Where's the Bug?
It had been a week since the rejects Amon had passed over formed their own party. With two vanguard attackers, this group was shockingly flawless.
"Uwaaaah!!"
The water buffalo beastman charged into a horde of skeletons. Torso was the water buffalo beastman tank. His hands had been modded to store foldable shields—they extended into long weapons when swung wide or formed protective barriers for allies when spread broad. He even had a node with telepathic functions implanted in his head. A near-ideal tank who could prevent formation collapse, shield allies, and command the battlefield all at once.
Thanks to his efforts keeping the line intact, the hidden sniper targeted the commander.
> BINGO.
Bang!
The party's sniper, Bens, pulled the trigger, and the commander's head vanished. She was an ordinary human—or at least, it was hard to find any unmodified parts on her body. Artificial lungs for steady breathing, mechanical arms and legs for stable aim, cybernetic eyes with targeting assists. And to top it off, a magical tattoo granting optical camouflage. High-spec gear that made it baffling why she'd ever be a mercenary.
Once she obliterated the commander's head, it was the vanguard attackers' turn. Amon and Kashi Iliya swung sword and spear, shredding the elite skeletons in seconds. All that remained were the regenerating commander and some run-of-the-mill skeleton grunts.
That was the heavy gunner's job.
"Fall back. Vox time."
The party's ogre heavy gunner, Vox, unleashed his machine gun. Thanks to ogre physiology, his back carried not just massive ammo drums but bombs galore. His speech was simple, but he was an elite ogre with demolition expert certification. Though his explosive expertise didn't come into play this fight—modern conventional weapons pulverized the basic bones before they could mount any resistance.
With the skeletons temporarily disabled, the rest was destroying heads and spines one by one. Normally, a mage would wipe them out with offensive spells, but Amon's party mage was... different. Whether to call 'em "he" or "she" was tricky—their name was Hen.
"Good work, everyone. I'll handle cleanup."
The androgynous utility mage wiggled their fingers, sorting severed heads and spines into a corner. Then, channeling mana into their staff, they pulverized the bones one by one like pounding rice cakes.
Even in Amon's already eccentric party, the androgynous utility mage stood out. They could cast offensive, defensive, and support spells—but none followed textbook methods. They'd claim crushing foes with barriers was offensive magic, or rerouting projectiles midair with flight spells was defense. The reason? Maximizing efficiency with minimal mana.
And with that, the androgynous utility mage's pestle work wrapped up another smooth battle.
"Good work."
The party immediately shifted to weapon checks and feedback. Unlike the trash parties they'd left behind, this group took even that seriously. Six members inspecting gear and debating safer tactics. A perfect party that never rested on its laurels.
Watching them only amplified Amon's unease.
What's the deal? Bugenga?
In his previous life, an Eastern sage had said: "When five humans gather, there's always at least one piece of trash." Amon lived by those words. No matter how the world changed, they rang true. At least until a week ago.
Why is this a dream team?
Dungeon crawling with them for a week confirmed it: not a single slacker in the bunch.
Of course, no one was flawless. Amon and Kashi wanted to stick together, but duplicate vanguard roles were a logistical headache—not a personal flaw.
The others had clear reasons they couldn't find parties.
Water buffalo tank Torso went berserk at the sight of allies' red blood due to gene therapy side effects. Human sniper Bens was mute from surgery complications. Ogre heavy gunner Vox's overkill gear often wrecked loot. And androgynous utility mage Hen had top-tier utility but lacked firepower for a mage.
Each had a fatal flaw. But together? They covered for each other perfectly.
Torso's bloodlust? Bens's optical camo tattoo hid it. Bens's muteness? Torso's telepathy fixed that. Vox's collateral damage? Hen fished loot from the blasts. Hen's weak damage? Vox filled the gap.
Synergy so perfect it felt fated. In just a week, they'd reached mid-floor combat strength.
So why still toy with skeletons at the entrance...?
What disaster's waiting?
No internal issues meant trouble lurked outside. Amon wanted to prepare endlessly.
"Let's gear up so even the worst gacha bullshit won't faze us before descending."
Nods all around—no objections. They agreed enthusiastically.
"I love this party too. Please, let's break that damn jinx."
The androgynous utility mage vented. Ironically, every member shared Amon's curse: join a party, and it vaporizes on first scout. This was their first to last a week. Precious enough to warrant endless caution.
Amon gave a wry smile, realizing they all thought alike.
"No matter how I slice it, we mesh too well."
The party shared a low chuckle. Then they resumed entrance scouting.
They decided to push mid-floors after the 13th run.
Saddark Dungeon—conveniently shortened to Wardoom—was the dungeon Amon's party farmed daily. Its theme: undead.
The lich deep inside churned out undead endlessly to protect itself. If an explorer died fighting them, the lich repurposed the corpse. This ramped up from mid-floors, where deaths piled up.
Mid-floor mortality spiked not just from escalating threats, but complacency. Fresh off the entrance, explorers thought, "How bad can it be?"—and wiped.
Veterans hammered it home: Never let your guard down.
And one party embodied that here.
"Enemies ahead: death knights and ghouls. Standard formation."
Amon's orders sent the party into crisp motion. Fresh from the entrance, not a hint of slack on their faces.
They executed roles flawlessly, shredding ghouls and death knights. Break formation, snipe commander, mulch the mob.
"Situation clear. Short break."
They dropped in place for gear checks. During feedback, Kashi nodded at a death knight corpse.
"Were these explorers once?"
"Probably."
As Amon and Kashi used the fallen as cautionary tales, the androgynous utility mage flicked fingers, extracting a mercenary ID from the body.
"Decent payday, this one."
Amon chuckled at the thrift mage. The party rose and pressed on.
Their mid-floor faces? Grim, hunted. Ghoul and death knight fights were cakewalks. Over-specced for mid-floors; with synergy, they could dive deeper.
Yet unease gnawed.
The reason? One.
"This smooth sailing feels wrong... Something's gotta screw us."
Too smooth. The better the run, the worse the dread.
The party empathized, suspecting everything, guarding against all.
Then they spotted a group. Hazmat-suited figures scorched the dungeon with flamethrowers, ignoring loot or scraps.
Their eyes met Amon's party.
"..."
One gestured, pointing at Amon. The group halted incineration, swapping flamers for rifles and swords.
Amon shrugged.
"Odds they're friendly?"
The ogre heavy gunner replied.
"Honestly? Hope not. Clearing 'em proves our party's safe."
Even Vox's limited vocab got the point across.
"Yeah, too smooth so far."
Kashi drew her spear. Amon's party met the unknowns head-on, like they'd been waiting.