Is It Wrong to Seek a Romantic Encounter in a Dungeon?

Adventurers were those who ventured beyond the safe zones, braving mortal peril in pursuit of fortune. Among their endeavors, conquering dungeons promised immense rewards despite appalling mortality rates. Even now, countless sellswords gathered at the guild tavern to trade rumors and intelligence over frothing tankards.

Lately, one topic dominated every conversation: a newly discovered dungeon.

"Hey, have you heard about that new dungeon?"

"Aye. Word is that every single person who went in came back out alive. Does that mean the difficulty is a joke?"

"Hardly. Nobody dies, sure, but they say the place is packed to the brim with the most malicious traps imaginable."

"I heard there are vents scattered everywhere spewing some strange gas that makes your body burn with heat. The moment you breathe it in, your fighting strength plummets so drastically that even standing upright becomes a chore."

"And don't get me started on the slimes that dissolve equipment... Quite a few blokes have already walked out stripped buck-naked, having lost every single piece of gear they spent their life savings on."

"To make matters worse, the golems reigning as bosses wield terrifying combat power. And if you lose? Rumor has it that the wicked appendage jutting between their legs skewers your backside!"

"Skewers your backside?! What kind of unspeakable torture is that?!"

"That's not even the half of it. If an adventurer falls, the Dungeon Master himself appears to subject them to hands-on torture. They say once you're caught in his clutches, every last shred of your fighting will gets ground into dust until you're a broken, drooling husk."

A mortality rate of zero percent.

Yet the interior was reputedly festering with unprecedented horrors and perverse malice. Rumors snowballed, mutating and swelling with every retelling until the dungeon sounded like a descent into absolute debauchery.

"Is there really any reason to set foot in a place like that?"

"Listen, the loot coming out of there is no joke. You remember that rookie girl who first breached the place? When she came to, the Dungeon Master had shoved a treasure into her hands. And that relic ended up fetching a monstrous fortune at the auction house!"

"Aye, crafted with breathtaking artistry, or so they say... Nobody could figure out what it was actually used for, but collectors and scholars were practically tearing each other apart to bid on it."

"Hmph, now that does sound tempting. Play your cards right, and you could seize enough gold in one haul to crawl out of the gutter for good..."

For men chasing fame and fortune, it was a tantalizing prospect. Even so, precious few adventurers actually volunteered to venture inside.

"So what do you say? Shall we give it a shot?"

"Hold your horses. Charging into an uncharted labyrinth with next to no intel is suicide. Let's just pray some ambitious trailblazers clear the way first."

"Sure, the bounty for a complete conquest would be life-changing, but getting impaled through the rear? I would rather die with a sword in my chest than endure such unspeakable shame."

Because reliable intelligence remained virtually nonexistent, every party took a cautious stance. They merely nursed their drinks in the tavern, waiting for some daring fool to conquer the labyrinth in their stead—praying that a superhuman champion might suddenly emerge to fling open the doors to that hoard of unfathomable riches.

"Pardon me. Might I have a moment of your time?"

Cutting through their idle daydreaming, an elegantly attired young man stepped into the circle of seasoned sellswords.

"Who the hell are you? Looking like some sheltered, pretty-boy scholar."

"Come to share ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a drink with us, fancy pants? Save yourself the grief. This swill is potent enough to put a tenderfoot like you straight into an early grave!"

To rough-hewn veterans of the wild, an effeminate young noble was nothing more than an easy target for mockery. The adventurers snickered among themselves—until the newcomer casually tossed a heavy leather pouch onto the wooden table.

A dull, metallic thud echoed through the air. As the pouch loosened, the gold coins gleaming inside caused their eyes to bulge. The sheer weight of wealth spilling before them proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was no ornamental noble playing dress-up.

"I am Linton, scion of the Edgar Family," he declared with rigid, courteous poise. "Having newly embarked upon the path of an adventurer, I would hear the rumors surrounding this dungeon in detail."

An adventurer of noble blood. It was an introduction more than sufficient to make everyone present realize he was no ordinary traveler.

Nobles were beings endowed with vast fortunes and sovereign authority granted by the crown. That privileged status endured even in this dark age shadowed by the threat of the Demon King's Army, but that did not mean their lives were perpetually tranquil.

On the contrary, precisely because they held so much wealth, heirs constantly vied against one another to seize ever greater shares of prestige and power. When those rivalries escalated, they frequently deteriorated into bloody feuds between kin, driving claimants to wager their very lives to prove their worthiness.

The Edgar Family, renowned across the realm for supreme swordsmanship, was no exception to this brutal reality. To fulfill the requirement of 'proving his martial might' as an heir, Linton had temporarily stepped beyond his household's gates. And the trial he had chosen to validate his claim was none other than the solo conquest of an entire dungeon.

To overcome the hazards lurking within, triumph in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠single combat against the boss monster, and retrieve the Dungeon Core nestled at its deepest recess before returning home in triumph—that was his grand ambition. In search of a fitting proving ground, Linton had caught wind of the newly discovered labyrinth and directed his steps toward it without hesitation. Conquering a dungeon shrouded in mystery would serve as an even greater testament to his martial supremacy.

"So this is the uncharted dungeon."

The entrance appeared no different from an ordinary ancient ruin. Its weathered masonry suggested centuries of neglect, yet right before the threshold stood a freshly carved wooden sign, presumably erected by the master of this domain.

"...Enjoy ourselves? What foul, debased taste."

Considering the rumors he had gathered before arriving, this place supposedly engaged in the brutal, humiliating act of impaling men's rears without hesitation. At the thought, Linton felt an involuntary clench in his lower abdomen, but he quickly composed himself and rechecked his armaments.

Do not tremble, Linton. Did you not enter knowing full well that a dungeon is a crucible of cruelty?

His dignity and his very life had effectively been forfeit the moment he resolved to step inside. Yet if he could surmount all adversity and claim the prize, boundless glory would assuredly illuminate his future.

"Very well. Let us proceed."

Bracing his resolve, Linton checked his scabbard and crossed the threshold into the dark corridor.

Focusing intently on every single stride, his honed senses picked up subtle mechanical vibrations in the flagstones, allowing him to weave around them with practiced grace. With instincts forged by his family's rigorous martial regime, spotting clumsy tripwires and pressure plates posed little difficulty. The true threat lay in the mechanisms designed specifically to operate beneath that layer of obvious deceit.

Click. Splat!

The moment he stepped into an apparently safe clearing, a secondary trigger snapped beneath his heel, and a torrent of viscous mucus rained down from the ceiling. Springing backward to evade the deluge, Linton watched as a green slime plummeted onto the spot where he had stood a heartbeat prior, rapidly melting the gravel and debris into smoking slag.

"I see. The equipment-melting slime."

Slimes typically dissolved living flesh, yet this breed targeted armor and weapons exclusively. The fact that it inflicted irreversible material ruin betrayed the sheer malice of the dungeon's architect. Pressing deeper into the winding passages, Linton soon encountered doll-like golems prowling the corridor ahead.

Clack, whirrr, click.

Though humanoid in build and moving with disciplined precision, their action patterns were rigid and easily telegraphed. Subduing them was child's play for a seasoned swordsman of the Edgar lineage.

Slash!

Severed clean by a brilliant flash of his blade, the golems crashed into pieces. Linton carved his way through wave after wave of encroaching automatons, yet his vigilance never wavered.

"The rumors did say the rank-and-file were nothing special. The real danger lies in the formidable adversaries lurking in the depths."

They said even seasoned champions couldn't easily withstand the boss-tier golems. It paid to keep his senses razor-sharp for when the time came.

Treading cautiously with bated breath, Linton suddenly realized that the oppressive atmosphere had vanished entirely.

"This place is...?"

Indeed, this chamber was markedly different from everywhere he had walked thus far. There was no ominous stench of lethal mechanisms, nor any hostile presence waiting to slaughter intruders. Instead, a pristine, sacred ambiance lingered over a tranquil subterranean lake. And sitting quietly by its shore was a woman clad in a nun's habit.

"Oh my?"

The woman, who had been passing the time leisurely by the water's edge, noticed Linton's arrival and offered a tender, radiant smile.

"Fufu, it seems we have a guest."

Shing.

Linton drew his sword from his hip in a flash, leveling its tip toward her throat. Entering alone, he had no choice but to stay on guard against an entity bearing curved horns atop her head like a creature of the demonic realm.

"Who are you? Are you the master of this dungeon?"

"The master? Heavens, that is far too exalted a title for someone like me."

Unperturbed by his overt hostility, the woman merely offered another gentle smile. Placing a slender hand over her bosom, she bowed her head with graceful modesty.

"My name is Catherine. Appointed by the lord of this domain to tend this sanctuary, I am but the lake's guardian, tasked with welcoming weary travelers who arrive upon our shores."

"Welcoming guests... in a rest area?"

"Is it truly that hard to believe?"

Catherine gazed squarely at him with eyes devoid of malice. Feeling his animosity gradually soften under that gentle gaze, Linton cross-referenced the situation with his lore and slowly lowered his blade.

"...No. Come to think of it, I have heard tales of dungeons featuring sanctuaries meant for adventurers to rest."

Safe rooms, as they were commonly known. To adventurers exhausted by traps and relentless skirmishes, a safe room was akin to an oasis in the desert. Large-scale expeditionary forces were even known to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠establish base camps within them to organize prolonged campaigns. In other words, the claim that this was a 'harmless sanctuary' for respite was likely true.

"What a relief. I am glad you recognize that I mean no harm..."

"Do not misunderstand me. I merely acknowledge that such places exist. It does not change the fact that you are an enemy bound to this dungeon."

Why would a dungeon constructed to torment intruders feature a safe room in the first place? What the dungeon masters craved was the suffering and despair of their prey; the longer that torment dragged on, the sweeter their harvest. Naturally, offering a place to rest ensured invaders would linger inside the labyrinth far longer. In truth, this sanctuary was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nothing more than blatant malice thinly veiled in hospitality.

"An enemy, you say... Yes, I suppose it is only natural you would think so."

Catherine did not deny it, accepting his deduction with a rueful smile. Yet, as if to reaffirm her lack of hostile intent, she lightly patted the mossy ground beside her and beckoned him closer.

"Still, it would be such a waste to leave when you have come all this way to find shelter, wouldn't it? If it pleases you, pray rest here a while. The waters of this spring possess the power to mend fatigue and heal wounds. It will surely prove of great aid for the remainder of your journey."

It was likely not a trap. A divine power reminiscent of clerical miracles truly emanated from the spring. Lingering near it would undoubtedly soothe his worn body and mind.

"...Very well. For a brief moment, then."

Yes, he had come to conquer this dungeon. Taking a brief rest was merely a tactical necessity. With that justification, he took a seat beside her. A moment later, a soft, warm hand gently rested atop his own, which lay against the ground.

"What are you—"

"Ah! Forgive me... It's just, you seemed to have so many injuries upon your hand..."

Carefully watching his expression, Catherine tenderly caressed his knuckles. His hand was rough, marred by calluses and scars—the unyielding proof of years spent honing the sword as an heir to a martial house. Yet despite its rugged, unseemly appearance, Catherine stroked his weathered skin without the slightest hesitation.

"Your hands are so rough and weathered. You must have poured your soul into training to make it this far."

"I-it is nothing. A trifle like this is..."

"It is no trifle at all. To devote oneself so wholly to a craft that it leaves such enduring marks... why, that is truly worthy of respect."

"Worthy of... respect?"

"Fufuh."

With a soft smile, the maiden openly displayed her warmth toward him. Though Linton reminded himself that even this was merely a shallow veneer disguising hostile intent, looking into the deep, affectionate gaze she turned upon him made it impossible to believe her warmth was feigned.

"Would it be permissible to ask your name?"

"M-my name?"

"Yes. After all, meeting like this is a stroke of fate, isn't it?"

"Even if it is merely a fleeting brush of shoulders, shouldn't one cherish every bond that destiny provides?"

A bond. Destiny.

Words one would never imagine hearing in a cruel dungeon designed to plunge intruders into agony. Yet when spoken here, they fell upon him like sweet rain upon parched earth.

"...Linton of the Edgar Family."

Indeed, at this very moment, something began to take root within Linton's heart.

"You may... call me Linton."

An undeniable attraction to the gentle kindness he had encountered for the first time in this unforgiving domain.

Meanwhile, inside the situation room where the entire scene was broadcast in crystal clarity on the magical monitors.

"Good grief. That flirting is terrifying no matter how many times I watch it."

Watching Catherine's tender, saintly smile on the screen, I felt an overwhelming sense of cognitive dissonance when juxtaposing it with the wicked abuse and depraved teasing she usually subjected me to.

Could that young nobleman even begin to fathom? That thousands of scheming vipers were writhing inside that woman's heart right now, and that every single bit of this pure, holy flirting was merely laying the groundwork for a catastrophic descent into despair?

...I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard.

Then again, I was thoroughly dragged around by the nose by that succubus myself.

"Ugh, I really don't feel like dealing with this, but since the stage is set, we have to see it through. Yuria, get ready."

"Understood, it is so."

Alright, let's get everything lined up step by step. Time to prepare a mind-shattering descent into despair for the earnest knight currently falling head over heels for our resident succubus.