As I wipe the rockbeetle’s internal fluids off Light, my brow furrows. Should we even continue? The unspoken question lingers, thick in the air, settling over all of us.

  Today has been different.

  We’ve been diving for a week straight, pushing forward day after day, but something about this floor—the thirteenth—is... wrong. It’s overflowing. A never-ending stream of monsters, a relentless tide. The echoes of the last ‘Monster Stampede’ still linger in everyone's mind. No one wants to live through that again.

  Olev finally breaks the silence. "We should return."

  There’s no debate, no argument. Just a single round of exchanged glances, a few solemn nods. That’s all it takes.

  "The elevator’s just three floors up," Joe adds.

  We turn back, retracing our steps. The few monsters that have respawned in our wake are little more than an inconvenience, easily cut down. But it isn’t the monsters that weigh on us—it’s the people.

  As we ascend, more and more teams appear, all moving in the same direction.

  All in silence.

  They must have come to the same conclusion we did.

  Caution, not fear. But still, it creates an eerie, heavy atmosphere.

  The flickering glow of [Lumen] spells hovers above each group, sending jagged, shifting shadows crawling across the tunnel walls. Every so often, I catch glimpses of steel glinting in the dim light, reflecting off wary, darting eyes—people scanning every corner, every possible hiding place.

  The scene is almost... artistic.

  I blink, shaking my head. What the fuck am I even thinking about? Where the hell did that come from?

  Lately, these thoughts have been creeping in more and more. Moments where my mind drifts to abstract ideas, where I start viewing things like I’m outside of myself, detached. Analyzing instead of experiencing.

  Maybe it’s exhaustion.

  No. Not maybe. Definitely.

  We need rest. This endless cycle of diving, these tunnels, the suffocating darkness—it can’t be good for us.

  And yet...

  Somewhere deep inside me, a small part resists.

  A part of me doesn’t want to stop.

  A part of me wants to keep going.

  Deeper. Further.

  I know it’s just a number, but something about it—about descending deeper than the day before—is intoxicating.

  It feels like proof.

  A tangible marker of progress. A silent badge of honor that says, You’ve reached the next milestone. You’re stronger than you were yesterday.

  I know it won’t last forever. At some point, we’ll hit a wall—an enemy too strong, a floor too dangerous, a challenge we can’t brute-force our way through.

  But for now, I let myself savor the feeling.

  I sigh, pressing my fingers against my temple as another sharp pulse of pain shoots through my skull.

  And when the fuck is this migraine going to stop?

  It’s been more than a week!

  ...

  Again, the same damn tavern. The same damn table.

  I turn my head to the right, my gaze landing on the empty table where that drunk noble had once sat. Maybe we should try other places. The city’s full of taverns—why do we keep coming back to this one?

  Before I can dwell on it, a plate of fried meat and vegetables, drenched in thick sauce, is set in front of me. I look up to see the familiar waitress. She gives me a small smile, and I return the gesture. A moment later, all thoughts fade as I take the first bite, the flavors melting on my tongue.

  ...Okay. Maybe it’s not totally without reason that we keep coming here.

  Somehow, there’s a gap in my memory between picking up my fork and staring at an empty plate. Not that it bothers me. I lean back in my chair, eyes closing in contentment. The rational part of my brain takes its time coming back, but when it does, I glance at my team. They’re in a similar state—silent, relaxed, listening to the bard's singing. I don’t even parse the words. Just the melody.

  But all good things come to an end.

  The moment my mind realizes it’s rested, it starts shoving thoughts, ideas, and problems right back at me.

  Fine.

  You win.

  I decide to go through things constructively.

  I finished the evaluation. I’ll get my badge soon. Probably. The Smith Guild has already shown how fast they work—or rather, how fast they don’t. Maybe Joe's right. Maybe I need at least a temporary permit, just in case.

  I glance at the pocket enthusiast still shoveling food into his mouth. Just how deep is that guy’s stomach? I’ll leave him to it.

  I could start my own smithy. Be my own master. But that means getting a permit from the city. How expensive is that? I should check with the Guild later.

  Then there’s the smithy itself. It can't just be any house. It has to be a detached, single-floor building, properly ventilated, with a forge, and no wooden structures too close—just in case of fire. Or an explosion. Which means real estate.

  A building like that, even in some forgotten corner of the city, wouldn’t be cheap. If it’s specialized, even less so. Thousands. Renting is an option, but that comes with another bag of issues—landlords raising the rent whenever they feel like it, or kicking you out for no reason.

  And the biggest problem: customers.

  Right now, my only regulars are that small group of orphans. They’re not enough to keep me afloat. People need to know about the shop. It needs to be easy to find. A smithy in the slums or some back alley? No wealthy customers will set foot inside. But a shop in the central district? Higher rent, higher costs, and higher prices that might drive away the more financially savvy buyers.

  A question of balance.

  Then there’s the products themselves. Do I go general or specialize? What’s in demand? What has the best profit margins? What sells consistently?

  And that’s before dealing with the headache of inventory, taxes, and bookkeeping.

  ...Shit. I need actual commercial experience before going solo.

  It’s the safer option. A steady income. Less risk.

  Which brings me to the Merchant Guild.

  That blonde evaluator has been sending letters—to my house. Bothering both me and Lana. Offering "resources," "books," and some nonsense position as a "Smith Consultant" at one of her associate’s shops. Whatever the hell that is.

  How did she even get my address?

  Doesn’t matter.

  Fuck that bitch.

  The offer is phony. I know exactly what she’s after, and she’s not getting it. There’s no way I’ll help her get in touch with Mentor. I still remember him burning stacks of sealed, fancy letters every other week.

  Besides, she gave me a C-Rank.

  She burned that bridge herself. Why the hell would I waste a second of my time on her?

  ...Except.

  It doesn’t make sense.

  She had to know this would happen. If she was planning to reach out to me after the evaluation, wouldn’t it have made more sense to rank me higher? Wouldn’t that have made me more approachable? Why didn’t she start with positive reinforcement?

  There has to be a reason.

  Think.

  If I were a soulless merchant, why would I—

  Ah, fuck it. Who cares? Doesn’t matter.

  Choke on a bag of dicks, bitch.

  The middle ground between being a solo smith and an employee is becoming a subcontractor.

  A specialist. Do one job. Get paid a set amount for a set amount of work.

  No.

  Not because the pay would be lower. Not because I’d be stuck doing the same thing over and over without growing. But because I never want to be at the mercy of a contract and its fine print ever again.

  Hm.

  Fuck.

  Mike seems like the best option.

  We’ve already been kind of working together. We could split the rent... if he’s renting. Maybe he owns the place. Never asked.

  Downside? I’d have to keep dealing with him. And his drinking.

  Fuck.

  On the other hand, Mom and Dad have been hinting at moving back to them. Hard.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The capital has better opportunities. With their help, I could land something promising.

  Nice part? I’d get to see them again. Maybe even live with them for a while.

  Downsides? Numerous.

  At least here, I’ve made some acquaintances. Maybe even friends.

  But the biggest reason is me being a Colorless.

  Here, they're not looked down upon. If anything, they’re not treated as a threat here. A historical quirk, but one I’m deeply grateful for. Other parts of the Empire? Not so much. I’ve heard the stories. Read about the Light Border. How the Colorless are treated as second-class citizens. Worse, even.

  But all of it’s somehow distant and questionable.

  What I mean is that I don’t think what I've read is a lie, but I never actually witnessed such treatment myself... I mean treating people without class like slaves just sounds... unbelievable.

  Still, even though I’ve got a family there, there's much more risk and unknown factors in the Capital compared to here... and there’s a bag of other things too... like the clan, the memories... and the people.

  I shake my head and turn toward the newly arrived red-headed bard as she starts a solo song. Her voice is soft, tender, flowing smoothly as each note from her guitar rings clear across the room. She pours her very soul into it, and I can feel it—how deeply the song resonates with her, how much it means. But for some reason, hardly anyone notices. Most people just keep eating, drinking, talking, as if she were nothing more than background noise. Less than a dozen pairs of eyes in the entire tavern are actually watching her. Barely anyone even claps along to the rhythm.

  Her song comes to an end, and she bows deeply. My hands join the few others in applause as she steps off the stage. Moments later, a trio in frilly, elaborate dresses takes her place. The second their feet start tapping in unison, the rhythm shifts into something catchy. Then they begin to dance—legs kicking high, bodies twirling, every movement perfectly synchronized. But there’s something about it... Uh. I don't know how to phrase it correctly... lewd? Maybe it’s the way their dresses accentuate their already generous figures. Or maybe it’s the increasing speed of the rhythm, which... does interesting things to them.

  A thought—stupid, childish, brilliant—pops into my head, and an impish grin spreads across my face.

  I kick Ed’s leg lightly under the table. He turns to me, confused, and I motion toward the stage with my eyes.

  Slowly, he shifts his gaze to the dancers. He watches for maybe ten seconds, his expression neutral but focused. Suddenly, his eyes widen in horror as he turns back to me with a look as if he’s just been caught committing a crime.

  I grin, raise a thumb, and wink at him.

  His mouth drops open.

  I nod toward the stage again. After a moment of hesitation, he turns back to the performance.

  Ed and I have... similar preferences.

  The dance ends, and the tavern erupts in applause. Less than a minute later, everything returns to normal—except for Vana shooting Olev a very venomous glare. I hadn’t been watching him, but judging by his guilty expression, he must’ve been way too into it.

  So he’s one of us too, huh?

  Joe, on the other hand, never once looked up from his food. Wait a second—this isn’t even the same meal he was eating a few minutes ago.

  "Joe."

  "Hm?" He barely acknowledges me, still focused on his plate.

  "Are you alright?"

  He pauses, a half-eaten drumstick hovering inches from his lips. Then he gives me a strange look.

  "You’ve been eating non-stop," I say, narrowing my eyes. "And you’ve put on some weight. Is everything okay?"

  He snorts, smirking as he puts the drumstick back down and wipes his fingers with a small towel. Clearing his throat, he leans forward slightly.

  "Tell me, Harv. What should a merchant look like?"

  "...What?"

  His grin widens.

  "If I told you to picture a successful merchant—the most stereotypical one you can imagine—what’s their most common feature?"

  I blink, trying to process where he’s going with this. Then, hesitantly, I say, "They’re... fat?"

  Is this what he wanted to hear?

  Joe nods like a teacher pleased with his student. "They’re fat."

  I give him a skeptical look. "And?"

  He gestures vaguely. "Think about it. If a merchant is skinny, nearly starving, would you trust him?"

  After a moment of hesitation, I slowly shake my head trying to see where he’s going.

  "Exactly!" He leans back, looking triumphant. "If a merchant is starving, it means he doesn’t make enough, doesn’t know his craft, and isn’t worth doing business with! It’s the same with healers—who do you trust more, a healthy healer full of energy, or a sickly old fart barely clinging to life?"

  ...Okay. I kind of see his point.

  "This is all part of my rebranding," he continues. "A human advertisement, if you will. You think I want this?" He smacks his growing belly for emphasis. "But it doesn’t matter what I want—what matters is the image I project."

  Joe continues going on about how he must find and buy several different outfits, each one for a different purpose. A colorful one for when he wants to attract attention, or a subdued one when he’s selling in poor parts of the city because people there would assume his prices are just too high for them if he looks too wealthy.

  He continued going on and on about growing a mustache, adapting different mannerisms and even accents for all kinds of purposes and clients.

  He justified each one of them, by explaining that a person looking for something exotic would more likely go to a foreigner from a faraway land than a local merchant that they’ve known all their life. How there’s a specific type of merchant appearance for different customers and products. What peasants and nobles are looking for, what they may like and likely won’t like to see on the merchant.

  He just continued on and on. Going into details, cases, and situations. What he would have to do in the future, like using a fake beard, shaving his head, or using makeup to appear older and wiser.

  "A merchant isn’t just selling merchandise," Joe says, eyes gleaming. "He’s selling himself. His shop. His image. It’s a full package."

  He’s so passionate about the subject, so deeply fascinated by every little detail, that I don’t have the heart to stop him.

  Thankfully, someone else does it for me.

  Before I even realize what’s happening, Olev’s uncle’s friends arrive and start moving tables, attaching them to ours without bothering to ask. More people join, the noise level spikes, food is ordered, and stories start flying across the table.

  Shit. I missed my chance to leave.

  "Did you hear about the orc quest?"

  I turn toward the speaker—a large man with a shaved head.

  "They renewed that quest already?" Olev asks with a grin.

  "Nope. Different one." The man smirks. "The Army is putting together a massive pacification force. Offering big bounties for orc kills. No Guild fees—payout’s direct—but it won’t affect Ranks either, which kinda sucks."

  "The pay is very good," another adds. "We’re joining."

  Olev meets their expectant looks, considering. A few seconds later, he asks, "How far’s the destination? How long’s the job?"

  "Day’s walk north. About a week for the quest itself."

  I tune them out.

  And then—click.

  Pieces of a puzzle I didn’t even realize I was solving suddenly snap into place.

  An open quest in the north. A large military operation specifically targeting orcs.

  That officer never mentioned a quest, but... he was on edge.

  Did more people die?

  Is this retaliation?

  They’re mobilizing. Coming back stronger. Bigger. With a single purpose in mind.

  "I’m going."

  Silence.

  All heads turn toward me, my team’s faces full of confusion. I can feel their unspoken questions. I never jump at these things. I always hesitate, always need convincing. So why the sudden eagerness? What’s different this time?

  They exchange glances. Shrug.

  "I’m just tired of tunnels and darkness," I lie. "And I want to get out of the city."

  That part, at least, is true. The evaluation kept me stuck here for too long. I haven’t dared to step beyond the walls for more than half a day.

  The duo grins and nods, then turn to Olev. He sighs but eventually nods as well.

  "There’s still time," the large man says, raising his cup. "Don’t feel pressured to decide right now. But it’d be nice to have you guys with us. We’ll keep you updated if anything changes."

  Everyone lifts their drinks. I raise mine too. Cups bang together in a toast—though they don’t need to know my cup is full of apple juice.

  As I take a sip, movement catches my eye. Someone settles into the empty chair beside me.

  "Hello, handsome."

  I freeze.

  Deep green eyes. Brown curls. A beautiful face I recognize.

  ...

  I walk down the dark streets with [Lumen] hovering above me, casting a dim glow. The streetlights barely push back the shadows, more like distant suggestions of direction than real sources of light. Buildings blur into the darkness, their edges barely visible. In the distance, figures move—closing shops, heading home, fading into the night.

  I let out a deep sigh and kept walking.

  Was it the right decision?

  After leaving the tavern, Tara invited me over for tea—some interesting blend she’d recently bought. I politely declined. That’s why I’m here now, walking home alone to a cold bed, when I could have had someone warm beside me. And all it would’ve taken was not saying no. She was eager. It might have even helped with my other problem.

  Did I chicken out?

  I sigh again.

  I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it... but it felt wrong, somehow. Like I was lying to her. Misleading her. I don’t have feelings for her—not the kind she probably wants. Not like what I had for Enneline.

  Had, huh...

  Is it really in the past? I still remember how it felt—that soft warmth inside me, the quiet contentment when we were together. But was that even love? I don’t know. It’s the only real relationship I’ve had. Back then, I didn’t question it. I was just... happy.

  Ennie was always odd—so full of energy, always smiling, always looking for the next prank to pull or the next thing to blow up. Her obsession with sweets and fluffy animals. Her messy, short black hair. Her cheeky blue eyes, always glinting with some new mischief.

  And I still left her.

  Not directly, but the end result is the same. The last time I saw her was the day before the church affinity awakening. What was she told? What was her reaction? I could ask Mom—she likely saw her after, spoke to her—but she never mentioned anything about Ennie in her letters. Never brought it up in our calls.

  It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago. Things have changed.

  It all happened before, in some other, distant life. Now it’s just a—

  A strand of foreign mana brushes against me.

  Light flashes from my sheath as I whirl around, mana surging into [Force Aegis]. My eyes dart through the darkness, searching for the attacker. Mana floods into Light, and my whole body shines with energy, illuminating the street.

  [Echo Pulse]

  Someone yelps.

  Figures in the distance scatter, vanishing into the shadows. Their footsteps fade quickly, swallowed by the city’s silence.

  I stand frozen, muscles coiled, waiting. Expecting another strike.

  Nothing.

  What the hell was that?

  I didn’t notice them until the last second. Even now, I question if it was real—if I imagined it.

  No. Someone was there. Someone used a spell. And it tried to do something to me, but I reacted before it could.

  I glance around. The street is empty. Quiet.

  A mugging attempt?

  A lone traveler, walking at night, on a dark street with barely any light. An easy target. At least until Light came out and mana flooded the area. That was enough to scare them off.

  I exhale slowly. I let my guard down. Just because I was out of the dungeon, close to home. I didn’t even sense them. And there were several of them. Their footsteps made that clear.

  The wind whistles through the street, breaking my thoughts. And suddenly, I realize—

  I’m still just standing here.

  Like an idiot.

  Right after nearly getting mugged.

  I move. My walk turns into a quick stride, then into a full sprint. A series of [Echo Pulse] are sent out as I go, mapping the area, searching for any lingering threats.

  The city isn’t as dangerous as the dungeon.

  But it isn’t safe either.

  I shouldn't have forgotten that.

  ...

  It only took me a few minutes to reach the bakery.

  Using the copy key Lana gave me months ago, I slip through the back door and quietly make my way to the second floor, careful not to wake her. Once in my room, I lock the door, wash up quickly, and collapse onto the bed with Light within arm’s reach.

  No one followed me. No further attacks. Just a failed mugging attempt—some thugs mistaking me for a simple villager and bolting as soon as they saw a sword and mana. They won’t try again. And I’ll be more careful next time.

  So everything’s fine.

  As expected, the bed is cold. Even a little damp, which makes no sense—it hasn’t rained in over a week, and the humidity has been low. But whatever. It warms up soon enough. I should fall asleep quickly, the way I usually do after a long and exhausting day.

  But sleep doesn’t come.

  Time stretches.

  The bed warms too much. I kick the blanket off. The air cools... for a moment. Then it gets too cold. I pull the blanket back on. The heat builds again. I toss it off. Too cold. On. Too hot. Off. Too cold. On.

  This continued for quite some time.

  Then more.

  And then even more.

  Only to suddenly realize it has been more than two hours.

  Why can’t I fucking sleep?!

  I mean I noticed that recently it now takes me more time to fall asleep. And the past few days have been particularly bad, but this is a whole new level. And the damn buzzing in my head isn’t helping. That constant, low hum, always there, always pressing in.

  Where’s the sweet release?

  Time drags on, slow and suffocating.

  I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling.

  Is there something that—

  The buzzing shifts.

  A high-pitched screech. Metal on metal. A fork dragged across a plate.

  My eyes snap shut as my hands clamp over my ears in an attempt to stop it, but it's useless, because the sound isn’t outside.

  It’s from inside.

  A jolt shoots up my spine—raw electricity, burning and wild. It hits my nape, then splits, racing down my limbs. When it reaches my fingertips, it snaps back like a whip, surging through my chest, tearing through everything in its path.

  My back arches violently. My muscles seize, locking me in place. A voiceless scream tears from my throat as the screeching drowns out every other sensation—

  And then it stops.

  I hit the floor, air slamming out of my lungs.

  Dazed, I lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, ears ringing, pain ricocheting through my body. My breath stutters. My fingers twitch.

  "Harv?"

  I barely process the voice.

  The room finally steadies, and I find myself sprawled on the floor, drenched in sweat.

  The door creaks open. Light flickers in my direction.

  "Everything okay? I heard a loud thud," Lana says, standing in the doorway in her pajamas, eyes wide with concern.

  "What?... Uh... It’s... Yeah... I just... fell... from bed," I manage, pushing myself upright.

  "Oh. Did you hurt yourself?"

  "Ah... No... Everything’s okay... sorry... sorry for waking you..."

  "No problem, sweetie. Don’t worry. Stuff happens." Her voice is soft, understanding. "It’s still early, so try to get some rest, okay? Good night."

  "Thanks, Lana. Sorry again..."

  She closes the door, leaving me alone in the dark.

  I stare at the floor. Then at the window. Then at the bed.

  What the hell was that?

  That wasn’t normal. I’ve never felt anything like—

  Wait.

  An attack? A delayed effect from the mugging? But the spell bounced off...

  Could I be cursed?

  I need to report this.

  And I need to see a healer.

  Just in case.