Chapter 27: The Cost of Victory
The echoing silence after the battle was a physical thing, a thick, dusty quiet that seemed to swallow even the memory of the Hound's roars and the crackle of fire. The chamber, scarred by flame and split by impossible cuts, felt less like a conquered arena and more like a tomb they had narrowly escaped.
Reginleif moved first. She dragged Azazel's limp form—surprisingly light in his broken state—away from the center of the room, to a relatively clean corner where the wall met the floor. For hours, she worked in a focused, silent fury. She used five healing potions from the inventory bracelet, the last of their stock, pouring the glowing liquid over his shattered leg, his cracked ribs, the deep burns on his arms. She bound his wounds with clean bandages, her movements efficient but sharp with an anger she couldn't fully place.
Azazel finally stirred as the last of the potions' warmth seeped into his marrow. His eyes fluttered open, taking in the scarred ceiling, then Reginleif's soot-stained face hovering over him.
"Are we… still alive?" he rasped, his voice like gravel.
"Yeah," Reginleif said, her tone flat. "How are you feeling?"
He shifted, testing his limbs. A dull ache remained, but the blinding pain was gone. "My leg's… healed. You used a potion. More than one."
"I used five of them," she snapped, the dam of her control cracking. "That suicide attempt was stupid."
"Wasn't trying to kill myself," he muttered, pushing himself up to sit against the wall. A wave of dizziness hit him. "It's just that… I don't ever want to choose that path again. There's a reason I avoid it."
"What do you mean?" she asked, crossing her arms, her eyes hard.
Azazel looked away, into the middle distance of the ruined chamber. How could he explain the calculus of a lifetime of violence? He grasped for something she might understand, however poorly.
"How can I explain this… Have you ever been in love?"
Reginleif's eyes widened, then narrowed in pure disbelief. "What? No. Why? What kind of explanation is this?"
"You see, back home… there was this girl. At first, I was only after her because I wanted to… fuck her you know." He waved a hand vaguely. "I was 100% clear on my intentions."
"All you men ever think about," Reginleif scoffed, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah, yeah. We're all pigs. Whatever. The point is… I actually fell in love with her. And when I was lying on the floor, about to get stomped into paste… I heard her voice. Is that normal? Something like that has never happened to me."
Reginleif's anger faltered, replaced by genuine confusion. He lost control, went into a total overload, because of… love? It made no sense. Darkness Mythics fed on fear, rage, desperation—negative emotions. How did love, a positive energy, trigger such a catastrophic, powerful release? There had to be more to it. Some twist in his soul she didn't understand.
"I don't know how you're feeling," she said carefully, the edge gone from her voice. "But at least you're alive. Can you still use your Mythic?"
Azazel looked at his hand, flexing his fingers. He reached inward, not to the abyss, but to the cold, quiet place where his power now resided. It felt different. Smaller, but more precise.
"Black Ice."
A small, intricate flower bloomed in his palm, its petals delicate shards of perfect, dark ice. It was beautiful and utterly harmless.
Reginleif stared. "Hey, it actually works. But something's different about it."
"Because I just realized I can shape it however I want," Azazel said, a flicker of his old analytical spark returning. "Why didn't I try this earlier? I was just throwing waves and spears like a brute."
"Now," Reginleif said, her tone turning serious again, "check your whole body. Is there any side effect? Any repercussion from the overload? Pain, numbness, weakness?"
Azazel did a full internal scan. The physical pain was just the ghost of healing. But something else…
"And by the way," Reginleif added, watching him closely, "when you were losing your shit fighting the boss, you grew… something. A pair of dying wings. Black. Feathers like ash. Only on your right side."
Azazel tried to grasp the memory. It was like reaching through fog. Flashes of heat, pain, overwhelming rage, and a voice—Ruyi's voice—but the image of wings? It was a blank. A hole in the experience.
"Sorry," he said, rubbing his temples. "Something's wrong. It's like pieces of my memories are gone. I can barely remember some of the fight."
Reginleif let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. A strange mix of relief and pity crossed her face. "If that's the case… I guess that's the side effect I was looking for. Thank god it wasn't worse. Memory loss is better than your body turning inside out."
She's happy there's no physical damage, Azazel thought, the observation cool and detached even through his mental fog. But my mind is part of my body too. One pair of dying wings, huh? Need to watch out for that. And to remind myself… never revert to absolute violence. It's not always the answer. I learned that lesson the hard way back home. Looks like I had to learn it twice.
He pushed himself fully to his feet, swaying only slightly. "Alright. I think I'm good enough to move. So… where's the loot?"
Reginleif stared at him. For a second, she was speechless. Then her face flushed with fresh, incredulous anger. "Are you fucking serious? We nearly died! I had to use a… a last-resort technique! And now you're asking where's the loot?"
Azazel looked at her, genuinely puzzled. "Yes? That's why we fought. That's the whole point of still being alive. To get the reward."
"Azazel!" she shouted, her voice echoing in the vast chamber. "Next time we're going to fight another boss, we are getting some kind of teleportation scroll first! So we can fucking run, you fucking idiot!"
"Wow. Wow, wow, wow," Azazel said, holding up his hands in mock surrender, a faint, tired smirk on his lips. "What's with the strong language all of a sudden? Damn. So spicy. Sorry. I guess… experiencing your partner almost dying is new to you. I get it."
"You think?" she shot back, her fists clenched.
"Reginleif," he said, his tone dropping into something quieter, almost gentle. "I know. Using people, watching people around you die… and you just experienced it now, for real, with me. So I get it. That's how the whole 'surviving' thing works. The first close call is always the worst."
She looked at him, the raw fear and fury in her eyes mingling with something else—frustration at being so transparent to him. "No," she said finally, turning away. "You just don't understand… Never mind."
Azazel let it go. He turned and his eyes landed on it: a sky-blue chest, ornate and pristine, sitting in the exact center of the room as if it had always been there. "Is this the loot?" he asked. "Why the hell is it in the center? When did this thing appear?"
"While you were sleeping," Reginleif said, her voice still tight but returning to business. "The dungeon… rewards the victors. It manifests the prize."
"Oh. Okay." Azazel walked over, the strange chest drawing him in. "Let's see what we have here."
He opened the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of dark velvet, were four items:
1. A Round Shield: Made of darkened steel, it was embossed with a fierce, snarling image of two-headed hounds in unison. It radiated a sturdy, defensive aura, but also the faint echo of the beast they'd just slain.
2. A Ruined Book and a Scroll: The book's pages were tattered, the ink faded to ghosts. The scroll was slightly better preserved, its seal broken long ago. Both whispered of forgotten knowledge.
3. A Mysterious Green Scarf: The fabric was soft, an emerald green that seemed to shimmer with its own internal light, holding an aura of silence and subtle power.
4. A Dwarven Spear: The weapon was a masterpiece of martial craftsmanship. Its blade was heavy, etched with runes, and the shaft was reinforced with bands of dark steel. It looked perfectly balanced, built to kill and last.
Azazel picked up the shield, hefted it, and made a face. He looked at Reginleif. She looked at the shield, then back at him. A silent agreement passed between them.
"Ugly," Azazel stated.
"Hideous,"Reginleif confirmed.
"Reminds me of that pain-in-the-ass dog."
"Easy money."
"And proof we cleared the floor."
The shield was tossed unceremoniously back into the chest,destined for a merchant's stall.
Azazel then claimed the Ruined Book and Scroll. "Intel," he said simply, tucking them away into his inventory cube.
Reginleif's hand went unerringly to the Mysterious Green Scarf. She lifted it, and it seemed to sigh, draping perfectly around her neck and shoulders. The faint shimmer settled against her skin. It felt like a promise of quiet footsteps and unseen movements. She gave a small, satisfied nod.
That left the Dwarven Spear. Azazel lifted it. It was heavier than his broken kukri, but the balance was sublime. He found a catch near the grip. He pressed it. With a smooth, mechanical shink, the spear's shaft extended by another two feet. Another press, and it retracted. A versatile, brutally efficient weapon. He gave it an experimental spin, the runes on the blade catching the dim light.
"This'll do," he said. He now had a weapon for reach, and his reshaped Black Ice for everything else.
They had survived. They were battered, changed, and loaded with trophies. The path to the infamous twenty-first floor—and whatever lay beyond the guild's map—was now open.
They stood in the silence of their victory, a shield they hated at their feet, new tools in their hands, and the unspoken weight of the fight they'd just barely won hanging between them. The dungeon awaited. But first, they had to get back to the surface, or keep going down.
End of Chapter 27