[Bloom Moon 21, 1222 OR – Dungeon, 21st Floor: Verdant Rift]
The air here clung heavy to the skin—warm, damp, and fragrant with the scent of moss and something sweetly decayed. Thick vines hung low over mist-veiled paths, swaying faintly as if the floor itself breathed. The Verdant Rift was nothing like the jagged stone and ruin of the 20th. Here, it was all overgrowth and shadow.
And monsters.
Felis stepped through a curtain of foliage, boots silent against the root-strewn path. Two days on this floor, and he'd learned the rhythm of it. When the vines twitched too long without wind—ambush. When the birdsong stopped—something bigger lurked.
Golden eyes flicked left.
Chirp. Rustle.
Almiraj. Easy prey.
He didn't even draw his sword for the first one. A swift kick snapped its neck. The second tried to bolt, but a thrown dagger ended the thought before it could fully form.
He crouched, retrieving it without a word. His tail flicked once.
"Too quiet again…"
The undergrowth trembled—too subtle for a Sword Stag, too smooth for an Almiraj. Felis halted, golden eyes scanning the dense greenery ahead. Mist clung to the edges of his vision, the moisture in the air carrying faint traces of pollen and musk.
He stepped lightly, blade angled low—not quite raised, but not at rest either. His tail flicked once.
Then, a flash of striped fur—a Lygerfang burst from the vines, jaws wide.
Felis pivoted cleanly, avoiding the initial lunge. The beast skidded across wet moss, tried to correct, but he was already moving. His sword arced in a tight half-circle—clang—metal met fang, forcing the creature's mouth aside. It stumbled, teeth bared.
No hesitation.
Felis drove the blade forward—not through the eye, but into the gap beneath the jawline. The edge sank deep, angled upward to strike the brainstem. A clean, swift kill.
The Lygerfang's legs twitched once before its body dissolved into black ash.
He exhaled once through his nose. 'They move faster here…'
Another presence stirred behind him. He turned, already lifting his blade again—but it was just the echo of mist. Nothing emerged.
The dagger on his thigh stayed untouched. He didn't need it—not yet. His main weapon still held an edge, still moved like it was part of him.
Felis moved on in silence, deeper into the Rift's tangled maze.
The forest pulsed around him, thicker with breath and movement than before. Felis narrowed his gaze as he ducked beneath a flowering vine, its petals trembling from the draft of something passing above.
He didn't hear them at first.
He felt them—wings slicing through air like razors. A high-pitched hum followed, then the glint of segmented bodies. Three. No—four. Deadly Hornets.
He moved.
The first stinger darted past his shoulder, venom glistening on the barb. Felis twisted mid-step, swiping his sword sideways—one Hornet's wing clipped, its flight staggered. It spiraled down, twitching, and he crushed it underfoot with a sharp crack.
Another circled around, diving low. He raised his blade in a vertical arc, catching its underbelly and splitting it clean. The pieces dissolved midair.
The last two came in a synchronized pattern—one feinting high, the other low. Felis ducked, letting the upper one pass overhead. The lower one came within inches before he stepped into it, using the weight of his body and the sharpened edge of his sword to drive through its carapace.
A hiss. Not from the Hornets.
His ears twitched.
Something larger moved between trees—heavy footfalls, deliberate. Then a low growl. Trees parted, vines snapping under thick, calloused arms.
A Bugbear emerged.
Broad shoulders, squat neck, and arms like clubs. The beast bared cracked fangs and rushed forward without warning.
Felis didn't backpedal. He sidestepped. Dirt burst beneath his boots as he moved in close. The Bugbear's swing missed by inches, crashing into a moss-covered tree and splitting the bark.
He didn't try to overpower it. He went for the tendons.
One clean slash behind the knee. The Bugbear roared, stumbled. Another cut beneath its raised arm—deep, controlled, disabling. It tried to grab him in retaliation, but Felis slipped low, came up behind, and rammed his sword into the spine just below the neck.
The creature collapsed, groaning until it flickered into ash, leaving behind a cracked fang and hide fragment.
Felis exhaled quietly, straightening as the forest settled again.
No wounds. Mana still steady. No need to rest yet.
He sheathed his sword, brushed a speck of ash off his wrist, and pressed on.
Mist swallowed his form again.
═════════════════════════
Bloom Moon 21 – Dungeon, 6th Floor
The walls dripped with dampness. Pale moss glowed faintly between cracks, casting eerie green shadows across the uneven stone. Bell's boots slid slightly as he darted forward, breath sharp in his throat, heart hammering like a drum.
He should've turned back.
The sixth floor had always felt… manageable. A place he'd come to understand through repetition—its curves, its rhythms. But today, the Dungeon wasn't playing nice.
A skittering echo came from behind. He whirled—too late. A War Shadow lunged from the wall, blade arms raised.
Clang!
Steel shrieked as his Moonpiercer met its strike. He staggered, forced back a step, nearly tripping over the uneven terrain.
More shadows slithered from the gloom. Two. Three. Five.
Bell's grip tightened on his dagger.
'Don't panic. Breathe. Foot low to the ground, weight forward… Just like Felis taught me.'
But the Frog Shooters had the angle—bolts whizzed past his head, one clipping his arm. Blood welled, warm and sudden.
He hissed, ducked behind a rocky spur, but the War Shadows advanced relentlessly. No pause. No fear. Just hunger.
'Why now? Why all at once?!'
He wasn't fast enough. Not to dodge and strike. Not without backup.
He dropped to a crouch, slashing upward as one creature pounced.
Slice—its arm flew off.
But another replaced it.
His steel dagger—already notched—was struck from his hand, clattering across the floor and disappearing into the dark.
"Dammit—!"
The Moonpiercer sang through flesh again, but his movements were slowing. His shoulders ached. His legs burned. Sweat stung his eyes.
And the wall was getting closer.
He was running out of room.
'No. I can't—I don't want to die here.'
But he couldn't see a way out.
A War Shadow lashed at him. Bell blocked with his forearm guard, but the blow drove him to a knee.
His pulse roared in his ears.
'Felis would've seen this coming. Narissa would've warned me about the echo. I—I walked into this alone… because I didn't want to be a burden.'
Another bolt grazed his shoulder. A shallow cut.
But it felt like the whole world was bleeding.
'So stupid… I'm still so weak.'
He staggered upright. Wobbled. Faced the remaining War Shadows with shaking hands.
But even now—he didn't run.
A blur passed behind him.
A breath of wind that didn't belong in the Dungeon.
Steel danced like moonlight on a quiet pond.
The first War Shadow was bisected cleanly. The second never got the chance to scream.
Bell turned, stunned—barely processing what he saw.
A girl stood between him and the monsters.
Long blonde hair. Sword drawn. Calm eyes.
She didn't shout. Didn't strike a pose. Just moved like falling water, effortless and cold.
Slash.
Another one down.
One blink later, the corridor was quiet.
She turned to him slowly. No smile. Just a quiet, steady presence.
"You fought well."
Bell's lips parted, but no words came. Just his heartbeat, still echoing in his skull.
It was her.
The girl from Babel.
The one whose name floated like a half-remembered dream.
'Ais Wallenstein.'
Before he could speak, she turned.
"Don't stop," she said over her shoulder. "Keep going."
And then she was gone, footsteps silent against the stone.
Bell stood frozen.
The pain of his wounds had dulled. Or maybe he just didn't feel it.
Something inside him was trembling. Something deeper than fear, deeper than awe.
'She saw me.'
'She saved me.'
'But I don't want to be saved forever.'
His hands clenched, blood dripping from his palm.
He remembered her voice.
"Keep going."
And from the hollow space in his chest where despair had begun to form…
…a fire ignited.
Small. Flickering.
But stubborn.
After Ais disappeared into the shadows of the deeper Dungeon, Bell finally snapped out of his daze. His heart was still racing—not from admiration, but from the memory of claws tearing into him and how close he'd come to death.
With shaking fingers, he uncorked a potion and drank.
The liquid worked its magic fast—sealing cuts, knitting skin, easing the worst of the pain. But it didn't erase it all. The ache lingered, heavy and deep beneath the surface. A reminder.
He looked toward the path upward.
"…That's enough for today."
Bell didn't return to the surface in shame—just silence. No victory, no defeat. Just the quiet truth that he'd crossed a line he wasn't ready for.
═════════════════════════
Freya.
Her gaze was elsewhere—half-lost in the rhythm of Orario's dusk, the idle flicker of divine boredom.
And then— A flare.
Faint. Sharp. Ugly in the way that only beauty unfinished could be.
A soul. Small. Cracked. And burning for something it couldn't hold.
Freya's eyes opened slowly.
"That again."
A whisper in the dark, not toward her—but within herself.
It wasn't love.
It wasn't even hope.
It was the sting of longing weaponized.
She let her gaze follow it.
Not out of hunger.
Out of curiosity.
Because souls like that—those that split under pressure rather than crumple— They didn't shatter. They evolved.
He didn't run from the Dungeon.
He walked.
Not proud. Not panicked.
Just… measured. Like a boy hoping no one would notice he was broken if he moved just right.
Freya watched from her distant perch—no expression on her lips, only that steady, knowing stillness.
═════════════════════════
Back on the surface, he didn't go home.
Not yet.
Instead, he walked the side streets of Orario, head low. At a supply stall, he replaced the potion he'd used. At a clothing shop, he bought a new set nearly identical to what he wore now. A cover-up. Just in case.
"I said I wouldn't go deeper than the Fifth Floor…" he muttered. His grip tightened on the bag. "And I nearly died."
His armor told the story clearly—dented, scratched, even cracked along one of the plates.
He couldn't bring that home.
Not until it was fixed.
═════════════════════════
Her gaze followed him even outside the Dungeon.
"Replacing what was used."
"So no one will know he drank it to survive."
She realized then—he feared their judgment more than his death.
"He's not recovering."
"He's editing."
═════════════════════════
Later, following the directions Felis had once casually given him, Bell found his way to a modest Hephaestus Familia branch tucked at the eastern edge of the Artisan's Row. The forge stood sturdy and unpolished—red-brick and stone, its soot-darkened chimney already trailing smoke into the sky. From inside came the steady, rhythmic clang of hammer against steel—calm and unyielding, unlike the pounding of his own heart.
He stepped in, armor in his arms, keeping his face neutral.
The workshop wasn't grand—just warm with forge heat and the scent of metal and oil. Sparks crackled somewhere behind the curtain of tools, and the rhythm of hammer on steel carried like a heartbeat.
Bell stepped inside, clutching his damaged armor. His clothes were plain again, freshly bought, but the weight in his arms made his steps deliberate.
"Hello?" he called out, hesitating.
The hammering stopped.
A moment later, a red-haired young man stepped out from the back, wiping his hands with a cloth, soot still smudging his cheek. His eyes locked onto the armor first, not Bell.
"...Wait a sec."
Welf Crozzo narrowed his gaze, stepping closer. He took the chestplate gently from Bell's arms, fingers tracing the worn edges, the cracked plate, the faint but familiar curve of the design.
Bell stood stiffly as Welf turned the armor over in his hands, brows steadily knitting into a deeper scowl the longer he looked. The workshop's quiet hum did little to ease the heat crawling up Bell's neck.
"This armor," Welf said slowly, "was made for someone who defeat Goliath."
Bell winced. "I know…"
"It's been reforged once already—and now it comes back to me looking like it lost a bar fight with scrap metal. How?" He dropped it onto the workbench with a heavy clang.
Bell tried not to flinch. "There were War Shadows. I wasn't—"
"You weren't ready," Welf cut in, eyes sharp now. "You weren't even supposed to be down there with this kind of gear, were you?"
The silence stretched just a bit too long before Bell gave a small shake of his head.
"…Didn't think so."
Welf sighed through his nose, pinching the bridge of it with grease-stained fingers. "Unbelievable. Felis is gonna think I screwed up."
Bell's head snapped up. "No! It wasn't the armor's fault—if anything, it probably saved my life."
That earned a glance. Welf held his stare a moment longer, then returned to the bench with a mutter.
"Damn right it did."
He began removing a ruined strap, tools clinking as he set them in motion. The air cooled a little.
"…Felis mentioned a blacksmith he trusted. Didn't name you, but I figured it out when I got here," Bell offered, voice quieter.
Welf didn't look up. "He doesn't toss around compliments. Consider yourself lucky."
Bell smiled faintly. "He taught me how to fight."
That got a grunt. "Then you should've known better than to push past your limit."
"I know."
"Next time, stay above your level. Don't make me repair this twice in a week." His tone was still annoyed, but not harsh anymore—just a blacksmith talking to a reckless rookie.
"It'll be ready by evening," Welf muttered. "Come back then."
"…Thanks," Bell said, and turned to go.
Just before the door closed behind him, he heard Welf add under his breath—
"Damn War Shadows."
═════════════════════════
Freya tilted her head.
"You fear their judgment more than your death" she thought. Not a question, but a quiet realization.
Her fingers rested against her temple—not weary, not amused. Just tracking the lines his soul had drawn.
Lines that curved not outward— But inward
═════════════════════════
The tavern air was thick with laughter, smoke, and the clatter of mugs. Bell moved through it quietly, hood up, hoping to buy a cheap meal and slip away unnoticed.
The tavern was nothing.
Dim. Forgettable. A place people passed through, not into.
He didn't look like he belonged. But he entered anyway.
Just for… normalcy.
"If you sit down and eat, maybe today didn't happen."
She could almost feel the thought vibrating inside his steps.
But he never made it to the table.
═════════════════════════
As he passed a table near the window, a sharp bark of laughter stopped him cold.
"—and then he tripped trying to run from a War Shadow! Gods, I thought I was seeing things."
Bell froze mid-step.
A wiry adventurer with a crooked grin waved a hand in the air dramatically. "I swear, if he wasn't wearing that gear, he'd be monster food. What a waste. Some rookies don't even try to earn their spot."
"Tell me about it," another chimed in, leaning back with a snort. "That armor was too good for him. Hell, I bet it used to belong to someone actually competent."
Bell's hands curled into fists at his sides.
"Oh! And his face when Kenki showed up?" the first adventurer howled, nearly knocking over his drink. "Wide-eyed like a kicked puppy! I thought he was gonna propose right there on the bloodstained floor!"
Another joined in with a cruel laugh. "He probably thinks she'll fall for him now. Idiot's got a crush the size of Babel and the guts of a wet rag."
Bell didn't breathe.
He stood there, one foot still half-raised, jaw clenched tight beneath his hood. His chest felt too small. Like all the air had been sucked out, leaving only the twisting pressure of shame and heat and—
He turned and walked out.
Fast.
═════════════════════════
Freya saw it clearly— Not in his body. In his soul.
The silence. The shame. The fire.
It tightened.
Not burst. Not yet.
But the way his weight shifted. The way he left, head low but eyes forward—
"You aren't wounded by what they said, You're enraged that you can't deny it."
She stood from her throne.
Not in shock.
In recognition.
The Dungeon welcomed him like a grave welcomes silence.
He descended alone. No plan. No partner. No hesitation.
Yet Freya felt it— Not courage, not pride.
Something tight.
Determined. Small. Stubborn.
A soul trying not to collapse, so it kept walking forward instead.
═════════════════════════
The Dungeon air was cold against his sweat-slick skin, biting at every exposed cut. His breath came fast, shallow, teeth grit against the pain in his side.
Another War Shadow slithered from the darkness.
Bell charged it.
No thought. No hesitation. His dagger scraped the wall as he lunged low, carving across the creature's legs. It hissed—he flipped backward, narrowly avoiding the claws that raked the stone where he'd stood.
"I said I wouldn't go past the fifth…"
His boot skidded on the blood-slick floor as he ducked beneath another strike.
"I lied."
He wasn't supposed to be here.
No armor. One dagger. Every step a gamble.
But that laughter—those voices—still echoed in his head.
"Waste of gear."
"He pissed himself."
"Think he has a chance with her?"
A savage cry tore from his throat as he drove the blade deep into the War Shadow's chest. Black mist burst, clinging to his face as it died.
Bell staggered.
He could feel it—scratches burning down his arms, a long gash pulsing on his thigh. The potion from earlier hadn't reached deep enough. The ache sat in his muscles like fire.
But that didn't matter.
He pressed deeper.
"She saw me… like that."
That moment when Ais Wallenstein turned, hair brushing over her shoulder. Her eyes—clear, golden, distant—looking down at him, weak and helpless and bloody.
He hated it.
Not her.
Himself.
Hated that he couldn't do more. Hated that she had to save him. Hated the way his heart raced when she stood there.
"I want to stand beside her."
Another War Shadow dropped from the ceiling—he twisted, barely dodged, slammed his shoulder into it to knock it off-balance, and carved upward. His arm throbbed. His grip faltered.
Another one emerged.
Then two more.
And he smiled.
Not because he thought he could win. But because something in him refused to run.
"I won't stay behind."
They rushed him.
He ducked one, spun into another, blade flicking out in short, desperate strokes. His dagger caught a throat—blood hissed—then claws raked his ribs. He screamed, but turned it into momentum, crashing into the nearest wall to force space between them.
He could barely stand. His eyes stung. His hands trembled.
And still he kept going.
He was shame. He was anger. He was pride and longing and burning, burning admiration. He was obsession made flesh.
"Even if the whole world laughs…"
The last War Shadow fell with a gurgled cry. His blade slipped from his hand. His knees buckled.
Bell collapsed in the dark.
Chest heaving.
Vision swimming.
Bleeding.
Smiling.
Because he didn't run.
═════════════════════════
Then it came.
The moment.
Not a surge.
A crystallization.
A pulse deep within his soul— One she felt before she saw.
It wasn't divine.
But it was soul-deep.
Hot. Compressed. Alive.
Freya's breath hitched. Her fingers curled, just faintly, against her knee.
"There."
"The shape is forming."
A will that refused to stay small.
Desire—not gentle, not graceful— But sharp, narrow, and violently focused.
It wasn't for her. Not yet.
But it was desire.
A soul no longer running. A soul deciding.
That was enough.
She closed her eyes again, releasing her sight.
Letting the boy vanish from her view.
But not from her thoughts.
"Burn, then."
"And let me see what survives the fire."
═════════════════════════
The Dungeon was still.
Only the faint drip of water echoed in the dark, mixing with the low, distant groan of shifting stone.
Then—soft footsteps.
Three shadows moved through the corridor, lantern-glow casting ripples over the blood-slick floor.
"He's breathing," came a quiet voice—measured, assessing. Erynn knelt by the crumpled form, one hand checking Bell's pulse, the other already uncorking a potion from her belt.
"Idiot kid's gonna get himself eaten." Thalassa's voice cut through the silence like a fang through hide. She crouched beside him, amber eyes narrowing as she took in the bruises, the cuts, the sheer number of dead War Shadows. Her fingers brushed the broken dagger near his hand.
"...But he didn't run."
She grinned.
"Gutsy."
Behind them, Lysandra stood still, silent as the moonlight she so often resembled. Her spear rested casually against her shoulder, but her eyes watched the corridor, ever alert.
"Erynn," she said softly.
"He'll live." Erynn finished pouring the potion, wiping blood from Bell's cheek with a piece of gauze before binding his side. Her expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something—respect, maybe—as she examined the fading bruises across his knuckles. "He fought hard."
"Tch. Damn right he did," Thalassa muttered, slipping one arm under Bell's shoulders and the other beneath his knees. She lifted him with ease, muscles shifting beneath inked skin as she stood. "Reminds me of me at his age—stupid, bleeding, and too damn stubborn to die."
"You still are," Erynn remarked, almost fond.
"Doesn't matter," Thalassa said, already turning to walk. "Boss wouldn't leave a pup like this to rot."
A beat passed.
Then Lysandra gave a firm nod. "We'll take him to the Guild. Let them handle the rest."
═════════════════════════
The air outside still clung to the scent of ash and steel from the 21st floor when Felis stepped through the Guild's front doors, his coat marked with dust and faint streaks of monster blood. He barely got three steps in before a receptionist called out.
"Felis-san!"
He turned, feline ears twitching once.
The woman looked unsettled. "One of your Familia… Bell Cranel. He was found unconscious on the sixth floor. A party from Artemis Familia brought him back."
A sharp pause.
Felis' golden eyes narrowed—not with shock, but with a simmering tension. "Sixth floor," he echoed flatly. "He's not ready for that."
"I… I know. But they said he was alone. Blood loss. Broken ribs. It's a miracle they found him when they did."
He didn't wait for more.
═════════════════════════
Infirmary Wing
The white curtains swayed gently, stirred by footsteps that made no sound.
Bell lay still. Bandaged. Bruised. His chest rose shallowly beneath the linens, but he was alive.
Felis stood at the foot of the bed. Jaw tight. Tail lashing once behind him.
'You had the training. The gear. The support. And you still went alone...'
He stepped forward, letting his palm hover just above Bell's chest. A soft glow bloomed between his fingers.
"Aqua Benedicta."
Wounds closed. The worst of the damage undone. Bell stirred, lips parting on a breath that caught between pain and relief.
"…Felis…-san?"
His voice was barely more than a whisper.
Felis didn't respond at first. His golden gaze swept over him—not with softness, but weight. Judgment without words.
"…Sixth floor, alone," he finally said, voice low.
Bell winced. "…I-I just thought—"
"Don't."
It wasn't harsh. Just quiet. Final.
Felis stood upright, eyes narrowing with something unreadable.
'Pride. Shame. Fear of being left behind…'
He'd seen it before.
And if he was right…
'Tch. Liaris Freese, huh.'
He didn't say that out loud.
Instead, he turned without ceremony. "Get up. You can walk."
Bell hesitated. "…Where are we going?"
Felis looked back over his shoulder, expression unreadable. "Home."