— Zomeia looked exhausted. The satellite city she'd been sent to was significantly larger than Strugar, with a much higher number of adventurers. The fact that it had taken two days just to get there only added to the overwhelming workload.
— What the hell did they do to my nieces over there? — grumbled Malaca, tossing the papers onto the table in frustration.
— Relax, Auntie. I just need a bath and my sister's cooking... I'll be at 100% — replied Zomeia with a tired smile, trying to lighten the mood.
Malaca's guild, for all intents and purposes, had always had a deeply familial atmosphere. The main areas—the bar, the administration, and the control center—were run almost exclusively by those three women from the same family.
— Don't worry, Zomeia. I'll let everyone know we won't be back in operation until tomorrow. Those bastards can wait or go get evaluated somewhere else.
— That's not necessary, Aunt— — Zomeia tried to interrupt.
— Nope, not another word about it! Sorry, boys — Malaca added, turning toward us.
— No problem, Lady Malaca. I don't mind waiting — I answered sincerely. There was no rush to check my status at that moment. Seeing Zomeia like that, with sunken eyes and heavy dark circles, made it easy to set my curiosity aside. There would always be tomorrow.
Zion, on the other hand, seemed less understanding—or just committed to playing his usual role as the complainer.
— Aw, M, come on, help me out here...
— Not gonna happen today, Zion. And I'm sorry for that — Malaca said, already anticipating where the conversation was heading. — But, as proof of my family's worth... dinner's on me.
— Free drinks too?!
— You little... Fine, free drinks too. But just for today, got it?
After that, the mood finally lightened. The evening carried on with stories about the city of Minus and its powerful namesake guild. Malaca wanted to know how Zomeia had been treated, showing genuine concern for her well-being.
On the other hand, I was more curious about life and customs in that city. Strugar was small, quiet, and lacking much appeal—a place where adventurers went to retire, not to shine. Minus sounded like a real city—vibrant, full of people, conflict, tension, and possibility.
— They're going to be the first city in the region to have a School of Virtues — Zomeia commented, between sips of beer.
School of Virtues. It took me a while to understand how it worked, but basically, it was a place where you could refine your specialty and learn from veteran adventurers how to survive and thrive in dungeons. Unlike the Empire's institutions, these schools accepted people of all ages and had more affordable prices—though still far out of reach for the average commoner. For a bourgeois, however, they were a viable option.
There had always been many ways to learn how to make a living inside a dungeon, but the main one had always been risking your own life. Over time, however, it became clear that the nobility had a significantly higher life expectancy than any other class. The answer was simple: preparation and knowledge. And it was in that gap that the Schools of Virtues flourished. Of course, they were still marginalized compared to the Empire's great institutions, both in prestige and in teaching quality. But by opening their doors to more than just priests and nobles, they created a new market. Thus, these colleges were born, slowly spreading across the Empire—and now, they were just a few days away on horseback.
— Seriously? Do they have enough population for that? I thought they only opened those in much bigger cities — I asked.
— From what I gathered, a lot of cities like ours are interested in sponsoring promising rookies — Zomeia replied, taking a seat at the table. — So, I guess it makes sense.
Malaca leaned against the edge of the table, her gaze lost in some train of thought.
— But... did you bring what I asked?
— Of course, Fly — said Zomeia, turning to me with a tired smile. — Honestly, that was way easier than my aunt's request.
— Hm? What do you mean? I didn't ask for much either. — Malaca crossed her arms.
— Aunt, you asked for nine weapons and two shields.
— That's not a lot... — the giant woman replied, as if it were obvious.
— For a giantess like you, maybe not. But I'm a delicate flower. Do you have any idea how hard it is to go around buying heavy armaments? I had to pay for an extra cart just to bring everything!
— After several heated minutes of what sounded more like a squabble between stubborn sisters, the two finally decided to drop the barbs.
— Where's my sister? Is she still in the kitchen? — asked Zomeia, brushing her red hair behind her ear.
I noticed Malaca shoot a quick glance in my direction before answering. That made me feel a little uneasy.
— She's... She's cooking for that troglodyte. Honestly, I think Leonan sent his son here just to bankrupt me.
— I see... Well, I'll go check on her. Oh, Fly… if you want the books, they're in the cart, under all that junk Aunt made me bring.
— Hey! That equipment is essential for our survival! — grumbled Malaca from the side.
— Whatever you say, Aunt — Zomeia replied with a teasing tone.
— Anyway... — she turned to me — go ahead and grab them, Fly.
— Thanks — I said with a nod.
I had so much to do and so little time… But one thing was certain: I couldn't keep pretending everything was fine with Bromeia. That silent tension, the half-exchanged glances, the short "hey"s and barely spoken "bye"s… Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll deal with that.
For now, I had the books. The ones I'd asked Zomeia to bring. Most of them focused on my class, and a few explored the structure and nature of dungeons. I'd always found it strange how no one ever really questioned what dungeons were. They just existed—like the sky, the earth… or madness itself. It was as if everyone had simply accepted that they were born at war with these places, never asking why.
— Well… I doubt I'm sleeping much tonight anyway.
I sat at the desk, trying to ignore the thunderous snoring coming from the room next door. Demetria snored like she was wrestling dragons in her sleep. And Lunara? I honestly couldn't understand how a hare—with those huge ears—could sleep through that racket. Magic, maybe.
— Alright, let's see if I can find something useful.
I grabbed the first book from the pile. The worn-out cover, crooked spine, and musty smell should've warned me.
"THE MOST USELESS CLASSES AND THEIR 'ADVANTAGES'"
Seriously. That was the title. The content? Even worse. It read like a self-help guide written by someone who hated their own existence. Phrases like "See the bright side!" or "At least you weren't born without both arms!" made me slam it shut on impulse. I tossed it to the floor in disgust, hoping it would just rot away.
The second book, however, seemed promising. Written by a real Bard. Finally.
Right at the start, it got to the point:
"Bards are, essentially, mid-tier buffers. We don't have the stacking potential of Warlocks, nor the miraculous versatility of Priests. But we make up for it with one unique advantage: duration and area. Our strength lies in wide, sustained, and persistent support—like a soundtrack that never stops. Used well, it can change the course of battle."
It was simple. Direct. No sugarcoating. The author wasn't trying to glamorize the role: Bards weren't central, but they had their place. When understood, they could be the invisible gear keeping everything together. Ignored… well, they became tavern jokes.
I kept reading, now more focused. The analysis was honest—even generous. But he didn't shy away from the weak points:
"One of the most frustrating limitations is that, unlike Priests, Bards don't have selective control over who receives their buffs. This requires tactical care, especially when allies and enemies share the same battlefield."
I frowned. That part didn't match my experience. Since the incident with Varnak, I'd realized I could choose who to buff. In fact, it was one of the things that Malaca found most unusual when we talked. In their world, that was… impossible.
I closed the book slowly.
Either I was special… or something was seriously wrong with what they knew about my class.
And that doubt, more than Demetria's snoring or the tension with Bromeia, was what would keep me up tonight.
Still wide awake, I decided to take advantage of the quiet night and dive into the book Malaca had managed to get for me. Curiously, it wasn't one of the titles I'd asked for—but deep down, I knew it was the most important one. Relying only on hearsay, especially when it came to something as obscure as the Adepts, was asking to die blind.
— Alright… let's see what you bastards have to say.
— The book already looked like a cursed relic. The cover, made of old, wrinkled leather, was peeling at the edges like burnt skin. The pages were yellowed, their corners eaten away by moths. It was the kind of tome you didn't open at night—unless you were ready to carry the weight of what you'd read until dawn.
— Makes sense... If those bastards haven't shown up in so long, no one's taken care of this the way they should've.
Malaca, cautious as she was, still treated the Adepts like shadows of the past. And she wasn't alone. My protectors seemed to think the same—as if the mere idea of their return was just paranoid fantasy. But if what we faced in that dungeon was real... then someone was making a grave mistake.
The book had no listed author. It was a chaotic compilation of old accounts, fragments torn from other tomes, and handwritten testimonies, as if someone had rushed to gather everything before the pages themselves could vanish.
The very first sentence hit me like a poisoned arrow:
"A god fell. But he was no more powerful than a man… only more beautiful. And a better liar. Where he cast his eyes, he seduced. Where he touched, he corrupted. And where he walked, the world forgot the light."
This wasn't a story glorifying faith—it was a warning. A grim compendium of ruin.
The so-called "god" had no name. The book refused to record it, as if merely mentioning him would open a breach for his return. But his legacy was clear: he conquered with words, with touch, with the promise of something greater. One by one, entire peoples bowed before him. And the more followers he gained, the more the Adepts—as they came to be known—became a threat to balance itself.
Then came the war.
A war so ancient, not even the bloodline of the current emperor had existed at the time. A war that wiped out 40% of the empire's population, like a torch tossed into a field of gunpowder. The book held nothing back: entire cities erased from the map, dungeons cracked open by chaos, families shattered, heroes dead... or corrupted.
And then, silence.
The records of victory were vague, almost shy. The victor was unnamed. No glory was celebrated. Instead, everything was buried—as if the best way to win was to erase even the memory of the war.
But the rumors never stopped. From time to time, in far-off regions, stories emerged: entire villages disappearing; ancient symbols burned into stone; children being sacrificed. Always swept under the rug. Always dismissed as superstition or mass hysteria.
Even now, after what we'd faced, it was hard to find solid proof. Varnak hadn't left anything behind. No amulet, no relic of the Adepts. Even the items looted from the White Knight had vanished as if they'd never existed.
— It's almost like… it never happened.
The book, titled simply Adepts, spoke more of their fall than of their existence. A cult devoted to the void. A fanatical order with powers that defied logic and known magical structure. But one thing was clear:
They were real. And they were dangerous.
When the first rays of sunlight touched the window of my room, I realized I hadn't slept a single second. The book was still open on the desk, with my notes scribbled in the margins.
— I guess I'll finish it later… but at least now I understand those bastards a little better.
I stretched my sore shoulders and closed the tome carefully. The dry thump of the cover echoed through the empty room. It was time to act.
To train. To grow. To prepare.
They would return.
And next time...
They wouldn't catch us off guard.