Under the crushing weight of a life-or-death fight, Leon's mind did the opposite of panic. It went quiet. Clear. Sharper than it had ever been.
Ditch the sword. Force it to block.
He stuttered mid-step, let his foot catch, and stumbled. To any observer, it looked like his balance had finally given out, his body buckling under the strain.
The War Shadow took the bait.
Twin claws streaked forward in black lines, driving straight for his throat.
"HA!"
Power flooded his right arm. The short sword, its edge chewed ragged as a saw blade, shrieked against the hooked claws and wrenched them aside.
In the instant the claws parted, Leon seized the opening. Toes dug into stone, launching him backward. His torso bent at an extreme angle, spine nearly parallel to the ground, buying every inch of space he could. Simultaneously, his right hand hurled the ruined short sword like a throwing knife, point-blank at the creature's face.
A forced choice: block or pursue. Pick one.
Instinct won. The War Shadow swatted the blade out of the air.
Ting!
The sword spun away into darkness.
But that single heartbeat of hesitation was all Leon needed. His backward momentum arrested, torso snapping upright, right hand already extended. Index finger aimed like a gun barrel, pointed dead center at the mirror-disc on the creature's skull.
Distance: less than an arm's length.
"Scorch!"
The War Shadow didn't even have time to flinch before it ignited.
FWOOM...
This time, the claws never got the chance to cut the spell apart.
Orange-red fire swallowed the black shape whole, coating it in an instant.
"Scorch!"
"Scorch!"
"SCORCH!"
Three more blasts, seamless, gapless, savage. A torrent of fire engulfed the shadow completely.
Firelight painted every surface of the chamber, blazing bright before reluctantly dying back, leaving only blackened ash and the acrid stench of charred nothing hanging in the dead air.
The room held one figure. Just one.
The fight was over, and so was Leon's ability to stand. His body swayed, boneless, and he toppled backward like a felled tree.
Cold stone slammed against his spine. The impact barely registered against the screaming agony in his left arm.
He gasped, huge tearing breaths. Every inhale tugged at the wound, sending white-hot spasms through his arm. Every exhale tasted like blood and trembled with the aftershock of survival.
"Hhhh... hhhh... hhhh..."
Ragged, broken breathing filled the empty chamber, loud in the silence. Like a rusted bellows being dragged open and shut.
Sweat had soaked through his undershirt long ago, plastered cold and clammy against skin. It mingled with the warm blood still seeping from his left arm, spreading a dark red stain across the flagstones beneath him.
He was alive.
The sudden release of pressure didn't bring relief. It brought a wave of dizziness and exhaustion so total his vision went black at the edges.
A long time passed before the pain and weakness receded enough to let thought back in.
Leon forced himself upright, each movement a fresh negotiation with agony.
Crack... pop...
He stared at the smoldering pile of ash with hollow eyes, breathing hard, willing his locked-up nerves to uncoil.
His right hand pressed against his chest. Beneath it, his heart was still hammering like it wanted out.
One long, heavy exhale.
"I won."
Special Individual War Shadow versus Leon Hart.
Winner: Leon Hart.
...
...
"God damn it, this is only Floor Six. How does something like that even spawn here? Is Ouranos asleep at the wheel? Are his prayers even working?"
"Unbelievable. I've been playing it safer than anyone alive, and the first day I set foot on Floor Six, I walk into an Irregular. Floor. Six."
A violent shiver ripped through him, cold racing from his tailbone to the crown of his skull.
He couldn't begin to imagine what the veterans who dove into the Deep Floors were made of. Every one of them had to be an absolute monster of mental fortitude, shrugging off this kind of pressure while exploring like it was a Tuesday afternoon.
Compared to them, he was nothing. Not even close.
It wasn't just combat experience and hard stats he lacked. Conviction. Will. The mental game. He was behind on all of it.
"Hoo..."
Minutes had passed since the fight ended, but replaying that razor-thin margin between life and death still left cold sweat on his forehead and his pulse hammering.
He sat propped against a cold boulder, teeth clenched, clumsily wrapping his mangled left arm in emergency bandages.
"These healing wraps have been sitting in my pack since day one. Never thought I'd actually need them."
A bitter smile. His mind flickered to the memory of buying them, the image of a certain young woman with a deceptively innocent face solemnly explaining proper application technique. Looked like she'd called it after all.
Following what little first aid knowledge he'd scraped together, he wound the herb-scented bandages around the wound with clumsy care. Every brush of contact made him suck air through his teeth.
Bandaging done, he fished a crystal vial from his leg pouch. The packaging was absurdly luxurious, a polyhedral bottle that caught the dim light. He popped the stopper and downed the ocean-blue liquid in one go.
High Potion
Origin: Orario, Dian Cecht Familia
Type: Potion
Effect: Major stamina recovery. Significant fatigue reduction. Healing on par with magic, though slower. Capable of regenerating lost flesh, stopping bleeding, and mending broken bones. Cannot regrow missing body parts.
Description: Ocean-blue solution in a luxury crystal bottle. 50,000 valis. Essential supply for Dungeon exploration.
The liquid slid down his throat, tasteless, but within seconds a gentle warmth bloomed from his stomach and radiated outward, flooding his limbs. The searing pain in his left arm began to dull under the combined effect of the medicinal bandages and the potion, and his drained stamina trickled back like a dry creek refilling with spring water.
"High Potion lives up to the hype. Worth every bit of those 50,000 valis."
The improvement loosened the knot in his chest, but it was immediately replaced by a different kind of pain. "This run absolutely wrecked my wallet."
The damage report was brutal. Armor torn up everywhere. Left gauntlet punched clean through, major repairs needed. Short sword practically scrap metal. Leather plating full of holes that would need patching.
And on top of all that, one High Potion and a set of precious healing wraps, gone.
A quick tally put total losses near 100,000 valis.
"A hundred thousand. How many days of grinding to earn that back?" Leon winced. "Forget it. Being alive is what matters. If that 49,900-valis light armor hadn't held up, I'd be a corpse right now."
He looked down at the battered black armor covering his torso. Scratched to hell and back, but still solid. The bargain find he'd agonized over buying was worth every coin.
"Money well spent. No regrets."
After today, if anyone ever tried to tell him that armor and defensive gear were unnecessary luxuries, he would personally slap them twice and send them bare-chested into the Dungeon.
Glug, glug, glug.
He tipped his waterskin back and drained it dry. The cold rush down his throat carried a primal satisfaction that only the recently-not-dead could appreciate.
"Alright. They say fortune favors the survivor. Let's see if the loot makes up for the losses." He hauled himself up, legs still unsteady, and shuffled toward the ash pile the special individual had left behind.
His eyes swept across it, and there, sitting dead center in the remains, was a golden treasure chest. Shimmering. Unmistakable. Gorgeous.
His breath caught. A golden treasure chest. Sitting right there in the ash.
Holy shit. A bonus chest.
After the emotional whiplash of the last hour, his composure finally cracked. The grin spread until it nearly split his face in half.
But the euphoria lasted exactly one second before ingrained caution kicked in. His head snapped up like a startled rabbit, sharp eyes sweeping every corridor and passage. Only after confirming the area was empty did he lunge forward, rip open the chest, grab everything inside without looking, and stuff it against his body where no one could see.
Then he turned to the remains of the ordinary War Shadows.
"Well, well. Fortune really does favor the survivor." His eyes lit up even brighter as he sifted three gleaming, wickedly sharp hooked claws from the ash. War Shadow Finger Blades.
"Three of them. That's 150,000 valis, right there. Today's losses covered and then some. Am I... is my luck actually turning around?"
But as he was happily tucking the Finger Blades into his loot pouch, his fingertips brushed something different in the finer ash left by the special individual.
"Wait. What's this?"
He brushed the ash aside. A single claw lay there, pitch black from tip to base, utterly unremarkable at first glance.
Nothing like the bright, gleaming ordinary Finger Blades beside it. This one seemed to drink in the light itself, black as ink, cold to the touch, radiating a faint aura that made something in his gut clench.
He turned it over in his hand, remembering the moment those claws had sliced his Scorch clean in half. His eyebrow twitched. His pulse quickened.
A rare drop with anti-magic properties? Like a budget version of Juggernaut's Destructive Talon? No way it's anywhere near that powerful. Probably the knockoff version.
In other words, similar mechanics but massively reduced stats. Performance probably wouldn't even rank as high-tier within the Level 1 range.
But he wasn't disappointed. Instinct whispered that this little trophy might pay off in ways he couldn't predict yet.
After all, he'd never heard of any weapon with anti-magic properties, no matter how limited the effective range.
He tucked it carefully into his loot pouch, secured it against his body, cleaned up the signs of battle, and left.
...
The potion had stabilized his injuries, and he could technically still fight, but Leon didn't hesitate for a second. He was done for the day.
A glance at his brass pocket watch: one hour until sunset. The return traffic was light, the corridors uncrowded.
He traced his usual safe route back and soon emerged into the plaza beneath Babel.
Exchange first. Half of today's earnings are probably going straight to a healer. The thought stung, but he made for the Exchange near Babel, the place that never knew a quiet moment.
Clink-clink-clatter!
A small pile of Orario gold coins gleamed on the tray. Beautiful little things, every one of them.
"Here are your valis, sir. Please confirm the amount."
"Thanks."
Leon kept his expression flat as he swept the coins into his purse with a practiced motion. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught several figures lurking near the entrance, heads poking around the doorframe, gazes darting and hungry.
A cold smirk flickered behind his eyes. He tugged his hood tighter, slipped into the plaza crowd, and vanished around two corners.
"Boss, we're not gonna move on him? That kid just cashed out a fat stack..." one of the thugs muttered, reluctant.
"Idiot!" The one called Boss spat on the ground, eyes sharp with street-earned cunning. "That guy moves like a veteran. You got any idea what he might have up his sleeve? What if he pulls out a Magic Sword? You gonna walk up and volunteer to die? Keep your eyes open. This game's got layers you can't see."
"Boss is so smart!"
"Wise as always, Boss!"
...
Leon had long since stopped caring about bottom-feeders like that.
What newbie hadn't gotten jumped outside the Exchange at least once? Take a few beatings and you learned fast.
Just Orario's special brand of welcome wagon.
Leon liked to call it the Orario Initiation Mugging.
From the Exchange, he cut straight down the northwest Adventurer's Avenue and stopped across the street from Guild Headquarters.
Before him stood an imposing building of pure white stone, a prominent emblem mounted above the entrance.
Dian Cecht Familia Treatment Center.
The city's premier medical facility, operated by the Dian Cecht Familia, one of the major pharmaceutical factions in Orario.
Its patron god, Dian Cecht, was reportedly an old man with a thoroughly unpleasant personality. Rumor had it he and Miach, the god who ran Blue Pharmacy, had been bitter rivals for years.
Leon pushed through the door. The mingled scent of medicinal herbs and antiseptic washed over him.
"Welcome. How may we help you today..."
A healer in crisp white approached.