The moment both swords rose, the Whisperer moved.
Its gaunt figure skimmed low over the floor, a smear of gray shadow lunging straight at Greer.
The two swords in its hands slashed down from left and right. The dull rusted blade and the violet-glowing ruined blade crossed as they fell, carving a gray-violet X through the dim prison.
Greer had no time to think.
He dropped his center of gravity at once, bringing the rapier in his right hand across his chest to meet the two descending blades.
Clang!
A muffled crash of metal exploded outward. The force ran down the slender blade and poured straight into his arm.
Greer was driven down until he could hardly straighten. His boot sole and prosthetic leg scraped two short furrows across the floor as he staggered back several steps, only barely shedding the impact.
In the next instant, the shaft of the cane in his left hand struck down, knocking the rusted sword aside, while the rapier in his right hand wound along the violet ruined blade. Its point drove straight for the Whisperer’s chest.
But the Whisperer neither dodged nor retreated.
Its withered body twisted slightly, and both swords came whipping back in a reverse slash.
Greer’s expression stiffened. He could only give ground again and again. Amid the ringing clash of steel, he barely parried the assault and pulled himself, for the moment, out of the Whisperer’s reach.
“Guildmaster!”
Rayne stepped forward.
“Stay back!”
Greer’s voice was not loud, but it landed like an invisible hand pressing down on Rayne’s shoulder.
Rayne stopped where he was and looked hesitantly at the old man’s back.
The old man slowly straightened his perpetually stooped spine.
In those clouded eyes, a sharp silver light suddenly kindled, fixing itself on the Whisperer’s withered face.
“Leave this thing to me,” he shouted through gritted teeth, knocking aside the Whisperer’s three-strike combination. “In a moment, I’ll force it away from the door. When I do, you run.”
“We can’t leave you behind.”
Rayne had never felt his throat so dry. Every word sent a dull ache through the depths of it.
“Rayne!”
Greer barked his name.
Sparks sprayed at high speed between him and the Whisperer, yet his feet did not retreat by even half a step.
“Stop wasting words and do as I say… ngh!”
He bent low to avoid a sideways sweep, the muscles in his cheek twitching hard.
“It’s not as if… I can’t come back.”
Greer forced out an ugly grin.
“So don’t go worrying about these old bones of mine!”
But not the slightest relief appeared on Rayne’s face.
They all knew resurrection had never come without a price.
The Whisperer seemed to sense something. It tilted its head in silence, looked at Greer, then at Rayne behind him.
It did not continue its pursuit. Instead, it dragged both swords back to the doorway, blocking the exit once more.
That stance did not look like defense.
It looked more like waiting for the prey to throw itself in.
“Well now. Looks like I’ve really been underestimated.”
Greer ground his teeth and let out a hoarse, cold laugh.
He turned to Rayne, his expression solemn.
“Listen well. There’s only one chance.”
“These old bones of mine were already halfway to falling apart.”
“But you lot are different.”
“You still have decades ahead of you. Don’t let them end in a damned hole like this.”
Rayne opened his mouth, but it felt as if something had lodged in his throat. He could not force out a single word.
Serin bit her lower lip and raised the oak staff in her hand. A soft pale-green light gathered at its head, as though she meant to cast a blessing over the old man.
But Greer had already turned back to face the Whisperer.
“Save it,” he said calmly. “Don’t waste it on me. You’ll need it soon enough.”
He said nothing more. He simply dragged his uncooperative leg forward and took one step.
The Silver Flash.
What a nostalgic name.
Greer lowered his eyes to the cane-sword in his hand, and the sharpness in his gaze softened, in that instant, into something almost gentle.
“Old friend,” the old man sighed. “One last time. Keep up with me.”
He drew in a deep breath and forced what little magic remained in him down into his limbs.
From his bones, his tendons, and the place where the prosthetic joined what remained of his leg, tiny cracking sounds burst out almost all at once.
That stooped back straightened inch by inch through the burning pain.
Across the Whisperer’s withered face, a flicker of surprise flashed and vanished.
“Now that’s… interesting.”
It raised both swords, but did not attack first. It merely waited in silence.
The look of it was as though it were savoring the final struggle of a man already as good as dead.
“Keep your eyes open and watch closely, monster!”
Greer bared his teeth in a grin. Veins bulged at his temples, sweat sliding along the creases of his face. His face had flushed red, and blood was already seeping from the corner of his mouth.
Pain gnawed at his limbs like a wild beast.
But his eyes burned terrifyingly bright.
Once, on the battlefield, people had called him this:
The silver-white streak that crossed the battlefield, leaving nothing uncut in its wake.
The Silver Flash.
Greer exhaled a bloody, rasping breath.
“Silver Flash!”
Silver light erupted.
Greer’s body blurred into an afterimage, dust bursting up from beneath his feet.
In the space of a blink, he had closed the distance and arrived directly before the Whisperer.
No tricks.
No hesitation.
Every shadow of his blade bit toward the same place.
The Whisperer’s left arm.
The arm holding the violet ruined blade.
One strike.
Two.
Three.
Silver-white sword light flashed again and again through the dim prison, so fast Rayne could no longer tell one stroke from the next.
By the time his eyes finally caught up, Greer had already driven in the seventh strike.
Seven sword wounds bloomed almost in the same instant.
The Whisperer’s left arm was torn into a bloody ruin. The violet ruined blade shook violently, nearly slipping from its grasp.
For the first time, it was forced back half a step.
Only half a step.
But that half step was enough to expose a narrow gap in the great door behind it.
Greer landed unsteadily and dropped hard onto one knee.
Ha… ha…
Only seven strikes.
Hah. I really am getting worse with age.
He lifted his head.
What filled his vision was the rusted blade in the Whisperer’s other hand, already cutting down.
The grin froze on Greer’s face.
Rayne’s pupils contracted sharply.
In the next moment, a line of blood split open diagonally across Greer’s shoulder.
Greer’s strength gave out, and he slowly toppled to one side.
Before he fell, he forced one final word through his teeth with the last of his strength.
“Run.”
Rayne did not move.
In that instant, all he could see was Greer’s falling body.
The old man’s blood-soaked hand was still clutching that slender blade with all its strength.
Almost by instinct, Rayne’s foot moved half a step forward.
“Rayne!”
Asar’s roar struck his ear like a slap.
“Run! That’s the chance the Guildmaster bought for us!”
Rayne clenched his jaw until his teeth ground together.
The Whisperer lowered its head. Its gray-white eyes settled on Greer, who had fallen to the floor.
In the next instant, the rusted blade slowly rose, pointed at the old man’s chest.
Rayne felt as though something had torn his chest wide open.
He slammed a hand down on Barton’s shoulder.
“Move!”
The five of them rushed toward the door.
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The blade cut through empty air.
All that remained on the ground was a smear of blood, not yet dry.
Greer had vanished.
And the gap he had forcibly torn open still remained exposed behind the Whisperer.
The Whisperer turned its head toward them.
Its left arm hung at its side, the violet ruined blade trembling violently in its grip.
The gap was right there.
But the Whisperer still stood before the door. Even that much of its frame was enough to seal the path once more.
Not enough.
The opening Greer had torn open with his life was still one final step short.
Rayne roared inside his own chest.
“Barton!” he shouted. “Pin it down with me!”
Barton did not answer. He simply raised his battered shield and rammed straight forward.
Serin, Asar, and Tyren skirted along the wall, moving around the Whisperer and rushing toward the gap.
The rusted blade smashed down onto the face of the shield.
The violet ruined blade came half a beat slower, following with a crooked slash from an awkward angle.
The impact nearly sent Barton sprawling backward, but Rayne caught him by the shoulder from behind in time. His longsword angled upward, taking part of the force for him.
“Go!”
Rayne growled through clenched teeth.
“You’re too badly hurt!”
Barton’s face was frighteningly pale.
He did not want to retreat.
But he understood as well. Every extra second he held on was another second he would drag Rayne down with him.
He gritted his teeth hard, turned, and chased after the others.
Rayne drew the shortsword at his waist. Longsword and shortsword crossed as they rose, forcibly blocking the Whisperer’s path of pursuit.
Violet light and rusted shadow exploded before his eyes.
Rayne could not even see the paths of the blades clearly. He could only block on instinct with both swords.
He stopped the first two strikes.
The third grazed his arm, and blood sprayed up.
As the fourth closed in on his throat, a translucent barrier of light suddenly appeared in front of him.
Clang!
The barrier held for only an instant before shattering, but that instant bought him a breath of relief.
Serin’s Pure White Ward.
Rayne did not dare look back. He could only follow those figures from the corner of his eye.
Serin, Asar, and Tyren had already rounded the Whisperer’s flank. Only a few final steps remained between them and the gap.
Almost.
They were almost there.
Tyren was running at the front.
His hand was already about to touch the doorframe.
But at that very moment, the Whisperer’s head tilted slightly.
Those gray-white eyes settled on Tyren.
Rayne’s heart plunged. He was just about to move in and block, but the Whisperer beat him to it, sweeping the rusted blade out and sealing off his path by force.
“Look out!” Rayne shouted.
The Whisperer’s figure blurred.
It abandoned Rayne outright and lunged at Tyren instead.
Tyren had no time to dodge.
He reached back and drew the short dagger from behind his waist, but the Whisperer was already in front of him.
“Damn it!” Tyren cursed.
“Tyren!” Serin cried.
Serin rushed forward, gasping, holding her oak staff horizontally before her.
The Whisperer’s nearly ruined left arm suddenly whipped out.
In an instant, the oak staff was cut clean through by the violet ruined blade.
The rusted sword followed immediately after, smashing down onto the ward.
Crack.
The white light that burst from the shattered barrier lit Serin’s bloodless face.
The next slash followed without pause.
Sparks exploded across her chest.
“Aah!”
Serin was sent flying backward, only to be caught by Asar.
Beneath her torn white robe, a layer of fine chainmail was revealed.
Tyren’s eyes turned red in an instant.
“You bastard!”
He did not retreat. Instead, he threw himself forward and drove the short dagger hard into the ruined flesh of the Whisperer’s left arm, right where Greer had torn it open.
That arm had already been held together by little more than ragged strands of muscle.
Tyren gripped the dagger with both hands and twisted with all his strength.
A teeth-grating tearing sound burst through the prison.
The Whisperer’s left arm was ripped clean off.
It paused and looked down at its now-empty left shoulder.
The severed arm fell to the ground together with the violet ruined blade. The broken violet glow flickered a few times, then dimmed away.
In the next instant, the red light in its eyes slowly brightened.
Rayne did not dare stop, much less give it a chance to move again.
“Go!”
He grabbed Tyren by the back of the collar and dragged him bodily away from the Whisperer.
Outside the door, Asar had already pulled Serin out, half-carrying and half-dragging her. Barton held position beside the stone door, his cracked shield aimed squarely at the opening, cold sweat streaming down his pale face.
“Hurry!”
Rayne dragged Tyren in a stumbling rush toward the doorway, all but throwing him across the threshold.
He had no time to catch his breath, and no time to check whether Tyren had landed hard, before he hurled himself out after him.
The rusted blade slashed in from behind.
A cold wind from the blade swept past the back of his heel, almost skimming the sole of his boot.
“Rayne!”
Barton bellowed and rammed in from the side of the door.
The battered shield smashed into the side of the Whisperer’s face. The broken rim scraped across that withered face, tearing away several flecks of gray-white flesh.
The Whisperer’s body veered for an instant.
Only an instant.
But it was enough for Rayne to roll out through the stone door.
Barton was thrown back by the recoil as well, staggering, his face ashen. Still, he gritted his teeth and kept the shield raised, eyes locked hard on the doorway.
Beyond the door, the Whisperer slowly lifted its head.
The red light in its eyes burned bright enough to ignite.
“Move!”
Rayne grabbed Tyren and all but dragged him backward.
Only after every one of them had stumbled into the outer passage did the heavy stone door, as if it had finally confirmed that all living people had left, slam shut before their eyes with a thunderous boom.
The crash of the closing door echoed through the outer passage for a long time.
No one spoke right away.
The only sounds in the passage were ragged breathing, blood dripping onto the floor, and the faint scrape of a shield rim against stone.
Rayne dragged Tyren back in a stagger until his spine struck the cold stone wall. Only then did he lose the strength to hold himself up and slide down to the ground.
Serin was being supported by Asar, her face deathly pale.
Barton leaned against the wall, the battered shield slanted across his body. His hands rested weakly on his knees, still trembling faintly.
Tyren sat on the ground, clutching the short dagger smeared with gray-black flesh, as though only now had he truly realized what he had just done.
They had escaped.
But not one of them showed the slightest trace of victory.
Greer was not here.
The thought pressed down on Rayne’s chest like a cold, heavy stone.
After a long while, Serin finally spoke, her voice hoarse.
“The Guildmaster… he’ll be all right, won’t he?”
No one dared think too deeply about it.
They all knew the dungeon would send the fallen back to the starting chamber.
But they had also felt it for themselves.
It did not come without a price.
Rayne closed his eyes.
A moment later, he braced himself against the wall and stood.
“Let’s go.”
“We’re going to get him.”
◆ ◆ ◆
In the Core Chamber, Owen silently watched Rayne’s party after their narrow escape from death.
A pity.
They had done everything they could with everything available to them.
They truly had been only a hair short.
Their coordination was already far better than the last few times.
Greer had torn open the breach. Rayne and Barton had held the line. Serin’s ward had blocked the critical blow. Tyren had even seized the opportunity at the very end and ripped one of the Whisperer’s arms clean off.
With just a little more preparation, they might really have had a chance to bring that boss down.
So where exactly was the problem?
Owen pondered for a while, his awareness sweeping one by one over their damaged weapons and armor.
Then, suddenly, he understood.
Gear.
Rayne and the others were like characters in a role-playing game who had just reached a new level. Their stats really had gone up, but the things they wore and the weapons they held were still the same old set.
Barton’s shield could not even withstand a weakened Combat Art. The cracks across its surface were so dense they might as well have declared it dead.
Serin’s oak staff went without saying. In front of that violet ruined blade, it was as brittle as a sun-dried twig.
As for Tyren’s little short dagger…
Owen looked at the small thing still smeared with gray-black flesh and could not help falling silent for a moment.
Vicious enough, he would give it that.
But in the end, it really was just an ordinary dagger.
“Hm? Does this world not have any cool weapons or something?” Owen could not help muttering. “Gear is part of your power too, you know!”
Still, even if he wanted to strengthen them, he could not just hand things over for free.
If every good thing could be obtained without paying a price, then sooner or later, they would be spoiled useless.
He had to think of a way.
Something that could give them resources to grow, without making the rewards feel too cheap.
Owen fell silent for a moment.
He watched that battered, grimy group leaning against the wall, every one of them barely able to stand, and for a rare moment, the depths of his awareness fell quiet.
Then his core suddenly lit up.
“I’ve got it!”
“Treasure chests!”
Owen grew so excited that he nearly lit up the entire Core Chamber.
“I really am one clever little rock.”
All he had to do was place a few treasure chests around the dungeon, then put weapons, armor, or useful consumables inside them.
Ordinary chests could be hidden deep in the side passages.
Slightly better chests could be guarded by elite monsters.
As for the highest-grade chests…
Behind the bosses, of course.
“Yes! That’s exactly how it should be!”
The more Owen thought about it, the more reasonable it felt.
“This way, I can avoid giving them something for nothing, and also force them to explore the branches, judge risks, and even take the initiative to challenge tougher enemies.”
“Over time, their combat instincts will naturally improve too.”
He looked at the group of adventurers in the outer passage, so miserable they could barely stand, and a ripple of satisfaction surfaced in the depths of his awareness.
“The things I do for you people. I’m just a poor little rock, and here I am worrying myself sick.”
◆ ◆ ◆
In the starting chamber, the light at the center of the ring slowly kindled, and a figure gradually took shape.
Greer’s eyes snapped open.
He lay on the cold stone floor, his chest heaving sharply once, but he did not get up immediately.
The old man only frowned and waited quietly.
He waited for the headache Rayne and the others had described.
He waited for the hollow weakness that followed Soul Damage, that feeling of being scooped empty from the inside out.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
Nothing happened.
Greer was silent for a while, then slowly sat up.
He looked down at his own hands, then raised one hand to touch the shoulder that had just been cut open by the rusted blade.
No wound.
No pain.
Even the ripping discomfort from earlier was like nothing more than a brief dream.
The old man frowned and tried moving his shoulder.
Good.
Then he flexed his fingers.
Also good.
Even the leg fitted with the prosthetic felt no more uncomfortable than usual.
A strange look gradually crept over Greer’s face.
“…Hm?”
He closed his eyes and carefully felt through himself once more.
Still nothing.
Forget a tearing sensation. There was not even a proper headache.
If anything, that only made Greer’s frown deepen.
He sat on the stone floor in silence for a long time.
Just then, a flurry of chaotic footsteps came from outside the starting chamber.
Rayne was the first to rush in.
His arm was wrapped in rough bandages, and half his sleeve was soaked through with blood.
Barton followed behind him, bracing himself against the wall. The shield he had carried before was now gone.
Tyren half-supported Serin, whose face was pale. A ghastly slash had torn open the white robe at her chest.
Asar hung alone at the rear of the group, still wary of any movement behind them.
Every one of them stopped in the doorway.
Compared with them, Greer, seated at the center of the ring, was so clean he looked almost glaringly out of place.
They looked at him.
Greer looked back at them.
For an instant, the chamber fell silent.
Rayne’s throat worked. His voice was terribly hoarse.
“Guildmaster… are you all right?”
Greer did not answer immediately.
He looked at Rayne, then at the other young people who could barely stay on their feet, and finally lowered his gaze to his own hands.
The old man was silent for a moment. His expression grew even stranger.
“Odd…”
Rayne’s face went white.
“Are you feeling unwell?”
Greer lifted his head.
“I don’t seem… to feel anything.”
The chamber went quiet again.
Tyren cradled his still-aching head and blinked in confusion.
“…What?”
Greer himself seemed a little embarrassed. He coughed lightly and moved his shoulder again.
“I mean, no headache, no weakness, and none of that feeling you described, like the soul had been hollowed out.”
He paused, his voice carrying a rare trace of hesitation.
“It feels as if I just had a good night’s sleep.”
Rayne: “…”
Barton: “…”
Serin: “…”
Tyren looked down at himself, covered in dust and blood, then looked back at the old man before him, who somehow seemed to be in better condition than any of them.
After a moment, he said dryly,
“Guildmaster.”
Greer looked at him.
“Mm?”
Tyren’s voice even carried a faint note of grievance.
“Guildmaster… that’s just unfair.”
Greer opened his mouth and, for once, had no idea how to answer.
And just like that, a crack opened in the heavy atmosphere that had nearly settled over the chamber.