"I… I must be hallucinating. How… how could Fron be here?"
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The sudden appearance of the blond youth didn't just leave the tense Raul, Anakitty, and the others bewildered and confused, it was as if a heavy blow had struck Valletta, who had been so sure of her victory. She was completely stunned.
That manic, cruel, almost ecstatic grin froze on her face. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, stared blankly at the golden-haired figure walking out from the ruins. Her mind had stopped functioning altogether.
In her head, questions repeated endlessly: Why is he here? Why? Why? Wasn't he supposed to be trapped on the sixth floor? How did he get all the way down to the third? What kind of joke is this? The mechanisms of this man-made dungeon are under our full control, could someone have betrayed us? Or… is there a spy?
"Pssh, " The staff cut through the air like a violet bolt of lightning, cleaving through the monsters in its path and clearing the space between the two sides. From behind the dissipating monster emerged a figure all too familiar to Raul, Anakitty, and the others, Fron.
"F–F–Fron!"
Anakitty, who had been forcing herself to stay calm, finally broke down. Tears streamed down her face as she wailed aloud, clutching at the fallen body beside her.
"Uuuh… C-Captain, he… he's not going to make it! I, I'm so scared…"
Fron looked around at the exhausted but excited group, then gently patted Anakitty's trembling back.
"I know. Leave the rest to me. First…" His tone was calm, almost casual. "Let's deal with the culprit."
The words came out as if it were the most natural thing in the world, like eliminating that deranged Evilus officer was no more difficult than drinking a glass of water.
"Huh? What did you just say? Deal with me? Hah, hahaha! Even that 'Braver' wouldn't dare talk to me like that!"
By the time Valletta fully came to her senses, she had clearly heard every word Fron said. Her eyes widened, disbelief plastered across her face, before she burst out laughing.
"Gah?"
"…" Without warning, the Fron standing before Anakitty faded like smoke, his image dispersing silently before their eyes.
"Psh, " An arm spun through the air, trailing blood that splattered everywhere. Only then did everyone realize…
At some point, Fron was already standing right in front of Valletta.
"T-that's… my arm?"
Beneath her hair, her eyes were blank and confused as she looked up at the man before her, who raised his staff-spear and stared down coldly. The next instant,
"I'll kill you, you bastard!!!"
"With your Lv. 5 power level?"
Fron's lips curved into a cold smile, golden eyes void of warmth as he gazed at the frenzied, helpless Valletta.
He flicked his staff lightly, scattering the blood from its tip, then stepped forward again.
His movement was like a ghost's, violating the laws of motion as he suddenly slid across the ground, closing the distance in an instant.
The violet-gleaming staff arced toward her neck mercilessly. This time, Fron didn't hold back. This was a strike meant to kill.
"Die."
"Heh"
Faced with Fron's ghostlike speed, his attack too fast for the naked eye to follow, Valletta only smiled.
The blow that should have been unavoidable missed. With just a light tap of her foot, she withdrew a step and easily evaded what should have been a fatal strike.
"Huh?" Fron's eyes narrowed as he saw her retreat, and noticed the massive metal gate behind her beginning to rumble.
Sensing a disturbance in his own physical stats, his golden pupils lit with twin rings of deep blue, and in an instant, he understood what had happened.
He watched the flood of figures pouring out from behind the twin gates and smiled meaningfully.
"W-what's happening?"
Raul stared, dumbfounded, unable to process the clash between Fron and Valletta, his mind lagging behind his eyes.
Anakitty, however, narrowed her gaze thoughtfully, scanning the surroundings.
"So that's it. I underestimated you. Of course, as one of the last surviving officers of the Evilus, it'd be strange if you went down so easily. But I didn't expect you'd actually risk yourself as bait… quite the dedication."
By now, Fron had already realized he'd walked right into her trap.
"What? Don't tell me…" Even Raul and Cruz finally caught on, however slow they might have been.
The hundreds of figures in black hooded cloaks surrounding them made it all too clear.
"Hahahahaha! You think this is just anywhere? This is the great man-made dungeon, Knossos! To wipe out you Loki Familia pests, to tear your precious 'Braver' to pieces, do you know how many tricks I've prepared?! Heeheehee, heeheeheeheehee! The time has come, the net closes now!"
Valletta, clutching her severed arm, laughed hysterically. Unlike her earlier pretense, this joy was genuine, pure and mad.
"Go! Kill the Night Weaver! Once he's dead, the rest are nothing! Do it!!!"
"…"
Without a sound, the cloaked figures drew twisted daggers and short swords that reeked of dark energy, rushing at Fron and the others.
Fron frowned slightly, having been through this once before, and barked sharply, "Be careful! Their fighting style isn't like adventurers, it's more like assassins or mercenaries from outside the city! Don't go head-on; they're all desperados!"
"And watch their weapons, those are cursed tools! The curse is the Unhealing Curse! One cut, and even divine potions won't save you!"
"...!" Anakitty, Raul, and Cruz all blanched, dread flashing in their eyes as they looked at the approaching foes.
"A Curse… I see! So that's why the captain's wounds wouldn't heal, even with an Elixir!"
A flash of realization crossed Anakitty's mind. Then she glanced at Fron's back as he stepped forward to meet the enemy and smiled faintly.
Others might not know, but how could those closest to Fron not?
In all of Orario, only two people could dispel curses. Aside from the 'Dea Saint' Amid, the other… was standing right before them.
"Clang, clang, clang, " Fron's expression remained unchanged as he fought, his eyes cold and focused.
No, it could hardly be called a fight. It was a massacre.
Amid the chaos, Fron weaved through the enemy ranks like a dancer, his staff flashing in tight, precise arcs. Each swing claimed a life.
He moved like a blood-red butterfly, spinning gracefully through the battlefield.