Chapter 13: A Warning in a Box
Azazel leaned on the guild counter, the map of the Fresh Tears Dungeon rolled tightly in his grip. "Why did you guys only map the place out to twenty floors?" he asked, his voice low and intent.
The guild receptionist's cheerful demeanor softened into something more sober. "Oh, you see, on the twentieth floor... there is a guardian. A two-headed Hound Boss. One head breathes searing fire, the other exhales a toxic, gas. It's a bottleneck. Many parties have been wiped out trying to clear it. That floor is the furthest any sanctioned map goes for the Fresh Tears. It's the effective 'bottom' for anyone with a sense of self-preservation."
She paused, her ears twitching nervously. "And remember, two people cannot truly clear a dungeon. Dungeons are… strange. They adapt."
What does that mean? Azazel thought, frustration itching at him. 'Dungeons are strange.' I'm missing a key piece of the puzzle here.
"Why don't you send higher-ranked adventurers?"
A shadow passed over the receptionist's face. "They tried. A powerful party called the 'Will of Yore.' One Platinum-rank leader, four Gold-rank veterans. They went down five years ago to chart the depths." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Only one of the Gold-ranks returned. Half-mad, babbling about 'shifting walls' and 'whispers.' The Platinum leader and the others… were never found. After that, the twentieth floor was designated a High Danger Zone—a tomb marker. People still farm the upper floors for materials, but no one of any rank tries to go further. One day, perhaps the Saint Party might… but until then, it's a sealed box."
Azazel's mind raced. One Platinum and four Golds, wiped out. And the response isn't to send a bigger hammer, it's to just… leave it? Label it too dangerous and walk away? It clashed violently with every game and story he knew. But this was real. These were real graves. The logic of this world was different.
"Alright," he said, his tone flat. "Thanks for the history lesson."
---
Back at the inn, the weight of the un-conquered dungeon pressed on him. He needed context.
"Reginleif," he asked, spreading the map on the floor between them. "How many dungeons have actually been conquered that you know of?"
She looked up from sharpening her dagger. "Conquered? In the old era, or the new?"
"Focus. This era."
"In recorded history, that everyone knows of? Six. Total."
"Six?" Azazel couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice. "That's it? In the whole world?"
"Four of those six were 'destroyed'—their cores shattered, and the dungeons themselves collapsed and vanished. The remaining two are under tight control by their kingdoms, farmed for resources and taxed for profit. They're economic engines, not challenges."
Thank God, Azazel thought, a strange relief mixing with his unease. People can beat dungeons in this world. So why did the guild girl make it sound impossible?
"Keep going," he urged. "Who conquered them?"
"Three of the six were cleared by the same group," Reginleif said, a note of unmistakable awe creeping into her tone. "The Saints Party. The most legendary adventurers. I… I want to meet their leader, the Saint, one day."
The moment the words left her mouth, Azazel felt it. A cold, visceral rejection surged from his core—a primal, physical recoil that wasn't entirely his own. His Darkness Mythic pulsed with a defensive, hostile energy, as if the very idea was an affront.
But layered on top of that mystical warning was his own, deeply personal disgust.
The Saint's party? Serious? Of course this world has one of those. For some unknown fucking reason. Me being high, reading those manga… the fucking 'Saint' archetype. It stays in my mind. Every damn time. 'Oh, I am Ms. Good Two-Shoes! I will help everybody and save the world and restore your heart!' What a load of self-righteous crap.
Every time I read that shit I was like, 'Please, somebody give this woman a reality check.' God damn. I reject the idea of meeting a person like that. Calm down, Azazel. Calm down.
"Azazel!" Reginleif hissed, snapping him back. The shadows in the room had deepened, the air grown cold. "Your power is leaking! It's… rejecting the idea of her."
He clenched his fists, forcing the cold fury—both his and his Mythic's—back down. "The Saint?" he gritted out.
"Her Mythic," Reginleif said, watching him warily. "The people call it 'Heal All.' But its true name, known only to scholars and those who have felt its touch, is Holy Spirit. It is the absolute, purifying counterpart to corruption. It doesn't just heal wounds; it scours blight, calms chaos, and purges darkness."
Holy Spirit.
The name hit Azazel like a physical blow, dredging up memories of a different world—of stained glass, old hymns, and a cynicism born from seeing too much evil done in good names. His Mythic's reaction made a terrible, perfect sense. It wasn't just rejecting a powerful person; it was rejecting its natural opposite.
Holy Spirit. Okay. That's some shit directly imported from my world. What Is she blessed by Jesus Christ? The absurdity almost made him laugh, but the cold dread in his gut was stronger. At least I know something essential now. And for the love of whatever god is listening here, I am never going to encounter that woman.
Holy Spirit.
The name finalized it. His Mythic's reaction made terrible sense—it was rejecting its natural opposite. But Azazel's own rejection was simpler, born in a different world's back alleys and juvenile detention centers: he hated the archetype. The thought of being near that brand of grating, moralistic purity made his skin crawl almost as much as the magical opposition did.
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Here is an edited and refined version of your chapter. The goal was to improve clarity, flow, dialogue, and internal monologue while keeping your original voice and story beats intact.
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Azazel absorbed the information. "Okay, so the Saints' Party conquered four dungeons. What about the other two?"
"One was conquered by the Dwarven Kingdom—the Living Quarry," Reginleif replied. "You can guess what they're using it for."
"Right. Materials," Azazel said. "Predictable, but smart."
"Of course you'd say 'smart.' Everyone does."
"And the last one?"
Reginleif's expression grew serious. "That… is the one I didn't want to talk about. The Brotherhood took it. But they didn't complete it. The rumor is the dungeon is like an abyss—it just goes down and down. No one can get near it now; a small army is permanently camped there, blocking all access and information."
The Brotherhood again. Azazel's mind turned the name over. I'm not gonna lie, that's a sick name. 'The Brotherhood.' Too bad everyone here thinks they're evil jackasses. They're just like the Roman Empire, wanting to conquer everything. Honestly, I get it. It's like back in my world—that's how governments work. That's how wars start.
His thoughts darkened, touched by old memories. Being in a warzone taught me shit. Watching the news, seeing the reality behind the speeches. They talk shit, then do whatever they want. No morals, because at the end of the day, they think power is everything. What do I care? I'll only fight these guys if they get in my way. For now, they're nothing but a nuisance.
"Alright, Reginleif. Thanks for the info," he said, pushing the thoughts aside. "Now, for our own shit. I need something... like a magic bag or something."
"A magic what now?" Reginleif tilted her head in genuine confusion.
What does she mean, 'magic what now'? Wait, do they not even have the concept of 'magic' here? I don't have the energy to figure out if 'magic' is a foreign idea in this world. The system they follow is based on the Mythic Tree. I should rephrase.
"Sorry, I mean some kind of artifact we can store items in. Like ordered space."
"Oh! An inventory tool! Right. There are multiple versions of those."
"Now you're talking. Multiple versions?"
"Yes. Rings, bracelets, boxes, and bags like you said. But 'magic thing'? I've never heard that before."
I guess I was right. The concept of 'magic' as I know it doesn't exist here. I don't fully get how powers work in this world, even though I'm using mine. There are still too many holes.
"Okay. Inventory tool. Tomorrow morning we'll look for one."
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The next morning, they went to the guild and were directed to a specific shop. An old woman greeted them from behind a cluttered counter.
"You sell inventory tools here, ma'am?" Azazel asked.
"I do. Have a look. There are several types."
Azazel examined the display—simple rings, sturdy bracelets, ornate boxes, and plain pouches. He turned to Reginleif. "Which one do you think we should take?"
"The rings are convenient but have limited storage. The boxes hold more, but... well, it's a box you have to carry," she reasoned.
As they debated, Azazel's eye caught a strange object on a low shelf. He picked up a palm-sized cube, its surface segmented into smaller squares of different colors. "What about this one?"
The shopkeeper peered over. "Oh, that. It is an inventory tool, technically. But no one can open it. It's useless."
Azazel turned the cube in his hands. It's a Rubik's Cube. You have to solve the puzzle. That's the price.
"How much?"
"Five silver coins."
She just wants to get rid of it. That's why it's so cheap. It's a gamble. If it's junk, I can come back for a ring. "Okay. I'll take it."
Reginleif, meanwhile, purchased a silver bracelet with her own funds. As they left the shop, Azazel noticed her purse was decidedly flat.
After walking a short way, Reginleif broke the silence. "Azazel… you're going to buy lunch for me, right?"
"Why are you asking? Of course I am."
"Oh, nothing. Just checking," she said quickly, looking away.
I can't tell him I spent almost all my money on this bracelet,she thought. He'd criticize me for not saving, for being irresponsible. I should lay low about my money problems for now.
Azazel caught her shift in demeanor. I sense a money shortage. We'll need to take on quests, grind for cash. I was planning to hit a
The dungeon, but first I need to figure out this cube and buy travel supplies—potions, a lantern, oil, a cooking pot, rations. Maybe I should ask the guild for a guidebook, too. I've got my own knowledge, but more intel never hurts. Anyway, first things first: lunch.
"Forward to lunch," he declared.
And so, Azazel and Reginleif enjoyed a hearty meal of spaghetti.
End of Chapter