For three long days, Party 5 pressed on. From the rugged Heinirirc Mountain Ridges to the windswept fields of the Jullio Route, they trudged beneath cloud-streaked skies, their carriage wearing a steady rhythm into the dirt. At last, they slipped from the borders of the Alpinato Region into the Yuneseppi Region, and by Saturday's dawn, the path spilled them onto the Grandpolle Route—where Dungeon #89J waited.
The dungeon maw loomed before them, a gaping wound in the earth framed by jagged stone, its breath a cold draft that stirred the grass at its edges. They had reached it just the night before, and to their relief, the path had been quiet. No rival parties had laid claim to this place. For once, the maw was theirs alone.
Their camp sprawled in a modest circle not far from the entrance: tents half-pitched against the morning wind, a small fire coughing smoke into the gray sky.
The pale light of dawn crept over the Grandpolle Route, chasing the fog from the valley where Party 5 had camped. The ground was damp with dew, and the canvas tents sagged faintly under the morning chill.
Ashe stirred awake, blinking once, twice, before rubbing the crust from his eyes. His head had rested on a stuffed sack in place of a pillow, his Tropico coat thrown loosely over him as a blanket. When he reached sideways, the space beside him was empty. Mina was already gone.
He squinted at his pocket watch. The hands ticked precisely at six. Too early for him, though apparently not for her.
Crawling out of the tent, Ashe was greeted by the earthy smell of campfire smoke—and something richer, sharper. Olive oil sizzling.
Camylle crouched near the flames, her messy orange hair pulled back as she tended thin strips of dried meat on a flat slate stone propped above the fire. In one hand she held a metal dart, nudging the slices whenever they threatened to slide into the embers. Her expression was unreadable, the heat reflecting in her eyes.
Ashe padded closer, brushing dust from his sleeves. "Morning. Where is everyone?"
Camylle didn't look up. Her tone was flat but not unkind.
"Trevus and Harlen went to the Maw. Checking the entrance. Nira and Lotha are still in their tent. And Mina…" A faint lift of her chin toward the treeline. "…Carriage. Trevus asked her to pull some supplies."
"Figures she's up before everyone," Ashe muttered, stifling a yawn.
He left Camylle to her work and followed the path of her gesture. The wagon sat beneath the spread of a massive oak, its leaves beginning to yellow in the autumn shift. Betty and Beck were tied nearby, their breaths steaming in the cool air as they idly swished their tails.
Beside the carriage, bent over a crate, was Mina. She had her sleeves rolled to her elbows, rummaging through bundles with quick, efficient movements. Even at this hour, she looked alive, the faint light catching in her coral-red hair.
Ashe's step slowed as he approached. Something about the scene—the horses resting, Mina framed in the half-light, the quiet rustle of the waking forest—felt like the true beginning of their dungeon trial.
"Hey, need a hand? What time did you wake up?" Ashe asked as he stepped closer to the carriage, his breath curling into pale mist in the cold morning air.
Mina didn't glance up, her hands buried in a crate of supplies. "Trevus woke me an hour before dawn," she answered, her tone calm but intent on her search.
"Oh?" Ashe tilted his head, curious. "Why so early?"
"It's something we've been doing for a while," Mina said, pulling aside a bundle of cloth to peek beneath. "Dawn training, he calls it."
Ashe froze, pale brows knitting. "I see…"
The words slipped out light, almost casual, but a thread of envy edged his tone. Trevus had never asked him to join in those pre-dawn sessions. Mina didn't notice—too focused on digging through bundles—but Ashe caught himself clenching and unclenching his hand before quietly exhaling.
"You can help," Mina said at last, shifting aside to make room. She nodded toward a smaller pack wedged between two larger sacks. "Harlen's looking for one barrier pin in particular. Something called… a Perimeter-something."
Ashe crouched, dragging the pack toward him. The faint clink of metal greeted him as he loosened the flap. Inside, rows of steel nails gleamed, each wound with spirals of paper seals etched in delicate script. A faint bluish glow pulsed across the runes—alive even without a source of mana.
"These things look lethal just sitting here," Ashe muttered, carefully turning one in his hand.
"They're not weapons," Mina corrected, brushing dust off another bundle she had set aside. "Harlen uses nails and hammer as mediums. Says it amplifies his barriers' stability."
Ashe let out a low whistle. "That's… oddly reassuring."
The two of them continued in quiet rhythm, sorting and shifting through the packs. Only the muted clink of metal, the soft rustle of cloth, and the occasional snort of the horses broke the silence of the waking camp.
The Dungeon Maw of #89J loomed like a wound torn into the earth, its jagged arch of stone framed in frost and etched with runes long since eroded. Mist coiled from its throat, and the air grew colder the nearer one drew.
Trevus knelt close to the stone, his gloved hand brushing the seams where rock met metal. His blue undercoat hung heavy with morning dew, but his focus was sharp, eyes narrowing at the faint etchings hidden between cracks.
Behind him, Harlen shifted in his bright orange doublet, arms folded. "So, this is it. Square-Class. Shifting walls, traps, sentries. A nasty cocktail. You already went over this in the Tuesday briefing, so don't tell me you're repeating yourself for my sake."
Trevus smirked faintly without looking back. "On the contrary—I'm glad you actually listened that day."
He pressed a palm flat to the wall, sending a low hum of mana through its surface.
Harlen tilted his head. "Alright, fine. What are you staring at now? You've been pawing that wall like it's about to whisper secrets."
"Sometimes they do." Trevus traced a line of brittle frost, his expression unreadable. "What bothers me is the coordinates. This maw is exactly nine miles south of #13J in the Kollio Route. And according to one scout report, they swore the two dungeons might be connected."
Harlen snorted, shaking his head. "Connected? Two maws, nine miles apart, belonging to the same dungeon? That's absurd. Dungeons don't grow like roots under the ground."
"Not roots," Trevus corrected quietly. "Veins. Different openings, same body."
Harlen raised a skeptical brow, but didn't push the point. "Fine. Let's pretend you're right. If this really is one massive dungeon, what's our biggest headache?"
"The Shifting." Trevus dusted grit from his gloves. His tone was calm, but edged. "It'll be impossible to avoid. At some point, we'll be separated—unless we prepare."
He paused, frowning mid-thought.
Harlen caught it. "…But?"
Trevus exhaled. "Think about it. A Computare is almost certainly the Dungeon Master here. It controls every wall, corridor, and chamber. But it doesn't shift them at random—it needs stimulus. Cause. It needs eyes."
"Eyes?" Harlen echoed. "You're telling me the dungeon can't see us unless something's spying?"
"Exactly. The Computare isn't omniscient. It relies on proxies—Sentry Golems, most likely. They patrol, they observe, they transmit back to the core. Only then does the dungeon react."
Harlen scratched the back of his neck, trying to piece it together. "So in simple words: if we kill whatever's watching, the walls stop moving?"
"Not stop," Trevus corrected, his gaze fixed on the darkened maw. "But they won't waste energy shifting blindly. Without its eyes, the dungeon loses precision. We cut them out, and its tricks falter."
Harlen let out a low whistle, grinning. "Kill the eyes, blind the beast. Classic. Almost sounds easy when you say it like that."
"Don't mistake clarity for simplicity," Trevus warned. "A blind beast is still dangerous. And this one doesn't want us dead. Not yet. It wants us divided."
The maw exhaled cold mist, as though mocking them.
Harlen leaned against a frost-crusted boulder, tapping it with his knuckles. "So it really is a Computare," he muttered, half in dread, half in awe.
"Yes," Trevus said, crouching again to trace the steel vein buried in stone. "And if the report was right… it's active."
Harlen's grin faltered. "I've heard tales. A Computare's no ordinary core. It's… a sentient machine. A fortress with a mind. It can command an entire dungeon like a general with his army."
"Correct. It doesn't wander. Doesn't strike with tooth or claw. It rules. Every wall and floor, every trap and sentry—it is the dungeon."
Harlen grimaced. "A thinking beast with no flesh to cut. Wonderful."
Trevus's hand lingered on the seam where rock met steel. "Think of it as a brain. Every command—whether to shift a hall, rouse a golem, or trigger a trap—runs through streams of mana. And that mana comes from a source."
Harlen's eyes narrowed as memory stirred. "…The Power Box."
Trevus gave a small nod. "Good memory. An auxiliary heart. The Computare itself is too vital to risk, so its energy is stored elsewhere. Destroy the box, sever the flow—"
"—and the dungeon dies," Harlen finished, voice hushed. "Walls frozen. Traps silent. Golems nothing but rubble."
The wind whistled low through the maw, carrying their words into its hollow dark.
Harlen chuckled despite himself, flashing teeth. "So that's our task. Blind the beast, strangle its heart. Simple enough."
Trevus shot him a sidelong glance, lips pressed thin. "Simple words. Hard truth. A Computare is clever. It will try to separate us, bleed us one by one. If we don't tread carefully…" His eyes narrowed. "It will win."
Harlen's hand fell to his sword, sliding the blade half an inch free before sealing it again with a click. His grin sharpened. "Then let it try. Brains or no, everything breaks if you hit it hard enough."
Trevus said nothing. His gaze lingered on the shadowed maw, weighing the silent challenge of a foe made not of flesh and blood, but of walls and thought.
The silence between them lingered until Harlen broke it with a sharp click of his tongue. "Oi, Trevus," he said, shifting his stance and tossing his blond hair back with that same unshaken confidence. "If separation's what's keeping that furrow on your brow, I might have something to ease it."
Trevus raised a brow, not looking up from the wall he was studying. "And what might that be?"
Harlen smirked. "Barrier craft. My specialty." He tapped two fingers against the hilt of his arming sword, then spread them open in a faint flourish, as though unveiling a secret. "I've got a ward that spreads about three, maybe four hundred meters. A 'Dynamic-Type.' Moves with me, centers on me. And within that field… every distinct mana-aura shines clear to my eyes. Doesn't matter if the dungeon tries to shuffle walls or blindside us—I'll always know where my comrades stand."
Finally, Trevus turned to him, his blue undercoat fluttering faintly in the cold air. His eyes narrowed, appraising. "A barrier spell that marks mana signatures…"
"Exactly," Harlen cut in, his grin widening. "I'd make the perfect tracker. You can leave that role to me."
But before his boasting could take further root, Trevus raised a hand, firm and unyielding. "I already prepared a method of tracking."
Harlen blinked, his grin faltering for the first time. "You—what? You mean your simple strings?"
"The strings, yes" Trevus confirmed, his tone clipped but not unkind. "Threadlines tuned to our aura. They'll follow even through shifting halls. I've used them before, remember?"
Harlen's face twitched, his bravado cracking into something closer to embarrassment. "No, Hah… guess I got ahead of myself there."
He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing lightly though his ears flushed red.
Trevus's stern expression softened, if only slightly. "Don't take it poorly, Harlen. If anything, redundancy is strength. Besides if one fails, the other holds. You and I together will anchor the party as Two trackers, not one."
Harlen's grin returned, warmer this time, shorn of its cocky edge.
"Heh. Now that's more like it. A pair of eyes sharper than any machine's."
The two men turned back from the dungeon maw. The air that seeped from within was thick with iron and stale mana, like the exhale of something ancient and watching. For the first time, their roles were quietly set—not just blade and blade, but threads and wards, minds entwined to outpace the Computare's gaze.
Mina and Ashe's steps slowed as they drew nearer the Dungeon Maw, the yawning stone mouth exhaling its mist like the breath of some buried beast. Their boots sank into the autumn grass, dew clinging stubbornly to each blade. Mina's hands were still smudged faintly with charcoal from rifling through packs, and though her chest rose quick with irritation, her voice was clipped and steady.
"I couldn't find the specific barrier pin you wanted. The Perimeter Ward, right? It's not in the supplies."
From the shadow of the Maw, Harlen barked a short, smug laugh. "Oh? My bad."
His hand rose, and between his fingers glittered six pins bound with strips of parchment. Their seals shivered faintly in the dawn light as though awake. He spun them once like dice, the wards crackling faintly, before tucking them away.
Mina's amber-ringed eyes narrowed into fire. "Oh You—!"
But before the words could finish, Trevus's hand flicked forward with soldierly sharpness, striking Harlen's shoulder. The blow carried no weight but plenty of reprimand.
"What the hell was that for?" Harlen protested, half-turned.
"You could've said something," Trevus snapped, voice low with disapproval. "Instead, you wasted her time tearing apart half the carriage."
Harlen only smirked, shoulders rolling back, unruffled as ever. "Keeps the blood moving, y'know? Builds character, y'know?"
"Builds headaches," Trevus muttered, dragging a hand across his temple. He exhaled sharply, steadying his tone before turning to Mina.
"Forget it. Sorry about that, Mina. Go wake the others. Everyone needs to be ready and packed by seven-thirty. We enter at eight sharp."
Mina pressed her lips thin but gave a curt nod. Her eyes cut once more toward Harlen, the promise of payback flashing like a spark. With a scoff, she tugged Ashe's wrist and stalked back toward camp, grumbling, "Useless blond idiot…" under her breath. Ashe trailed after her, lips twitching between amusement and sympathy.
The air at the Maw shifted, mist curling tighter around its jagged edges like smoke rising from stone teeth. Trevus remained at the threshold, his gaze fixed on the dark beyond, his words quiet but iron-clad.
"We can't afford games in there. What was even the thing you sent Mina to fetch for?"
For a moment Harlen's grin thinned, but not enough to vanish. His hand brushed the pouch of pins at his hip, the faint metallic clink whispering in reply.
"Relax," he said, tone half-playful, half-assured. "It's just the usual Perimeter Barrier. I'll stake them around the Maw before we go in. If another party tries to crawl in after us, I'll feel the ripple instantly. Saves us from dealing with Counter-Delvers, eh?"
Trevus's eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable as the mist coiled thicker at their feet.
"Good. Then do it now. We'll need every safeguard we can claim."
The two men stood at the edge, the Dungeon itself listening, waiting.
At the other side, the campfire hissed and snapped, the smell of seared meat drifting on the autumn air. Camylle crouched low, her orange hair messily on display, she didn't even bothered to comb as she coaxed the flames beneath a flat stone slab. A final strip of dried meat sizzled on top, oil spitting in tiny sparks. She leaned closer, watching the surface blister and crisp, her eyes narrowing like a craftsman finishing the last stroke of a blade. This one was hers—every other cut she had already plated for the others.
Lotha sat nearby, posture composed but hands delicate as she worked. She tore a piece of hard bread and dipped it into a steaming canteen of chicken bisque, softening the crust before bringing it to her lips. Steam fogged her spectacles faintly, her movements calm, almost reverent.
Beside her, Nira was far less graceful, tearing into her meal with open satisfaction—mouth full of bisque-drenched bread, her daggers laid neatly at her side as though even mealtime couldn't separate her from steel.
Mina and Ashe sat shoulder-to-shoulder by the wagon's step, each with their own canteen. They alternated between spoonfuls of bisque and bites of fried dried meat, their breath visible in the chill morning. Ashe stirred his food absently, his snow-white hair messy from sleep, before glancing toward the shadowed Maw looming a short walk away.
He swallowed, then asked with a curious frown: "Did Trevus and Harlen already… eat?
Camylle chuckled from where she crouched. "Trevus had olives earlier."
She flipped her strip of meat, the scent of salt and brine still lingering faintly. "Harlen just heated up whatever leftovers he had in his canteen."
"Wait—olives?" Ashe tilted his head, brows knitting. "What's an olive?"
At that, Lotha lifted her eyes, her soft voice carrying over the crackle of fire.
"Oh! It's a fruit that only grows in the Central East, deep in the Imperium's territory. They press it for oil, but many eat it whole. Savory, a little bitter but it's a favorite snack there."
Ashe blinked again, as if he'd just been told of some rare delicacy. His gaze wandered unconsciously toward the Maw, where Trevus's silhouette still stood, pale morning mist curling around his boots.
Lotha lowered her bread, her tone shaded with quiet concern. "I wish I could give some of my breakfast to him. He eats too little for what lies ahead. Olives won't be enough to keep him steady."
Nira snorted through a mouthful of meat. "Hah! That man could fight on air and spit if he had to." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, though her eyes flickered briefly toward Trevus with something less dismissive—something like respect.
The campfire carried on its song as the group ate in turns, the simple ritual of food a final anchor before the Dungeon swallowed them whole.
Bellies full, Party 5 moved with the quiet discipline of routine. The air hummed with a mix of nerves and anticipation, the kind that always came before stepping into the unknown.
Nira sat on a low stone, legs crossed, methodically running a cloth over the edges of her twin red daggers. Each stroke of polish caught the light, making the blades glimmer with sharp hunger. She tugged on her boots afterward, stamping them firm against the earth.
Nearby, Mina and Ashe bent their shoulders to help Lotha with the heavy packs. Ashe tugged straps tight while Mina sorted flasks, herbs, and coils of rope into order. The priestess murmured her thanks, her face calm as ever, though her slender arms shook slightly with the strain. Camylle, meanwhile, was piling bundles of bread, dried meat, and herbs into her pack—the party's stomach was her responsibility, and she bore it without complaint, though her grin betrayed pride.
At the Dungeon's edge, Harlen knelt in ritual. His barrier hammer rested steady in his grip, the steel head scuffed with use. In his other hand, he held a single barrier pin—long as a dagger, its steel shaft bound in parchment strips, runes whispering faintly with pale light. With a decisive strike, he drove it into the earth before the gaping Maw.
The seal shimmered once as mana poured through it, tethered to Harlen's barrier discipline. The ground seemed to breathe, faint ripples spreading in a circle unseen except to trained eyes. Ten meters in every direction, a field of awareness spread, alive with his sense.
This was the Perimeter Ward, a sentinel net cast wide. Anyone, beast or man, who crossed its veil would tug at Harlen's senses like a plucked string. Counter-Delvers would find no surprise here.
Satisfied, Harlen brushed dirt over the gleaming head of the pin until it vanished into the soil. Rising to his feet, he dusted off his palms and swung his pack onto his shoulders. Trevus was already approaching, his coat neat, sabers at his hips, every line of him soldierly readiness.
"Done?" Trevus asked.
Harlen smirked, tilting his head. "Done. But you really should've shared my canteen this morning. Those nutty olives aren't enough to keep a man walking straight."
"I've had enough since last night," Trevus replied flatly, though a flicker of amusement touched his eyes.
"Pfft. Suit yourself. Guess we'll cook whatever beast we carve up in there." Harlen stretched his arms back lazily, then added with a grin,
"Heh. Reminds me of that one time—six years ago was it?"
"Hm? What is it?" Trevus asked as he raised his eyebrows.
"When we were still rookies and got lost for a whole day. Captain Charmel was scouring every corridor, hall and even the ridges for us while we had to kill and cook a damn griffin. Damn thing was tough as boot leather."
Trevus actually chuckled, a rare crack in his stern composure. "Yeah, I remember. No wonder it tasted so foul—I remember you tried cooking it with your blade. Heated it like a skillet. Flat side all scorched with no seasoning whatsoever."
"Hey, now." Harlen laughed, holding up his hands in mock defense. "Man's gotta improvise, besides we survived didn't we?"
Warmth flickered between them at the memory. For a moment, the mist around the Maw didn't feel quite so cold. Trevus's gaze softened as old images surfaced unbidden—Charmel Brunemhein, their former captain. A Wolfkin beastfolk, her hair blue with streaks of silver, her green eyes sharper than emeralds, her grin all tooth and wildness. She had been their center once, as commanding as she was fierce.
The moment passed when the rest of Party 5 emerged from camp. Packs slung high, weapons sheathed but ready, boots cinched tight. The horses, Betty and Beck, were left tethered with feed and water enough for a day, their carriage concealed beneath foliage. Every hand knew this routine—once inside, the dungeon would consume all thought.
Trevus's gaze swept across his companions. Mina and Ashe adjusting straps, Nira twirling her daggers between her fingers before clicking it back in their sheathes, Lotha serene and quiet, Camylle tightening the straps on her food-pack, Harlen rolling his shoulders, and himself, already at the threshold.
"Ready?" he asked, his voice sharp with command but tempered with familiarity.
One by one, they nodded, voices chiming with steady confidence.
The mist around the Maw stirred, as if answering.
Trevus turned, the sabers at his hips whispering against their sheaths as he stepped forward.
"Then let's begin."
At 8:03 a.m., Party 5 crossed the threshold of Dungeon #89J delving deep into its Outer Chambers.