The world returned to him slowly—first breath, then weight, then ache—each one dragging Calista further from the quiet. His body ached, though the sensation was muted, distant—as if his own nerves had yet to decide whether to complain. Soft fabric pooled around him, the air carrying the lingering warmth of another presence.
Bastet.
The realization settled before he even turned his head. Her presence was as familiar as his own shadow. He shifted slightly, testing the limits of his soreness. Not unbearable. But not ideal, either.
Floor 10 had been too much for him.
No. That wasn't right.
He had made it out. He had walked through the city, composed, untouched by the weight of his own exhaustion. The bruises, the cracked armor, the blood—none of it had stopped him. It wasn't that the floor had been too much. He had simply stretched himself too thin, trying to force balance where it didn't belong.
Calista exhaled, gaze tracing the wooden ceiling above him. He had been approaching this wrong. He'd tried to raise all his stats in tandem, even when the numbers didn't align, even when his own growth betrayed the idea of equal progress.
That needed to change.
Archery.
That was his answer. If he honed it properly, he wouldn't need to take hits. He wouldn't need to engage in drawn-out, inefficient skirmishes. Floor 10's monsters demanded precision—agile imps darting unpredictably, Bad Bats flitting through the dark with razor-edged wings. A mistimed shot, a slow release, even a hesitation in breath could mean the difference between a clean kill and another mark on his body.
But if he did it right…
If he could land those shots while standing on the other side of a cavern, unseen and untouched, then the Dungeon couldn't dictate the terms of his survival.
The thought settled in his chest, quiet and steady. He would master the bow on Floor 10. No more divided focus. No more wasted movement. Just precision. Just execution.
A voice cut through his thoughts, warm and amused.
"I can practically hear you overthinking."
He turned his head, meeting emerald green eyes filled with lazy exasperation. Bastet sat beside him, one arm draped over her bent knee, tail flicking in slow, absent arcs behind her. She looked as she always did—serene, knowing, as if she had already unraveled every thought that had passed through his mind before he had even formed them.
Calista let out a slow breath, pushing himself up with careful movements. "I apologize," he said smoothly, hands resting against the sheets as he adjusted to sitting upright. "For returning in such a state."
Bastet didn't answer immediately. Instead, she studied him, her gaze lingering on the faint bruises across his collarbone, the subtle tension in his movements.
Then, she sighed, long and measured. "We were supposed to celebrate at the Hostess," she reminded him. "Instead, I spent the night peeling off your bloodstained armor."
A pause. Then, softer, "Do you even realize how much blood you've lost?"
He met her gaze, unreadable. His body had been pale in her arms. He had felt the quiet frustration in the way she had steadied him, the way her tail had flicked with barely restrained displeasure.
Yet, despite it all, he remained composed. "It won't happen again."
Bastet's expression didn't shift, but her tail gave a sharp flick. "No," she said, voice like silk over steel. "It won't."
They held the silence for a moment longer before Bastet sighed again, less severe this time. She reached out, fingers brushing a lock of crimson hair from his face. "You need to eat before you go plotting your next conquest."
Calista inclined his head, lips curling faintly. "Then I'll indulge you."
Bastet hummed, rising smoothly to her feet. "Of course you will."
As she moved toward the kitchen, Calista shifted, rolling his shoulders and testing the stiffness in his limbs. The decision had already been made. The Dungeon was waiting. And this time, he knew exactly what he needed to do.
…
The midday sun cast long shadows over the quiet street outside Calista's townhouse. Inside, the remnants of breakfast lingered—the scent of spiced tea, the faint warmth of freshly made eggs.
Bastet leaned back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, cradling her cup as she watched him. "So," she mused, "you're set on heading back already?"
Calista finished the last bite of his meal, dabbing his lips with a cloth before setting it aside. "Of course."
She hummed, her tail flicking lazily. "Try not to drop dead before dinner."
He inclined his head slightly, rising from his seat. "I wouldn't dare inconvenience you like that."
Bastet smirked, lifting her cup in a silent farewell as he stepped out into the sunlit streets of Orario.
…
The Guild was as lively as ever, the usual flow of adventurers and clerks moving through its halls. Calista made his way toward the front desk, and the moment Eina saw him, her sharp green eyes narrowed.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said flatly, arms crossing over her vest.
Calista approached without missing a step. "And yet, here I am."
She exhaled, pressing her fingers against the bridge of her nose. "Bastet told me everything. You were in terrible shape last night, and now you're going back into the Dungeon?"
"I have to."
"No, you don't." Her voice dropped lower, quiet but no less firm. "Calista, you could've died. Do you think I didn't notice? You never miss a visit, and when you didn't show up last night, I knew something was wrong."
He held her gaze, unwavering. "I made it back."
"That's not the point!" Frustration bled into her voice, and she sighed, shaking her head. "Do you even hear yourself? You push yourself to the limit, come back half-dead, and then act like it's just another day."
Silence stretched between them. The Guild bustled around them, but in that moment, it felt distant.
"I'm adjusting," he said, voice steady. "I won't make the same mistakes."
Eina searched his face for something, anything. A crack in his certainty, a moment of hesitation. But, as always, there was none.
"…You're impossible," she muttered, rubbing her temple.
"I'll take that as permission."
She shot him a look, somewhere between exasperation and reluctant acceptance. "Tomorrow," she said, shaking her head. "We're still getting that drink tomorrow."
A flicker of amusement touched his lips. "I wouldn't miss it."
She sighed, finally relenting. "Just—be careful, alright?"
He inclined his head. "Always."
…
The Hostess of Fertility was bustling as usual, the scent of fresh bread and simmering stew filling the air. Calista stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the establishment pressing in around him.
A green-haired elf waitress caught sight of him, her sharp eyes assessing before she spoke. "You're looking for Syr."
It wasn't a question.
Before he could answer, movement from the side drew his attention. A soft voice, amused and knowing. "Don't mind Ryuu," Syr said as she slipped into view, apron neat despite the lunchtime rush. "She's just protective."
Calista glanced back as the elf—Ryuu—gave a small nod and left them to it.
Syr turned her attention fully to him, hands settling on her hips. "You're a bit late."
He held out the empty lunchbox. "Floor 10 was… demanding."
She took it, a quiet hum leaving her lips. "So you needed extra rest."
He didn't confirm or deny it, but the slight tilt of her head told him she had already filed that information away.
"You're still going back?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Of course."
She studied him for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "Will you be stopping by tomorrow morning again?"
He met her gaze. "Yes."
Something flickered in her expression before she smiled. "Good."
With that, she stepped away, leaving him with nothing but the scent of warm bread and an unspoken thought lingering in the air.
…
Before heading to the Dungeon, Calista stopped by a familiar shop nestled among the smithing district. His old reinforced leather armor had been ruined—too many slashes, too many cracks. He couldn't afford to step into the depths without proper protection.
The replacement set was simple, well-crafted. It fit snugly, the reinforced plates settling over his form without restricting movement.
Satisfied, he stepped back onto the streets.
The Dungeon awaited.
And this time, he was ready.
The descent onto Floor 10 felt different this time. The air carried an unnatural chill, heavy with moisture, the dim glow of the Dungeon walls pulping like a slow heartbeat. Faint echoes of movement rippled through the cavern—Imps, Bad Bats—watching, waiting.
Calista adjusted the grip on his bow, fingers gliding over the smooth wood as he exhaled steadily. His plan was set—no melee, no close-range fights. Pure archery.
Perfect the shot. Predict the movement. No wasted arrows.
The first enemies revealed themselves as shadows shifting in the low light—a pair of Imps creeping between the stalagmites. One shrieked, the other moved to flank.
Calista loosed his first shot without hesitation. The arrow whistled through the air, piercing the leading Imp's throat. It collapsed in a garbled wheeze, clawing at the shaft lodged in its windpipe. The second jerked back, dodging on instinct—but a high-pitched screech cut through the air.
A Bad Bat dived at him from above.
Calista twisted, bowstring already drawn. He didn't aim for the body—too small, too erratic. Instead, he led the shot just ahead of its flight path. The arrow struck, piercing the membrane of its wing. The creature spiraled, screeching as it crashed against the stone floor.
The second Imp lunged, closing the distance. Calista sidestepped, twisting his body just enough to avoid its clawed swipe. He could feel the rush of air as the talons scraped past him.
He didn't panic.
A short backstep, bowstring taut—arrow loosed. The Imp's body spasmed, an armor-piercing shaft now lodged between its ribs.
Another screech.
Calista barely had a moment before a second Bad Bat emerged from the darkness, flitting between the rocky ceiling. It wasn't diving yet—it was waiting. Watching.
Clever little thing.
Before he could adjust, movement flickered in his peripheral vision. Another Imp, this one approaching cautiously, weaving between the terrain to avoid an easy shot.
Calista exhaled slowly, adjusting his stance.
He feinted—a subtle flick of his bow, pretending to aim at the Bad Bat. The Imp took the bait, breaking into a sprint—Calista immediately shifted his aim back to it and fired. The arrow buried deep in its chest, stopping it mid-step.
At the same instant, the Bad Bat took its chance, swooping down.
Calista had already moved, rolling lightly over a protruding rock, bow still in hand. The moment his feet touched solid ground, he pivoted—an arrow nocked, drawn, loosed. The shot struck the Bat mid-dive, tearing through its skull.
It didn't even screech. It simply fell, wings going limp before it hit the floor.
Time blurred as the battles continued.
Imps emerged in twos and threes, some cautious, some reckless. Bad Bats stalked from the darkness, striking when least expected. Each encounter forced Calista to react, predict, adjust—there was no pattern, no rhythm.
Draw. Release. Move. Breathe.
An Imp charged him head-on—he sidestepped, putting an arrow through its knee before finishing it with a second shot to the head.
A Bat lunged from above—he turned sharply, adjusting for its erratic path, his arrow catching it just as it swerved mid-air.
Another Imp. Another shot. Another kill.
His arms ached, vision blurred at the edges. He had pushed himself beyond his usual limits—three extra hours in the Dungeon. His body protested, but his mind remained sharp. He had already reached this far. What was one more fight?
Then—they came at once.
An Imp sprinting from the left, a Bad Bat swooping in from behind.
Calista reacted without thinking—twisting as he fired. The first arrow struck the Imp's shoulder—not lethal, but it staggered. The Bat was already upon him.
Too close. No time for another shot.
Instinct took over.
Rather than dodge outright, he turned into the attack, twisting his body to let the Bat's claws rake harmlessly off his bracer. In the same motion, he drew an arrow, flipping it in his grip—and drove it straight into the creature's skull like a dagger.
It convulsed, wings twitching, before slumping against him.
Stillness.
The only sound was his own measured breathing.
The final count: 18 Imps. 16 Bad Bats.
His fingers trembled slightly as he retrieved his arrows, muscles burning from overuse. And yet, despite the exhaustion creeping in, he felt sharper.
He wasn't just reacting anymore.
He was predicting. Controlling.
The realization settled as he emerged from the Dungeon, trading his magic stones at the Guild before heading home. The day wasn't over yet—he still had plans for the evening.
But as he walked through the streets of Orario, his bow slung over his shoulder, one thought remained.
He was closer to something greater.
…
The door clicked shut behind him, sealing away the tension of the Dungeon. Calista stepped into his townhouse, the quiet hum of the residential district a stark contrast to the chaos below. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the weight on his shoulders lessened—not in exhaustion, but in a shift of purpose. The night wasn't over yet.
His longbow slid smoothly from his back, fingers instinctively running over the polished grip before setting it against the wall. He unbuckled the reinforced leather armor—newly bought, still stiff in some places despite the wear of today's dive. It had done its job well, no fresh gashes, no split seams. A clean success.
With practiced efficiency, he stripped away the last remnants of the Dungeon, exchanging the weight of battle for something lighter—something fitting for the evening ahead. His fingers skimmed over his wardrobe, pulling a silken wrap skirt threaded with gold, a high-collared blouse with sheer sleeves, and a delicate sash that tied effortlessly at his waist. Soft fabrics, elegant lines—grace in motion.
By the time he stepped into the sitting area, Bastet was already waiting, perched on the cushioned bench by the window. Even in the dim light, she was radiant—golden-brown skin kissed by the glow of the streetlamps outside, feline green eyes shimmering with quiet amusement. She didn't rise immediately, merely watching him with the patience of a creature that knew it was being approached.
"You're in one piece this time," she mused, voice smooth, almost purring. "That's a refreshing change."
Calista picked up his sapphire pendant, fastening it in place as he turned to meet her gaze. "I told you yesterday was an exception."
"And yet, you still returned looking like you'd been chewed on." Her tail flicked lazily against the cushion, but there was no real bite to her words. She tilted her head, taking him in from head to toe. "You're dressed up."
"We didn't get to celebrate properly last night," he said, fastening the last clasp of his cuffs. "So, we're going to the Hostess of Fertility."
Bastet's ears perked slightly, though her expression remained composed. "Ah. A promise fulfilled."
Calista merely extended his hand, offering his palm in a wordless invitation.
She let the moment stretch, as if indulging herself in the silent tension, before finally rising to her feet. Her hand, warm and sure, slid effortlessly into his.
"I suppose I can allow myself to be spoiled," she said, a knowing smile playing at her lips.
He led her toward the door, the soft chime of their accessories the only sound between them. The night air met them as they stepped out into the quiet streets, the flickering lanterns of Orario casting long shadows ahead.
For the first time that day, Calista allowed himself a small, contented breath.
…
The Hostess of Fertility was lively as ever, a steady hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air. The warm scent of fresh bread, roasted meats, and simmering sauces wrapped around Calista like a comforting embrace, a stark contrast to the chill of the Dungeon he had left behind hours ago.
Bastet clung to his arm as they stepped inside, her taller frame making the gesture awkward as always. It wasn't just a habit—there was amusement in the way she draped herself over him, like a cat claiming ownership. Calista, accustomed to the imbalance, adjusted his stride without breaking his composure.
As they passed through the entrance, a familiar presence intercepted them.
"Welcome," Ryuu said, her tone polite but neutral. She regarded them both with an unreadable expression, her sharp blue eyes lingering on Bastet's hold before flicking back to Calista. "A table for two?"
Calista gave a small nod.
Ryuu didn't ask further. She turned, weaving through the busy tavern with the practiced grace of someone who had done this a thousand times. Calista followed in step, Bastet's hold tightening slightly as they navigated the crowded space.
Once they reached their table, Ryuu pulled out a chair, gesturing toward it with a simple motion. Calista took his seat without hesitation, Bastet settling across from him with a casual ease.
"I'll send someone over shortly," Ryuu said before stepping away, already moving on to the next task.
Moments later, Syr appeared, a tray balanced on her hip as she approached with her usual bright smile.
"Oh? Another celebration?" she mused, setting down the tray on a nearby table before turning her attention fully to them.
Calista reached into his bag, pulling out a small, empty lunchbox, and set it on the table in front of her. "I didn't bring it after the Dungeon since I was already heading here, but—thank you again."
Syr's eyes flickered with something pleased as she picked it up. "You really do bring it back every time," she noted with a soft chuckle. "That's rare, you know. Most people just forget."
Calista met her gaze evenly. "It's only right."
A quiet sound of amusement came from Bastet's side of the table. He glanced up just in time to catch the flicker of curiosity in her emerald eyes before she turned her focus back to adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves. Whatever thoughts lingered in her mind, she chose not to voice them.
Syr tilted her head slightly before slipping the lunchbox under her arm. "Well then, what's the order for tonight?"
"The usual," Calista answered smoothly. "Pasta."
"Seafood platter," Bastet added, stretching her arms behind her head.
Syr tapped a finger against her lips as if she hadn't already known their choices. "And for drinks?"
"Milk," Calista said.
"Wine," Bastet followed.
Syr grinned. "Just as I thought." With a playful wink, she turned on her heel and made her way back toward the kitchen.
As the tavern's warmth settled around them, Bastet rested her chin against her palm, watching Calista with a thoughtful expression. She didn't ask about the lunchbox.
She didn't need to.
Calista knew her well enough to recognize when she was waiting for him to speak. A slight tilt of her head, a flick of her tail against the seat beside her. Silent expectation.
He exhaled softly, setting his hands on the table. "Syr started giving me lunchboxes a little over a week ago," he admitted, feigning a casual tone. "It was that favor she asked about after we had dinner here last time."
Bastet hummed, amusement flickering in her emerald eyes. "Oh? And what did you do to earn such devotion from our dear Syr?"
"Devotion is a strong word," he said, lifting a brow.
She smirked. "Is it?"
Before he could answer, their food arrived, the scent of freshly cooked bread and seasoned meat filling the air. Calista straightened slightly as the waitress placed his plate before him—though calling her a mere waitress was a stretch when Syr, as always, hovered just a touch longer at their table than strictly necessary.
"I made sure to add something extra today," Syr said with a smile, setting down a smaller dish beside his plate. "It'd be a shame if a hardworking adventurer like you went hungry."
Calista glanced at the offering—an additional side of spiced potatoes that hadn't been part of his order. He didn't comment on it, merely inclining his head in quiet acknowledgment. "How thoughtful."
Bastet's ears twitched, her expression unreadable. "It's good to know my child is so well taken care of."
Syr's smile widened. "I'd say he's earned it."
Calista took a measured bite of his meal, letting the conversation flow around him. Syr remained at their table longer than necessary, joining in seamlessly as Bastet prodded at minor gossip—discussing familiar faces in the tavern, the state of the market, and an unfortunate customer who'd nearly gotten himself banned after one too many drinks last night.
Calista listened, contributing when appropriate, the rhythm of conversation effortless. Bastet, playful yet observant. Syr, charming but watchful.
It was a pleasant meal. Simple, unhurried.
And as Syr finally pulled away to tend to other tables—though not without a glance over her shoulder—Bastet's gaze flicked back to him.
She still didn't ask.
But her tail swayed, ever so slightly, as if to say, Well?
Calista set his cup down with a quiet clink and met her eyes. "I think she has a crush on me."
Bastet blinked once, then tilted her head. "Do you?"
He nodded, fingers lightly tapping against the rim of his cup. "We've only met twice—both times when she was our waitress. And then, suddenly, she starts giving me lunch boxes every day?" He gestured slightly toward the extra plate Syr had left at their table. "Now this? I'd say it's safe to assume."
Bastet hummed, her tail curling slightly as she regarded him with open curiosity. "And how does that make you feel?"
Calista exhaled softly, letting the question settle.
He knew people found him attractive—that much had been made clear in Orario. Looks drew attention, but attention wasn't the same as intent. He could read admiration, intrigue, even desire, but this? This was something else.
"I don't know," he admitted. His gaze flicked toward Syr at the counter, where she laughed at something one of the other waitresses said. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to feel about it."
Bastet chuckled, leaning forward as her chin rested against her palm. "Oh? My little Calista, unsure for once?"
He gave her a flat look. "I just… I don't have time for it."
Her ear twitched. "For what, exactly?"
He hesitated. "…Dating. Relationships." He tapped his fingers against the table again, gaze steady but thoughtful. "I need to focus on the Familia first. That's what matters."
Bastet studied him for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile. "A noble answer."
He arched his brow. "You don't believe me?"
"Oh, I believe you." She sipped her drink, amusement flickering in her emerald eyes. "But that doesn't mean you're unaffected."
Calista exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I don't know what to do with it. Or if I even should do anything."
Bastet's tail flicked lazily, the same way it did when she found something interesting. "You don't have to do anything, my dear. But knowing you, you'll keep thinking about it anyway."
Calista glanced once more at the extra food on his plate.
"…Maybe."
…
As their meal wound to a close, Calista set his utensils down neatly, brushing a stray crumb from his sleeve before reaching for the bill. Bastet, as always, made a show of stretching lazily, ears flicking in satisfaction as she allowed him to handle it.
Syr stood by with an easy smile, watching as he set the necessary valis onto the tray. But just as he was about to rise from his seat, she lifted a hand.
"Wait up," she said lightly. "I have something for you."
Calista paused, exchanging a glance with Bastet. The goddess quirked a brow, intrigued but silent as Syr disappeared toward the back of the tavern.
A brief moment later, she returned—not with a dish or some forgotten item, but with a book.
No… not a book.
"A grimoire," Syr said, holding it out to him with both hands.
Calista didn't reach for it immediately. His eyes flicked over the cover, the worn leather betraying its age, the gilded edges hinting at its value.
Beside him, Bastet's tail stilled.
Grimoires weren't mere books. They were priceless relics, capable of bestowing magic upon those who read them—single-use and unimaginably rare. The kind of item that could only be created through the use of the Mystery and Mage Development Abilities.
A single grimoire cost at least 100 million Valis.
His gaze lifted to Syr's, calm but questioning. "You're sure?"
She nodded without hesitation. "It's something of a family heirloom. But I'm not an adventurer, and I never will be. I'd rather it go to someone who can actually use it."
Calista studied her, but her expression was as open as ever—soft, unwavering.
"Syr," he said, voice even. "You know what this is worth."
She smiled. "I do."
Bastet finally spoke, her voice a low purr of amusement. "And you're just giving it away?"
Syr's gaze flicked toward the goddess, but her expression didn't change. "I've already made up my mind." Then, turning back to Calista, she added, "I want you to have it."
He inhaled slowly, considering.
It wasn't that he doubted her words—Syr had no reason to lie. But the weight of such a gift wasn't something he could take lightly.
He reached out at last, his fingers brushing the aged leather as he accepted the grimoire, feeling its quiet hum of power beneath his touch.
Then, he asked the only question left.
"…Why?"
For the first time, Syr hesitated. Not in a way that suggested deceit, but in a way that made it clear she was choosing her words.
Then, with quiet honesty, she answered.
"Because I believe in you." A small, knowing smile touched her lips. "And I want to see what you'll become."
Calista held her gaze, searching for something deeper—some unspoken truth lurking beneath the surface.
If it was there, he didn't see it.
He only saw sincerity.
Calista exhaled softly, fingers tightening ever so slightly around the grimoire's worn leather cover. He didn't quite understand Syr's reasoning—not fully—but the sincerity in her eyes was unmistakable. She wanted him to have it.
And turning down a gift like this wasn't just foolish—it was disrespectful.
He inclined his head. "Then I'll accept it."
Syr's smile brightened.
"But," he added, his voice even, deliberate, "if you ever need something—anything—I'll be there."
Her brows lifted slightly, as if she hadn't expected him to say that.
"It's the least I can do," he continued. "And… hopefully, you'll like what I become."
A beat of silence. Then, Syr's expression softened into something almost wistful. "I think I already do."
She left it at that, bidding them farewell as they stepped out of the Hostess of Fertility and into the cool Orario night.
Bastet curled around his arm, as she often did, her touch light but possessive. The lantern-lit streets cast warm pools of light against the cobblestone, the distant hum of the city filling the quiet between them.
Calista glanced down at the grimoire in his hands, turning it slightly in his grasp. "A hundred million valis," he murmured.
Bastet let out a soft hum, her tail flicking lazily. "I don't suppose you'll be selling it?"
He huffed, shaking his head. "Tempting, but no."
"Mmm." She shifted slightly against him, her warmth a comfortable weight at his side. "Then, will you use it?"
Calista's grip on the book tightened for a moment.
He'd never considered magic before. His build, his strategy—it had always been about speed, precision, control. Magic required time, casting, a level of commitment he hadn't planned for.
But could he afford to ignore something like this?
"…I don't know yet."
Bastet watched him, her emerald gaze sharp despite the playfulness in her tone. "It would suit you, you know."
He raised a brow. "Magic?"
"You'd get something elegant. Beautiful, even." She smirked. "Like you."
Calista scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
He turned the grimoire over once more, feeling the weight of possibility in his hands.
By the time they reached home, the streets of Orario had quieted, the usual bustle thinning as the city settled into the lull between night and dawn. Calista unlocked the townhouse door, stepping inside with the familiar ease of routine. Bastet followed, the faint jingle of her golden accessories the only sound accompanying their entrance.
The space was still modest, but lived-in now. No longer just a rental, but something closer to a home.
Calista made his way upstairs, Bastet padding behind him as he entered the main bedroom. His bedroom. He no longer used the guest room—not since she'd made it clear she preferred him close.
He sat on the edge of the bed, setting the grimoire in his lap. The leather was cool beneath his fingertips, the golden filigree catching the dim light of the room.
He exhaled slowly, his thoughts turning over themselves.
He was supposed to focus on archery. That was the plan. The foundation of everything he'd built in the Dungeon. If he used this, wouldn't he just be splitting his focus again?
Bastet's weight settled beside him, one arm curling around his shoulders as she leaned in with the casual closeness she always carried. "You're overthinking."
He glanced at her. "Am I?"
"Mmm." Her tail flicked, brushing against his wrist. "You're not giving up archery. You're not changing your style. You're just gaining something."
He looked down at the book again. "And if it slows me down?"
She let out a soft, amused sigh, squeezing his shoulder lightly. "Then you don't use it. But isn't it better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it?"
Calista held her gaze for a moment before turning back to the grimoire.
He supposed she had a point.
Magic wasn't something he'd planned for, but neither was wielding short swords, and that had saved his life more than once. He could still focus on archery, still refine his technique, and whatever magic he gained… he'd make time for it.
He nodded once, his grip firming on the book.
Then, without further hesitation, he opened it.
…
The sunlight in Orario hit differently after a Dungeon dive—cleaner, brighter, and a little too sharp on the eyes. Calista's boots clicked softly against the cobbled street, his steps precise despite the dull ache lingering in his legs. 19 Imps and 19 Bad Bats. All downed with a bowstring's whisper and a silver flash of arrows. His quiver was emptier now, his shoulders looser. The rhythm of archery still lingered in his muscles like an echo.
He turned a corner, skirts brushing softly around his thighs with each step, the layered silk catching glints of gold in the sun. The Hostess of Fertility's sign swayed overhead. And just beneath it—there she was.
Syr stood outside, as if waiting for him.
Of course she was.
He lifted a hand in greeting, a slight tilt to his wrist that bordered on theatrical. "You always get away with loitering outside the Hostess like that?" he asked as he approached, his voice light with teasing lilt. "Or do you have some secret exemption from Mama Mia's wrath?"
Syr laughed, brushing a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear. "Mama Mia says I make the place look more welcoming." A conspiratorial smile curved her lips. "And maybe she's just soft on me."
"Charmed, feared, and obeyed," Calista mused, stopping in front of her. "Sounds like a goddess in disguise."
"You'd know all about that," she quipped back, eyes sparkling.
He allowed a breath of amusement to escape as he reached into his satchel and retrieved the now-empty lunchbox. "The food was delicious. As always."
"I'm glad you liked it." Her gaze lingered on his face a moment longer than necessary. She knew he'd be back—he always was. It had become their rhythm. Her hand brushed his as she accepted the box.
He hesitated. Just for a second.
The right words never came easily when it mattered. And yet, she had given him something impossible to repay. Not the lunch—that was routine. But the grimoire. A family heirloom, she'd called it. A relic of her own history, placed in his hands without condition.
He met her eyes again. "And… for the other thing. I know I said it already, but thank you."
She tilted her head. "You read it?"
He nodded once. "Last night."
Her eyes lit up, but she didn't press. Not yet. "So… what did you get?"
He allowed a pause. Let the silence hang between them just long enough for tension to build. Then he leaned forward, close enough that his voice dropped a notch in volume, inviting.
"Well—"
…
The townhouse door clicked shut behind him, muffling the noise of Orario's streets. Calista stepped into the cool quiet of home, exhaling softly as the day's weight slid off his shoulders. The air carried the faint scent of sandalwood and chamomile—subtle reminders that this space, however modest, was his.
"Welcome back, my little moonflower," Bastet called lazily from the couch, one leg draped over the other, a goblet of wine balanced effortlessly in her hand. She didn't bother looking up from the half-finished embroidery in her lap.
Calista smiled as he slipped off his boots. "Did you spend all morning lounging, or just the last two hours?"
"Mmm… does it matter?" she purred, flicking her tail in amusement. "You're home safe. That's all I need."
He passed by her without pause, trailing fingers across the back of the couch in greeting. "Just taking a quick rinse. I have plans."
"Ah. The elf girl," Bastet said, her tone teasing and entirely too pleased with itself. "Don't let her get too comfortable. You're still mine."
Calista paused at the stairs, looking over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Mother. I'll come home when I'm done misbehaving."
She laughed—low and warm—and waved him off.
Upstairs, he peeled off his dungeon gear with practiced care. A few scuffs on his leather bracers. Dried blood—bat, not his—on one boot. The faint lingering scent of sweat and stone and magic. He stepped into the washroom, turning on the water and letting the chill run until it warmed. The shower was brief, efficient, but enough to refresh him. The sting of a shallow scratch along his shoulder reminded him of one Imp that had gotten too close. He let it pass without reaction.
Back in his room, he toweled off and dressed deliberately. Today called for soft elegance, not battlefield grace. He selected a pale-blue silk blouse with a high collar, tucked neatly into a flowing white skirt lined with golden thread. A silver ribbon bound his scarlet hair into a loose braid, and a pair of sapphire earrings completed the look. Understated, but intentional.
By the time he descended the stairs again, Bastet was sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling over the edge, embroidery abandoned. Her eyes flicked up as he passed.
"You look divine," she said.
"I always do," he replied, pausing just long enough to kiss her cheek. "Don't wait up."
He stepped back into the street, the afternoon sun warm against his skin. The walk to the Guild wasn't long. The path curved gently past the market square, the usual bustle just beginning to settle as the day edged toward evening. Merchants called out their last deals, and adventurers trickled in from the Dungeon—bloodied, bruised, or beaming depending on their luck.
He reached the Guild hall and stepped through the doors. The scent of parchment, ink, and worn leather greeted him. Eina was at her usual post, tucked behind the front desk, her hair pinned neatly back, sleeves rolled up as she spoke to a nervous-looking adventurer in scuffed armor.
Calista didn't interrupt. He waited a short distance off to the side, arms folded loosely, gaze drifting across the floor while he listened. Eina's tone was professional—gentle, but firm. She offered advice, jotted something down, handed over a form. The adventurer nodded, thanked her, and left with the expression of someone both relieved and mildly scolded.
Another client stepped up. And another.
He stayed put, patient. A few Guild workers passed by, some casting a glance in his direction, but he remained still—a figure of composed ease, content to wait.
Finally, her line cleared. Calista stepped forward.
"Miss Tulle," he said, with a soft, amused lilt. "Do you always keep your dates waiting this long, or am I just special?"
Eina looked up—and smiled, the weariness in her eyes lifting instantly. "I didn't realize you were here. You could've said something."
"And rob you of the chance to show off your efficiency? I wouldn't dare."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide her grin. "Let me just finish one thing, then we can go."
He nodded. "Take your time. I'm in no rush."
Then, more softly, "Besides, watching you work has a certain charm."
That earned him a blush, barely noticeable—but he saw it.
He waited, and the moment stretched, warm and familiar, as the Guild's rhythm continued around them.
Eina slipped her quill back into its holder and stretched, fingers flexing as if to shake off the day. "Okay. I'm done," she said, standing from her desk with a satisfied sigh.
Calista offered his arm without a word. She gave him a sideways look, but linked hers with his all the same.
The sun had mellowed by now, its golden light bleeding gently across the rooftops. The streets bustled with that specific early-evening energy—adventurers heading home, shopkeepers closing stalls, laughter rising from distant taverns.
They walked in no particular hurry, weaving through the crowd like they belonged to a softer world.
"Someone reported a monster sighting on the twelfth floor," Eina said as they turned onto a quieter lane. "|An Infant Dragon. Could just be a fluke, but the Guild's flagging that route for adventurers."
Calista's steps didn't break. "And yet I get the feeling I'm still going to hear your voice in my head the next time I head there."
"You better," she muttered. "They're rare, but not rare enough to throw away your safety"
He glanced at her. "Concern looks good on you."
"Don't make me regret this," she replied, trying to sound annoyed. It didn't quite land.
He let a small smile form, subtle and fleeting. "I'll be on Floor 10 for a while. Promise."
The bar came into view ahead—tucked behind a bakery, lanterns glowing warm against the dusk. The murmur of conversation, clinking glass, and soft music drifted out as the door opened for a patron leaving, brushing past them with the smell of roasted meat and hops.
Calista stepped forward and held the door with a slight tilt of the head. "My treat tonight," he said. "But do pace yourself. I'd rather not have to carry you through the streets again."
Eina shot him a flat look. "It was one time—"
"Mm. But so memorable. Unless," he added, voice low, eyes calm, "you'd rather I carry you again."
Her face lit up scarlet. "Wha—! I did not say that—"
He blinked, perfectly serene. "Oh? My mistake."
She opened her mouth, flustered, ready to fire back—
—and the door behind them banged open.
A wave of laughter and Dungeon dirt swept in behind it. Adventurers, loud and proud, stomped into the bar like they owned it. Calista recognized Maris immediately—short blue hair, confident stride, the kind of presence that didn't ask for space but took it anyway. A broad-shouldered human trailed behind her, already dragging a chair over with a grunt. A smaller boy with messy black hair and a red scarf launched into a dramatic retelling of something that was probably exaggerated. Two girls followed—one with sharp eyes and platinum hair, the other with dog-like ears and a spear slung casually over her shoulder—arguing half-heartedly about who owed who from their last outing.
He didn't know their names, but they moved like a unit. Sloppy, loud, and a little chaotic. But intact.
Eina tensed beside him—not obviously, but enough for Calista to notice the faint catch in her breath.
Maris spotted her instantly.
She didn't hesitate. Her steps broke from the group without fanfare, cutting across the tavern floor with a purpose sharpened into every motion. The others didn't seem to notice—already absorbed in drinks, arguments, and finding the best seats.
Maris came to a stop in front of them, dark gray eyes flicking between Eina and Calista.
"Well," she said. "This is unexpected."
Eina spoke before the silence had a chance to thicken. "Hey, Maris," she said, a little too casually. "Glad to see you made it back in one piece."
Maris raised a brow. "Wasn't that hard. You sound surprised."
"Not surprised," Eina replied with a slight smirk. "Just relieved. I'd hate to redo all your paperwork."
That got a soft snort out of Maris, but her eyes didn't leave Calista for long. Eina, sensing the moment, shifted slightly to Calista's side and added, tone just a little too smooth, "This is Calista. I've mentioned her before."
Ah.
So that's how it was going to be.
Calista didn't miss the faint glint of amusement in Eina's eyes. Nor did he bother correcting her.
He stepped forward with fluid grace, offering Maris a slight tilt of the head and just enough of a smile to walk the line between polite and mischievous. "It's nice to meet you, Maris. Eina's told me quite a bit about you."
Maris's eyes narrowed slightly, trying to place the familiarity in his voice. "Yeah?"
"She said you're stubborn," Calista continued smoothly. "But talented. The kind that gives advisors headaches but makes the their life a little more interesting."
Eina let out a tiny sound of protest—half gasp, half laugh—and elbowed him gently in the side.
Maris blinked, then looked at Eina. "Headaches, huh?"
"I said you were improving!" Eina defended, clearly regretting the setup now.
Calista folded his hands neatly in front of him, utterly serene. "Oh, no, she's been very supportive. She only sighs after reading your incident reports."
Maris cracked a smile. "You two always like this?"
"Only when I'm being bullied," Eina muttered, trying not to smile herself.
A call rose from the other side of the tavern—Maris's companions had found a table and were already flagging her down, drinks in hand and ready to toast something or nothing at all.
Maris glanced back, then looked between the two of them one last time. Her grin was subtle but unmistakable. "Well, don't let me interrupt your date."
Eina flushed, mouth opening as if to protest, but Maris was already turning away, raising a hand in parting. "Enjoy yourselves."
And just like that, she was gone, vanishing into the haze of laughter and raised tankards.
Calista looked to Eina, the corner of his mouth curling ever so slightly. "So. Her, huh?"
Eina groaned, already putting a hand to her face. "I walked right into that."
…
Calista sipped his wine—something light, sweet, easy to nurse. Eina, on the other hand, had abandoned subtlety after her second glass. Her cheeks were flushed, her posture looser, shoulders slumped against the back of her chair as she swirled what little remained of her drink in the bottom of her cup.
Across the tavern, Maris's group was midway through a shouting match over a card game someone had insisted they could "totally play drunk." Calista had already tuned them out—mostly. The loud one in the scarf was on his third attempt to balance a tankard on his head. It was… impressive, in the way street theater was impressive.
"You know," Eina said, pointing her cup vaguely in his direction, "you're very patient."
"With you, or with them?"
"Yes."
Calista smiled faintly. "Thank you."
She laughed, low and breathy. "Okay but—seriously. About Maris. I didn't lie earlier."
"Oh?"
"I did tell her about you," Eina said, straightening with exaggerated care. "But… she never got your name. She only ever heard the rumors. You know. The new adventurer who dives solo. Always graceful. Always composed. A beautiful dime"
Calista blinked, slowly. "You're telling me Maris thought I was a woman this whole time?"
Eina shrugged, which looked more like a full-body sway in her current state. "So did I. Remember?"
"Vividly," he replied. "You broke protocol to make it up to me."
"And I felt so dumb afterward! But… it's been weeks, and I—" She broke off laughing. "I couldn't resist. I had to prank someone else."
Calista leaned back, tilting his glass toward the candlelight. "So you wanted someone else to have their world view flipped."
"Exactly."
He considered that. "I approve."
"You do?"
"Turning past embarrassment into present amusement," he said, sipping slowly. "You've got a knack for poetic justice."
Eina beamed, then hiccupped and immediately tried to hide it behind her cup. "You're too smooth."
"Not true," he said. "I once tripped over a dungeon vine. No one saw it, of course."
"I don't believe you."
They fell into a comfortable quiet, the noise of the tavern wrapping around them like a well-worn blanket. Calista watched Eina stare down her empty glass with the solemnity of a philosopher confronting the limits of mortality.
"You're thinking about a fourth drink," he said.
"I'm thinking I deserve one."
"You'll regret it."
"Will I, though?" she countered, eyes narrowing in mock defiance. "You'll just carry me again. Like a gentleman."
Calista tilted his head. "You're assuming I'm not the type to leave you here."
"Exactly. You are the type—to prove a point."
He let out a soft laugh, setting his glass aside. "Fair."
Across the room, one of Maris's companions slammed their hand on the table hard enough to knock over a candle. Someone yelled about cheating. A chair scraped loudly. Another tankard fell.
Calista watched the chaos with a neutral expression. "Her party has spirit."
Eina followed his gaze, squinting. "They're a mess."
"I don't think I'll get along with them."
"No," she agreed. "But… Maris might surprise you."
Calista hummed noncommittally. "I've had enough surprises lately."
Eina reached for his hand—not dramatically, just a simple gesture across the table, her fingers brushing his lightly. "You're not as alone as you think, you know."
Calista looked at her, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he smiled, soft and composed. "I know."
…
Eina got the fourth drink.
Calista had watched her order it with the kind of resigned patience usually reserved for misbehaving cats or children playing near open flame. She hadn't even asked—just raised her hand, slurred something vaguely resembling a sentence, and the bartender brought her another round like he already knew how this was going to end.
Now, she was listing gently to the side in her seat, giggling into her own shoulder at a joke no one had told.
Calista set down his half-finished glass and rose smoothly. "That's enough."
Eina blinked at him, dazed. "But I just—"
"You've 'just' had enough."
He offered her a hand. She took it, though it took her two tries. Her balance wobbled when she stood, but she leaned into him without hesitation, head against his shoulder like it belonged there.
Across the room, Maris was half-watching them from her seat, elbow braced on the table while the red-scarfed boy tried stacking forks. Her eyes met his—steady, unreadable.
Calista gave her a small nod as he led Eina toward the door.
The night air kissed his skin as they stepped out. Cool, calm, and quiet. A welcome contrast to the warmth behind them. Eina muttered something about stars and paused in the middle of the street to stare upward, her hand still wrapped loosely around his arm.
"You alright?" he asked.
"I'm perfect," she replied dreamily. "You smell nice."
He didn't comment on that. Instead, he adjusted his pace to match her occasional stumbles as they walked through the winding streets toward her apartment. The city was winding down, the lamps flickering low, and every footstep echoed just a little louder than usual in the stillness.
Eina began mumbling halfway there.
"Y'know…" she said, "you're really... weirdly pretty."
Calista raised an eyebrow. "Thank you."
"Not like a girl. I mean, yes, like a girl. But also like... a really smug painting. One of those ones that follows you with its eyes."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
She laughed. It was a hiccup more than a sound. "You're a good liar."
He didn't comment. Just shifted slightly so she wouldn't list into the gutter.
Then, after a lull, she muttered, "They tell me not to get close."
Calista tilted his head, but didn't interrupt.
"The older advisors," she went on. "They've seen it all. Got that haunted look like they're still filing death reports in their sleep." Her voice wavered slightly. "They say we shouldn't care too much. That adventurers die, and if we let it get personal, it'll break us."
She laughed, a brittle sound that barely left her throat. "I thought I could follow their advice"
He waited.
"But then Maris kept showing up late to check-ins and blaming the weather. And you—" she bumped her forehead lightly against his shoulder, "you sat through every lecture I gave without rolling your eyes even once. Took notes, I think."
"I did."
She giggled, a little surprised. "Of course you did. Gods, you're... it's the face. You've got that kind of face that makes people want to trust you. It's unfair."
Calista made a small sound of acknowledgment, neither agreeing nor denying.
"I don't know how to stay detached when you both keep being so... real." Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his sleeve. "You're not just some adventurer I'm supposed to manage. You're a kid who talks like an adult, stays composed even when everything's falling apart, and—gods—it's stupid, but you make me feel like someone actually sees me. Like I'm more than just a desk at the Guild."
She stopped walking.
"I don't know what I'd do if I lost you or Maris."
Calista turned slightly to look at her.
"I mean it," she whispered. "I'd be wrecked. I'm not built for funerals."
Silence stretched out between them like thread pulled tight.
"We'll try not to make you attend one," Calista said.
Eina huffed. "You always say things like that. Like you're not planning to throw yourself into something incredibly dangerous the moment I blink."
He didn't answer. Couldn't, really.
Her voice was quieter now. "Just… don't die before me, okay?"
"That's an incredibly selfish thing to say."
"I know," she said. "But I'm drunk and I don't care."
He let out a breath. "Understood."
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Her hand never left his arm.
By the time they reached her building, she was clinging to his arm like it was a lifeline. He helped her up the stairs with minimal commentary. At the door, he paused. "Eina. Your key?"
She tilted her head against his shoulder, eyes only half-open. "R'ight pocket," she mumbled.
He sighed.
With practiced precision, he slipped his fingers into the indicated pocket—not invasive, not hesitant. Just necessary. The key jingled against his palm, and he unlocked the door in a single smooth motion.
Inside, her apartment was modest—clean, organized, with stacks of paperwork lining one corner like a fortress built by sleepless nights. He scanned the space and found the bedroom tucked to the side.
He guided her in, eased her down onto the bed, and knelt beside her without a word. First the shoes, then the socks. He slid them off one by one, setting them neatly by the door. Her glasses were last—he pulled them off with care and folded them, placing them on the bedside table next to the now-full glass of water.
She murmured something as he pulled the blanket over her.
"...mm, don't go."
Calista paused, standing.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said gently.
Eina smiled, already halfway to sleep. "Okay. You better."
He lingered a moment longer, eyes lingering on her relaxed expression—so different from the sharp professionalism she wore at the Guild.
Then, without a sound, he turned and left, closing the door softly behind him as the night embraced him once again.
—
The tunnel spat them out into a wide, cathedral-like cavern. Jagged stalactites loomed overhead, dripping moisture that echoed into silence. The air was warm—too warm—and thick with an acrid scent that made Maris's skin crawl. She adjusted her grip on her shortsword.
Faye stepped in behind her, mumbling as her eyes scanned the expanse. "This doesn't feel right…"
Maris agreed. She just didn't say it.
Then a growl cracked through the stone, deep enough to be felt in the ribs. Dust fell in streams from the ceiling. A heavy thud shook the ground.
Veyna's ears flattened. "Uh... guys?"
A shape landed with a crunching quake—four-legged, sleek-scaled, and long as a carriage. Dull crimson eyes narrowed as the Infant Dragon exhaled, molten breath steaming from its nostrils. Its low-slung body gleamed like smelted ore, no wings to speak of, only raw muscle and rage.
Maris froze.
Eina's warning came rushing back.
"There've been Infant Dragon sightings. Three Level One adventurers are dead already. If you see one—run."
"Is that what I think it is?" Faye's voice cracked as she fumbled for her bowstring.
Orin didn't wait. "I got this!" he shouted, already disappearing into a blur behind the Dragon. His daggers gleamed once before striking—only to glance off with a metallic tink. The Pallum's confidence shattered.
"What the—!?" Orin stumbled back. His eyes went wide. "Screw this! I'm not dying down here!" He bolted, red scarf flapping as he vanished back the way they came.
"ORIN—!" Maris started to shout, but the dragon moved.
With a flick of its head, a wall of fire licked across the stone. Garret raised his shield too late. The blast cracked his armor and launched him into the wall with a sickening thud. He didn't get up.
"Garret!" Veyna lunged, spear aimed for the beast's underarm. She connected—barely—but the retaliation came fast. A thick tail swept her off her feet, throwing her hard against the cavern floor.
Maris stepped forward on instinct. "Keep it distracted!"
Faye loosed an arrow, striking near the dragon's eye—but it only blinked and growled. A low, vibrating rumble rolled through the cavern.
Veyna got up on one elbow, blood running down her brow. "Still alive," she muttered with a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes.
The dragon's body surged forward. One limb reared, then sent Veyna flying with a meaty crack. She bounced once, skidded across the stone, and didn't rise again.
Faye screamed. Her second arrow flew wide.
The dragon coiled its tail, sweeping it in a wide arc. Maris ducked low, but Garret was already unconscious—it sent his body tumbling like a ragdoll. Faye barely scrambled back. Veyna was still. Too still.
Three of them down. Orin gone.
We were never ready for this.
The dragon bellowed.
It wasn't a roar—it was a declaration. Sound turned into pressure. Maris felt her lungs freeze. Faye dropped to her knees, stunned. Veyna didn't move. The whole cavern buzzed with heat and hopelessness.
Maris stood.
Her hand trembled on the hilt. Her legs barely held. But she stood. The weight of it all bore down—Garret unconscious, Veyna bleeding, Faye too scared to breathe.
"If I die—" she rasped, voice hoarse, "—I die swinging."
Her footfalls echoed as she charged. Sword high, a shout tearing from her throat—
—and the Dragon reared back, mouth opening, fire building behind its teeth.
She saw it too late.
The glow swelled in its throat, molten orange searing her vision. She stopped and tried to move out of the way. She was too late.
This is it.
The fire surged forward.
And stopped.
A flash—gold and blinding—erupted in front of her.
A figure stood between her and death, arm extended, cloak billowing, light rippling like a shield. Heat roared against a barrier of gleaming energy, flames breaking against it like waves on rock.
The figure stood calm, unshaken. Not a hair out of place.
Calista Aldebrand had arrived.
---
A/N: AAAAAAAAAAA did you know that in the original timeline of Danmachi, Maris was Eina's first adventurer? yep yep! and when Maris died, soon Eina's other adventurers started dying, it really was the turning point for Eina, who became known as Fairy Break because she didn't want to experience more of her adventurers dying so she went all in on the lectures :O
THANK KKUNII FOR THE UPDATE
...
If you're reading this, then you've wandered all the way to the end. I'm impressed. Stories are like wine—meant to be savored, not rushed. So if you took your time? Thank you.
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– Syr ✨