After reviewing their week's progress, Lucas and Jeanne spent the afternoon packing gear and checking supplies.
All that brutal training had paid off. His Stats were higher, his technique sharper, and his instincts cleaner. Jeanne's methodical drilling—part military precision, part sadistic boot camp—had built him a foundation stronger than anything he'd managed alone. With new gear, refined Magic, and a powerhouse frontliner like Jeanne watching his back, Lucas finally felt ready to push deeper into the Dungeon.
Tomorrow's goal: Floor 10.
"Once we hit the tenth floor," he said, checking off items from his list, "we'll need at least a few hours round trip. Longer if the spawn rate spikes or we run into a cluster. So—food, water, whetstones, maintenance oil, all that's mandatory."
Back in the upper floors, those things had been optional. But deeper in, monster strength ramped up fast, and so did weapon wear and tear. Neglecting upkeep could mean your blade shattering mid-battle.
He gestured at the pile of supplies spread across the floor. "Take care of your weapons, and they'll take care of you. That's money saved—especially once gear upgrades start costing a fortune."
"Ropes, canteens, lanterns, maps—keep them all together in the general pack."
"For potions, double-check everything. Antidotes, Potions, Magic Potions—line them up. These save your life down there. High-grade bandages go in the belt pouch where you can grab them with one hand."
The living room looked like a small armory by the time they were done.
As the "veteran adventurer," Lucas walked Jeanne through each step, pointing out the small but vital survival habits newbies usually learned the hard way.
She crouched nearby, knees hugged to her chest, listening intently. Every now and then she nodded, eyes bright.
Jeanne understood—battle was only half of what made an adventurer. The rest was experience, awareness, and preparation. Especially in the Dungeon, a place that shifted and evolved like a living thing.
Survival depended not just on strength, but on knowing when not to fight.
Veterans didn't pick battles—they avoided them until there was no other choice.
By the time everything was sorted, the sun was dipping low. After a quick dinner and a hot bath, both of them turned in early.
--
The next morning, 4:00 a.m.
The city of Orario still slept under the fading stars, the silence broken only by a few early bird calls.
After washing up, they sat at the table over breakfast.
"Check your weapons, armor, and pack one last time before we leave," Lucas reminded her. "Preparation isn't optional—it's the law of survival."
"Got it," Jeanne said firmly.
They finished their meal, suited up, and met again in the living room.
Jeanne wore her deep-blue cleric-style combat uniform, the same one layered under silver-engraved armor. Black thigh-highs completed the ensemble. When she stood at attention, polished and poised, she looked every inch the Holy Maiden.
Lucas gave an approving whistle. "Now that's the look of a hero."
Her face flushed instantly. "Quit staring."
"Can't. Don't wanna. Love it."
"Pervert!"
--
By the time dawn touched the rooftops, they were already on the move.
Jeanne carried light—just her weapons, a few pouches, and her cloak. As the frontliner, mobility mattered more than inventory.
Lucas, as rear support, bore the heavier load: supply packs, provisions, and extra gear. A black hooded cloak covered his light armor and leather gear; his belt was lined with pouches. A large backpack hung from his shoulders, with his Scholar's Staff carefully wrapped in cloth and strapped alongside a small round shield. A quiver and shortbow rested at his back, and a dagger and dismantling knife hung from his belt.
Fully geared up, he looked suspiciously like a hero from another franchise.
But with his current stats, the load didn't slow him down. And with Jeanne handling most of the melee, he'd be free to focus on ranged support and casting.
"Let's go," he said.
Jeanne nodded. "Right."
They locked up, cutting through the quiet residential lanes lined with trees until they reached Adventurer's Avenue.
At the far end of the road loomed a massive stone structure—the Guild Headquarters.
"First stop," Lucas said. "We need to get your registration done before your first Dungeon dive."
--
The streets were still mostly empty at this hour. The usual chaos of merchants, adventurers, and hawkers hadn't yet begun.
As they walked, Jeanne observed the few early risers they passed: some moving with urgent purpose, others slouching along half-awake. All of them carried weapons of some sort, and each looked carved from a different mold entirely.
"Such a mixed crowd," she murmured. "The strong and the reckless… all thrown together."
Ten minutes later, they stood before the towering double doors of the Guild Headquarters.
Lucas glanced at the bulletin board beside the entrance, scanning for new commissions or updates. Nothing urgent. He nodded toward the hall. "Alright, let's get this done."
Inside, the marble-floored lobby was quiet, the air cool and still. Only a handful of adventurers were around—too early for the usual morning rush.
Lucas kept his voice low as he explained the Guild's systems and etiquette to Jeanne, guiding her toward the reception counters.
Then—
A flash of red hair caught his eye.
"Oh, crap—Rose?"
Behind the counter, a redheaded werewolf woman with a figure that could make armor salesmen rich was half-slumped over her desk. The bags under her eyes said "long night shift." She looked around Lucas's age, her sharp beauty softened by fatigue and a certain intellectual allure.
Hearing her name, she cracked one eye open—and froze when she saw him.
"Oh, for the love of—" She sighed, stretching lazily before smirking. "Of course. It's you, you damn nuisance."
She glanced at the clock. "The sun's not even up yet—it's barely six. Since when are you an early bird?"
"..." Lucas's stomach dropped. This was bad.
'Damn nuisance?' Jeanne's gaze sharpened immediately, spear hand tightening.
"Uh, Rose! Night shift must've been rough, huh? You look… tired!" He forced a laugh, desperate to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Rose straightened her hair with a slow, deliberate motion, folding her arms. "Oh, I'm very tired," she said coolly. "Especially after getting woken up—by a certain irresponsible jerk."
Lucas broke into a cold sweat. Jeanne was staring at him with a very particular kind of "explain yourself" expression.
"Hey, hey, hey—let's not throw around accusations! That was one time! And it was an accident! You were plastered, remember? I was the victim that night!"
Rose's ears twitched. "Oh, you did not just say that." Her voice rose an octave, full mama-wolf mode activated.
Heads turned. Curious whispers spread across the hall like wildfire.
"Rose, please—keep it down!" Lucas hissed, mortified. "Can we not do this in public?"
"Oh? The mighty Lucas cares about his reputation now?"
"I—wait, that's not—"
"Let go of me, you bastard!"
"Stop shouting!"
"Scumbag!"
"!"
By now, the Guild lobby had become a full-blown soap opera. The few early-bird adventurers looked absolutely thrilled.
Drama at dawn? Free entertainment.
Unfortunately for them, Lucas somehow managed to de-escalate the chaos after a few frantic minutes.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, exhaling hard. "Okay… crisis averted."
Jeanne was still watching him, one eyebrow raised.
He gave her a helpless grin. "What can I say? Every man's got a past."
And with that, the newly christened "scumbag Lucas" trudged toward the registration desk—under the unblinking, judgmental stare of one very unimpressed Holy Maiden.