A Goblin's Farewell
Moura rolled desperately across the ground, dodging the slashing claws aimed at his head.
“Hey, dwarf! You good?!”
“Who the hell are you calling a dwarf?!”
“That’s why I’m still alive!”
Shouting with the ferocity of a cornered animal, Moura twisted and tumbled away from the monster’s reach, regaining his footing just in time. The beastkin girl Michelle, who had hurled her dagger to draw the creature’s attention, froze when those glowing, murderous eyes locked onto her. Without a second thought she bolted.
The monster’s roar followed her retreat, but before it could close the distance, the massive shield wielder Kaylen stepped between them. The impact jarred his entire body; he staggered sideways and crashed to the stone floor.
“Crrraaaagh!”
Moura seized the opening. His war hammer swung in a savage arc, smashing into the monster’s flank and buying the fleeing Michelle precious seconds. She grabbed the groaning Kaylen by the arm and dragged him toward safety.
“Dwarf, get out of the way!”
“I’m not a dwarf!”
Screaming at the top of his lungs, Moura hurled his hammer aside and sprinted backward. A stray fireball from Sierra streaked past his ear and slammed into the chimera. A towering pillar of flame erupted in its wake.
“Holy crap…”
Sierra, who had already taken a glancing burn, stared at the still-breathing monster with hollow eyes. Scales and fur clung to its body, sizzling. The creature flicked its hide with a disgusted snort, then turned those inhuman eyes on her.
Instead of fleeing, Moura planted himself in front of her. His hammer was gone; only his dagger remained. Whether it could scratch scales like this was anyone’s guess.
“Damn it, why is a Klein Chimera on the thirty-third floor?! I’ve never heard of this!”
Even as he roared, nothing changed. The Klein was the weakest chimera hybrid, but chimeras were always feared. They were synthetic beasts, yet in the Bond Realm dungeons they appeared naturally.
Whatever the reason, this one had wandered up from the lower floors. Moura’s party had been fleeing it when they were cornered.
Sierra, the pure mage, could no longer run; she had taken a hit to her leg and was forced into combat. She and the others were hopelessly outmatched. Moura had lost his weapon, Kaylen his shield, and Michelle’s short blade was useless against claws. Their desperate spells fizzled against the creature’s thick hide.
“We’re finished,” Moura muttered, the words tasting of defeat.
Even the former porter among them had fled long ago. Mora couldn’t blame him; help was useless anyway. Yet the bitterness remained.
Even so, isn’t it better than dying?
If he was lucky, the porter might still be alive outside these floors. But for Moura’s party, the end had come.
His mind flashed with the image of leaving Sierra behind as bait. He slapped his own cheek hard, clearing his head.
Cowardice is not an option. Self-hatred welled up. Moura clenched his jaw, glaring at the distant hammer.
Thinking of the grotesque chimera—lion horns, goat horns, ox legs—made his situation feel pathetic.
“Kaylen. When I give the signal, you and Sierra run with her on your back.”
“Dwarf! What are you thinking?!”
“Look at that. The second it’s die time, it’s ‘dwarf’ again. For these arrogant bastards I have to sacrifice? Hell, I’m the one who’s done for.”
The others, who usually called him by name, were all shouting “dwarf” now. It ignited Moura’s temper.
“We can do something!”
“What?”
“Hold on. Maybe another party will come to help while we stall.”
“Bullshit. If you’re dreaming big…”
Moura’s words cut off as distant voices echoed from the darkness. He glanced that way. White threads of light stretched across the gloom, and a brown-haired man approached with a bright smile, waving cheerfully.
“Hello~ Do you happen to have a map?”
Rye Redford strolled past the group as if they were old acquaintances. Moura’s face went blank. The man’s sunny expression never wavered; he ignored the chimera’s roar and kept waving.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Rye Redford. Sorry to bother you while you’re busy, but do you—”
“GRRRAAAAAHHHH!”
“Shut up.”
The chimera turned its head, jaws wide. Rye didn’t even look at it; he simply flicked out a light punch.
Thwack!
The sound rang through the dungeon like thunder. The massive body of the chimera folded in half and smashed into the wall. Moura’s party stared, mouths agape, eyes darting between the creature and the lazy man who had felled it in one blow.
“Ah… Were you hunting? Sorry for interrupting. It’s not dead—it just fainted.”
Stealing a target from adventurers was unforgivable. Guild rules gave first strike to the party that attacked first; anyone who barged in uninvited could be attacked without consequence.
Moura stared dumbly as Rye offered a quick apology. Then realization hit. He shouted his thanks with everything he had.
“Thank you for saving our lives! We were about to die!”
Grabbing Rye’s hand, Moura shook it frantically. Michelle, finally snapping out of her daze, clung to Kaylen in joy. Sierra exhaled the breath she’d been holding and sank to the floor.
Rye swept his eyes over the fallen chimera and the grateful party. For a moment his face showed a flash of fortune, then softened into a kind smile as he looked at Moura.
“Your party members look injured. May I heal them?”
“No. You already saved our lives; we can’t ask you to waste potions too.”
“Potions are expensive. We have some, but not enough to spare after this.”
Rye shook his head. “No, I can use a healing spell. Potions are pricey.”
Moura’s eyes widened. He had assumed the man was a monk or brawler after watching him one-punch the chimera. Now he learned the man could cast healing magic.
Only a priest with divine power or a high-level pure mage could use it. Temples could perform miracles with faith, but genuine healing required knowledge and was rarely seen.
Sierra, a pure mage herself, couldn’t cast it yet, but the man before them claimed he could. Moura could barely believe it.
“You’re a pure mage, sir? But your fists are ridiculously strong.”
“Michelle, show some respect!”
Michelle, seated beside Sierra, perked up at the name. Kaylen nearly jumped out of his skin and scolded her. If someone could fell a Klein in one hit and still heal, they had to be at least A-rank.
“It’s fine. Call me whatever you like. No, ‘hero’ sounds awkward. My name is Rye Redford.”
“Rye~ Thanks for saving us.”
“It’s nothing at all.”
Rye flashed a warm smile and glanced at Sierra’s thigh. Deep claw marks had torn through her pants; blood trickled down. Her face was already deathly pale from blood loss.
“Thank you. I’m honored to meet such a renowned pure mage.”
“No need for thanks. The wound is deep, so I’ll have to seal it forcibly. Try to bear the pain.”
Rye dipped his fingers in her blood and traced a glowing circle on her thigh. Moura and Michelle blinked in confusion at the strange method, but Sierra recognized the pattern and froze.
Just how high is this man’s realm…
Normal healing magic injected mana to activate the body’s natural regeneration. The more the patient used their own energy, the more they would tire. Severe injuries often exhausted them before the spell could finish.
Rye’s technique was something else entirely. He was using mana itself as the healing force—several levels beyond. Drawing on mana the way priests used divine power was an otherworldly concept. Even Kaylen had assumed A-rank; if this man’s skill was real, he belonged to the handful of Unlimited-rank adventurers on the continent.
“Hnn…”
Rye began the spell. A strange warmth rose from the wound, followed by sharp pain. Sierra bit back a cry, but to Kaylen’s mortified ears the sound came out almost seductive. He turned his head away.
“Hey, how far did we get? This spell’s useless even against walls.”
Aslan’s shout echoed from afar, and the group turned. Zeroa’s white thread—linked to Rye—caught Michelle’s eye. She tilted her head. Moura recognized the face and lit up.
“Zeroa! Cindy’s here too!”
“Moura-nim?”
Zeroa beamed as he approached. “Aslan, Cindy—move that debris.”
Yet the cheerful reunion was cut short. Rye’s words halted them. They looked at the chimera pinned to the wall. Cindy rushed to Moura. Aslan’s leg twitched once, then he stared at the pathetic creature with wide eyes.
“Oh~ A chimera. What kind is this?”
“Klein, maybe?”
Aslan leaned in. Zeroa answered casually, stepping closer.
“Be careful! Zeroa, back off!”
Moura yelled, but the chimera suddenly rose and lunged. Zeroa raised his shield, blocking the first blow. He countered by driving his sword downward. The chimera twisted, trying to yank the blade free. Zeroa held the flat of the sword with his other hand and resisted.
Aslan charged next, swinging his halved baton like a war club. The blow shattered the creature’s skull. “Tch, no flavor to this.”
Still gripping the baton, Aslan smashed it repeatedly into the crumpled head. Blood and brain matter sprayed. The chimera thrashed, swinging its other leg, but Zeroa shielded Aslan with the shield.
One hand kept the sword buried; the other parried the wild swing. Zeroa planted one foot firmly against the blade, stance calm and precise—exactly like a seasoned monster hunter. The tense expression he wore only made him look more like a greenhorn… yet he handled himself with terrifying composure.
Even as an academy student, he had survived real incidents, received training from Rye and the academy, and proven strong outside the walls. Aslan had seen him fight. He trusted him completely and kept striking until the chimera’s neck snapped.
Even in death, Aslan didn’t relax. He drove the baton into the creature’s neck, then severed its head. He kicked the rolling skull once and turned to Zeroa.
“Even a chimera dies if you cut off its head?”
“Probably. I’ve never heard of another weakness.”
The two boys, still chatting casually while wiping blood from their weapons, left Moura’s party speechless. These teenagers looked barely old enough to be adventurers, yet they had slain a chimera without breaking a sweat.
Zeroa—Zeroa, the former porter. Moura’s memory supplied half-forgotten images from the old days. He blinked in confusion. Zeroa walked over, grinning.
“Long time no see, Moura-nim.”
“Ah, uh, uh, uh?”
“Yes?”
“You’re really Zeroa? Not someone else?”
“Yes, me. Did I grow that much? I didn’t grow much in height.”
He had grown. Not height—power. Moura stared at the innocent face and finally understood. He had heard Zeroa entered the academy, but had dismissed it as rumor. Now he knew it was true.
“Wh-who… said that?”
“... ... What are you doing?”
Rye moved his fingers in rapid signs toward Aslan and Zeroa. Aslan asked, confused. Rye smiled.
“Hmm? Just curious who said it. I’m recording.”
Behind Rye, Cindy, who had been hiding behind Kaylen, watched him treat Sierra’s thigh. Even as healing, the pained sounds the girl made made her expression tighten. She slipped behind Kaylen to avoid the friendly greeting.
Rye’s sharp eyes caught the nervous shift. He knew one of them had been badmouthing him. He began hunting the culprit.
Aslan tried to run. Rye stepped in front of him and looked down from above.
“You?”
“... ... I-I was just repeating what you told the kids.”
“A loose-mouthed guy who blabs about men’s conversations? Not even a real man.”
Rye grabbed Aslan’s ankle and slammed him to the floor.
Moura watched, utterly lost. Zeroa laughed and explained.
“It’s nothing special. You wouldn’t understand.”
Even from behind, Cindy nodded vigorously.
Time passed. Aslan finally passed out. The situation settled. Rye and Moura decided to camp for the night. Though not truly safe, a party that had just killed a Klein was safer than most shelters.
Moura offered his thanks and repayment. Rye asked for a map. Moura handed it over without argument.
Rye tossed it to Zeroa. The boy copied the terrain layout on paper in a straight line down the stairs of each floor.
Rye watched him for a moment, then smiled strangely at Moura.
“Heading back already?”
“Yes. Sierra needs time to recover. We should return now.”
“I see.”
The smile deepened. Rye’s eyes sparkled as he gazed at Moura.
“Then… would you be a porter for one day?”
“What?”
Cindy, realizing the plan, poked Zeroa’s shoulder. Zeroa turned with a questioning look. Cindy shook her head and pointed at Rye.
“Safety guarantee. Fifty silvers per person plus fifteen percent of materials from the dungeon, and we protect your way back. You’ve already come this far—wouldn’t it be a shame to turn around?”
If the map held, one man’s safety was enough. Plus a day’s pay of fifty silvers plus materials was too good a deal. Moura glanced at his companions. Kaylen stared at Rye with worshipful eyes. Michelle’s ears twitched with interest. Sierra—still injured—would need time to heal completely.
“Let’s go,”
Sierra, usually reserved, said the words with a bright glint in her eyes.
Everyone agreed. Rye didn’t wait for Moura’s answer and held out his hand.
“Then I’ll rely on you.”
“Tsk— I’m the one who should be relying on you. My hands aren’t used to carrying yet.”
They shook. Rye’s face lit up with delight.