lagged. The grip held. Bare skin where steel should have been. Ribs rising unguarded with each inhale.
He rolled Big Mute's shoulder once, testing range. The arm responded, slower than before but steady.
It had taken too long.
"Rest, Brother."
He stepped in and placed his last Stamina Bar EX into Big Mute's hand.
Big Mute closed his fingers around it and bit down. His breathing didn't steady immediately; each inhale came a fraction uneven before he forced it back under control.
"This is inefficient. I owe you better equipment, Brother Mute."
Floor 1 remained crowded—low prestige, low risk, low margin.
Another party glanced over.
"Still struggling on the first-floor boar?" one said.
"Brilliant tactic. Let the big guy eat tusks while you spectate."
A few chuckles.
They moved on.
He rechecked pacing. They had already taken down three boars. The retreat lane had narrowed further. Time to stop before greed boxed them in.
The laughter lingered longer than the bruises would.
Summoned by the Empire. My stats—F across the board.
A cooking skill. A caravan to Lowtide. Exiled.
Stick out like a nail. Crushed again.
Now at Daavos. No capital. No gear. First floor. Big Mute fights bare-handed while I calculate margin of error. Pathetic.
***
They had arrived that morning in Daavos, one of the free cities across the ocean from Lowtide. From the gates, they went straight to the Adventurers Guild and registered as an F-rank duo—no references, no backing, just signatures on a ledger. Hours later, they were back in the same building, the processing station thick with the smell of iron and coal smoke.
Daavos did not smell like Lowtide. Lowtide had been salt and rot and wet rope. Daavos carried iron filings and coal smoke, oil hanging faint beneath it. The armor here was different too—less patchwork leather, more riveted plate, more uniform sets that suggested contracts instead of desperation. Accents clipped harder at the edges. Conversations were shorter. Nobody looked at them twice. In Lowtide, even failure had a reputation attached to it. Here, they were blank.
F-rankers clustered near the entrance, close to the light and the exit. E-ranks stood deeper inside, nearer the request board that listed higher floors. The gap was visible in equipment alone—better steel, fewer exposed joints, confidence without noise. Daavos did not care who they had been across the ocean. Here, rank was not history. It was current output.
Floor 1 corpses lay stacked in dull rows, stripped of any distinction beyond weight. Big Mute set down two bodies and held one back.
A clerk flipped through a ledger without looking up. He watched the scale settle while the stylus scratched across parchment and coins slid forward.
"Boar. Standard rate."
Flat pricing. No negotiation. No premium for condition.
Six silver and thirty copper. Not enough.
An E-rank tag hit the counter two stations down. The clerk's posture shifted; the ledger closed, reopened. Silver stacked higher. No questions asked. The party barely spoke. Their leader didn't look at the coins—just nodded once and walked. Efficiency bought silence as much as profit. He memorized the difference. Quietly.
Outside, he loosened the pouch at his waist.
Coins shifted inside—slightly more than before, but not enough to change trajectory.
Big Mute stood behind him, quiet. Dried blood marked his forearm. When he flexed his left hand, there was the slightest hesitation before the fingers curled fully into a fist.
A pause.
Big Mute tapped two fingers against his left boot, then dragged them slightly across the stone.
He nodded once.
"That was too close. We don't run it like that again."
***
Night fell over the poor quarter of Daavos, in the shack they rented by the docks.
He crouched beside the retained carcass and placed a hand against the hide. Big Mute held his gaze for a moment before looking away.
Edible Synthesis activated. Muscle reduced, fat rendered, impurities stripped as the mass compressed.
A refined Stamina Bar EX formed in his palm—
---
Stamina Bar EX Lite v1.11 (Common)
Hunger: -50% | Stamina Regen: +25% | Health Regen: +1.5% | STR+2
Side Effects: nausea, diarrhea
Taste Profile: umami
---
Marginal improvement.
He remained crouched. He glanced at Big Mute, then at the bloodied hands and the swelling at his hip. There was a slight delay in the flex. The breath came uneven. He rested his hand against his chin.
"We need a damage dealer."