Trials and Rewards (2)
Originally, we'd counted the floors as we descended layer by layer. Once we cleared one floor, we'd prepare to head down to the next, bracing ourselves thoroughly before advancing. If any unexpected situations cropped up, I'd step in and nip them in the bud early. It was stable party management.
Back when I played the original game, I'd tried every concept playstyle under the sun. I'd even discovered new metas myself. All those varied experiences and trial-and-error runs had naturally ingrained in me how to operate most stably. In the original, if you failed, you could just whale with cash or whatever to try again—but here, there's only one shot at the real thing. Fail, and that's it. No do-overs.
That's why I'd trained the main characters and prepared contingencies to seize that single chance.
...And yet, shit still hit the fan.
Accidents happen unexpectedly—that's what makes them accidents. No matter how thoroughly you prepare, there's always a limit. You can lower the odds, but you can't drop them to zero. That unforeseen 1%? People call it "extreme bad luck." The kind I got hammered with in my past life.
The incident had already happened, the situation had shifted. Real-time events flowed like raging waves. No lone person could block that current. Instead of fighting it, you ride it, keeping your balance. Surfing the wave, basically.
Pinpointing the cause could wait until everything settled. And the fastest way to end this mess?
First: Clear the dungeon as fast as possible to force-eject everyone inside.
Second: Eliminate any wildcard factors.
'First one's Iri, and Kyle Ivanstair.'
The first was already underway. As I'd instructed beforehand, Iri would link up with Kyle's group. Combined, their firepower should make clearing this place a breeze.
So my job was the second: Neutralize the wildcards.
In this scenario, there was only one clear candidate. The "Demonic Energy Source"—a sudden event not in the original—that meant taking out the demonkin holed up somewhere in this dungeon.
"...Have you confirmed where we are?"
As we trudged through the ruins, Rebecca suddenly asked.
"No."
"Pardon?"
"The place is too wrecked to tell. Everything's collapsed and mangled—no landmarks left."
But one thing was certain.
"No escalators, stairs, or elevators in sight. Doesn't look like a spot you reach the normal way."
"If it's on Arsen's intended path, there'd be clues left behind. Take the necromancer—we had those chains and coffin to seal it, right?"
"Yes."
Everything was designed for cadet training. Even mock dungeons were recreations of real ones from records. Obstacles were placed intentionally by Arsen. And they wouldn't just dump hurdles without hints on how to overcome them.
Cadets who spotted them early would surge ahead, racking up points. Laggards would trail, scraping scraps. By clear time—win or lose—they'd gain "experience." The grown cadets would perform better next time.
Growth and change. Challenge and failure.
...That's Arsen's intent, anyway.
Point is, obstacles came with escape routes baked in.
But not here.
"This place is sealed shut."
No way down, no way up. Completely enclosed. A true trap in every sense. Hunters who fell in probably starved, turned on each other, or blasted their own way out. Cadet-level? Forget it.
"Arsen probably blocked cadets from reaching here. In normal runs, it's inaccessible."
"...So it's a hidden area?"
"Close enough."
Arsen was obsessed with battle-hardened hunters, but this was training, not a real raid. Sealed dead-ends didn't fit their philosophy. They'd reworked it, designed to be unreachable.
"Watch's recall probably won't work here either."
"I figured, seeing the Demonic Energy flow."
"And no normal exit."
...Ways out? Dungeon clear, or time-out auto-eject on closure. Whatever led here filled it with Demonic Energy—no passages, no boss room. Inactive zone. Watch comms were out of range, community functions fried.
Unless the profs noticed and yanked us—fat chance right now.
I followed my Sense, pressing on. This place felt curtained off from the main dungeon, like blackout drapes. Even Watcher's Eye showed it: barriers denser than anywhere else. If I couldn't pierce it, profs sure as hell couldn't. Arsen wouldn't leave blind spots.
High odds this spawned from the sudden event. Everything tied back to the demonkin.
In the sheer vertical rubble, Watcher's Eye caught a murky silhouette in an impenetrable barrier. Mana-boosted sight sharpened it: crouched humanoid shape.
"Probably down there."
I gripped my Glock. Watcher's Eye read mana flows, exposing barrier weak points. Sniper + Eye + mana-overcharged output? It'd punch through.
Aimed at the head. Finger on trigger.
Even with Rebecca, pitting her against a demonkin directly was suicide. Strong as she was, she was still one cadet—no real combat experience, no tricks.
One-shot it. Focus fire, pierce the skull clean.
Right as I squeezed—it looked up at me.
Too late now. Mana-charged bullet wouldn't stop easy. Blink, and it'd be over by the time eyes reopened.
But a nagging wrongness hit. I lowered the muzzle.
"...Why?"
"......"
I holstered the Glock, locking eyes with it. No hostility. Opposite—it was calling me from inside. Not for blood, but talk.
Details unknown. But it knew I wasn't Sion Illeionhart. It knew Shion Esperand.
It knew I couldn't attack—and banked on it, exposing itself boldly.
Only one person would lure me like this. Alone.
"Guess I have to go down."
"You sure? It's a demonkin."
I stowed the Glock. It wasn't something I could beat anyway. Eye contact confirmed it.
"It won't attack me. If it wanted us dead, we'd be gone already."
Firing at that? Suicide. Might not even land.
"Maybe we can talk it out."
Otherwise, why dig this elaborate trap just for me?
Rebecca looked skeptical—fair, rationally. But confronting it was our best shot out.
I glanced at her, nodded lightly. Quick goodbye.
"Be back soon."
"...Yes."
With that, I leaped into the abyss. Esperand landing technique made it feather-light.
Up close, the barrier was tighter, denser. Pitch-black hue sent chills. Beyond my pierce level now.
This scale? Profs teaming up on a formation, maybe. Solo? World-class few. If I knew them...
Gut said reach out. The ironclad barrier didn't repel. Slipped in soft as hot spring water.
"......"
Brief hesitation, then I dove in. No turning back—faced the owner head-on.
The crouched figure rose slowly. Silhouette screamed human, but inside... no.
Faintly rippling—an illusion spell offshoot. Detached phantom body.
"...Took longer than I thought."
Mid-aged man, calm drawl like reciting verse. Slicked-back hair exuded old-world class. Immaculate uniform, draped coat amplifying gravitas. Presence alone dominated—no gestures needed. Aristocrat of aristocrats.
And the crest on his garb? Unforgettable, try as I might.
"Shion Esperand."
I stepped forward at the call. My face reflected in its green eyes.
I thought I stayed cool, unflappable.
"...Father."
But the face staring back? Rattled clear as day.