「 ✦ Rimuru Tempest ✦ 」
The door creaked open.
But what greeted me on the other side wasn't more darkness, or the stale, bitter scent of blood-soaked stone.
It was light.
I stepped through, slowly—cautiously, I admit. Then my senses softened. I didn't lower my guard—never that—but even I couldn't help but marvel.
There was a sky.
A blue sky.
Birds and clouds and the sun. A gentle breeze stirred the hem of my coat, and I paused, blinking against the illusion.
Because this has to be, right?
We were still deep beneath the surface—so far below the crust of this world that light should've been a myth.
And yet... I stepped onto grass.
It bent beneath my weight, damp and cool.
The Sanctuary of Oscar Orcus.
The path before me was lined with marble tiles. The air was fresh—too fresh. Like it was continuously filtered and recreated, tailored for a perfect balance of tranquility. To my left, wildflowers bloomed in patches. Lavender and white lilies and roses of many hues.
And at the center of it all—surrounded by hedges and tall, wispy trees—was a mansion. No, a manor. Pale stone, ivy climbing the corners, with a fountain in the courtyard quietly bubbling. It looked lived in. But no one was here except for me.
I excitedly approached the door, half-expecting it to slam shut the moment I touched the handle. But instead, it opened with a soft click. The hallway beyond was cozy—wooden floors, deep red carpets, sunlight spilling in from windows.
I wandered around.
There were paintings on the walls. One of Oscar himself, I presumed—broad-shouldered, weathered face, dark hair tied back, eyes that looked like they'd seen too much but carried it all anyway.
Eventually, I found the bathroom.
Or maybe calling it that was underselling it. It was practically a temple to hygiene.
The bathtub was enormous—almost a hot spring built into marble, with golden fixtures and carved designs shaped like dragons and eagles. Steam billowed out the moment I turned a valve, the temperature rising to something just below scalding.
I slipped off my coat. Then my boots. Finally, my gloves.
I wore my birthday suit for the first time in an awful long time. I saw my reflection caught in the mirror—messy, soot-smudged hair, tired eyes, and dried blood on my cheek. Not mine, of course. Never mine.
And I looked beautiful despite it all.
I looked away and stepped in.
Ah, bliss.
The water hit like a soft explosion.
It soaked into everything.
I sank deeper, letting my body stretch, relax, drift. The water smelled pleasantly of minerals and something floral. I didn't realize how long I'd been submerged until the steam began to fade and my fingertips felt like they were wrinkling. But for the first time in days... weeks? I didn't care.
I felt clean.
I found a robe in the next room. A silky, deep navy robe that somehow fit perfectly.
My next stop was the kitchen. And that was where the real magic started.
...
Polished countertops, a stone hearth, rows of knives, spices I couldn't name—it had everything a cook might need. Ingredients in modern-looking containers—meats, vegetables, bottles of aged liquids and grains.
"Now this is a kitchen," I muttered to myself, smiling. And I felt like cooking.
I picked a simple dish.
Omelette rice would be nice.
The sizzle of the pan resounded pleasantly through the kitchen. I added a twist—some mushrooms I found in a coldbox, diced them finely, and caramelized them with diced onions and meat. The rice absorbed it all, smoky and golden.
I folded the egg over it just right. When I plated it, I found a sprig of fresh parsley and laid it neatly on top. I sat by the window, sunlight (or the illusion of it) warmed my face.
And I took the first bite.
I didn't realize how hungry I was until that moment.
Not energy-hungry. That wasn't the issue.
I was human-hungry.
Hungry for something simple and warm and real.
And it tasted amazing.
I leaned back in the chair, setting down the fork. Through the window, I could see the clouds drifting across a painted sky. It really was beautiful.
Oscar must've made this place to escape. A paradise beneath a battlefield. Maybe he hoped someone would reach it. Maybe he hoped someone like me wouldn't. But here I was.
And for the first time in a while, I didn't feel the need to move. Didn't feel like I was racing toward something.
I just sat and breathed (figuratively).
···—–—⚜—–—···
I awoke from my artificial sleep without alarms, dreams, or even tension on my shoulders. There was just a quiet—pure, restful silence that wrapped around me like another set of warm sheets.
After breakfast (which, I'll admit, was just another bowl of that delicious stew I'd made last night—seriously, it hit the spot), I wandered through the house again. Every room had something to say here.
Eventually, I stumbled upon the workshop.
It was tucked behind a simple wooden door near the east wing, half-hidden by a rather fanciful painting. The moment I stepped inside, I felt like I was walking into the brain of a sorcerer-engineer-artist hybrid.
Tools hung neatly from racks—blades for carving magic inscriptions, quills dipped in full ink wells, vials of liquified mana, containers filled with minerals labeled in faded script. There were even Azantium, a few pieces of them which Great Sage told me to be the strongest material in this world.
Then, suddenly...
<
<
<
I blinked at the influx of system messages echoing in my mind, and I couldn't help it. I smiled.
"Time to play."
First order of business was the outfit.
It started with the fabric.
I used a bolt of dense mana-infused silk from one of the vaults, reinforcing it with solidified dark plasma to give the threads a unique energy tolerance while imbuing most of my resistances. Each stitch was careful, not by my own hand, of course, since I had Great Sage.
The shirt came first—a simple black, sleek, with soft sheen. No frills. Just the kind of thing I'd wear around Tempest if I didn't want to look like a blob trying to act cool. Straight-cut black trousers followed, trimmed with a subtle dark-silver lining.
Then the cape. It draped around my shoulders and cut off just above the waist, clasped by an ornate black hook with a carved scarlet gem. Stylish, but not too flashy. I wanted mobility, not a cape dragging around like some edgy villain.
The red necklace was the centerpiece. I crafted it from a crushed core of a certain Sky Dragon I'd stored away. Embedded within it were multiple enchantment layers, all integrated with Deviant's synthesis capabilities.
Last, the boots. I made them with a classic black chelsea design.
I threw the full ensemble on, turned toward one of the polished mirrors, and whistled.
"...Damn. I'd date me."
Now, onto the next thing: solidifying black flame and black lightning.
I deemed my violent fighting style a little lacking of finesse, so I figured that in order to compensate for my lost sword, I might as well learn to make it from my pseudo-voidlike elements. And the catch was that it wouldn't be restricted to just swords.
I was capable of forming shapes with it, but they weren't exactly solid. They would dissipate as soon as I took my focus off of them.
So this was honestly trickier.
Dark Plasma was a specialty of mine, yes, but it was never something I could fully touch. It was volatile, unstable—unreal. It burned through matter and energy alike. But now I had Law Manipulation. And suddenly, this wasn't as rigid as it used to be.
I called forth a small orb of black flame in my palm.
Then I concentrated—slowing the particles, wrapping it in an aura shell, altering the properties through force of will. It hardened, like obsidian.
Next, the black lightning. It sparked around my arm as I wrestled with it. It resisted, but I enforced new boundaries. Reaffirmed my laws. I shaped it into a jagged spearhead. I stabbed the obsidian flame orb with the lightning spear.
The workshop trembled.
The entire space shivered like it was about to reject the laws I had forced upon it—then... it stabilized. Two constructs hovered in the air. One burning, the sword, and the spear one buzzing.
"...Yup," I muttered. "I'm officially scary."
Great Sage buzzed, almost pleased.
<
And so, I spent hours just playing.
Sword dancing with constructs. Creating new shapes, new weapons. Experimenting with the limit of what I could "materialize"—at one point I even made a floating throne of shadowed glass and hovered around on it for fun.
Eventually, I settled into one of the reinforced benches with a cup of tea (summoned, obviously) and leaned back in my new outfit, legs crossed and arms folded behind my head.
And it was nice.
···—–—⚜—–—···
I eventually made my way to the top floor of the mansion.
Despite the rest of the sanctuary being cozy and warm, there was something different about this place. Not musty, or stale, just inexplicable.
The doors groaned as I pushed them open.
Inside, the ceiling stretched upward, arching with golden inlays and constellations I didn't recognize. On the floor, etched into smooth stone, was a massive layered magic circle.
But what really drew my attention was at the far end of the room.
There, sitting atop a solitary throne carved from polished darkwood and etched with archaic silver filigree, was a skeletal corpse. Slumped forward slightly, the figure was still clad in resplendent garments preserved by magic.
I stared for a moment, eyes narrowing. "Is this supposed to be him?"
<
Oscar Orcus. The creator of this entire labyrinth. A man who'd built an entire world beneath the surface, and apparently stayed here... until the very end.
"Some dedication, man," I muttered, walking toward the circle.
The moment I stepped into its boundary—
<
"Oh, uh, sure," I replied, blinking. "I'll leave you to it."
The world around me fractured. Everything peeled away like a dream dissolving into another. Suddenly, I wasn't in that room anymore.
Instead, I was suspended in the sky—thousands of meters above the ground. There was no wind, yet clouds passed below us in heavy trails. The sun blazed high above. Beneath us, stretched across the horizon like a scar on the world, was war.
Millions of figures moved below. There were armies and cities burning. Skies splitting from magic bombardments. Colossal spells clashing with unworldly scale.
And amidst it all, seven glowing stars—no, people—stood against it all.
They looked like they fought not for conquest, not for ego, but for something far more fragile.
Hope.
"...The gods of this world are nothing short of demented."
The voice came from beside me.
I turned to find a man standing there, floating alongside me. Long, dark hair tied back neatly. Pale skin. A polite, almost sorry expression worn like a well-practiced mask. He looked tired.
"...Are you supposed to be Oscar Orcus?" I asked, keeping my tone even, eyes watching both him and the carnage below.
"Indeed," he said with a nod. "I am."
"And is this memory your legacy? A curse for the conquerors of your labyrinth?"
"That, it is."
I didn't say anything for a while. I didn't need to. We both watched in silence as the scene below played out—the seven Mavericks pushing back against overwhelming odds.
But it wasn't enough.
One by one, they fell—not slain by monsters or demons, but by people. The very people they had once sworn to protect.
"We fought for them. Against the tyranny of divine doctrine. We rose against the gods. And yet... it was they—our own kin—who raised blades against us."
He turned away, fists clenched at his sides.
"We were disgusted by their sickening disregard for life. We took up arms to free this world. But they turned the people against us. All through some measly, sickly divine providences and decrees."
His eyes flicked back to me. "I apologize for the outburst, conqueror."
"Nah, it's fine." I shrugged, waving him off. "You guys had it rough, huh. Your world and your people are basically a giant chess board for the things they worship as gods. Should've seen that coming, to be honest."
Oscar didn't laugh, but he did agree.
More memories began to stir.
The scene changed.
Now we stood in a great hall—marble pillars, stained glass shattered across the floor. A young Oscar stood trial, accused of heresy by high priests who wore golden chains around their necks and smiles sharper than daggers.
Another scene change. A laboratory filled with strange cores and artificial vessel designs—Oscar and another Maverick working tirelessly to preserve knowledge in case they were eradicated.
Then another. A quiet meadow where the seven sat around a campfire, laughter echoing under the stars.
And then the last scene.
Oscar, alone and wounded. Hands shaking as he inscribed the final glyphs into the floor of his sanctuary. A dying man preparing a coffin not for himself—but for truth. One that would only awaken when someone strong enough—and perhaps kind enough—reached him.
The memory faded.
And I was back.
The corpse still sat on the throne same as before.
<
Yes.
Oscar never got to change the world.
And I think that's a damn shame.
He built this place not to trap adventurers, but to pass on truth. And to find one person—just one—who might understand.
"Well," I muttered amidst the silence. "It's about time I get the hell out of here."
···—–—⚜—–—···
「 ✦ Shizuku Yaegashi ✦ 」
We should've never left the castle.
I was used to chaos.
You didn't survive a death trap like the Great Orcus Labyrinth without learning how to remain calm when everything around you was falling apart. You didn't pick up a sword and charge into battle unless you'd steeled yourself to the weight of it—to blood, screams, pain.
Except this wasn't chaos.
This was slaughter.
It started like any other field training mission. The king had wanted us to "rehabilitate" by engaging in something normal—something practical.
So they sent us, a group of half-traumatized teenagers, out near the Reisen Gorge to hunt low-tier monsters with a small platoon of royal knights as support.
And for a while, it was almost peaceful. Just an hour ago, we were still joking with the knights, laughing at Kouki's exaggerated bravado while swinging our swords at dumb, oversized lizards.
I even remember rubbing the back of my head, thinking how absurdly easy it all felt.
Until that thing arrived.
The trees fell silent before we heard the screech, and the air turned thick before the first blood fell. And then it tore through the knight platoon like paper.
It had sleek and unnaturally long black limbs. A shining, eyeless head that glinted like obsidian and a serrated tail that could cut through steel like silk. It moved like a predator with the cruelty of a demon.
We didn't even get a proper formation going!
The knights—twenty of them, fully armored and battle-trained—were wiped out in less than ten minutes. I watched one of them get impaled through the chest and thrown into a tree like a discarded toy. Another screamed before his voice cut off mid-note, his head rolling to the forest floor.
Kouki tried to play hero again.
As always.
He charged it before any of us could stop him, sword blazing with holy light. But it batted him away like a bug. He crashed into the rocks, blood spilling from his mouth, eyes unfocused. Still, he staggered back to his feet, screaming about justice and not giving up.
He was going to get himself killed.
I barely dodged the next sweep of the creature's tail. I could feel the shockwave against my ribs. There were too many injured—too many scattered. Kaori was trying to stabilize Ryutarou, who had a massive gash across his back. Some of the other students were sobbing, hiding behind trees, unable to process the massacre unfolding around them.
And then it turned toward me.
It moved in a flash, faster than I could react. I stepped back, blade raised, breathing steady despite the racing of my heart. I'd trained for this. I had to hold firm.
But I wasn't going to make it.
Kouki tried to intercept, but he stumbled—his ankle twisted, sword slipping from his grasp.
Fuck.
It lunged.
I saw its inner jaws open mid-leap.
I saw death.
And then—
"You've got to be kidding me."
The voice was smooth. Pleasant in a way that didn't belong on a battlefield soaked in blood.
And then steel rang.
A flash of black.
The Xenomorph-thing's claws clanged against a blade so black it reflected no light, only void. The force of the impact shattered the ground beneath us, dust and stone erupting in a storm. I blinked against the debris, heart still pounding, mind barely registering what had just happened.
When the dust settled, I saw him.
No, them.
A young-looking figure stood between me and the creature, one hand on the hilt of that sword. They couldn't have been older than thirteen or fourteen—petite, almost delicate—but something about them felt... off.
Uncanny.
Uncanny valley.(This unsettling sensation occurs because entities are too similar to humans but not quite convincingly realistic, triggering a psychological conflict.)
Silver-blue hair shimmered under the sun like flowing moonlight.
Golden eyes shone with stars of blue and red dancing in them. Their beauty was otherworldly, divine, and utterly detached from the carnage around them.
The monster hissed, tail lashing, but the figure didn't flinch.
Their sword twitched once, and the tail was gone—severed, flung aside like garbage. The creature reeled, screaming in a voice that wasn't a sound but a curse.
And then they spoke again.
"You're loud, ugly, and cheeky."
And then he moved.
I didn't see the step. One moment he was there, and the next he was behind the creature, obsidian sword cleaving through it in clean arcs. The monster shrieked, tried to counter, but it was too late.
The killing blow wasn't flashy. Just a casual, almost lazy stab through its center. But the moment the blade pierced the core, the monster disintegrated—imploding in a whirl of dark embers.
Silence.
Even the wind was too afraid to stir.
I stared.
He turned to me then—golden eyes settling on mine. I froze.
There was a strange comfort in that gaze. Like he saw me. Like he knew me.
"You alright?" he asked, voice casual, like we hadn't just been seconds from death. "That thing was annoying. You're lucky I was nearby."
My throat was dry. "Who... are you?"
He tilted his head.
"Oh, right. I should probably introduce myself." He scratched his cheek, sheepish. "Name's Rimuru Tempest."
He smiled again. Bright. Simple.
"I'm a boy."
...
A what?