Chapter 31
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 31
Chapter Title: 4th Floor - Lv. 55 Straggler Clan (3)
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"So, what's your name?"
"Orgel, sir."
"Haha, no prattling on about NPCs—now that's refreshing. Every Exile I've met before was like that."
The campsite was neatly organized in the characteristically spartan style of the Night Crows.
Monster hunters who moved with ruthless efficiency didn't carry much on expeditions.
The one-eyed swordsman who introduced himself as Sir Dursban turned out to be remarkably affable.
A spot was quickly cleared for us at the camp.
It was an island in a gloomy undead swamp, but the blazing campfire easily pushed back the darkness.
It was warm and dry.
"Night's almost here. The monsters in this swamp get more active after dark. Stick around for the night."
He was being exceedingly kind, but I didn't let my guard down.
The Night Crows weren't exactly an organization of normal folk.
True to form as a recurring group, their members varied by world, but the backstory was always the same.
They were victims who had banded together after enduring their kingdom's neglect.
Most recruits were wanderers who had lost family to monsters. It was a profoundly dark outfit.
There was no way they could be cheerful. All that remained for them was revenge—and a sliver of duty.
"No hood means you're the captain, right, sir?"
"Hm? You seem to know us well."
"You're Exiles, aren't you?"
"True enough. You lot are strange ones. And drop the 'sir' already—it doesn't sit right with me. It's been a while since I abandoned my nobility."
"Sir, then?"
"Of course. I'm still a knight, after all. Hahaha."
Randomly generated NPCs didn't come with detailed backstories upfront, so it was hard to read their minds.
You had to pry it out bit by bit, but Sir Dursban spoke in such a slippery way.
He seemed to have a dozen foxes scheming inside him.
Better to play it safe and grovel.
Instead, I shifted to another topic.
"By the way, how active have the orcs been lately?"
This was a key question. I'd already crossed paths with Trdongt, so we'd run into each other again in later floors somehow.
Time periods rarely shifted drastically between kingdom sections.
No matter how much the Girl was a difficulty trigger, I doubted it messed with the timeline.
So the continent's timeframe was probably close to what it was on the 2nd floor.
"Ho, an Exile interested in continental politics? You're full of surprises."
Most wouldn't even register the info, let alone piece it together.
"Care for a drink?"
"No risk of a nighttime raid?"
"If they come, we cut 'em down. Trust me."
Hard to refuse hospitality like that.
Honestly, I'd been craving booze. Toward the end of the last run, things got so hectic I barely remembered eating properly.
This insane roguelike randomized even the taste of booze within a set range per continent.
This continent's beer was damn near dwarf-brew quality.
"Grrrah. This is what life's for."
The Sword Master let out a satisfied groan.
I echoed the sentiment.
Meanwhile, calculations churned in my head.
Beer, not wine.
A drink mainly consumed up north.
That put human lands in the continent's northern reaches.
This swamp might not be too far from the fairy woods where I'd met Trdongt.
Coniferous forest meant it was relatively northern too.
Continents could have weird shapes, but let's rule that out for now.
"Right, the orc situation. I've got connections in the military."
Sir Dursban surprisingly launched into chit-chat without hesitation.
At first, I thought it was great.
But as details piled up, something felt off.
This was too precise—too useful.
This might be classified intel.
No way they'd spill it casually.
The buzz vanished in an instant.
"Haha, what's wrong? It's just that I finally met someone I like."
"Thanks for thinking so highly of me, Sir Dursban."
"Come on, another round. Premium stuff airlifted from a dwarf brewery."
What? Not human-made. No wonder it was so good.
But by now, I could barely taste it.
In the Labyrinth, playing god wasn't much.
Believers wielding your power? You just noticed it happened.
The Goddess of Chaos had few devotees anyway.
No one borrowed her strength, no one watched.
Her throne room was empty space.
The goddess was always bored.
No prayers either.
She'd stretch out a yawn, sleep it off, then check in—amusing.
The arrogant punk who menaced her was caught by some local NPC, suffering.
They chatted hoho-ha-ha style, but it was barbed all the way.
Night Crows were like that.
She peeked at the others.
The arrogant devotee had temporarily converted his party to tweak their mind maps and reroll skills.
Fed them full of corpses as offerings? Yeah, he had plans.
The Girl or Hunter would bolt to a pantheon at first chance.
Then join another god.
It irked her knowing that.
But more watchers? That pleased her.
Let's check their histories.
The small, noisy girl was on her first run, alright.
Adapted freakishly fast, but that happened.
Still chattering away.
Some Night Crow found it cute, grilling meat and feeding her.
The lovable type everywhere she went.
But her eyes kept drifting to the arrogant devotee...
[The Goddess of Chaos clicks her tongue, saying Uncle's face is about to get a hole punched in it.]
The Girl froze mid-bite.
Then beamed.
'Oh, Goddess, really.'
This one was no fun.
She shook her head and messaged the burly musclehead.
First-run fool—teasing him was satisfying.
"Gasp? Goddess!"
He clasped hands in prayer—adorably mismatched with his build.
Maybe too much teasing. Skip.
The grizzled middle-aged ranger looked more Night Crow than our party member.
Stoic, silent meal, no chit-chat.
Too natural; dress him right and he'd pass for local NPC.
Curious about his years, the goddess peeked.
'What are you?'
She blurted divine speech in surprise.
The Hunter calmly swigged from his canteen before replying.
'Chaos herself. I've been waiting for you to ask.'
'Fairy trap, you said? Sounds more like you stepped on an anti-tank mine.'
'I'd appreciate keeping it from the others.'
The Goddess of Chaos laughed in disbelief.
Flashes of possibilities.
One old Exile rumor from her days.
'Well, you didn't outright lie about your runs. So you're hunting the Temple of Time, not the kingdom?'
'That's my only hope, Goddess.'
Heh heh heh.
Just a private chuckle.
Temple of Time? In her packed 100-year Exile life, she'd seen it maybe three times.
Even she didn't know the Time God's full reach.
'Fine, mum's the word. Hope it pans out.'
Hunter's gaze flicked to the leader, then the Girl.
Finally, Night Crows and Sword Master.
An impossible lineup on normal luck for floor 4.
Hope gleamed in the cooling middle-aged eyes.
Next morning, it arrived as expected.
Sir Dursban's Night Crow squad treated our party royally.
Booze, meat—the works.
Too royally, like farewelling folk they'd never see again.
Kindness always has a reason.
"You Exiles are famous for miracle springs, right?"
"Need some?"
"Damn right. Not for my men—for you."
Getting the picture now.
"Exiles can't stray far from spawn, yeah?"
Can't leave the map bounds.
We Exiles, anyway.
To locals, we'd seem penned in by invisible walls—healthy humans stymied by odd attire.
"And you need stairs to advance."
Sword Master pointed to the swamp castle.
"Up there?"
"Yes, Sir Dursban."
"You're strong. Your comrades too. Our goals align nicely."
He extended a hand. No choice but to take it.
Couldn't defy that Sword Master glare laced with killing intent.
"Lead on. Heard Exiles have multiple lives."
"Gladly, sir."
This is why I prefer orc or fairy non-humans over local human NPCs.
Fairies: innate goodness, few issues.
Orcs: praise their valor, easy to handle.
Humans? Trickiest race on the continent.
Still, Sir Dursban knew propriety. He'd treated us decently.
Propriety-minded Sir Dursban included us in the briefing—not just bait duty.
Confirmed what lurked in the castle: a straggler vampire clan.
Vampires—bloodsuckers—fed on their pre-undead race's blood.
Human vampires hid in human society.
But vampire society had strife: clan turf wars big, internal rebellions small.
Stragglers: defeated turf-losers or failed rebels, exiled outward.
Don't underestimate remnants—they fell to greater powers.
Labyrinth rules: vampire clan opposing a Sword Master? Led by a lord at least.
Path to the castle was smooth.
Vampires didn't patrol, and yesterday's ruckus cleared nearby undead.
With the field boss agent croc sliced, few corpses left to rise.
Swamp was vast; opposite side still teemed with undead awaiting the living.
Ruined castle entrance: thoroughly foreboding.
Sir Dursban wished luck and fell back.
Now it looked like our party alone entered.
Night Crows lurked behind, tailing slowly.
Our lives? Expendable. They waited for the kill shot.
"Something feels off."
The Girl grumbled.
"But the meat was good, right?"
"Yeah, farm pigs beat wild boars."
"Gotta earn our keep."
Castle corridor: wretched state. Even Sir Dursban didn't know how long abandoned.
Pre-straggler squatters.
Bats swarmed in.
Hunter quietly dipped then withdrew arrows in potion vials.
Girl coated her dagger; I slathered healing potion on Provence's arming sword.
Bat flock grew.
Blinding numbers.
Party halted; bats ahead clustered.
Formed human shapes one by one.
Two vampires appeared.
Bat-scatter ability: level 50 at least.
"Humans again? Don't you get bored? Kidnapping from nearby towns?"
Not just pale—blood-drained weary.
Yet sinister lines.
Explains Sir Dursban using us as bait.
Not their first purge.
Vampires had repelled a raid before.
Hunter loosed wordlessly.
One casually blocked with hand.
Pierced palm smoked, burned.
"Guh? Holy water?"
Healing potion, similar effect. Undead damaged by healing springs.
Girl and I charged.
One barely dodged; arrow-hit one deeply gashed.
Burned too.
Threw dagger—no potion, but pinned limbs, halted movement.
Tried bat-scatter—too slow.
Girl seized the gap.
Vampires regenerated most wounds, but heart-stab turned them to ash.
One mate lost in seconds.
Other bat-scattered successfully.
Twang—Hunter's arrow pierced flock.
Girl and I shut eyes, plugged ears.
Boom! Abyss-sourced explosive arrow did its job.
Bat form? Extra vulnerable to AoE.
Half-reformed vampire crashed down.
I advanced on the twitching regenerator.
Sliced regrowing lower half.
Burned from spring residue.
Pulled potion vial, shook it rattling.
"Don't want a shower? Answer. What's your lord's name?"
Hoping for fixed NPC.
Vampire clamped mouth.
Dribbled potion on wound—screamed surrender.
"Wait, please! Aaaargh! Stop! It's Lord Barbaroi!"
"Betraying your master so quick? Useless. Die."
Heart-stabbed him off.
I'd been undead, pickled in potions—soul-twisting agony.
Not mere damage.
"Hm, Barbaroi."
Knew the name.
Straggler clans scattered fixed members across layers.
Barbaroi led the magic-specialized one.
And among his dispersed clan in future layers...
"There's a kid."
Useless now, but magic potential: top-tier specs.
In game-turned-reality, key element.
"Not dumb."
Kid, poor judgment. Lure her easy. Perfect.
Excitement bubbled.
Thumbs-up to Girl: great job.
Grinning cluelessly at praise.
Her luck triggered rare encounters galore.
Hardship equals reward. Labyrinth fair there.
Just survive.
----- Author's Note -----
This Sir Dursban doesn't wield a pickaxe as a weapon, and the castle isn't Paris!
Lately, I'm working on solidifying my writing routine.
Roughly: wake up, eat, stroll, ponder what to write.
Read some text baseball novel or overly tough tutorial tower novel.
Eat again, write, agonize over how, write more, pointless extra walk.
Sun sets, manuscript done.
Feels like not the best habit.
Goal: finish before day ends.
Big thanks to Monghwan's Island for the support!