Azazel picked up the pulsating core, its faint light glinting in his palm. "Alright, Reginleif. Let's get back to the inn."
She sheathed her dagger, wiping a strand of sweat-soaked hair from her forehead. "Okay. I really need a shower."
The return journey felt longer, the weight of the dungeon's silence lifting only when they pushed open the heavy door and stepped back into the fading daylight of the city. At the inn, Reginleif immediately disappeared into the washroom, leaving Azazel to his errand.
He went straight to the Adventurers' Guild. The evening crowd was thinner, the atmosphere more subdued.
"Hey," Azazel said, leaning against the reception counter. "Do you have a map for the dungeon?"
The receptionist looked up. "Which one did you go into?"
"I don't have a name for it."
"Could you describe the area where you found it?"
Azazel gave a terse explanation of the location and the entrance.
"Ah," she said, her expression turning serious. "The Fresh Tears Dungeon. We only have maps for levels one to fourteen."
"Fourteen?" Azazel's eyebrow rose. "Why is that?"
"The boss on floor fifteen is a two-headed hound. One head breathes fire, the other chokes the entire chamber with blinding, toxic smoke. A lot of adventurers have died trying to fight it." She gave him a pointed look. "My advice is to get two more people before you even think about attempting floor fifteen."
"Noted," Azazel said flatly. "I'll buy the maps for floors one to fourteen." He placed the fused monster's core on the counter. "This should cover it."
She inspected the unusual core, her eyes widening slightly. "It does... but you're still short three silvers."
Azazel's expression didn't change, but inwardly he sighed. You gotta be fucking kidding me.
He paid the remaining coins and returned to the inn. Reginleif was done with her bath, sitting on her bed and intently reading a thick bestiary.
Azazel couldn't resist a smirk. "Haha. Looks like that fusion monster gave you a scare. Now you're hitting the books?"
"Shut the hell up, Azazel," she replied without looking up, her tone more tired than angry.
Settling on the floor, Azazel unrolled the guild map beside the rough, hand-drawn one he'd created. He compared the first three floors. The corridors, the chambers, the dead ends—they were all there.
"Damn, Reginleif," he murmured. "The routes are the same."
Intrigued, Reginleif set her book down and came to look over his shoulder. "Yes, they are... but yours is more accurate. The proportions are better. Strange. Who taught you how to make maps like this?"
Azazel was silent for a moment. Thank god I paid attention in Cartography class. Though, to be honest, the only reason I did was to case Rob a rich dudes house for information. His house had good security... He pushed the memory away. "Whatever. The past is the past."
He rolled the maps up. "Alright, Reginleif. We get some rest. We can hit the dungeon again tomorrow."
Reginleif cut him off. "Wait. What about that ice mythic you used? I thought your mythic was darkness, not ice."
Azazel leaned back, looking at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. "It is darkness. All I did was reach deeper into it. The abyss... it felt cold. Endlessly cold. So I focused solely on that coldness, pulled it to the surface, and then... pop. It just froze."
Reginleif studied him for a long moment, a flicker of concern in her eyes. "Okay. It's different for some people, I guess." She let out a yawn and stretched. "We should rest for today."
As she blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness, Azazel stared at the ceiling. The cold of the black ice still felt familiar in his veins, a new and unsettling branch on the Mythic Tree growing within him.
The next morning, they bypassed the upper floors entirely, their steps echoing with a new purpose as they descended straight to the dungeon's fourth level.
The air grew colder, the torchlight clinging to thicker shadows. The first challenge was a phalanx of skeleton warriors, their bony forms clattering forward, shielded by a line of skeleton archers whose arrows were already nocked.
"Archers first!" Azazel barked.
He lunged forward, his longsword sheathed in a shroud of consuming darkness. He moved like a shadow himself, aiming not for ribs, but for skulls. Each precise, enchanted strike shattered a bony head, the necromantic light within extinguished in an instant. In moments, the archers were silent.
He turned, expecting to join the melee, but found only bone dust settling. Reginleif stood amidst the scattered remains of the warriors, her dagger barely stained. A faint wisp of wind curled around her blade.
"Oh? No hesitation, I see," Azazel remarked, a brow raised.
Reginleif sheathed her dagger. "No, that's not it. It just… felt easy."
"Wow. Okay," he said, a hint of a challenge in his voice. "Keep going down, if that's how you feel."
On the fifth floor, the nature of the dungeon changed. It was no longer just about monsters. A sharp *thwip* sounded as Azazel's foot landed on a pressure plate. He jerked back just in time to avoid a volley of rusted arrows embedding themselves in the opposite wall.
"Dude, watch where you're walking!" Reginleif snapped, her heart hammering.
"My bad" he grunted. "Guess the traps are starting."
They proceeded with newfound caution, nearing the stairs to the sixth floor. Reginleif suddenly held up a hand, her head cocked.
"There's something else breathing here" she whispered.
"How can you tell?"
"The wind" she said, her senses mingling with the air currents. "It… tastes different."
Azazel nodded. "Oh, right. Wind is like air. Breathing is… oxygen. Like air."
She gave him a flat look. "Yes, Azazel. Like air."
The attack came from above. A hulking Dungeon Lizard, its scales the color of the cavern ceiling, dropped like a stone.
Azazel barely got his sword up in time, parrying the claws with a shower of dark sparks. Reginleif's thrown daggers clattered off its thick hide. It ignored her, charging Azazel with single-minded fury.
"Man, you are a stupid lizard" Azazel taunted, and with a flick of his wrist, the air around the beast crystallized into a prison of *Black Ice*.
Reginleif didn't need a signal. Her blade, charged with wind, flashed once, and the frozen lizard was cleaved in two.
"Poor guy never stood a chance" she murmured.
"Hey, lizards are cold-blooded" Azazel said, dispersing the dark ice. "What did it expect? Onwards."
The sixth floor was a brutal gauntlet of Living Armor and swift, vicious Needle Rabbits. After the fight, a small treasure chest yielded one gold coin and a silver shield with a simple enchantment.
"Well, that's a decent haul" Azazel said, inspecting the shield.
"I don't know. You've got to decide that for yourself" Reginleif replied, more focused on the surrounding shadows.
"Whatever."
The seventh floor introduced a bizarre ecosystem. A large, shimmering Water Slime pulsed in the center of the chamber, while a single, delicate butterfly with four translucent blue wings fluttered nearby.
"Huh. That's an odd pair" Azazel mused, recognition dawning. "That butterfly… it's in the bestiary. It can't fight, but its wing powder has powerful healing properties. It's used for high-grade potions."
"Azazel, go for the slime" Reginleif commanded, her eyes locked on the butterfly. "Don't freeze it. Try to burn it with your darkness. I'll capture this one."
"But why? How am I supposed to burn it?" he protested, even as he moved.
"I don't know. Figure something out!"
Great, he thought, frustration boiling over. I'm not even from this world, and my Mythic is darkness. The only thing it does is decay things, and this thing has high regeneration! She just tells me it's a water slime. How annoying.
The slime retaliated, firing a high-pressure jet of water. Azazel blocked with his sword, but the sheer force knocked him back several feet. "What was I thinking, blocking water?!"
He rushed in again, stabbing his sword into its core and pouring decay-energy into it. The slime shuddered, then compressed violently, releasing sharp, watery spikes. One caught him in the shoulder, drawing a sharp hiss of pain.
"Well, shit. That hurt." He retreated, mind racing. Okay, that's not going to work. Come on, think… Oh. Molotov Cocktails.
He rummaged in their magic bag, pulling out the bottle of lamp oil they'd bought. He tore a strip from his cloak, fashioned a quick fuse, and lit it with a spark from striking his dagger against his sword.
"Try this!" he yelled, hurling the makeshift bomb.
The bottle shattered against the slime, and flame erupted, spreading across its watery surface. The slime writhed, sizzling violently. Before it could recover, Azazel summoned a box of solid shadows, trapping the burning creature inside.
"Good luck surviving in a closed space with medieval oil" he muttered.
When he released the darkness, only the slime's core remained, glowing with a beautiful, sky-blue light.
"Hey, Reginleif, are you done playing with the butterfly?"
He found her carefully harvesting a small amount of powder from one of the creature's wings, which she had gently subdued. "Azazel, we can make our own healing potions now."
"Don't give me that 'we'—you're the alchemist who has to make this shit" he grumbled, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
In response, she simply broke off a tiny piece of the wing and sprinkled the glittering powder onto his wound. A warm, tingling sensation spread through the area, and the flesh knitted itself back together in seconds.
"Holy shit," Azazel breathed, flexing his now-perfect shoulder. "It actually works."
Reginleif stood, carefully storing the precious butterfly. "I think that's enough for today. Let's go back to the inn."
Azazel gave a single, tired nod. Together, they turned their backs on the deepening dark and began the long ascent to the surface.