Chapter 4
Chapter 4
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Kaiden Party
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Entering the dungeon with the Kaiden Party would happen three days later.
Since it wasn't the upper floors but a trip all the way to the 22nd floor of the middle layers, it would take anywhere from two weeks at the shortest to three or even four weeks at the longest.
That meant there were quite a few things to prepare in my own way.
However, I already had most essentials on hand, and the situation was such that I only needed to restock depleted consumables...
So what was truly important right now?
Boosting morale before stepping into the dungeon.
Entering the dungeon meant constant exposure to life-threatening peril while losing the many conveniences of civilized life.
One of those was meals.
Most preserved foods in this world were downright mediocre, making it hard to truly savor eating while deep inside a dungeon.
Thus, much like sailors carousing on shore before their next grueling voyage, I planned to gorge on delicious treats right up until dungeon entry.
‘...My frame's smaller than in my past life, yet my appetite somehow feels even bigger.’
Was it because my early years here were so grueling, or just this body's quirk? Hard to say.
One thing was clear: it wasn't exactly cost-efficient flesh.
The silver lining? It didn't pack on fat easily despite how much I shoveled in.
The ends of long loaves protruded from the large paper bag, swaying with every step.
This bread—freshly baked alongside sundry necessities, ingredients, and even perfume—had a crisp exterior and pillowy interior, nearly identical to the baguettes I'd seen often in my previous life.
Perhaps because people lived here too, food culture shared broad similarities despite nitpicky differences.
Curious, given how drastically the environment and flora differed.
‘Still, plenty of letdowns along the way.’
Foods evoking Asia existed here and there, but the diet skewed overwhelmingly Western-based—a real shame.
Even so, scrounging similar ingredients and spices to recreate dimly remembered dishes from my old life counted among my scant hobbies.
‘Gambas... think it'll turn out?’
Honestly, I hadn't made it often even back then, and with no seafood available here, classic shrimp gambas was off the table.
Freshwater shrimp existed, sure, but they were puny specks—not worth the hassle.
I'd improvise with sizable river crayfish instead, fingers crossed it'd work.
With heaps of garlic and shellfish thrown in, the umami ought to carry even a flop.
“Hum~♪”
Humming along, I followed the familiar path, footsteps light.
With each stride, the surrounding light dimmed, sounds fading too.
I was heading from the dungeon city's heart—where the labyrinth itself loomed—to its fringes.
From a riot of mingled scents and vibrant clamor to a musty hush of muted grays.
If the center stage dazzled with protagonists' tales, this was the dingy backdrop.
A sneeringly dubbed trash heap: the grim endpoint for the rejected, discarded, shattered losers too broken to rise again.
It sat right on the border between center and slums.
West district: Ariadne Street.
The sun dipped low, alleys now overtly sinister, prickling gazes fixed on me from the shadows.
But that was all—once they clocked it was me, roughly half the sensed stares vanished.
That eerie tally tugged my lips into a smirk.
The center spurned the slums, just as the slums spurned the center.
Me? I straddled the gray divide smack in the middle.
The gaze count felt like stark proof.
“Ah.”
I fished the paper packet from my bosom with my free hand and peered inside. My face soured on instinct.
No wonder it'd felt loose.
“Down to the last one.”
Only a single mana cig remained.
“Should've swung by the alchemy workshop after all.”
I had to pick up my ordered goods tomorrow anyway—planned to restock while there.
I glanced back down the path I'd come.
‘...Too much hassle to double back for more.’
My go-to alchemy workshop lay north in the central district.
Detouring there meant a solid trek.
Could one cig hold me till tomorrow?
Hmm.
-How about using this chance to quit a bit?
‘I’ll make the effort.’
To the Goddess, who never missed a chance to nag after reading my inner turmoil, I offered a polite yet perfunctory reply—pure reflex.
Ever since taking up mana cigs, my longest quit streak hadn't topped a week; she surely didn't buy my sincerity.
Whatever her thoughts, my mouth naturally clamped the cig, my hand crumpled the packet back into my bosom, and deft fingers flicked the oil lighter to life.
“Fuu—”
Much better.
A wave of disapproval washed over me, but I was far too independent a child to bend to parental whims.
“Ah!”
Thus strolling along, I reached a broader clearing when a kid spotted me and yelled.
“It's Arjen!”
Instantly, unlike the central-district kids clustered there, the ragtag slum brats' eyes snapped to me in unison.
For children, their disciplined menace packed real punch—enough to make the timid flinch and retreat.
““Arjen!””
“Sis!”
Over a dozen kicked up dust clouds, charging at me with a patter of feet.
The first wave hit quick, swarming me with filthy, dirt-caked hands like cicadas clinging every which way.
“Play with us! Arjen!”
“What's that? Whatcha buy? Something yummy? Gimme some!”
“Hey hey! Arjen, strongest crawler's the Thunder Lord, right? Jona keeps saying the Heavenly Army's tougher—tell him he's wrong!”
“Arjen, that smoke again? Mom says it's bad. Priests're watched by the gods, right? Do bad stuff and you're in deep trouble??”
“Arjen likes booze too. I hate booze. Dad drinks it and beats me every time.”
“Cigs and booze, mean fists, Arjen's a priest but does nothing but bad stuff, huh?”
“Idiot, that's 'cause she's a defrocked monk.”
“Defrocked monk? What's that?”
“Ya don't know? Means a fallen priest.”
“Fallen what?”
“Dunno exactly. Dad said it.”
“Wha?”
“Don't worry though—even if rotten Arjen gets ditched by the gods, I'll marry ya!”
-Human children are truly audacious.
The encircled kids chirped like fledglings begging for worms.
Previous-life memories or not, I couldn't keep puffing mana cigs in front of them—so with heavy heart, I ground the butt into the dirt.
If I were less grounded, fully acclimated to this savage world, I'd have blazed away shamelessly amid the lot.
Sorry, cig.
Your master's the world's lone voice of reason.
Clap clap!
““Eek!””
My handclaps jolted the rowdy chatterboxes; they scrambled into line before me.
The back row bickered over prime spots, but catching my quiet smile, they gauged it and struck a hard-won truce.
Now arrayed single-file, the kids peered up tensely.
To them, I proclaimed in the stern visage of a training hall aide:
“It took 54 seconds for you all to form proper order.”
““Yay!””
“Woohoo!”
Tiny hands thrust forward, front to back.
Meeting their sparkling eyes, I drew the candy box from my bosom and doled one to each.
“Hehe...”
The kids popped their treats straight in, beaming bliss.
“Suckin' candy.”
“Yup yup.”
Unlike the bountiful center, sweetness was gold in the slums.
Not just sweets—everything scarce, mere fullness a mercy here; candy ranked as ambrosia.
Each suckle made their puffed baby-fat cheeks jiggle in brief ripples.
“Did everyone behave today?”
“Yup.”
“Dirt play real hard.”
“Hide-'n-seek too.”
“War games even.”
“Letter studies?”
“Uh......kinda?”
“Liar! You skipped entirely!”
“You tattletale jerk!”
“Arjen, Arjen—I studied tons!”
I petted the clinging heads en route to the prayer room.
Kids dangling from every limb, I entered to find someone already there.
He didn't stir at my arrival, kneeling devout before the goddess statue in prayer; only after wrapping up did the old man turn.
“You've arrived?”
Stooped back, deep shadows pooling beneath his eyes: the old man.
He unofficially played village elder for Ariadne Street—name still a mystery.
This dungeon city boasted no formal lords or bureaucrats, but humans gathered meant hierarchies formed.
Folk like him tacitly lorded over domains.
“How'd the errand fare?”
“Kind eyes watched; gleaned good tidings.”
“Tch tch. Translation: you got skinned frugally again.”
No further chatter passed between us.
His dismissive wave sent my hangers-on peeling away sharpish.
From the paper bag, I set the fresh citrus perfume before him; together we polished the goddess statue with reverent care.
Remainder aside, we knelt in silent prayer—prompting the lurking kids to fumble mimicry.
Familiar yet nameless conduit: waves of fulfillment flowed through.
Higher than transcendent powers yet ironically faith-dependent from lowly devotees.
My Goddess proved no outlier, replenishing divinity via these humble prayers in our dingy border shrine.
Goddess of Mist and Dew.
She'd lingered in a corpse-choked, mist-veiled temple—footfalls ceased, crumbling into oblivion.
A once-forgotten deity and her fellow rejects, shunned and forsaken.
What a perfect match.
“How far this time?”
“Barring snags, down to 22.”
“Far jaunt again. 22... three weeks gone?”
Whatever his past, the old man knew labyrinths cold.
His offhand tips from my struggling days? Pure gold.
Still, no prying.
Slum etiquette tabooed past-probing—like dredging sewage; he wouldn't spill anyway.
“Yes. Thus—”
“Prayer room and your digs? I'll oversee.”
“My thanks.”
He flapped a lazy hand, shuffling out slow.
Fine by me—skipped the upkeep tithe.
Post-exit, I romped moderately with the frisking kids before heading home.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The dungeon city's core brimmed with facilities spanning every worldly trade.
Northward clustered research labs and workshops galore.
Mine: the Clonter Workshop.
Rumor held it a 200-year alchemy staple, unbowed by time.
“O. Arjen.”
Door swung open; the stout dwarf at the counter clocked me, greeting warmly.
“Hey Alberih. Keeping well?”
“Well or woe—days blend same as ever.”
Dwarfess Alberih grinned wide.
“You stocked mana cigs just days back—what drama since?”
“Fair. Any Malrusso Russus packs free?”
“Blasted through the last haul already?”
“Guilty.”
“Our wares boast top-shelf quality, sure—but ease off the chain-smoking. Medicinal base, yeah... but ring a bell? ‘Medicine and poison ain't twins.’”
‘“Dose draws the line 'twixt tonic and toxin.’”
“Sage alchemist Caspar Jules. Huh? Sharp cookie, eh?”
“Bits overheard here 'n' there.”
“Proverb preaching moderation even for goods. Etch it deep. Hate seeing prized patrons wrecked by our stock.”
“Mindful, Alberih. Oh, and—”
“Gotcha. ‘That thing,’ aye?”
Her eyes sparked fierce.
“Was gonna dispatch a runner your way pronto over it, truth be told.”
Cackling, Alberih beamed with smug pride.
“The very prize you awaited, eyes-bloodshot? Finished days back. Wolfram forged a monster.”