Max
The evening air was cool as Max and Hedin made their way through Orario's torch-lit streets toward the Pantheon. The delay—caused by Max's extended audience with Freya—had pushed their schedule deep into the day.
Max glanced at the sky, trying to formulate an apology. He felt a twinge of guilt; he knew executives were busy people, and he had essentially dragged Hedin out for paperwork after making him wait for hours.
"Mr. Hedin, look, about the wai—"
"Silence," Hedin interrupted, his tone clipped and sharp as a scalpel. He didn't even look back. "Apologies are a waste of breath. Listen instead. Registration is a formality; what matters is that you understand the organization you've been permitted to join."
Max snapped his mouth shut. Right. Listen first, apologize later. Or never.
Hedin walked with a rigid posture, hands clasped behind his back, his white cloak swishing with precise, rhythmic movements. Crowds parted instinctively before them—whether from recognizing the Freya Familia emblem or simply sensing the prickly, high-voltage aura of the elf, Max couldn't tell.
"Seven years ago, the Zeus and Hera Familias were expelled from this city," Hedin began, his voice carrying the cold precision of a lecture delivered to an inferior student. "Their failure against the One-Eyed Black Dragon cost them everything. The power vacuum they left was... considerable. I assume even you understand what happens when the two strongest forces in the world vanish overnight?"
"Chaos," Max answered simply.
"Precisely," Hedin continued flatly. "Every ambitious deity and their ragtag followers scrambled for dominance. The Guild almost lost control. Conflicts erupted. Lesser Familias attempted to claim territory through violence rather than merit. It was inefficient. Wasteful."
They turned down a quieter street, the noise of the main thoroughfare fading behind them.
"The Loki Familia positioned themselves as the public face of order. Flashy. Heroic. Useful for Guild propaganda and dungeon exploration. They thrive on attention." His lips thinned slightly, the closest thing to contempt Max had seen from him. "We, however, do not."
Max watched the elf from the corner of his eye. Hedin wore a hood, likely to maintain a low profile, but his long, pointed ears poked through slits in the fabric, twitching slightly at ambient sounds.
Man, I really want to touch them, Max thought, an intrusive weeb thought fighting for dominance against his survival instincts. Is it a pride thing? Does he leave them out for better hearing, or is it a status symbol?
"Our Mistress's Familia operates differently," Hedin continued, snapping Max's attention back to the lecture. "We do not require the adoration of the masses or the approval of the Guild. Our influence is structural, not theatrical. The hierarchy is absolute, but our roles are distinct."
He gestured vaguely with a gloved hand, ticking off the executives.
"The Gulliver Brothers oversee the conditioning and tactical training of our forces. Allen Fromel handles... removals and high-priority interceptions. Ottar stands as the pinnacle—he is our deterrent, the pillar that keeps the rest of Orario from getting any foolish ideas."
Hedin paused, a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth as he adjusted his glasses.
"And then there is Hogni. That gloomy imbecile acts as our spymaster. He manages espionage and reconnaissance, largely because his brooding nature makes him naturally inclined to lurking in shadows and avoiding actual conversation."
Max stifled a chuckle. He could practically hear Hogni's dramatic inner monologue reacting to that insult.
"And you?" Max asked.
Hedin straightened his lapels, his expression shifting to one of supreme arrogance.
"I oversee strategy, resource allocation, diplomacy, and logistics. Essentially," he glanced at Max with cold coral eyes, "I manage every aspect of the Familia that requires intelligence rather than brute strength. Try not to add to my workload."
Max opened his mouth to ask about familia contribution quotas—the practical stuff Heith had mentioned—but Hedin stopped walking abruptly.
The elf turned to face Max fully, his sharp eyes assessing the recruit with a gaze that felt like it was stripping Max down to his component atoms and finding them wanting.
"You wish to ask about taxes and trivialities," Hedin observed coldly. "You wonder why I am wasting breath on history and hierarchy."
Max blinked. Okay, he's sharp.
"Because Lady Freya has invested resources in you that others would consider wasteful," Hedin stated, his voice devoid of warmth. "A private suite. A Grimoire. A duel with Ottar."
He stepped closer, towering over Max slightly, his presence oppressive.
"Do not mistake her generosity for affection, Maximus. She is a Goddess. We are her warriors. She gave you those things not because you are special, but because she expects a return on her investment. You are a tool she has chosen to sharpen with diamond dust. If you break during the polishing process, you are simply scrap metal."
The implication hung in the air like a guillotine blade: You are not a person to her; you are an asset with a high price tag.
Max suppressed a snort.
You have no idea, do you? He thought, looking at the elf's stern face. You think she's building a weapon. She's actually just lonely and happy someone finally treated her like a normal person.
It was a fundamental misunderstanding of Freya's heart, born from too much worship and not enough empathy. But Max wasn't about to correct him. If Hedin wanted to believe Max was a high-stakes project rather than a friend, that was fine. It made the expectations clearer.
"I understand," Max said, keeping his face neutral. "I won't let the investment go to waste."
Hedin held his gaze for a second longer, searching for arrogance or weakness. Finding only calm acceptance, he scoffed and turned back to the street.
"See that you don't. Come."
They resumed walking, the massive marble facade of the Pantheon looming ahead, glowing softly in the magic torchlight.
Max chewed on the information. It was good lore—valuable insight into the internal machinery of the Familia—but Hedin's delivery was grating. It wasn't mentorship; it was a warning delivered from a pedestal.
Why does every elf I meet hate me? Max wondered, eyeing the back of Hedin's head. He recalled the assault at the lake, the icy glares during the Baptism, and now this condescending lecture. Is it a racial debuff? Does my face just scream 'Enemy of the Forest'?
He looked at Hedin's white cape swaying with every precise step. The Elf considered him a charity case—a lucky fool who stumbled into the Queen's favor, a "tool" to be used and discarded if it proved defective. It was ironic that the man who claimed to manage the Familia's "intelligence" was the one most blind to their Goddess's actual nature. Hedin saw a transaction; Freya saw a connection.
Fair enough, Max thought, a spark of his Devil's Pride flaring in his chest. I haven't proven anything to you yet. To you, I'm just a resource sink.
But he wasn't going to take the insult lying down. He realized he couldn't brute force his way through Hedin's prejudice like he did with Alfrigg's. No, Hedin respected intellect. Strategy. Perfection.
I'll make you eat those words, Max vowed silently. I won't just be a sturdy tool. I'll show you exactly what kind of 'investment' I am.
At least Freya believed in him. And Ottar, in his own stoic way, had challenged him to rise. That was enough fuel for now.
With that, Hedin turned and began to ascend the wide stairs, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone. Max took a deep breath, adjusting his new fingerless gloves, and followed him up toward the massive doors of the Guild Pantheon.
The interior of the Pantheon was exactly as Max remembered from the anime—a vast marble hall filled with adventurers of all ranks, Guild employees hustling between counters, and the constant hum of bureaucratic chaos. The scent of parchment, ink, and nervous sweat filled the air.
Hedin didn't slow. He swept through the main floor with the authority of an executive who had no patience for lines or protocols designed for lesser adventurers.
They bypassed the long lines of waiting adventurers. Hedin's presence alone parted the sea of hopefuls, leading them directly to a specialized counter reserved for the elite factions. The elf nodded once to the red-haired woman behind the desk, and she immediately stood, gesturing for them to follow her into a private consultation booth.
As they took their seats, Max studied the woman. She looked familiar—red hair, sharp professional attire, the weary patience of a civil servant. Then it clicked. She was a background character he saw in the anime.
Without delay, she introduced herself, removing the burden for him to fish the name from his memory. "I'm Rose Fannett, Guild Advisor."
"Hello Ms. Fannett," Max replied, putting on his best noble-facade. "I'm Maximus Stilbon. You can call me Max."
Hedin remained silent, a statue of judgment in the corner of the booth.
"Hello Mr. Max," Rose said, arranging her quill and ink. "I believe you are registering with the Guild today?"
Max nodded.
"Very well." She slid a parchment across the table. "Please enter your details here and submit your Status Sheet as proof of rank."
Max picked up the quill. The form was standard bureaucracy: Name, Age, Race, Familia, Level, Class. Then came the optional fields: Origin, Previous Familia, Guild Loan for Equipment.
He filled in the mandatory fields quickly. He wrote his name, for age, he wrote 13. Technically accurate, he thought, even if my Devil body skipped a few steps and went straight to 'young adult physique.' Puberty was weird enough without adding dimensional reincarnation to the mix. For race, he hesitated for a split second—his instincts from Earth screamed gender, not race—but he wrote Human on autopilot, the falsified entry feeling oddly natural. Familia: Freya Familia. Level 2. And for Class, he wrote Mage. As any sub-class doesn't fit him exactly. And simply didn't answer any optional fields.
He handed the form back to Rose. At the same moment, Hedin reached into his robes and placed the folded parchment onto the desk.
Rose took it, her eyes scanning the data. Her eyebrows shot up toward her hairline.
"Level 2?" she murmured, her quill freezing mid-stroke. Her gaze flicked to Max's face—young, far too young—then back to the parchment. "And... no previous Familia affiliation?"
She glanced at Hedin, clearly seeking confirmation this wasn't a clerical error. The elf's cold stare told her everything: Don't ask questions.
She cleared her throat, regaining her composure. "I see. Everything appears to be in order."
She stamped the registration form with a heavy, magical seal.
"Your registration is complete, Mr. Max. You can officially dungeon dive as a member of the Freya Familia. Based on your Level, the Guild's recommended safe limit for you personally is Floor 12—the base of the Upper Floors."
She glanced nervously at Hedin, who hadn't moved a muscle. "However, given your Familia's... unique training methods, I assume your internal guidelines may differ."
Hedin still said nothing.
"If you have any questions," Rose added quickly, turning back to the more approachable Max, "please ask."
Max leaned back in his chair. He looked at the impassive Hedin. His instincts screamed at him to stay quiet, to be the obedient soldier Hedin wanted him to be. But the Elf's lecture outside—about strength alone being insufficient, about understanding structure—rankled him.
You want me to understand the system? Fine. I'll understand it my way.
"Actually, yes," Max said, ignoring the temperature drop in the room. "Can you explain to me how I should go about exchanging monster stones and drop items?"
Rose blinked, confused. "Exchange? But... your Familia has its own magic stone collection point. Most large Familias exchange stones in bulk with the Guild to streamline taxes."
"I'm aware," Max said smoothly. "But I've heard there are restrictions on what the Familia accepts."
Rose's expression cleared with understanding. "Ah, yes. Freya Familia typically does not process low-value stones at their internal counter. They won't accept monster stones harvested from floors 'above' Floor 7—meaning Floors 1 through 6."
Max nodded. It made sense. The elite faction didn't want their accountants wasting time counting Goblin pebbles. They wanted quality.
"In that case," Rose continued, "for anything gathered from the shallow floors, you can exchange them directly with us here at the Guild. We will apply the same tax rates, but your contribution to your Familia is... well, an internal affair you'll have to discuss with your captain."
"Understood," Max said. "In that case, can you give me a price sheet for all monster drops up to Floor 12? If that is not too much of a hassle."
Rose looked surprised by the specific request—most rookies just wanted to know how to swing a sword, not the market value of a kobold's toenail—but she nodded efficiently. She opened a drawer and produced a few sheets of printed parchment.
"Here you are. Standard market rates for the Upper Floors."
Max took the sheets, his eyes scanning the data rapidly.
Goblin Stone: 75 Valis. Drop Item (Fang): 125 Valis.
Kobold Stone: 125 Valis. Drop Item (Nail): 225 Valis.
.
.
.
Orc Stone: 21000 Valis. Drop Item (Orc Hide): 27500 Valis.
Silverback Stone: 22000 Valis
Infant Dragon Stone: 35000 Valis
He skimmed the rest, his mind crunching numbers. The prices were... lower than he'd hoped. Even if he farmed the first few floors like a machine, hitting that 100 Million mark was going to take an eternity on trash mobs. He needed volume, or he needed depth.
Floor 12 drops are decent, he noted. If I run my 'Uber' service there...
He spent a solid minute going through the list, cross-referencing it with the monsters he remembered from the anime.
Finally, he looked up, offering Rose a charming smile. "Thank you for all your help, Ms. Fannett. That will be all."
He stood up, walking past Hedin to the booth's door. He opened it and held it for the Guild employee, channeling his "noble" persona again. "After you."
Rose flushed slightly at the courtesy. "T-Thank you, Mr. Max. Good luck in the Dungeon."
She hurried out to file the paperwork.
Max turned back to Hedin. The former Elf King hadn't moved from his seat, but his aura had darkened considerably. He stood slowly, adjusting his glasses, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light. He clearly wasn't amused by Max taking charge of the meeting.
Max kept his face neutral, but his heart rate spiked. Here it comes.
Without a word, Hedin swept past him and out of the booth. Max followed silently, bracing himself for the inevitable lecture—or punishment—waiting for him outside.
"Since you seem to be in a rush, I wouldn't hinder you any longer. You can be on your way to the dungeon. You are allowed to dive till Floor 18 based on your assessment." Hedin spoke as they walked out.
"Understood," Max said, already calculating the travel time. "About the drop exchange—"
"We will discuss operational protocols on the way to Babel," Hedin interrupted coolly. "Your impulsive questioning at the Guild was... ill-advised. I will ensure you understand the proper channels moving forward."
As they walked toward Babel, Hedin delivered the rest of his lecture with cold precision:
"You can exchange the stones and drop items with our merchants beside the armory. We have blacksmithing contracts with both Goibniu and Hephaestus familias. After you have gained enough materials, you can visit any of them."
He paused, his gaze sharpening. "The contribution to the Familia is voluntary." Hedin's eyes narrowed into slits behind his glasses. "However, I wouldn't expect anything less than 50% of your earnings from you. This is not a suggestion. It is an expectation commensurate with the resources Lady Freya has invested in you."
They reached the massive shadow of Babel. Hedin looked up at the tower, his expression hardening.
"You are NOT allowed to visit Lady Freya in Babel. IS THAT CLEAR?"
Max nodded silently. Jealousy is a bad look on you, elf.
"You can begin your dungeon dive," Hedin said, turning on his heel. Without waiting for a second, he vanished into the crowd, leaving Max alone in the plaza.
After checking to ensure no other Level 5s were lurking in the shadows to ambush, Max ran through his mental checklist. He had his gear from the armory. His Power of Destruction was ready. His Kidō spells were practiced. Now, he just needed supplies.
He turned toward the Dian Cecht Familia pharmacy lining Babel's first floor. As he walked, his mind locked onto his target: Floor 18. The Under Resort. Rivira.
Hedin had set Floor 18 as the hard limit, likely expecting Max to barely scrape by in the upper floors. Max intended to treat it as a starting line.
It wasn't just about spiting the elf—though his Devil's Pride certainly enjoyed the thought of shattering Hedin's expectations on day one. It was a matter of logistics. Rivira was a safe zone deep in the dungeon. If he could plant a teleportation circle there, he would effectively unlock fast-travel to the Middle Floors.
Think about the efficiency, Max mused, weaving through the crowd of adventurers. Instead of spending hours crawling through goblin-infested tunnels just to reach the good hunting grounds, I could portal straight to the high-value targets. Instant access. Zero wasted stamina. It's the difference between a daily commute and a private helicopter.
Infrastructure wasn't flashy, but it was power.
Plus, the money was significantly better down there. War Shadows on the 6th Floor were decent pocket change, but the Middle Floor monsters dropped stones worth tens of thousands. If he wanted to clear his "debt" to Freya and buy supplies without relying on charity, he needed that revenue stream immediately.
And I need to stress-test Independent Action, he reminded himself. Goblins are too squishy; they'll fold before I learn anything useful about the protocol's limits. I need Hellhounds. Almiraj. Things that actually fight back.
He stepped into the well-lit pharmacy, the sharp scent of herbs and alchemical reagents hitting him instantly.
Max pulled out his coin pouch and did a final count. Three gold coins and a silver coin. 35,000 Valis total.
If I stash 5,000 for emergency—just in case I go to the Hostess again—I have 30,000 to burn.
It wasn't a fortune, especially considering the inflated prices of dungeon essentials, but it would have to do. He could have exchanged his goblin stones from the desert at the Guild, but returning immediately after registration would draw unnecessary attention. He'd have to make do with his starting capital.
He walked deeper into the store, bypassing the front shelves.
The anime wasn't kidding, he thought, eyeing a small vial labeled 'Minor Healing'. 100 Valis for something that basically heals a paper cut. Useless.
He moved to the mid-tier shelf. Standard Potions were 500 Valis. Better, but still weak. He needed something that could pull him back from the brink if his PoD healing failed or if he was overwhelmed.
"Antidotes are mandatory for the moth variants," he muttered, grabbing a few green vials. "Recovery Potions for stamina... and Mind Potions."
As Max browsed, muttering a running commentary on the pricing strategy of the Dian Cecht monopoly like a disgruntled car buyer, Kairu shifted beneath his shirt, vibrating softly. Max glanced down. The slime had poked a pseudopod out near his collar, drawn to the magical reagents and alchemical scents filling the store.
"Not now," Max whispered, gently tucking the slime back under the fabric. "You can't eat the merchandise."
Just then, as if the employees saw him acting suspiciously from a camera, a voice piped up from behind him. "Hello, Mr.!"
Caught.
Max turned around *,* already forming an excuse. He looked left, then right. Nobody.
Then he looked down.
Standing there was a girl—no, a young woman—with short silver hair, wide purple eyes, and the kind of perfect, disarming smile that screamed sales expert. She wore a crisp white uniform with the Dian Cecht Familia emblem, her hands clasped politely in front of her.
The height difference was so drastic that Max's brain automatically categorized her as a child despite the professional demeanor.
"Oh, uh—hello, little miss," Max said, leaning slightly to meet her eyes.
The girl's smile didn't falter, but her tone shifted to something earnest and gently probing. "Are you unsure what to buy for your dungeon dive?"
Max straightened, amused. She's good. Spotted the hesitant customer and swooped in like a hawk. He decided to play along. "Yes, actually. My name is Max, and I'm planning to go to the 18th Floor."
The girl's eyes widened. Her smile froze for just a heartbeat before recovering, but her voice took on a suspicious edge. "Isn't that too fast for someone new to Orario?"
Max gave her a small, knowing smile. "What made you think I'm new here?"
She tilted her head, confidence radiating from her tiny frame. "I didn't see you before, and I'm here almost every day. Unless you shop somewhere else—" her tone suggested that was absurd, "—I'm confident you're new."
Max couldn't help himself. He reached out and patted the top of her head gently, genuinely impressed. "You're sharp, little miss. Yes, I'm new. But I'm Level 2, so you don't need to worry about me."
He flashed a confident grin, the kind that had gotten him through more than one tight spot.
The girl's face immediately flushed pink. Her polite smile crumbled into an indignant pout. She folded her arms, puffed her cheeks, and—in a display of hilariously mature defiance—stuck her tongue out at him.
"I'm not little miss!" she snapped, her voice tinged with wounded pride. "My name is Airmid. Airmid Teasanare. Junior Doctor."
The title was delivered with such dignity that Max paused, really looking at her for the first time.
Silver hair. Purple eyes. Petite frame but with the professional bearing of someone far older. The uniform. The confidence.
And the title. Junior Doctor. At her age, that wasn't just impressive. It was prodigious.
Oh.
Recognition hit him like a brick.
That's Airmid. THE Airmid. Future top-tier healer and Dian Cecht Familia's ace. He'd only seen her in passing in the anime—usually as a mature, composed beauty in her late teens. But this was clearly a younger version, still working her way up in the Dian Cecht Familia before she'd eventually become the Head Healer.
Max straightened, adjusting his tone to something more respectful. "My apologies, Airmid. I didn't mean to offend."
Airmid's cheeks were still pink, but she nodded stiffly, mollified. "Apology accepted. Now, as I was saying—Floor 18 is a serious dive. Let me help you prepare properly."
Max gestured to the shelves. "Please. I'm all ears."
Airmid's professionalism snapped back into place instantly. She clasped her hands behind her back and launched into what was clearly a well-rehearsed pitch, though her voice carried genuine concern.
"Floor 18 is the Under Resort—a safe zone. But reaching it means passing through Floors 13 to 17, the Cave Labyrinth. That's Middle Floor territory. Monsters there are significantly stronger, and the terrain is treacherous." She glanced at him. "You said you're Level 2 and a mage?"
"Correct. Though I'm also developing hand-to-hand combat skills."
"Good. That versatility will help." Airmid moved briskly down the aisle, pulling bottles as she spoke. "As a mage, your biggest risk is Mind exhaustion. If you run out of magic in the middle of the labyrinth, you're dead. I recommend High Mind Potions—more efficient than standard ones."
She held up a glowing blue bottle. "Normally two thousand Valis each, but we have a promotion: buy ten, get one free."
Max raised an eyebrow. A promotion. In a monopoly pharmacy. Sure.
"Next," Airmid continued, already moving, "Antidotes. Floors 7 and below have venomous monsters—Purple Moths, Killer Ants. You absolutely need antidotes. Standard grade should suffice for Floors 13-17." She pulled three bottles. "Normally one thousand each, but buy three, get one free."
There it is. The upsell.
"Recovery Potions," Airmid said, her tone becoming more animated. "You'll be diving for hours. Even with Level 2 stamina, exhaustion will set in. Standard Recovery Potions restore energy without healing wounds—which means they complement your magic use perfectly." She stacked eight bottles. "Buy eight, get two free."
Max opened his mouth to protest, but Airmid was already grabbing more items, her small hands moving with practiced efficiency.
"Status Ailment Cures—paralysis, burns, petrification. Hellhounds on Floor 15 breathe fire. Purple Moths on Floor 7 paralyze. You need protection." She set down three small vials. "Four thousand five hundred Valis total—covers all three."
"And finally," Airmid said, holding up a larger, dual-colored bottle with a flourish, "a Dual Potion. Recovery and Mind in one. Perfect for emergencies when you need both stamina and magic restored quickly. Normally five thousand, but today it's thirty-five hundred."
She set the entire collection on the counter, beaming up at him with that perfect sales smile.
Max stared at the pile of bottles, then at Airmid, then back at the bottles.
She just cleaned me out.
He pulled out his coin pouch, checking the contents. Exactly thirty-five thousand Valis. He'd been planning to spend maybe thirty thousand, tops.
This girl is a menace. A tiny, adorable, terrifyingly competent menace.
"Let me get this straight," Max said slowly. "You're telling me all of this—" he gestured to the haul, "—is necessary?"
Airmid nodded solemnly. "Floor 18 is no joke, Mr. Max. If you're going solo, you need every advantage. These aren't luxuries. They're survival."
Max looked into her earnest purple eyes and saw not greed, but genuine concern.
She actually believes this. She's not scamming me—she's trying to keep me alive.
He sighed, pulled out the coins, and placed them on the counter. "Alright, Junior Doctor Airmid. You win. Ring it up."
Airmid's professional mask cracked into a bright, genuine smile. "Thank you for your purchase! Let me pack these for you properly."
As she wrapped each bottle carefully in cloth and arranged them in a sturdy carrying case, Max watched her work with a mixture of exasperation and respect.
I just got upsold by someone who barely reaches my shoulder. And I'm not even mad about it.
"Here you are," Airmid said, handing him the case. It was surprisingly well-organized—quick-access pouches for the most critical items, padded slots for fragile bottles. "The layout is optimized for combat retrieval. Mind Potions on the right, antidotes on the left, Recovery Potions in the center pocket."
Max hefted the case, impressed. "You really know your stuff."
Airmid's cheeks flushed again, but this time with pride. "I've been studying medicine and adventurer logistics for years. My goal is to become the best healer in Orario."
"I believe you will," Max said sincerely.
For a moment, Airmid's professional veneer dropped entirely. She looked up at him with something like hope. "Really?"
"Really."
She smiled—not the sales smile, but something softer, more vulnerable. "Thank you, Mr. Max. Please... be careful down there."
Max gave her a reassuring smile and turned toward the door, potion case in hand—
"Wait!"
He paused, glancing back. Airmid's expression had shifted again, her purple eyes sharp with concern.
"You didn't buy any healing potions," she said, her voice taking on the patient gravity of a doctor delivering bad news.
Max opened his mouth to respond, already thinking about his PoD Healing and how he may not need one.
"Recovery Potions restore stamina. The Dual Potion helps with energy and mind. But if you get hurt—actually injured—you won't have anything to close wounds." She stepped out from behind the counter, her small hands clasped earnestly. "What if you encounter a Minotaur that wandered up from the Middle Floors? Or a Dungeon Worm? Those creatures don't just scratch—they maim. Even with regenerative magic or skills, there's always the chance something hits you too hard, too fast."
She looked up at him, and her voice softened. "It's better to be safe than sorry."
Max hesitated. She wasn't wrong. His Power of Destruction could heal most wounds, but if something overwhelmed him before he could activate it properly, if he got caught off-guard...
"I'm out of money," he admitted, gesturing to his now-empty coin pouch.
Airmid's expression shifted—not disappointed, but thoughtful. She tapped her chin, then moved back behind the counter with purpose. She reached beneath it and pulled out three crimson vials, each one larger and more vibrant than the standard potions on the shelf. High Potions, he assumed.
"These can heal major injuries—deep gashes, broken bones, anything short of fatal wounds," she explained. "They're ten thousand Valis each normally." She set them on the counter between them. "If you use them, you'll need to pay me fifty thousand Valis when you return."
Fifty thousand?!
Max's eyes flicked to the shelf price tags. She was charging almost double the retail price for a conditional loan.
He opened his mouth to refuse. His Freya Familia emblem had to count for something—he could just borrow potions and pay them back later, right?
"We don't allow borrowing of our potions," Airmid said, as if reading his thoughts. Her voice remained sweet but firm. "Not even to your Familia. It's Dian Cecht Familia policy."
Max's jaw clicked shut. Of course they don't.
His next thought was to barter his magic stones. But then another idea struck him. A better one.
He looked at Airmid, his expression calm and measured.
"How much do you buy healing items from the Dungeon for?"
Airmid blinked, confusion flickering across her face. "Healing items? You mean—"
"Drop items," Max clarified. "Monster parts used in potion-making."
Understanding dawned in her eyes, and they widened slightly. "You want to pay in healing materials?" A small smile tugged at her lips. "Like Papilio Wings?"
Max nodded. "Bingo."
Airmid studied him for a long moment, her sharp eyes reassessing. The childish sales clerk persona fell away entirely, replaced by something far more calculating. When she spoke again, her voice carried the measured tone of a merchant evaluating a trade.
"A pair of fully intact Papilio Wings—no tears, no burns—are worth eight thousand five hundred Valis to us," she said slowly. "Damaged wings are worth significantly less. We need them pristine for potion synthesis."
She tapped the crimson vials. "You can give me two pairs for one High Potion."
Max's mind raced through the math. Two pairs—17,000 Valis worth of materials—for a 10,000 Valis potion. She was still marking it up, just hiding it behind material costs.
He narrowed his eyes. "I'll get you four pairs. You give me three potions."
Airmid's fingers drummed lightly on the counter. Her eyes flicked upward, calculating. Four pairs would be 34,000 Valis worth of wings. Three potions at retail were 30,000 Valis, but with her markup...
She was still making a profit. Just a smaller one.
Her lips pursed. Max could practically see the internal debate—take the guaranteed profit margin on the original deal, or accept slightly less for more volume and a potential repeat customer?
After a full minute of deliberation, she nodded.
"Deal." Then her voice took on that innocent, earnest tone again, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. "But if you fail to bring me four pairs of intact wings... you'll owe me seventy-five thousand Valis instead. That's the retail value of the three potions, plus a... service fee."
Max caught the increase immediately. She quoted fifty thousand for the cash loan option, but now that he negotiated her into accepting wings instead—something harder to guarantee—she raised the failure penalty by fifty percent. It was a calculated move: either he delivered perfect specimens, or the debt would hurt enough to make him think twice before using the potions carelessly.
Smart. She was protecting her inventory while making him shoulder the risk of his own negotiation.
Max didn't flinch. His Devil's Pride wouldn't let him. "Understood." He said in a calm tone.
Airmid's smile returned—bright, genuine, and slightly proud. She pulled the three red vials from the counter and moved around to his potion case. With practiced efficiency, she opened a separate compartment he hadn't noticed before—a padded, temperature-controlled section clearly designed for premium items—and tucked the High Potions inside.
"These need to stay cool and protected," she explained, her doctor persona reasserting itself. "Don't mix them with your other potions. And remember—these are for emergencies only. They work fast, but they'll make you drowsy for about thirty seconds after consumption. Don't use one mid-combat unless you absolutely have to."
Max nodded, filing the information away.
Airmid stepped back, clasping her hands in front of her. "Good luck, Mr. Max. I'll be waiting for those wings." Her smile turned impish. "And please come back alive. I'd hate to have to track down your Familia for collection."
Max couldn't help but grin. "You'll get your wings. And I'll make sure to tell you which potions I used."
"I'm counting on it." She tilted her head, her silver hair catching the lamplight. "Oh, and Mr. Max? One more thing."
He paused at the door.
"For the record," she added with a small, satisfied smile, "I'm eleven. Not seven. Most people assume I'm younger because of my height, but I've been studying medicine since I was six."
Max laughed, genuinely caught off-guard. "Noted. See you around, Junior Doctor."
He walked out of the pharmacy, potion case in hand, thirty-five thousand Valis lighter, a new quest objective burning in his mind, and somehow not regretting a single coin.
Worth it, he thought, glancing back through the window at the girl already greeting the next customer with that perfect smile. Absolutely worth it.
He tallied his assets mentally as he stepped into the plaza.
10 + 1 High Mind Potions: 20,000 Valis.
3 + 1 Antidotes: 3,000 Valis.
8 + 2 Recovery Potions: 4,000 Valis.
3 Status Cures: 4,500 Valis.
1 Dual Potion: 3,500 Valis.
Total: 35,000 Valis.
+
3 High Potions (on loan): 4 pairs of Papilio Wings OR 75,000 Valis.
Max was officially broke. But he was also officially prepared for Floor 18.
Well, almost.
He stepped outside the Dian Cecht shop and froze.
The provision store two doors down caught his eye—window display full of dried meats, hardtack, water skins. All the stuff he'd need for a multi-day dive.
Max looked down at his empty coin pouch.
Oh.
Oh no.
He mentally replayed the last forty minutes. Airmid's smile. The potions piling up. The cheerful "Thank you for your purchase!" The negotiation over wings.
I spent everything on potions.
Max stared at the provision store. Then at his potion case. Then back at the store.
I bought eleven Mind Potions, negotiated a quest for healing potions, and forgot to eat.
He rubbed his face. Smooth, Max. Real professional.
But then...
Wait.
His hand went to the other compartment in the bag—the one with his magic stones from his first dive. He pulled it open. Goblin stones, Kobold stones, their drop items. But...
Do they take stones?
Max walked toward the provision store before he could talk himself out of it.
-◈ -
The bell above the door chimed—a sharp, brassy sound that cut through the quiet store.
Max stepped inside, and the sterile, chemical scent of the pharmacy was immediately replaced by the earthy, savory smell of cured meats, dried herbs, and old leather. It was a cluttered space, shelves packed floor-to-ceiling with gear that looked used but well-maintained.
A broad-shouldered man emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a rag. He moved with a distinct, favoring limp in his left leg.
Stiff knee, scarring on the forearms, alert eyes, Max noted instantly. Retired adventurer. He concluded.
"Welcome!" The man's smile was wide and sweet, the kind reserved for tourists with heavy purses. His eyes, however, performed a quick, calculating sweep of Max's frame. "Looking for something special?"
Okay, so we're doing another 'friendly shopkeeper' routine.
"I need food and supplies," Max said, keeping his voice business-like. "Two, maybe three days' worth."
The shopkeeper nodded, already moving behind the counter. "Going for a long dive? We've got some premium jerky that just came in from—"
His sales pitch died in his throat. His gaze, having finished its sweep of Max's gear, had landed on the crest emblazoned on the chest of his tunic.
Freya Familia.
The man's smile didn't disappear, but it changed. The predatory edge vanished, replaced by a guarded, professional respect. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Noticing his gaze, Max realised the emblem does work. Hedin wasn't kidding about the reputation. He thought.
"Of course," the shopkeeper corrected himself, his tone less flowery and more efficient. "Three days. Standard dungeon ration pack."
He moved fast despite the limp, his hands deft as he pulled items from the shelves. He thumped a heavy sack of jerky onto the counter, followed by blocks of sealed hardtack, a durable water skin, and a tightly rolled bedroll.
"You're carrying a lot already," the man noted, gesturing to Max's belt. He reached under the counter and produced a leather pack inscribed with faint capacity runes. "If you take one of our expanded storage bags, I'll give you a discount on the bundle."
Max patted the small bag at his waist. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm good."
The man sighed, putting the bag away. "Worth a shot. That'll be fifteen thousand Valis."
Max didn't flinch, though he winced internally. Of course it is.
"I'm short on coin," Max said, placing his empty coin pouch on the counter to emphasize the point. "Do you take magic stones?"
The shopkeeper's eyebrows raised. "We prefer Valis, but... I can make an exception. Standard merchant rates apply, though. I have to make a profit." He rattled off the numbers. "Goblin stones at fifty Valis, Kobold at one hundred."
It was a lowball offer, but Max didn't bat an eye.
"Fine."
Max opened the secondary compartment of his storage bag and began to empty it.
Clatter. Clatter.
A stream of small, dull stones poured onto the wooden counter. Then larger ones. It turned into a small pile that gleamed dully in the lantern light.
"Fifty Kobold. Two hundred Goblin," Max stated.
The shopkeeper stared at the pile. He didn't start counting immediately. Instead, he looked at the stones—the sheer volume of them—and then slowly looked up at Max's face. Two hundred and fifty kills. Fresh stones. And Max didn't look like he had a scratch on him.
"You... you cleared this many on a single run?" the man asked, his voice losing the last of its salesman veneer.
"Just warming up," Max replied evenly.
The shopkeeper did a quick mental calculation, then looked at Max with new eyes. "You're a Level 2, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
"That explains it."
The man shook his head, impressed despite himself. He swept the stones into a sorting box beneath the counter without bothering to count them individually—he trusted the weight. He efficiently packed the supplies into a compact bundle, tying it off with twine.
"This will last three days easily. Maybe four if you ration it."
With a nod, Max took the bundle and tucked it into his storage pouch. "Thanks."
"Good hunting," the shopkeeper said, and this time, the sentiment sounded genuine. "Be careful down there. The Middle Floors are no joke."
Max paused with his hand on the door handle. He looked back, eyebrow raised. "I never said I was going to the Middle Floors."
The man tapped his temple, a wry grin stretching his scars. "Twenty years in the Dungeon, kid. You learn to read gear, and you learn to read intentions." He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "Plus, you've got that look."
"What look?" Max asked curiously.
"The one rookies get right before they try something ambitious and possibly stupid."
Max snorted, pushing the door open. "Fair enough."
-◈ -
He stepped back into the plaza, finally—finally—ready.
Kairu shifted under his shirt, vibrating with excitement.
"Alright, buddy," Max murmured. "Floor 18. Let's go make Hedin regret every word."
Babel Tower loomed ahead, its entrance glowing softly at the base.
Max walked toward it.
Time to conquer the Dungeon.
--> Devil in a Dungeon <--
AN:
We are getting into the juicy part of the story now. This arc is called Devil in the Dungeon. Even the most planned people make mistakes and Max experienced that first hand now. Bro forgot the important stuff as Airmid managed to milk him dry of all his money. Who could resist a concerned, cute little doctor when she goes full sleezy salesman mode?
Aside from that the dungeon dive is expected to be 3-5 chaps long as I planned quite few things in the dive and this is going to be different compared to his first dive :)
This Arc is called Devil in the Dungeon.
Do share your thoughts on the story and how deep would Max go during the dive in a review/comment.
If you'd like to read 4 chapters ahead, support my work, or commission a story idea, visit p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m/b3smash.
Please note that the chapters are early access only, they will be eventually released here as well.
Next update will be on Saturday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.