Chapter 44
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 44
Chapter Title: 6th Floor - Lv. 95 Stormhowl Brigade (1)
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For just ten days, we'd thrown ourselves into insanely fierce, back-to-back battles of unrelenting intensity.
Once we were finally, completely safe, all the tension drained out of us.
And then time raced by like an arrow.
During the break, I made sure everyone ate their fill and got plenty of sleep.
With the boss down, we had heaps of meat to go around. Snake was high-protein stuff.
After the mother snake fell, all the smaller ones scattered too.
No place safer than a boss floor right after the fight.
Eventually sudden death would kick in after some time, sure.
The Hunter's gaunt face had filled out and returned to a healthy glow.
But in this party, I was the one who'd been worked the hardest.
And I was the one who needed the most recovery time.
I stuck to light stretching and focused purely on healing up.
In the real world, three days wouldn't have cut it. But the Strength stat influences overall physical prowess.
It meaningfully boosts recovery, of course, but muscle growth too.
Sure enough, I'd packed on a decent amount of muscle. Not stat-boosted correction—this was pure physical improvement.
A positive sign.
Of course, I wasn't suddenly ripped and chiseled.
I'd just gained some weight, inching my scrawny frame toward average.
Building your body like this every run? No way to live.
Over those three days, the kid showed some unexpected talent.
"One more! Boss!"
"Ugh... just kill me already."
The Hunter was actually the student here.
Not quite a full-on gym trainer, but he'd clearly learned proper workouts somewhere.
Less work for me—thank goodness.
I praised him lavishly. Grinning sheepishly, the kid said back home, building raw strength was the only way to survive.
Those were no ordinary muscles.
Gym equipment? If you had a good sense for weight and balance, it was surprisingly easy to improvise. And that sense usually sharpened with Agility.
The Girl made do with the makeshift gear the kid and I threw together.
Her body was already plenty trained—supernaturally so, performing in ways that defied explanation.
Still, once you're in the Labyrinth, there's always room to grind more.
That's just how this place worked.
They call this basic stat training. Wasn't a thing back in the game days.
Old-timer Exiles—the real veterans—did it all the time.
And we offered tribute to the goddess too.
The tropics had no shortage of sweet fruits.
I took it slow as light exercise, gathering them all and processing into candy.
Extracting just fructose was finicky—more mental drain than mana cost.
Magic was ultimate like that: master it, and it could handle any machine's job.
I taught the Girl slowly.
The goddess, who'd fretted over this backyard candy-making, approved of the final product.
Refining sugar? Picked it up thanks to my mage class.
For wizards grinding out brain-melting spell formulas, simple sugars were a big deal.
I also demoed dozens of tasty ways to prep snake meat.
The goddess demanded recipes.
To teach other gods as offerings, even after I died.
I refused. "I'm not dying."
She got mad.
I ignored her.
The Girl tore into some South American jungle-style grilled snake with spices and said,
"Uncle, what can't you do?"
"Told you before. Escaping the Labyrinth."
"Why're you so good at cooking, then?"
"Head to a kingdom, you'll find every kind of person. Chefs included."
Over 97 years, whenever I met an Exile who'd been a chef, I begged for lessons.
A top party leader needs cooking chops.
Diet's a huge mental health factor.
I whipped up tons of smoked snake for short-term storage—flavor-focused rations.
And rock-hard jerky for long-term, all moisture sucked out.
In the Labyrinth, nothing outranked food except maybe oxygen.
Space themes made you watch oxygen for real.
"Mm... ugh. Boss, you're amazing."
That was the kid, getting a sports massage.
"Got the gist? Learn it—won't hurt you. Now try it on me."
I supervised, then had him work on me. Crucial stuff. My body, estranged from exercise, ached fiercely after.
I'm peak firepower; easing my soreness was key to party survival.
Couldn't cheat with Healing Spring water—stunts muscle growth.
Had to improvise like this.
"Aaaagh! It's breaking! Go easy!"
Our hulking Hispanic was a natural powerhouse.
The Hunter knew most exercises already, so nothing to teach there.
Sparred with the Girl instead.
"No way. Why can't I land even one hit?"
"Feeling the skill gap?"
"Damn it. Again."
We clashed with wooden daggers carved from timber—no blades. No handicaps on her end, no doping on mine.
"You read any wuxia novels?"
"What, you about to say 'one with the sword' or some crap?"
"Spot on. It's doable. No qi, but mana works."
"...For real?"
Sir Thursban probably did it too.
Why Swordmaster's a crap class for normie Exiles—it's their dream.
Lifetime-honed Swordmaster vs. Mind Map Swordmaster? Whole different leagues.
"Not like full wuxia—leaping mountains to smack cows with technique alone. But mana is real physical energy."
Coat your weapon lightly, unlock all kinds of effects.
Sharpen the edge razor-fine. Deflect strikes. Slice spells. Pure fantasy.
Labyrinth is fantasy, right?
Fantasy game, anyway.
The Girl trained in earnest.
With her magic talent, figured three days to master.
"It's hard..."
"Still, you're picking it up fast."
Genius doesn't mean effortless mastery.
End of three days, she hadn't tagged me once.
"Should've jumped you before your level shot up this high."
"What?"
"Nothing."
The goddess burst out laughing, clutching her sides.
Won't say why.
Soon as rest felt sufficient,
rain poured down.
Torrential tropical downpour—no side projects possible.
Time for one-on-ones.
Like a company commander interviewing troops.
Tension fades, next floor looms—folks get scared.
Can't blame 'em for wanting personal safety.
Needed soothing.
First, the shakiest: Hunter.
His fairy obsession bordered on mania.
"How's it feel? Bet you've clocked we're a high-diff party."
"Seen the nonsense popping up every even floor."
"Fairy village shows for settling if you want..."
"I'll go the distance."
Eyes full of resolve. Some untold story, clearly.
Reason to reach the kingdom.
No clue.
Still, top talent motivated? Good news.
The kid answered with faith.
"I'll follow the Lord's apostle forever. Boss."
That apostle's me. Chaos cult brass is all mine, so not wrong.
Let it slide, no comment.
Apostle calling him "Boss," though?
"Apostle, sir?"
"Nah, Boss is fine. Sounds tough."
Whew, crisis averted.
The Girl? Bubbly as expected.
"Settle? Why? I stick with Uncle 'cause I like him."
"Confession?"
"Nah. You know I'm smitten. But I'll make you confess first. Not losing this one."
"Hell of a battle cry."
"Battle cry? It's pure maiden heart."
She huffed proudly.
"Heh. Look forward to it. I'm gonna grow into a total beauty."
"Sure, sure. Knock yourself out."
Too bad—3rd floor wobble was shaky bridge effect, confirmed.
After? Just cute like grandkid antics. No heart flutters.
Party check: shockingly ideal.
No mental breakdowns.
Like coding and debugging—zero bugs.
This real?
Last run, mega-guild grind was hell.
Three years left, Luck Goddess smiles on me.
[TIP: The snow-covered northern regions have rendered the beasts there gigantic, ferocious, and hardy. Excluding some tundra zones, it's an endlessly harsh land.]
Snow theme.
Hell yeah!
Second theme snow would've sucked, but... when did I start cheering for this?
"C-cold..."
Even bundled in the cold-weather gear I'd prepped, the Girl shivered.
Hunter seemed acclimated; the kid, body furnace-hot, didn't bat an eye.
"Not South American? Holding up fine."
"South America's got Antarctic lands down south. That's home."
"Good news, then. You know the drill."
"Of course. Glad to help."
Hunter's winters: cozy cabin, roaring fire.
The kid survived brutal Earth extremes—no luxuries.
Most of our winter wraps? Kid's handiwork.
Grandma-taught, fuzzy memory—my prompts revived it quick.
"Gotta find lights."
"Right at evening, figures."
Snowy, freezing, but not full polar—not everywhere iced over.
Moss patches, puddles everywhere: tundra.
Residents likely.
Better than holing up solo—hunt a village.
Pop density unknown; cave would do.
"Summer's lucky. Winter? Disaster."
"Summer? This summer?"
Shivering Girl. Small frame bit cold harder, physique aside.
"Sis, take mine."
Kid hands over beast-fur-lined coat from 5th floor.
Survival-wise iffy, but worst case, dope up or magic. Fine.
Girl's fairy garb: no insulation. Breezy, heat-proof armor-clothes.
Ours? Toasty armor.
Differences happen.
Sun dipping. Total dark in thirty.
Time to camp?
Hunter halted.
"Smoke there."
Solitary plume cutting the dimming sky.
Rechecked the crew.
5th-floor pelts—not local.
Leopard skins cool, sure.
Can't hide Exile status.
Smoke led to a well-trodden path, ages of footsteps.
Beast carts too.
Showed our furs; dwarf trader said,
"Whoa, rare pelts."
Exiles roam continents willy-nilly.
Right spots, trade exotic goods.
Worst case, Healing Spring water's a miracle item.
Lone dwarf peddler: no greed, no fight.
"Warm clothes, tent?"
"Hm. No profit."
"South trading, then."
Dwarf eyes me slyly.
Fleecing friendly Exiles: easy prey, desperate.
Just act chill.
How'd these hit north? Merchant missing sales anywhere.
I smiled silent; he caved.
"Veteran Exile, eh?"
"Know your Exiles?"
"Wanderer like me—pals with plenty. Friends too."
Friends. Labyrinth bonds Exiles and NPCs tighter over time.
That pal? Maybe odd-floor face.
Mental note.
"Leaving village?"
Dwarf nods.
"Bad vibes—no lingering. Watch yourself."
Ha, won't spill free.
Bad vibes heard—can't ignore. Offered spiced fruit jerky.
"Snake? Fancy. Thanks."
Grinning, he spilled.
Conflict brewing.
Old dwarf village; leaf fairies up from below.
"Immigrated" iffy term.
Leaf Fairies nomads, continental wanderers.
"Staying" fits better—but "immigrated"?
Trouble already.
"Greenskins chased 'em up. Can't go back, so planting roots."
"Big problem."
Northern snows can't support crowds.
Scale decides survival clash.
"Those orcs?"
Sir Thursban warned Greenskin unrest.
Central powers, hegemony.
Old fairy empire crushed; they claimed continent safe.
"Stormhowl Brigade, they say. Raiding hard lately. Fairy war redux?"
Probably. Karkrish out—sequel war curtain up.
Mossy dwarf knew gossip; probed.
"Heard of their leaders? Abyss Warrior or such?"
Hero units rumor-mill by system.
Dwarf dropped bombshell.
"Oh, that ancient orc hero? Dead, they say."
"What?"
Why you dead?
Who did it?
Trdongt's disciple alive, right? Please say yes.