Chapter 84
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 84
Chapter Title: Floor 9 - Lv. 79 Not-Quite-Weaklings (1)
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It's daytime, so I stay put. Blood collection is plenty on its own anyway, so I leave the leveling to the party members.
A few bats flit about, surveying the battlefield from above.
Two mages and four archers.
Still mostly warriors for now. Could be assassins mixed in, but they don't always stick to short blades, so it's hard to tell at a glance.
Some might even be lurking under [Stealth].
The first one to kick down the door and charge out was the old man.
His sharply honed steel axe gleams, the leather-wrapped handle polished to a shine from years of use.
How many decades had he spent as a warrior in his life?
Thinking back to the close-quarters fight in the 2nd-floor ruins. No fancy martial arts there, just seasoned skill woven into every move.
He raises his double-headed axe, its broad blade catching an incoming arrow.
"Uoooooooh!"
The distinctive Orc battle cry echoes out, enough to visibly rattle the enemy.
Exiles who've changed races don't pull stunts like that.
Exiles prioritize ambushes and quick resolutions. That kind of behavior flies in the face of efficiency.
Unless you're a devotee of the God of War, maybe.
A few arrows still slip through, embedding in the old man's body, but he doesn't give a damn.
There aren't many ways to stop an Orc lost in the heat of battle.
But the enemy archers don't panic.
Flames flicker at the fletching of their arrows. Both are special shots.
A small bolt of lightning crashes down from the sky.
The old man—whose true calling is shaman—neutralizes the strike effortlessly.
Power dwelling in a tool, invoked without true will behind it? Nothing a proper shaman can't shrug off.
That lightning instead clings to his massive double-headed axe, crackling with energy.
A few of the enemy seem to mistake him for a war-god-worshipping Orc warrior channeling divine might.
Someone mutters a prayer. Lucky bastard must've met the Pantheon of All Gods at some point.
Too quiet to tell which deity, but the result makes it clear enough.
"Uwaaaaaah!"
The enemy bellows back in kind. Frenzied human warriors charge in.
God of War, huh? Once bad blood starts flowing, it never really ends.
Is life just like that, or does the Labyrinth make it worse? Who knows.
The old man's axe clashes against the enemy's sword.
A fine old blade, sturdy enough to withstand the brutish axe swing.
But the enemy is human.
Even if the weapons hold, the wielder buckles.
The old man presses with raw strength, shoving him back hard.
Maintaining stance without toppling? Impressive skill.
Magic flies in.
Orders from the enemy leader, spooked by the Orc warrior's prowess.
Ice spears hurtle forward.
Long, skewer-like shapes.
Cold-element spells love leaning into physical manifestations.
The moment he bats it away with his axe, the chill erupts.
Should've flash-frozen the old man solid, but he ducks behind a shield that appears from nowhere, grinning ear to ear.
"Nice. Real nice. Greenskins never bother with shields. Not my style either, usually."
"I've gotten pretty used to this thing now. Bash someone with it, and they're done."
Truth is, the maknae's extreme tank build is rare. It demands total trust in your team—gear and Mind Map tuned for it, no choice.
The longer your tenure, the less party members buy into that setup. Extreme tanks sacrifice personal DPS almost entirely.
No skill buffs? You're stuck swinging the shield like a club, and most can't pull it off.
The maknae manages it with his natural bulk and monstrous strength.
The brief lull in ranged fire gives him an opening. He spins wide, shield sweeping out.
Warriors who withstood the Orc's overheads falter and retreat.
No fancy tricks—just absurd strength poured into shield handling.
Plus, our party's average level has to eclipse theirs already.
"Don't kill them? What a pain. But damn if it doesn't get the blood pumping. A true warrior never yields, no matter the trial!"
Muttering to himself like a mantra, but at full roar volume.
The Orc elder charges, axe whirling. No kills—just lopping off limbs.
Nothing essential for survival.
While the warriors reel in agony, the enemy rear hustles to prep the next volley.
One of them has a skill that buffs nocking arrows.
Arrows fly from the quiver straight into his drawn bowstring.
Impossible without that—rapid fire at ludicrous speed.
The barrage pins down our warriors.
But we're not hurting for ranged DPS either.
The Hunter steps up at last, expression razor-sharp as he nocks an arrow. Feels like ages since he looked this serious—lately, he's been all goofy grins, dead weight.
But mention it's daytime and I'm holed up? His face changes.
He knows he's basically sub-leader material.
And he's right.
No magic talent to speak of, but this 12-year vet—probably reached the kingdom outskirts, by my guess—is no slouch. Hands a blur.
Enemy might have older Exiles, but levels? No contest.
Gear goes without saying.
What others luck into once in a blue moon, our foes tote around like standard issue.
Some still lack proper armor. Hunter's decked in solid leather.
Bow and arrows aplenty, no question.
No enemy archer packs a magic-infused bow.
In an archer duel, even slight gear gaps swing outcomes hard.
No special arrows needed—his shots streak toward vitals with lethal precision.
Even the rapid-fire guy ducks behind a tree.
Fast shots are one thing; with aim-correction magic on our bow, he skips sighting time entirely.
A weird stalemate forms.
Too risky to prioritize the Hunter—solid armor in the way.
One-shot him for sure? They don't think so.
Meanwhile, their shoddy gear means one clean Hunter shot could drop someone.
Archers locked in mutual standoff? Mages start chanting from cover.
Look close—traps between their trees. Step-on triggers.
[Bind] or similar bindings, probably.
Magic online would complicate things. Maknae's got limits.
Good aim, or torch the house, or snipe the Hunter? Game over.
That's what assassins are for.
Something blurs through the warrior scrum—too fast for fragile mages to clock.
A few archers lean out desperately; Hunter's arrows drop them.
Those he misses? Daggers whip in out of nowhere, startling or wounding.
A mage's head snaps back from a brutal strike.
The Girl bounces to a halt on the spot.
Her fellow mage flails in horror.
"Behave, and it won't hurt."
Thwack!
Clean uppercut to the gut.
Looks cute from her slender arm, but folds waists and lifts bodies.
Feels like a hole punched through.
Though "behave and no pain" doesn't really apply.
Having neutralized all the mages, the Girl recalls Uncle's words.
His bat scouts slip out silently, assessing the scene.
[These guys are probably scouts probing our guts. But yesterday's weren't pushovers either, right? Means there's a senior pulling their strings.]
One kill nets a full level here. In this bonkers event setup, striking first is basically VIP status.
Uncle figured a decent-sized outfit's dug in on this floor already.
[No idiot settles permanently in this dirt. No Sudden Death, sure, but barren tundra. So they're all-in on human hunting. Bases can wait—power first.]
Smarts mean knowing who to fight and who to avoid.
At this stage, idiots are long dead.
Territory pacts are the norm now.
Stay out of each other's hunts.
[Factoring our late start, this 9th floor's been around a while. High levels, veterans likely.]
It's a test, he said. Fight and win once.
Mind drifts to that fairy mage—over a century drifting the Labyrinth, finally a resident.
A pure mage, no less.
The Girl—whose class should counter mages hard—didn't land a scratch before eating dirt.
Excuses aplenty: experience gap, unfamiliar with lightning quirks, mana handling still green.
But she doesn't make them.
She wants strength to clash head-on with sincerity.
She knows Uncle still carries her.
Didn't at first, but it's clearer now.
Prioritizes party convenience over burning herself out.
Claims he can handle it, so he does.
But really? Party's baggage, so he pulls extra weight.
Used to chalk it up to necessity, vaguely. 8th floor hammered it home.
She's dead weight.
Some might gawk at a first-timer holding her own.
Means nothing.
Thought she was catching up, learning the ropes.
But Uncle's on unreachable heights.
Gazing ahead with her as cargo.
A sudden thought.
That glimpse of a black panther—lethal, terrifying near-future assassin.
Still, the Girl's just her downgrade.
The more she learns, the clearer it gets.
No edges over that woman.
By the time the Girl's face turns grimly resolute, I can tell: 'Oh boy, I know that look.'
Talented newbies fall hardest into that trap.
The Labyrinth is a freakish place.
So much kills the clueless.
Fight well? That's outside logic.
Labyrinth has its own rules.
[Mind Map] existence. [Skills].
Just floor 9—too soon to grok it.
But a group aiming to control a floor this big? They get it, somewhat.
Perfect foes.
Gear and levels crush them, so no real peril.
Suffer a bit, learn [Skill] handling early.
Was the plan from jump.
That fairy mage redux on 8? Perfect vet showcase.
Timed right—Girl's frustrations peaking.
Got thrashed good, realized it's not just one freak; world's full of monster Exiles.
Post-fight, her Labyrinth approach got dead serious.
Less faith in outside power, more adapting to local ways.
Good mindset.
Still, a touch deflated lately.
No bold input.
Obedient's fine, but overkill ain't.
This run's party? Perfect across the board.
That day, post-fairy-mage beatdown, time passed.
Now, time to refill confidence.
"I'll make it happen and come back! Promise!"
Bait? Real talk: always keep her along.
Not solo acts—true comrade, backs together.
Older kid might cringe, "Middle school vibes?"
But from watching her? Loves the childish heroic stuff.
If she thinks it's cool, cool it is. Romance gonna romance.
Urban fantasy Korea stock, through and through.
Nailed the prediction—eyes sparkling, she's off.
One bat tails her, monitoring.
Real danger? I step in.
Sky's cloudy enough. Shitty conditions, but doable.
After hinting at stronger foes ahead, Uncle clams up on details.
Test means solve it yourself.
So she thinks.
Dashes through the woods.
Not pro at mana detection yet, but handling it? Getting comfy.
Spread it consciously, sense surroundings vaguely.
Not sixth sense—sharper base senses.
Ears, already keen, sharpen more.
Footsteps.
Barely worthy of the name.
No twig snaps, no snow crunch.
Just faint unnatural vibe.
One offbeat moment, forced natural.
"Gotcha."
[Dash][Dash][Dash]
Practiced combo. Simultaneous cast ain't impossible if forced.
She's a cannonball.
Arms crossed X-style, barrels through brush.
Fairy priest robe still holds—solid protection.
Dagger with Quetzalcoatl scales ignites.
[Invisibility]? Nothing visible.
She draws off-hand dagger too.
Infuse mana, slams Quetzalcoatl flames downward.
Control's iffy—can't call it precise.
Weak [Fire Nova] analog blooms outward, gear-dependent.
[Stealth]/[Invisibility]'s Achilles: mana poke breaks it easy.
Group emerges.
Quick count: four exact.
Standard comp by gear: warrior, archer, mage, assassin.
Uncle's call right—higher level, senior vets over the first wave.
Instant reaction: daggers, arrows fly.
No draw animation on the bow. Skill?
Blue lightning crackles.
Fairy priest robe gives high magic resist.
Obvious flea-bite next to that nightmare fairy's bolts.
Won't even twitch her.
But she dodges. Uncle says tanking everything breeds bad habits.
Near-zero delay on daggers—sidesteps arrows, lightning at last second.
"Insane...!"
Stifled groan screams shock.
Dagger throws? Copied Uncle's moves first thing.
Now pro enough he'd applaud.
Simple rush, but three daggers airborne.
Three down.
Or so.
Metal clash.
Should've stuck and dropped trio—blocked or dodged somehow.
Obvious at a glance: their physical specs outpace her, even current Uncle.
Not proper reads.
Transparent barriers flicker up.
She knows it.
[Auto Shield]
That 3rd-floor screamer Uncle wrestled had it.
Uncle's final emphasis echoes.
[30-year marks? No confidence reaching kingdom. Paths exist, but bad luck flips 'em easy.]
God-tier vets pre-kingdom, but that's it.
[That's when reset marathons kick in proper.]
So mid-tier vets like that?
High odds of suicide loops till luck aligns, like 3rd-floor guy.
Things sour post? Gladly feed the run.
30 years in? Hits everyone eventually.
Uncle continued.
Hence, the test.
"With an extra condition."
No kills. Subdue only.
For blood harvest.
Surface reason, sure. But she senses more.
Shaken since 7th floor.
Kill here? Right?
Where's the line?
Since, she's pulled punches subconsciously.
Feels like Uncle calls it arrogant.
Hence the condition?
No room for that here.
Ditch outside morals.
That's the vibe.