Night had fallen over Dawnstead, cloaking the town in a veil of deep indigo and silver. The moon hung high in the sky, a silent guardian casting its cold light over the fortified walls that protected the town. Lanterns flickered in the wind, their flames swaying uneasily, as if sensing the tension that gripped the air. A biting chill rolled through the empty streets, rattling wooden shutters and sending dry leaves skittering across cobblestone pathways. The town was silent—eerily so.
At the gates of Dawnstead, guildmaster Garrick stood, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his expression carved from stone. His broad frame was illuminated by the torchlight burning in the sconces behind him, casting long shadows that danced across the sturdy iron-reinforced gates. His stance was unwavering, an immovable force standing against the unknown.
It had been half a day since the mobilization. Twelve hours of waiting, watching, listening. And yet, the horizon remained undisturbed. No plumes of smoke. No monstrous howls carried by the wind. No thunderous footsteps signaling an approaching horde. To the ordinary citizens behind these walls, life carried on without change. But Garrick knew better.
The silence was a lie.
His gut told him that the real battle was still ahead. Somewhere beyond these walls, beyond the torch-lit roads that stretched into the wilderness, warriors fought to keep the encroaching darkness at bay. The fact that Dawnstead remained untouched only proved that they were holding the line—for now. But how long would that last?
He let out a slow breath, mist curling from his lips in the cold air. The waiting was the worst part. He was no stranger to war, to the chaos of battle, to the screams and steel and fire. But this? This silent uncertainty gnawed at him. It was like standing at the edge of a storm, watching the black clouds gather, knowing that when the first drop falls, it will come as a deluge.
Still, he would not move. He would not waver. The people needed to see him here, steadfast and unshaken. Fear was an infection—one that spread rapidly if left unchecked. But courage, too, was contagious. If he remained strong, others would as well.
Behind him, the sound of shifting wood and clinking metal filled the quiet night. A group of F-Rank adventurers—fresh-faced, inexperienced, but determined—gathered near the supply carts. Their gear was minimal—simple leather armor, basic swords, wooden shields—but their hands were steady as they secured their cargo. Barrels of fresh water were hoisted onto carts, bundles of rations tied with thick rope, stacks of bandages and vials of healing potions arranged carefully beside them. Their expressions were a mixture of determination and unease.
A young adventurer, barely more than a boy, adjusted the straps of his backpack. His eyes flicked toward the distant road that led to the dungeon. "Do you think they'll be alright? The ones fighting out there?"
"They have to be," another murmured, gripping the edge of the cart tighter. "If they fall… then we'll be the ones standing between the town and whatever comes next."
A knight overseeing the operation stepped forward, clad in armor that gleamed faintly under the moonlight. His voice was calm, steady. "Move out. Stay close together and watch the road. Make sure these supplies reach the frontlines safely."
A hush fell over the group as they exchanged nods, steeling themselves for the journey. Then, with a collective breath, they pushed forward. The carts groaned under the weight of their cargo, wheels creaking as they rolled over the dirt path. The flickering glow of their torches bobbed in the darkness, shrinking as they disappeared beyond the gates, swallowed by the unknown.
Garrick watched them go, silent. His hand clenched into a fist at his side. The night was still peaceful. But it was a fragile peace—one that could shatter at any moment.
Night had stretched on, and the landscape around the dungeon was blanketed in darkness. The cold air carried an unsettling stillness, the kind that made every breath feel like an intrusion. At the entrance to the dungeon, the silence was oppressive, as though the world itself held its breath. The battlefield, once alive with chaos, was now eerily quiet.
The ground, which had been churned by the violent clash of monsters and magic, was now littered with the bodies of the fallen. Goblins, kobolds, and armored bears lay in grotesque positions, their twisted forms a grim testament to the carnage that had unfolded. Blood pooled in the cracks of the stone, staining it a deep, dark crimson. A few flies buzzed lazily above the corpses, but the air was too cold for their comfort.
Belle stood at the front, her silver hair shimmering faintly in the torchlight, her figure silhouetted against the yawning mouth of the dungeon. She was still as a statue, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon, ever watchful, ever alert. The three knights stationed with her were equally tense, their gazes flicking from the bodies around them to the looming darkness ahead. No one spoke, for what was there to say? The battle was over, but the quiet felt wrong. It was too still, like the calm before a storm.
Belle's gaze was fixed on the dungeon's entrance, as if she could pierce the darkness beyond. Her senses were honed, her awareness stretching out into the night. The winds whispered faintly through the trees, and the rustling of leaves was the only sound to disturb the silence. Her mind was sharp, alert, searching for any sign of movement, any subtle shift in the air that would indicate the next wave. But there was nothing. Just an oppressive quiet that settled over everything.
One of the knights, unable to stand the silence any longer, shifted his weight uneasily. His armor creaked as he glanced nervously at Belle. "Do you think it's over?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that seemed too loud in the stillness.
Belle didn't answer immediately. She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin slightly, as though testing the air. Her senses were stretched taut, her skin prickling with the awareness of something just beyond her reach. The feeling was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a presence that lurked beyond the dungeon's entrance, waiting.
"No," she finally replied, her voice a quiet murmur. "It's not over. It's just waiting."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with a sense of foreboding. She could feel it now, the pressure building just beyond the threshold. There was something stirring inside the dungeon, something more dangerous than what had already emerged. She knew it in her bones, in the pit of her stomach. The monsters were not gone—they were gathering, waiting for the right moment to strike again.
Then, just as the tension seemed to reach its peak, a flicker of light caught Belle's attention.
At first, it was barely noticeable—a glimmer far on the horizon. Then another, and another. Slowly, the flickers grew into a procession of lights, advancing through the darkened wilderness. The glow of torches, like flames dancing in the night, illuminated the figures moving forward. Belle's sharp eyes picked them out—knights, adventurers, all marching with purpose. And at the head of the column, Roderic strode, his armor gleaming in the torchlight, a figure of unwavering determination.
The Dungeon Suppression Squad had arrived.
As they neared, their march slowed, the rhythmic clanking of their armor becoming softer, more deliberate. The light from their torches stretched long across the battlefield, casting ominous shadows over the dead bodies scattered across the stone. The knights and adventurers, each one grim-faced and steely-eyed, stopped in their tracks as they took in the sight before them.
The bodies of the slain monsters, a once fearsome army, now lay motionless and broken.
Gasps of disbelief echoed from the ranks as they surveyed the scene. The scale of the carnage was staggering. Hundreds of monsters, killed with brutal precision. Some had been torn apart, others crushed with a force that seemed impossible. The brutal efficiency of the destruction left no room for doubt—it had been the work of one person.
"By the gods…" one of the knights muttered, his voice tinged with awe and disbelief.
"This… this was all her?" another adventurer asked, his tone barely a whisper.
Roderic, leading his squad, was silent for a long moment as his gaze swept over the battlefield. His eyes narrowed as he took in the gruesome scene—goblins with their skulls caved in, kobolds with their bodies split wide open, and armored bears that looked as if they had been struck by something far beyond human strength. His gaze shifted, falling on the solitary figure standing at the front of it all.
Belle.
She stood unmoved, her posture unshaken. The torchlight flickered across her silver hair, and her eyes, like cold steel, never wavered from the dark mouth of the dungeon.
Roderic exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the cold night air. His mind raced as he approached, his footsteps measured but quick. As he drew closer, he could see her—unharmed, untouched by the battle that had left such devastation in its wake. She had stood alone, fought alone, and yet, there was no sign of weariness, no signs of struggle. She was a force unto herself.
"You held this place alone?" Roderic asked, his voice steady but tinged with a note of astonishment. The words seemed to hang in the air, almost disbelieving.
Belle's gaze didn't shift from the dungeon. "The second wave is over," she said softly, her voice calm, almost detached. "But it's not finished."
Her words sent a chill through the group. Roderic's eyes flicked toward the dungeon entrance, his senses sharpening. The air felt heavier now, charged with an unseen presence. The silence that had once been oppressive now seemed to mock them, as if daring them to make a move.
He turned back to his squad, his expression hardening. "Secure the perimeter. Reinforce our position. This isn't over yet."
The men snapped into action, moving quickly to set up defensive measures and fortify their position around the dungeon. Torches were placed strategically, casting long shadows across the battlefield as the squad worked in silence, preparing for whatever came next.
Belle remained where she stood, her body taut with anticipation. She clenched her fists, feeling the familiar hum of energy coursing through her veins.
A familiar voice broke through the heavy air, laced with teasing confidence. "I see you put up a great show to welcome us."
Belle's lips curved into a sly smile as she turned to face the source of the interruption. She couldn't help but feel a little lighter, the tension easing, even if only for a moment. Kai strode into view, rolling his shoulders after the long march, his eyes scanning the battlefield with mild amusement.
"Well, look who finally made it," Belle said, her silver eyes gleaming mischievously. "How was the walk? Did you enjoy the scenery?"
Kai exhaled sharply, casting her a deadpan look. "If by 'scenery' you mean trudging through uneven terrain with a bunch of knights breathing down my neck, then yeah, it was absolutely delightful."
Belle chuckled, stepping closer to him. "You know, if you'd let me piggyback you, we could've made it here faster."
Kai shot her an incredulous look. "Absolutely not. I'd rather fight an entire army of ogres than be carried like some kid."
Belle smirked. "Aww, are you saying you would have preferred the princess-style?"
"I'm not sure if I regret coming here or if I should have just joined the Perimeter Defense Squad," Kai muttered, his eye twitching as he rubbed the back of his neck.
Belle laughed in amusement, the sound light and carefree, a brief moment of levity amid the grim surroundings.
Some of the knights overheard their banter and couldn't help but chuckle quietly, the sound easing some of the weight that had settled over them. Even Roderic allowed himself the briefest of smirks before his usual stern composure returned.
But it didn't last long.
"Enough chatter," Roderic said, his voice cold and authoritative, cutting through the tense air. He shifted his gaze to the three knights who had fought alongside Belle, each of them bearing visible signs of exhaustion and wariness from the recent battle. "Report. What did you witness?"
The knights exchanged brief, unspoken glances before one of them stepped forward. His boots crunched against the uneven earth as he cleared his throat, his hand nervously adjusting the hilt of his sword. "Sir, the second wave was relentless. Goblins, kobolds, armored bears, and an ogre. Their numbers were overwhelming at first, but Lady Belle—" He hesitated, his voice faltering under the weight of what he had witnessed.
"Just Belle is fine," Belle interjected smoothly, her voice casual but with an undeniable authority that brooked no argument. She didn't turn her head, but the knight caught the glimmer of silver in her eyes as she spoke.
The knight paused, his eyes briefly darting to Belle before nodding with a touch of uncertainty. "Belle held the line alone. We watched, unable to intervene. She moved through them like a storm—her strikes were swift, precise. Her physical prowess was… extraordinary. She didn't rely on magic at first, using only her bare hands to carve through the enemy. It wasn't until we were wounded and the monsters began closing in on us that she unleashed her fire magic." The knight's voice faltered slightly, recalling the sheer devastation that followed. "The monsters—"
"Incinerated," another knight added in a near-whisper. "It was like watching a wildfire sweep through a field. The flames didn't just scorch the monsters. They consumed them entirely."
Roderic's gaze narrowed as he turned his full attention to Belle, processing the information in silence. The moonlight illuminated the faint shimmer of her silver hair, her posture unshaken even as the weight of the knights' words hung in the air. "You did this… alone?"
Belle shrugged, her expression unreadable. "It wasn't much. They were slow and disorganized." She shifted slightly, running a hand through her hair as though it were the most casual thing in the world. "The magic came later, once I saw the wounded knights were in danger."
Roderic absorbed the report carefully. His eyes flicked from Belle to the dungeon's ominous entrance, the shadows stretching out like the jaws of some great beast waiting to devour them. His brow furrowed as the weight of the situation settled deeper. "You mentioned earlier that no miasma-corrupted monsters have emerged yet?"
Belle nodded slowly, her silver eyes reflecting the faint light of the torches. "Not yet. But when they do, the battlefield will change. It won't be just about brute force anymore. The miasma will twist the monsters, making them stronger, harder to predict. The situation will become far deadlier." Her voice held a note of finality, the quiet warning carrying more weight than any of the knights had anticipated.
Roderic exhaled sharply, rubbing his jaw as he processed her words. His gaze flickered over the dungeon's entrance once more, as though trying to decipher what lay beyond. He knew the danger of miasma-corrupted creatures—their unpredictability, their overwhelming strength. They were a far greater threat than any normal monster. Yet, the squad had no choice but to proceed.
End of Chapter 53