Menestale (2)
The adventurers in the guild did shoot glances my way, but not a single one worked up the nerve to approach.
And who could blame them, with the two men flanking me front and back radiating that much menace? According to Grandpa, Karl was outright blasting killing intent at anyone who so much as looked in our direction. Nobody in their right mind would walk up to that.
Is killing intent actually a real thing?
"Of course it is, child. Those who surpass a certain threshold can subdue others with a mere flicker of the eye."
I let Grandpa's recitation of his old battlefield exploits — how his mere presence once dominated entire warzones — flow in one ear and out the other, and headed straight for the reception desk.
"Welcome to the Menestale Guild."
The man behind it had shoulders that could fill the entire desk. His face was a roadmap of old scars, weathered and vicious — a timid person would've been struck mute on the spot.
But I was fine. Partly because House Alrn had plenty of scary-looking faces to toughen me up, but mostly because I'd seen this receptionist's face plenty of times before. He was the guy you saw every single time you registered at the Menestale Guild in Soul Academy. Relief outweighed fear, honestly.
"What business brings you here today?"
Well, you see...
"My loser friends and I are going into the pathetic little Menestale Dungeon. Hand over the permit, Big Guy."
The receptionist gave an awkward smile at the audacity that had just tumbled out of my mouth. Yep, this one's a good guy too, exactly like in the game. Scary face that keeps adventurers in line, but a sweet middle-aged man all the same, just like the receptionists in other cities.
"Will the three of you be entering together?"
Yes.
"Yeah. Can't you tell just by looking?"
"I see. Since this appears to be your first visit, allow me to explain a few things beforehand."
What poured out of the receptionist's mouth was a standard introduction to the Menestale Guild — accepting quests, selling spoils, the taxes levied on dungeon conquests, and a laundry list of precautions for anyone diving into the dungeon.
I was someone who'd sat through that speech dozens of times over, so I let his words wash over me without really listening.
"Now, for the permit issuance process. Might I have the names of all three of you?"
"Karl."
"They call me Alsaetin."
I'm Lucy Alrn.
"Lucy Alrn. Burn it into that skull of yours, Big Guy. A face this precious is a rare sight for a commoner like you."
The receptionist had worn a perfectly businesslike expression right up through the first two names, but the moment mine left my lips, I caught the faint tremor in his eyes.
"Er... would you happen to be Lady Lucy Alrn of House Alrn of the Soladin Kingdom?"
Precisely.
"What, you already knew? Not bad, Big Guy — for someone who looks this sloppy."
The crack that had appeared across part of the receptionist's face spread over his entire countenance the instant I nodded. A man who looked like he could arm-wrestle an ogre breaking out in a cold sweat was honestly a refreshing sight.
Come to think of it, the knights of House Alrn looked exactly like that back when I first possessed Lucy.
"My girl, it seems even the Magic Empire has heard word of you."
That was not information I wanted to have.
I'd had my suspicions ever since the report Alsaetin brought me listed a whole row of foreign nobles I'd supposedly insulted. And sure enough.
Haah. This godforsaken reputation of mine! I am begging for just one place where people don't start floundering the instant they hear the name Lucy Alrn!
The receptionist, having clearly heard plenty of stories about me, processed the permit issuance with brisk, immaculate courtesy.
"If you stop by the guild tomorrow morning, your permits will be ready."
Thanks to that, I got my permit issued far faster than expected. However ugly the process, a good result is a good result, right?
By the time we finished the paperwork and slipped out of the adventurers' guild, dusk had already given way to night.
Past the noise-choked streets — fitting for a city that gathered fierce adventurers from every corner — I arrived in front of a thoroughly shabby-looking inn.
Karl visibly struggled at the sight of it. Because I had picked the place, he held his tongue, but it was plain as day how badly he wanted to say something. He was probably thinking, I cannot permit the young lady to sleep in such a hovel! He takes that sort of thing extremely seriously.
I pretended not to notice and stepped inside.
The innkeeper was a man with a thoroughly indifferent face. Any ordinary innkeeper would greet his guests; this man simply gave a curt nod. Even as I stood at the counter, he said nothing, just stared blankly — a man who appeared to have misplaced the very concept of sociability.
But the moment I drew the Seal of the Crow from my coat and showed it to him, his face transformed. Life flooded back into that ash-gray countenance.
"Ah, a guest of the Newman family. My sincerest apologies for the oversight."
Cities that spring up around major dungeons attract everything. People. Goods. Rumors.
Which is why the Newman family, whose business runs on the underworld, has planted a branch in practically every city with a major dungeon. This place was one of them.
"Three guests lodging, I take it? For how long?"
Two weeks.
"Two weeks. Tops."
"Understood. Allow me to show you to your rooms at once."
At his words, a woman emerged from a room behind the counter. She bowed to us with impeccable courtesy and gestured for us to follow.
Where she led us was not the second floor with its ordinary guest rooms. It was a place hidden behind a concealed door inside a storeroom packed to the rafters with dust and clutter — a place far more lavishly appointed than any noble's mansion, a world apart from the crumbling building outside.
This would be our lodging for the duration of the Menestale Dungeon conquest.
THIS is why I snagged the Seal of the Crow! It is genuinely, stupidly useful!
"No one else is staying here at the moment, so please make yourselves at home. If you require anything at all, simply tell me. I will see to every arrangement within my power."
The woman employed by the Newman family asked us to call her Nick.
Of course, that request meant absolutely nothing. Have you ever seen the Mesugaki Skill let anyone be called by their proper name?
Nick's name was promptly rechristened Gloomy by the Mesugaki Skill.
"...Gloomy, is it?"
I'm so sorry! But I can't help it either! Please, you have to understand!
"Yeah, well. You look gloomy, so Gloomy. Fits you perfectly. You love it too, don't you?"
"...Yes. Naturally."
After that minor hiccup, nothing much happened.
Well, unless you count asking Nick to track down a single water-attribute mage?
Which was fair enough — there simply wasn't anything to do right now. If this were still a game, I'd have been sprinting around hoovering up every tiny side quest for maximum efficiency, but these days I can't even manage that.
Who in their right mind would hand a job to a snotty little brat who opens her mouth only to attach "loser," "scrub," "cripple," or "garbage" to every single sentence? I got shot down for every request back at the Academy too. It'd be the same story here.
None of these were quests I absolutely had to take, anyway. So today, I rest. Practice mode or anything else — I'm sleeping. Deeply. The whole night.
"Already scheming to skip your training, child?"
I had just lain down in bed, fully intending to sleep straight through until morning, when Grandpa piped up.
Grandpa, what on earth are you talking about? I'm conquering the dungeon tomorrow! I need my rest!
"What nonsense is this? This is precisely the time when one must train all the harder, to keep the instincts of true combat honed and ready!"
The nag-addled old coot would not bend an inch on his convictions. And so, half by my own will and half by force, I got dragged into Practice Mode and subjected to a night of absolutely merciless training.
The concept of the Menestale Dungeon was a volcano.
How best to put it — imagine a dungeon built beneath a smoldering, seething volcano. That should paint the picture well enough.
And since that was the theme, every monster and gimmick lurking inside was themed around volcanoes as well. For instance, the interior temperature was so high that anyone who walked in unprepared took burn damage on a timer. Every single monster inside was fire-aligned without exception. And traps involving lava, flame, and rock lined the halls wall to wall.
In the game, all of it had amounted to nothing more than difficulty-inflating gimmicks. But now that every bit of it had become reality, it hit completely differently.
The inside of Menestale Dungeon was, for all intents and purposes, a sauna.
The first time I set foot in here, my skin started sizzling and I nearly jumped out of it. And this was just the entrance.
The dungeon spanned eighty floors in total, and the deeper you descended, the hotter it grew. Factor that in, and the lower depths could only be described as a literal hell of fire.
Naturally, I had anticipated all of this.
Stamina would drain on a regular cycle from the oppressive heat. It went without saying just how miserable that heat would be.
So the moment we entered the dungeon and confirmed my predictions were dead-on, I fished a prepared item out of the sub-space pouch Alsaetin had handed over.
A mana stone rarely discovered in the permafrost-buried mountains of the North. It retains the North's terrible cold in its purest form.
As the Appraisal skill's description made plain, this stone was a thing that cradled bitter cold within itself.
Ordinarily it served as an enchantment material for weapons or an ingredient for magic scrolls — but this stone had one extra property on top of all that.
It radiated its chill into its surroundings, actively lowering the temperature!
"Lady Alrn, if you use that now—"
Users had jokingly nicknamed it the "Air Conditioner Gem," because it saw more use conquering Menestale than it ever did in its intended role. And now that the game had become reality, it performed exactly as advertised.
The instant I pulled the stone — already strung as a necklace — over my head, cold came blasting off it in waves.
Whoaaa, so refreshing... no. Hold on. This is way too refreshing?!
Convinced I was about to freeze solid at this rate, I frantically ripped the necklace back off.
What. What is this?! Being cool is one thing, but this is just wrong! Did I ask for the air conditioner on, or did I ask to be chucked into a walk-in freezer and left to die?!
I shot Alsaetin a glare that said did you botch the order or what?, and he answered with an awkward smile.
"I prepared precisely what you requested, Lady Alrn."
Yeah, but this thing is way too potent!
"Listen here, you pathetic loser of an info-peddler. You can't even get your client's requirements right? This is overkill. How much longer do you plan on living as a useless scrub?"
"The Mana Stone of Eternal Winter is always like this, however..."
So this is another side effect of the game turning real, huh.
In-game, its effect simply ended at nullifying the dungeon's environmental penalty. But once reality set in, "the North's terrible cold" became, you know, actual terrible cold?!
Unbelievable. There's no way I can wear this necklace like this!
"While procuring the necklace, I did hear that from the twentieth floor of Menestale onward, it can be worn without any notable penalty."
And before the twentieth floor?
"Hey. Useless, pathetic info broker. What about before then?"
"Isn't this much bearable enough? To my knowledge, everyone simply walks the dungeon as-is until Floor 20."
You call that an answer?! Endure this hellish heat?! In full plate armor?!
"My girl, might I claim the garments you wear today, once you are done with them? It would please me greatly if you handed them over as-is, unwashed."
Shut up. I'm begging you.
"Horny Fox. Shut it. You're making me mad."
At this point, only one option remained.
Speedrun.
I was going to blast through today's conquest quota at maximum velocity and escape this wretched hell of fire.