The pristine Tower of Babel rose into the clouds, a colossal lid sealing away countless dreams.
First floor.
The boy stepped into the Dungeon.
Airmid hadn't been able to stop him—or rather, she didn't have the right to.
He stood for others, defied nightmares for the sake of smiles. His gaze was unwavering.
Airmid had no reason to dissuade him. To deny the boy's resolve would be to deny her own.
When the sun slipped behind the clouds, the human girl looked toward the boy's fading figure in the shadows and silently offered her blessing.
...
At the very top of the Tower of Babel, Goddess Freya stood before the transparent glass, her gaze taking in everything below.
Unlike the last time she'd secretly watched Bell fight, the goddess of beauty now looked like a flawless doll—motionless, silent, staring intently at the youth.
What thoughts lay hidden beneath that perfect, alluring form, no one could say.
...
Eighth floor.
The forge god Hephaestus sat inside her Familia's office.
As Hestia's divine friend, she had never known poverty.
Every weapon shop on these floors belonged to her Familia, and adventurers came in an endless stream to purchase equipment. Familia members moved busily in and out.
"A commission for a magic sword? Ignore that fool."
"If you poured your passion into making it, then set the price yourself."
"Thank you for delivering the gown all the way here. You've done well."
After handling a string of tasks, the red-haired goddess adjusted her eyepatch, a faint melancholy crossing her face.
She was the one who had driven Hestia out, yet she still paid close attention to her friend's circumstances.
Lately, however, rumors surrounding the weakest adventurer had grown increasingly outrageous, and even she found herself worried.
Tomorrow was the day of the Denatus. She couldn't help but wonder—would that useless shut-in of a goddess even show up?
...
Third floor.
The mercenary involved in the kidnapping incident had completely changed his appearance.
The terrifying fang-shaped mask was gone, replaced by an ordinary dark-brown face covering.
His armor, too, had been swapped out for a simple worker's outfit—short sleeves and shorts.
"Huh? You're telling me this place doesn't sell that kind of potion?" His voice still carried its dreadful tone, making the staff of the treatment facility tremble in fear.
He was now running errands for the Guild.
With incidents breaking out across Orario, the Guild had no reason to waste available manpower.
In less than half a day, the man who had once lurked in the shadows had become a convenient laborer for them.
The mercenary found strange comfort in this—at least now, when he went home at noon, he could face his wife and children.
"I'm sorry! There really isn't any potion like the one you described!"
The trembling voice of a young woman pulled him out of his thoughts.
He had already intimidated several employees. Even when he offered bribes, their answers remained the same.
According to the Guild, their inspectors were too conspicuous, so they'd sent him instead—disguised as a laborer—to investigate quietly.
But after all his searching, his conclusion hadn't changed.
There was no information about any new potions within the Tower of Babel's treatment facilities.
The mercenary couldn't understand it. Across the whole of Orario, if someone were selling illegal potions, why would they do it here—inside the Tower of Babel, under the Guild's direct supervision?
Anyone with a shred of sense wouldn't choose such a suicidal location.
So why was the Guild so fixated on this place?
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
If those potions really did come from the Tower of Babel, then they must have originated from the Dungeon itself…
No, that couldn't be right. The Dungeon saw countless adventurers every day. Any attempt at brewing potions there would be discovered immediately.
The mercenary stepped out of the Tower, staring into the abyssal entrance that yawned beneath it.
He gave a self-deprecating chuckle, dismissing his own grim speculation, and turned toward the Guild headquarters on Northwest Street.
As he walked, a burly demi-human carrying a sealed black sack brushed past him.
The mercenary frowned. The man looked oddly familiar.
But before he could turn around again, the demi-human had vanished into the crowd.
In front of the Dungeon's entrance—the very symbol of terror and despair—
A single, fragile strand of silver-white hair drifted soundlessly to the ground.
…
Fifth floor of the Dungeon.
Bell moved forward at an impressive pace. Empowered by the sky-blue dagger, every Goblin that had once posed a challenge now fell with a single strike. The smooth floor stretched on endlessly as the pale blue walls deepened in color.
Despite his success, Bell didn't let victory cloud his judgment. He took out some rations and rested for a moment. For him, today's progress felt unnaturally fast.
The Goblins he encountered hadn't changed in type, and the giant variants he once faced with Heith were nowhere to be found. Advancing through the Dungeon without injury was every adventurer's dream—but standing in that very situation, Bell couldn't shake a faint sense of unease.
That lingering intuition was like an unseen current, swirling between the dungeon walls. Bell set down his gathered loot, scanning his surroundings while spreading out a sheet of parchment. Though he had memorized the map in his mind, writing it down ensured no mistakes.
He had already covered most of the fifth floor. From what he could tell, the main path of this level was nearly a straight line. There were no treasure chests in the Dungeon; profits depended on monster Drop Items and Magic Stone quantities. Most adventurers, upon finding the main route, would be glad to avoid detours and head straight to the sixth floor.
But Bell wasn't like them.
In addition to mapping by hand, he made a point to check every single side path. Walking to each wall before turning back—this frustrating method that drove most adventurers mad was part of Bell's personal approach to exploration. It came from his grandfather's teachings.
"If you don't want to die, treat the Dungeon as your home. Every corner, every fork in the road—memorize them as if you were walking back to your own doorstep."
When he was young, Bell once asked if that wouldn't take too much time.
His grandfather had only smiled. "Make up for the time spent backtracking with your speed. Run. As long as you move fast enough and stay aware of your surroundings, there won't be any problems."
Learning how to see clearly while moving at full speed had once been a personal struggle for Bell. He thought back on those harsh days of training and gave a small smile. As the parchment unfolded in his hands, the faint nostalgia faded away.
Something was wrong with the Dungeon.
The unusually fast progress wasn't just due to his growth—it was tied to the Goblins' weakness. Their numbers and strength had both dropped sharply. Bell frowned. He had heard of malicious monster outbreaks, but never of a Dungeon changing in favor of adventurers.
What was happening?
Doubt spread through him like a rising tide. Just as he hesitated, wondering whether to end the expedition and report to Eina...
Heavy footsteps echoed from a nearby passage.
This was an out-of-the-way area—no one came here except new adventurers. A faint phosphorescent glow revealed several figures.
A burly man walked in front, carrying a long sack in his hands.
In the darkness, something inside the sack gave a faint struggle.