The Monk (2)
“You don't have to go out of your way. Repairing is just a hobby I enjoy.”
“How can work be a hobby? No matter how much you like it, once it becomes your livelihood, it turns into a headache. That's human nature.”
“Is that so? It's always new and fun for me.”
Taylor started to reply but stopped when he saw the sincerity in Allen's eyes. This was genuine.
Nothing beat having your hobby and job align perfectly. And no stress on top of that? That was a calling from the heavens. Or maybe one screw loose in the head, turning pain into pleasure.
To Taylor, Allen was both. He reveled in magitech while elevating the agony of racking his brains into joy. In a word.
“Perverted bastard.”
“Pardon?”
Allen blinked in confusion at the sudden word that leaped out without any logical buildup, but Taylor had already pulled out the memory modifier and handed it to Rolf.
“Find any decent gigs?”
“They're taking longer than expected, so I need to think it over. I thought the labyrinth was the toughest, but surface jobs are no joke either.”
“Life's the same everywhere people live. Take care heading back. And don't torment your grandson out of boredom.”
Rolf saw them off with a smile, waving goodbye to the grandfather and grandson. Taylor used to protest at first when called a grandson, but now he just accepted it naturally.
As they walked along the street, Allen glanced up at the darkening sky and asked Taylor.
“What was that request you looked at earlier?”
“Nothing special. But since you're so curious, I'll show you.”
Light beamed from Taylor's artificial eye, projecting a hologram into the air. When Allen signaled he'd seen it, the content flipped like turning book pages.
“Retrieval, escort, transport, capture. Quite a list.”
The screens flipped faster and faster; Allen's eyes darted busily to keep up.
“Hold on.”
“What is it?”
A bust of a man who looked about Allen's age slowly rotated in the air. Even as Taylor asked, Allen kept silent, digging through his memories.
Slightly curly orange hair... I've definitely seen him somewhere.
Allen's mind scoured every corner, flashing through faces of people he'd met. Then, one image suddenly surfaced.
“That uncle from before.”
“What're you talking about?”
Allen explained how he'd hitched a ride with that man's cart to enter Maze City. The man labeled 'Missing' below the bust matched the photo from back then exactly.
Taylor nodded slowly, his face a mix of pity and resignation.
“He was poking around the labyrinth, right?”
“Yeah. I even asked them to beat him off if they saw him nearby.”
“Citizens tend to focus only on the economic growth and tech advances from the labyrinth. The city government and corporations advertise just those points too.”
“Pros and cons, I suppose. Every phenomenon has them.”
“Right, you're spot on. When there's light and shadow, people usually fixate on the light. The shadows are hidden, making them hard to observe properly. Take a look at this.”
The screen from Taylor's eye now showed annual labyrinth death statistics. Data varied wildly by reporting agency—some even quoted gossip rags and newspapers directly.
“This is reality. The light's too bright for anyone to see the shadows straight on. Even the big shots who control the labyrinth don't want their dirty laundry aired.”
“Same in Ranka.”
Allen understood that better than anyone. The most shocking thing since arriving here was how little people knew about Ranka. It made sense for a destitute backwater, but even in the vast info sea of the world, solid news was scarce.
Progress always consumed something—resources or lives. Naturally, the consumed were quickly forgotten.
That was the media's role to highlight, but corporations held their leashes, preventing free reporting. They'd long been propaganda towers.
Taylor clicked his tongue.
“Poor kid. Missing probably means dead in the labyrinth. Desperate parents still shopping the request around.”
“No chance he's alive?”
“In Maze City, missing equals dead. Same everywhere else. Or maybe he's enslaved somewhere, toiling away.”
“Any guesses on the spot?”
“Not on the surface, but in the labyrinth? Yeah—the mana stone mine on cave layer 19? He wouldn't have gone too deep.”
Allen knew the place from hearsay. A special zone like an underground fortress, a treasure trove where mana stones regenerated endlessly.
Miners dug them out; explorers protected the miners from unpredictable underground dwellers.
*
Entering the labyrinth, Allen reaffirmed their goal.
“We reached layer 18 last time, so 20 this round. Peek at 21 if we've got slack?”
“No guardsmen.”
The guardsman played a role like the cyclops gatekeeper—heavy-armored elites, dubbed guardsmen for protecting empty thrones.
“A bit stronger than that dark wizard last time, right?”
“That was just a rough personal strength comparison for reference. Combat styles differ, so don't predict rashly. They come with hordes of minions too—extra caution needed. Gatekeepers are small fry there.”
“Difficulty spike compared to the maze.”
“Know the guardsman's other name? Newbie shredder. Fresh explorers with starry dreams hit the wall there. Should be camping grounds soon...”
As Taylor predicted, signs of people multiplied. Rounding the next corner revealed the layer 9 campsite, bustling as usual.
As Allen set up and prepped food, growing footsteps made him turn.
“No business today...”
His left eye quickly scanned a woman with gray hair. Dressed head to toe in black, she hefted a thick greatsword case on her back.
“Hey.”
“H-hey...”
Sion finished her greeting and stared intently at Taylor, who still had his back turned. After over ten minutes, Taylor finally glanced over his shoulder.
“Instructor, hey.”
“What brings a genius swordmaster to this old timer?”
“Gotta have business?”
“Well, no...”
In the awkward air, a small, sturdy figure wedged in. A dwarf in thin clothes without proper plate armor.
“If you've met an acquaintance in the labyrinth, introduce me too.”
“This is Shiba. Here—Taylor, Allen.”
“Simple's good. I'm a monk of the Mother God Church. Exploring the labyrinth this time with Breaker's aid. Guided by Mother to meet like this—why not party up? Four's merrier than two.”
Sion seemed indifferent; Taylor accepted, hoping to recruit him maybe.
Shiba, thrilled, chugged from his canteen. Eyes drew to the faint alcohol whiff; he wiped his beard and grinned.
“Grain tea overfermented. Can't toss waste, so I'll handle it all.”
“Mother God Church bans booze, no?”
“Fine question. Asked Mother in a dream—she laughed. Proof it's okay.”
Monk (2)
Shiba, monk of the Mother God Church, walked a tightrope over doctrine. Masterful at justifying his actions. From others' views, a splendidly corrupt cleric.
Far more time primping his light brown beard than praying. Combing meticulously, applying oils, feeding it beard supplements.
Whenever Allen stared, Shiba explained.
“Brother Allen's so curious. Er, inquisitive? Can't preach Mother's will looking shabby—what would people think?”
“That the cleric's toiling hard exploring.”
“No. Humans take visual cues strongly. If I'm filthy, they frown; negative image sticks to fellow brothers and sisters. To prevent that, I cut prayer time for grooming. Got it?”
“Slippery tongue. Could spear undergrounders just sticking it out.”
Taylor grumbled. He'd started polite to recruit Shiba, but now was curt.
“Thanks for the praise. Preaching needs persuasion too. If old brother says so, my training's paying off. Ah, slip—Brother Taylor.”
Taylor shrugged off the wordplay. In a world where explorers' banter killed absent kids or vanished parents, that was just a greeting.
Besides, they knew it wasn't serious. Proof: Taylor and Shiba meshed well.
“Booze instead of water okay?”
“Booze? Just fermented grain or fruit drink I chanced upon. Wasting food's sin too—down my gullet it goes.”
“Process alcohol fast, it's water. Spare some?”
“No. I'll bear the sin alone. Instead, etch your resolve in my heart, brother.”
“Hey, don't...”
Conspiring, Taylor—feeling guilty—side-eyed Allen's direction. Their eyes met.
“One sip in a crowded camp okay? Nah. I'll hold.”
Like a thief with sore feet, Taylor scrapped the plan. Had to set an example before the much younger Allen—what a sight.
Allen didn't care about booze. Not combat, just a sip in a busy camp—no issue.
He'd watched their whispers out of curiosity: what abilities did the monk use, how?
To heal, someone needs hurting? Mean thought, but... curious too.
After camp, following Sion to cave layer 12, underground dwellers spawned from walls—ones in sturdy armor, with bison automatons.
Spotting them, Shiba donned spiked knuckledusters like grape clusters.
“Poor soul bound in purgatory. I'll grant freedom this ti---me.”
Shiba's words trailed. He waddled forward on short legs, reaching the undergrounder in a blink.
The foe thrust his spear, but it stabbed air. Shiba slid along the shaft with his gauntlet, surging ahead. Like salmon upstream, he closed in and unleashed a straight punch to the solar plexus.
The blow bulged the undergrounder's eyes halfway out. Not enough—it tumbled back several rolls, crashing into the trailing bison.
The bison twisted sideways, cushioning safely. But just a brief peace.
Shiba bounced like a rubber ball, sticking tight to the undergrounder. Bison, undergrounder, Shiba—middle one like a caged fighter.
That clinch short-range striking in boxing? Dirty boxing. Spot on.
Shiba gripped the armor, pummeling mercilessly. Should've been KO'd already, but handling the bison dragged it out.
Bison couldn't block without harming its charge. Automaton protocol left it helpless.
Taylor nodded at the fight.
“Dwarves usually wield polearms due to physical disadvantages. Thought it odd barehanded, but he's got backing.”
“Light, seasoned moves. Right?”
“Yeah.”
Even Allen, poor in body sense, saw the skill. No matter how the bison gored with horns, Shiba never slipped from behind the undergrounder.