Double Play
“Hey, buddy—did you really climb all the way to the tenth floor? For real? Seriously?”
“Yes, I did. How many times do I have to say it?”
Jun scolded Tatsu, who had shoved his excited face right up close, while casting sidelong glances around them. The stares only seemed to multiply instead of dwindling, and a sigh slipped out of him unbidden.
I should’ve just waited for Carol to get back.
Was it because he’d reported to an ordinary receptionist while Carol was away on other business? Barely a day after he’d emerged from the Labyrinth and turned in his results, rumors of his achievements had already flooded the guild.
He’d only done it because he felt bad about dragging a busy person around, but now that things had turned out like this, he regretted it bitterly.
“Still, I just can’t believe it. What am I supposed to do about that?”
Smack! Smack!
“Oppa! Watch your mouth! Are you saying Jun-oppa is lying?!”
Emili delivered a sharp slap to her brother’s back for the extra commentary, and Jun was genuinely grateful for it. Ever since arriving at the guild he’d been forced to repeat the same answers over and over.
Why are they all so curious about someone else’s business?
From the moment he’d left Rebecca’s house to head for the guild until now, people he knew—and complete strangers—had come up to ask whether the results were true. Jun had never cared much about people he wasn’t close to, and he certainly didn’t want their attention, so their behavior was anything but welcome. Still, he couldn’t simply ignore them, so he smiled as best he could and answered. But—
If you’re not going to believe me, why bother asking?!
Roughly half of them either barked at him not to lie or shot him looks of open contempt. No one went too far—probably still mindful of the incident two months earlier—but that didn’t make the experience any less unpleasant.
I guess the achievement really is that hard to believe.
He’d left most of the work to his wives and spent his rest time safely inside Dowonhyang, waited on hand and foot. To him the expedition hadn’t been difficult at all. With a little exaggeration, it had felt like a family hiking trip.
Objectively, though, the results were enough to leave everyone stunned. Even assuming you could slaughter every monster you met, clearing a single floor of the Labyrinth usually took a month. Even if you were lucky enough to sense holy power leaking from the entrance the moment you stepped inside, it still took at least a week. And yet he had climbed five floors in a mere two months—an unbelievable record that went beyond mere surprise.
He had once before broken through five floors in only three months, but that had been the absolute upper limit of what pure luck could achieve. The higher the floor, the denser the miasma and the wider the area; floors one through five were relatively easy. Even so, the novice adventurers who had started at the same time as Jun were only just reaching the third floor at best.
If simply reaching the tenth floor causes this much of a stir, imagine the chaos if we’d cleared the tenth-floor boss and come out.
Thanks to the food stockpiled inside Dowonhyang they had never gone hungry, and because Dohwa fed on miasma they never had to worry about miasma poisoning no matter how long they stayed. The only reason they hadn’t taken the tenth-floor boss was that Rebecca’s bombs and ammunition had run out completely. Without them her firepower dropped sharply, so restocking wasn’t optional. Jun had wanted to finish the boss if possible and had left the Labyrinth with a lingering sense of unfinished business—but seeing the reaction now, he was glad they hadn’t.
A low murmur of voices rose around him. When he finally shook off his thoughts with a sigh of relief, he spotted a party across the room who kept glancing his way and shoving one another. The hostility, anger, and inferiority written all over their faces made their motives obvious.
Thud!
Jun let out another heavy sigh, pulled the crystal orb—the Observer—from his coat, and set it down hard enough to make a sound on the table. Then, pretending to speak only to Tatsu, he raised his voice so everyone could hear.
“When I meet Carol I’ll submit this. If you really can’t believe me, just check the big display later.”
The Observer was far more than a simple light source. One of the arrangements created with the help of the Sage’s Order, it contained a host of useful functions for adventurers—mental and physical protection, pathfinding, location tracking, and more. The feature every adventurer agreed was truly invaluable was its automatic recording. Once activated, the Observer began filming its surroundings without any further input. An adventurer could not deliberately stop it; the design existed precisely to prevent discord among party members. If even one member of a returning party was near death or missing, the guild immediately confiscated the Observer and reviewed the footage. That policy had proven a powerful deterrent. After Observers were distributed, both accidental incidents and deliberate crimes—including the practice of abandoning “expendable” members—had plummeted. A few people had complained that even information they wanted to hide would leak out, but the guild announced that every staff member who reviewed the recordings was bound by the highest-tier holy contracts, guaranteeing confidentiality. The protests had not lasted long. Even so, some adventurers still resented the recording function—either because it got in the way or simply because they disliked it. The guild made no special effort to persuade either group. Instead, to make the approving majority even more enthusiastic, it offered special privileges. Jun intended to use one of those privileges now.
“Jun-oppa, are you really going to ‘broadcast’ the footage from this expedition?”
Sooner or later everyone has a moment they want to show other people. In the constant life-or-death tension of Labyrinth exploration, such moments arise especially often. That was why adventurers fresh from a delve often preferred to down a drink and brag about what they had seen rather than collapse into bed. But words have limits. Adventurers who couldn’t properly convey what their eyes had witnessed inevitably felt frustrated. The privilege created to exploit that feeling was the “broadcast.” In the center of the guild’s main plaza stood a giant display made of crystal orbs. Originally installed to advertise goods and services, the guild—with the adventurers’ consent—used it to air the scenes they most wanted to share. The response had been explosive. The satisfaction of sharing what one had seen, plus the admiration of fellow professionals, filled people with enormous pride and self-esteem. The broadcast fees paid by the guild, along with advertising offers from companies and shops, became a reliable source of income for cash-strapped adventurers. As a result, most adventurers wanted their footage aired, and a broadcast had naturally become a symbol of a successful adventurer.
“Yeah—not the whole thing, just the part where we take down the fifth-floor boss. Showing that much should cut the doubt way down.”
In truth, that was the only scene worth showing. Because his wives had handled most of the fighting, Fortuna and Dohwa in their human forms had inevitably been recorded, and Jun still didn’t want to reveal those forms to outsiders. When an Observer was submitted for broadcast purposes, the adventurer was allowed to edit the footage and delete any scenes they wished to hide.
“You’re such a high-profile figure that submitting the footage pretty much guarantees a broadcast… but honestly, buddy, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Tatsu scratched his cheek and offered a negative opinion. Jun knew exactly why and didn’t take offense.
“You’re worried about exposing my full strength, right?”
“Yeah. There’s that saying—always keep thirty percent of your power hidden. If I kept asking because I didn’t believe you, I’ll apologize. I’m really sorry.”
Tatsu bowed his head. Apparently that still wasn’t enough, because—
Thud!
—he slammed his forehead against the table hard enough to make a noise and continued.
“I’m truly ashamed! I never actually thought you were lying from the start! The reason I kept asking was that if I just accepted it, I’d feel pathetic about myself!”
“…”
“Oppa…”
“I know! It’s just ugly inferiority complex! I’m a real loser. But I don’t want to be an even bigger loser! I’m really sorry. Let me apologize properly!”
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Tatsu kept banging his head on the table. Emili cried out in alarm and tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t quit. Perhaps that was why the regret, the apology, and the self-loathing he felt came through so nakedly. It wasn’t only Jun who sensed it; the surrounding adventurers who had been watching him with envious eyes suddenly looked awkward, cleared their throats, and turned away.
“Tatsu, stop.”
“But—!”
“No buts. Stop it right now!”
Tatsu still seemed to feel his sincerity was insufficient, but Jun forcibly made him stop. The man was genuinely repentant, and Jun understood his feelings completely.
If I were in Tatsu’s position, could I have done the same?
After stopping him, Jun found himself newly impressed by the heartfelt apology. They had both died for nothing, both received three hundred points, both been reborn and lived the same way—yet the gap that had opened between them was hard to accept. At the very least, Jun wasn’t sure he could have managed it.
“Tatsu, I might be stronger, but I think your heart is broader than mine. I respect you, buddy.”
“H-huh? Haha! Well, my chest is pretty broad!”
“Ugh, you idiot brother! That’s not what he meant!”
Slap! Slap!
Jun burst out laughing, thoroughly pleased. Whether it was because of the wonderfully crisp sound of the slaps or because it had been so long since his friend had so thoroughly missed the point, even he couldn’t tell.