The sun had barely crested over Orario's white walls when the scent of cinnamon and cardamom filled the townhouse kitchen. Calista plated the last of the honey-glazed flatbread beside a bowl of roasted chickpeas and scrambled eggs dusted with cumin. Bastet hadn't stirred yet—no surprise, given how late she'd stayed up the night before humming lullabies to the stars on the roof.
He set her plate on the table, lips curving faintly.
She'd eat when she woke. She always did.
By nine, he was already through the Guild's front doors, sapphire eyes meeting Eina's across the marble floor. She raised a brow in lieu of a greeting, her fingers not pausing on the paperwork in front of her.
He gave her a nod. Nothing more.
She shook her head, barely perceptible. Then looked back down.
He moved on, boots clicking quietly.
…
Each day bled into the next. Six of them, strung together like pearls on a thread.
Wake. Cook. Guild. Hostess. Dungeon. Hostess. Guild. Home. Repeat.
Syr passed him the lunchbox with a teasing smile and some flirty comment about how he always looked too pretty for dungeon work. He'd answer with a flick of his scarlet braid or a deadpan retort, depending on his mood. She didn't seem to mind either way.
Then he vanished down the spiral of Babel.
He hunted with distance now—his blades stayed sheathed more often than not. His bow was his voice in the dark. It whispered through narrow tunnels, sang across open caverns. The Dungeon answered back in shrieks and thuds, the staccato rhythm of wings clipping stone or steel-tipped arrows burying into flesh.
A Bad Bat dropped from above, red eyes gleaming. He didn't even glance up. One step back. One arrow. Clean through the skull.
Three Imps came screeching through the gloom. He pivoted into position, spacing his stance, and loosed. The first fell with a bolt through the heart. The second caught a shaft in the lung before it could finish its leap. The third turned to flee—he adjusted his aim and ended it with a snap of the string.
Precise. Efficient. Detached.
This was just routine.
…
Each night, he returned the empty lunchbox to Syr, exchanged a quiet word or two, then headed to the Guild with a pouch full of magic stones and drop items.
He never lingered. Just stepped to the counter, unbuckled the satchel, and watched the clerk tally the haul with widening eyes.
Another 40,000. Then 60,000. Then 30,000. By the sixth night, the sum total came out to 305,525 valis.
He accepted the valis in silence and left.
…
Now, on the sixth evening, he stepped through the townhouse door to the scent of old incense and the sight of Bastet curled lazily on the couch. One leg draped over the armrest, tail twitching, cheek resting against her knuckles. Not quite asleep. Watching the shadows on the ceiling as if they might dance for her.
He didn't speak. Just moved past her, started water for tea, set his cloak aside, and pulled out the last of the vegetables from the icebox.
His body ached in a way that was familiar but not painful. His arms remembered the tension of the bowstring. His fingers the rhythm of notching, drawing, releasing.
He was getting better.
There had been a moment earlier that day—an elite Imp, fast and clever, darting through cover. A month ago, he would have missed the angle. This time, the arrow took it between the eyes mid-dodge.
No struggle. Just silence.
He stirred the stew, added a pinch of salt. The faint smile remained.
He could feel it—not just in his body, but in the way the Dungeon responded. The way enemies hesitated now. The subtle shift in tempo.
Six days of focus. Six days of control.
He ladled soup into two bowls, set one beside Bastet with a folded napkin, and took his own to the table.
He didn't need a Falna update to know.
He was growing. And this time, he was doing it on his terms.
...
Strength: H-127 -> H-151
Endurance: H-122 -> H-136
Dexterity G-264 -> F-316
Agility: H-195 -> G-222
Magic: I-0 -> I-12
…
A pale shaft of light crept across the floorboards, catching the edge of the sheets tangled around Calista's legs. His eyes blinked open, lashes brushing against the soft pillow. The bedroom was still and quiet, save for the gentle ticking of the wall clock near the wardrobe.
Too early.
He shifted beneath the covers and let his gaze drift upward. The ceiling fan turned in lazy circles overhead. Beside him, a soft exhale brushed his collarbone.
Bastet lay curled against him, one arm draped across his waist, her cheek tucked just above his heart. Her ears twitched at the faint birdsong outside, but she made no move to get up.
His body, however, stirred with annoying precision. Nine days of strict routine had carved a rhythm into him: wake, cook, guild, hostess, dungeon, exchange x2, home, cook again, sleep.
Productive. Focused.
And—if he was honest—exhausting.
He closed his eyes again.
"…You're thinking about getting up," Bastet murmured, voice thick with sleep and warmth. She didn't lift her head, but her tail flicked lazily against his shin.
"Not anymore," he said.
"Mm. Good." She shifted closer, her nose brushing the crook of his neck. "You already told Syr, and Eina about sleeping in. No one's waiting. Go back to sleep."
"I am sleeping."
"You were thinking" she yawned, "and thinking is what you do when you pretend to rest."
He gave a quiet, almost breathless laugh—and let himself drift with her.
…
The second time he woke, the sun had claimed the bedroom entirely, golden and drowsy in its brightness. The bed was half-empty, Bastet long gone, and the linens smelled faintly of warm skin and sandalwood.
He pulled on a loose champagne-colored silk robe and padded down the stairs, hair half-loosened from sleep, brushing against his shoulder in soft waves.
The townhouse was quiet, but the atmosphere comfortable—curtains fluttering with a warm breeze, incense fading from the corners of the living room. The only sound was the occasional shift of fabric.
Bastet lay stretched out across the couch like she owned the building, one leg dangling over the edge, her arm folded beneath her head. Her emerald eyes flicked open as he stepped into view.
"Look who finally woke up," she purred, voice still low with sleep.
"You left the bed cold."
"I left you the sunlight."
He didn't argue. The sun had felt good.
Without speaking further, he slipped into the kitchen. Eggs. Chives. Cheese. Half a tomato that needed to be used. Leftover flatbread. It didn't need to be grand. Just warm and made with care.
The pan hissed as the eggs met oil. Bastet didn't move, though her eyes tracked him, slow and content.
"Any chance that tea's included in the show?"
"Obviously. What kind of monster do you think I am?"
"The kind who hides daggers in their skirt."
He glanced over his shoulder. "That's called fashion."
She smirked, tail flicking once. "I'll judge for myself—once I get a closer look."
He said nothing to that. Just sliced the bread and plated the eggs with practiced grace.
A few minutes later, he set her portion on the low table near the couch. She sat up with an exaggerated stretch, eyes half-lidded with appreciation.
"You spoil me," she murmured.
"You're easy to spoil."
"And you're bad at resting," she added, tearing a piece of flatbread. "But I'll take what I can get."
He poured tea for them both and settled into the opposite seat. A soft breeze passed through the open window. The quiet between them stretched, unhurried and warm.
The Dungeon could wait.
There was sunlight here. And tea. And a goddess who knew when to pull him back from the edge of his own discipline.
He could live with that.
…
The clink of metal echoed softly through the townhouse living room as Calista slid the short sword into its sheath. Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, painting warm lines across the floor. He stood still for a breath, then moved.
Bow off the hook—draw—anchor—release.
The invisible arrow struck the center of the tapestry he'd marked with a scrap of black ribbon.
He exhaled and shifted again, smooth as silk. Bow to shoulder. Step forward. Hand dropped. Twin blades drawn. A pivot, a cut to the left, a second slice on the return. Footwork tight. Controlled.
It wasn't flashy. That wasn't the point.
From the couch, Bastet watched him with the amused patience of a lounging cat. Her chin rested in her palm, one leg tucked beneath her, the other swaying idly. A half-finished teacup sat on the low table beside her, untouched since he'd started.
"Feeling guilty for letting them gather dust?" she asked, gesturing lazily at the swords.
Calista didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed on the point where the wall met the floor, measuring the space like a duelist lining up his approach.
"Familiarity dulls quickly when ignored," he said, flicking a blade back into its sheath before lifting the bow again. "And overconfidence kills faster."
"Ooh," Bastet purred. "Was that a proverb, or just trauma talking?"
He loosed another phantom arrow. Then again. The motions were seamless, but that wasn't good enough. He needed faster. Cleaner. No hesitation between the switch.
"Both."
She smiled like she'd just been handed something sweet. "Well, carry on then. I'm enjoying the show."
The living room wasn't large, but there was just enough room between the couch and the kitchen for his drills. Calista moved in fluid arcs, each pass shaving seconds off the last. Bow to blades. Blades to bow. Test the grip. Adjust. Reset.
It wasn't about brute strength. He wasn't building power. He was refining the rhythm—when to drop the bow, how to shift his center of gravity without giving up footing, where to place his off-hand for the draw. Details no one thought about until it was too late.
He switched again. Faster this time. The tip of the right blade stopped just short of where a throat would've been.
"Would've taken his head off," Bastet remarked casually.
He gave a short nod, rolled his wrist, and sheathed both swords. The leather clicked into place.
"I'll start doing this every morning," he said, reaching for the towel draped on a nearby chair. "After breakfast. Before the Guild."
"Oh? So now I'm part of a training schedule?"
"You're the background music."
She laughed, delighted. "Darling, I am a concert."
He stepped past her to refill his water, muscles warm, heartbeat steady. His reflection caught in the kettle's surface—hair tied back, skin damp at the collarbone, eyes sharp even in rest.
He hadn't needed the swords much lately, true. But that didn't mean they wouldn't save his life tomorrow.
And when that moment came, he'd be ready.
Every breath, every step, every choice—refined into instinct.
Because survival wasn't just strength. It was preparation. Precision.
And he had no intention of dying pretty.
…
By the time Calista arrived at the Guild, the midday sun had begun to cast long slants of light through the high windows. Most adventurers were already in the Dungeon or eating their way through Orario's lunchtime bustle. He wasn't in a rush—he'd eaten not long ago, a proper lunch of soft-boiled eggs, rice, and seared fish, enough to keep him going until dusk.
He stepped inside, letting the cool air wash over him, and scanned the lobby. Eina wasn't at her usual post. Strange, but not worrying. Her satchel was missing from the side hook, too.
It didn't take long to find her. She stood off to the side near one of the back counters, adjusting the straps on a light shoulder bag, a rolled-up map of Babel's upper maintenance levels poking out the top. There were a few other Guild employees nearby, but she was the only one dressed like she might actually be going somewhere.
"Leaving town?" Calista asked as he approached, voice smooth with just a touch of teasing.
Eina looked up and gave a small smile. "Hardly. Just helping with an inspection. They're running a sweep through Babel today—supply caches, emergency routes, structural checks. You know, the glamorous parts of Dungeon administration."
"Sounds thrilling," he said, falling in step as she started walking towards the main exit.
"Unpaid overtime, mostly."
They stepped out into the midday sun, the stone path between the Guild and the base of Babel stretching ahead through the garden square. The soft clink of Calista's gear accompanied them as they walked, his cloak loose over one shoulder, long braid swaying gently with each step. Eina's stride was efficient, but unhurried. Familiar.
"So," she said, giving him a look from the corner of her eye, "no lunchbox today?"
He shook his head. "Syr spared me. I told her I was heading in later than usual, and I'd already eaten."
"She probably assumed you'd collapse without her cooking."
"Understandable," he said. "Though frankly, the odds of collapsing with her cooking are slightly higher."
Eina smiled at that, then glanced down at her clipboard as they walked past a group of novice adventurers clustered near a market cart. She scribbled something quickly with the stub of a charcoal pencil before tucking it away again.
The closer they got to the Tower, the more the crowds thickened—couriers darting past, merchants calling out wares, adventurers checking their gear one last time before descending into the dungeon
Calista didn't speak again until they passed beneath the shadow of Babel.
"How bad has it been?" he asked, voice quieter now.
Eina didn't answer right away.
"The Infant Dragon's been showing up more," she said finally, watching a party of armored dwarves head toward the lift with confident strides. "Four sightings in ten days. At least three adventurers dead."
His gaze drifted upward, to the vaulted crystal-lit ceiling of the atrium.
"Level Ones?"
"Mid-tier. Not green rookies." She exhaled, voice tight. "They brought them up on stretchers yesterday. I hoped they'd survive, you know? But they weren't breathing. The Guild's trying to keep it quiet—morale and all—but word's spreading."
She rubbed at her temple with the heel of her palm.
"I keep telling people to stay cautious, hold their position. You know who listened? No one." Her lips twisted. "Maris stopped by this morning. Said her party would 'handle it just fine' if they ran into the damn thing."
Calista raised an eyebrow.
"She say it with that special brand of confidence?"
"She said it with the same tone you use when you're humoring me."
"Then at least she's learning from the best."
That drew a huff of reluctant laughter from Eina, but it faded fast.
"I know you've been on Floor 10 for a while," she said. "You haven't gone deeper, like you promised and I'm not here to drag you back up. Just… don't try anything stupid. Not right now."
He met her eyes and nodded once, steady. "I won't."
She studied him for a beat longer, then gave a small nod of her own.
"Alright. Go on then," she said, turning toward the staff corridor with her clipboard tucked back under one arm. "Try not to add more paperwork to my day."
"I live to ease your burdens."
"You live to cause them."
He didn't deny it.
And a moment later, he was gone, swallowed by the stone spiral leading into the Dungeon's waiting dark.
…
The threshold between Floors 10 and 11 had a certain weight to it. Calista lingered at the edge, one hand trailing along the stone as he stared into the dim descent. The air was hotter here. Denser. And it stank of something old.
He told Eina he'd stay on Floor 10. No deeper.
Calista turned with a quiet breath, already deciding to honor it.
Then the tunnel behind him exploded with sound.
Footfalls—fast, erratic. A blur rounded the bend, half-collapsing against the wall as it sprinted past. A Pallum, ragged scarf trailing like blood.
"Dragon! INFANT DRAGON! We're dead—we're all dead!"
Calista's eyes tracked him. Recognition struck—Maris's companion from the tavern.
He ditched them.
The thought barely formed before he was already moving. His bag hit the ground without a sound. Extra weight had no place now.
He ran.
The winding stone blurred beneath his feet. The flicker of Dungeon light caught in his cloak, rippling it behind him like a banner. Each step was measured, efficient. His breath never caught. His rhythm never faltered.
For Eina's sake, let him be in time.
The heat thickened as he neared the open cavern. The metallic tang of impending fire choked the air.
And then—he saw it.
The Infant Dragon, coiled and low to the ground, gullet swelling with flame. The world lit in orange and gold.
And in its shadow, Maris.
She was trying to move—had seen the attack coming—but her momentum betrayed her. Legs slid, muscles too slow.
The dragon's jaw widened, revealing fire-swollen gums and blackened teeth—the furnace of an apocalypse pulling breath.
Calista ran toward it anyway.
"Hark, O golden Bastet, the eternal guardian."
His voice cleaved through the heat, steady as the strike of a temple bell. Mind stirred. Not just within—it rose. Flowed up from the base of his spine like sunlit sap through a sacred tree. Each syllable fed it.
"I step forth, that none may fall."
His chest swelled—not from breath, but from the golden pressure collecting behind his heart. Mind didn't pool. It spiraled, climbed his limbs in twin currents. Wrists tingled. Ankles burned. Veins turned luminous under skin already glazed with sweat. The spell crawled across every nerve.
"Light envelops me, yet the suffering is mine alone."
Pain bloomed, quiet and sacred. As if his own body were peeling open to let a miracle emerge. No sudden rush. Just the slow claiming of his body by the invocation—his fingers trembling as though gripped by unseen hands shaping them into a sign of offering.
"Seven petals unfold, yet with every storm, they wither."
The world shifted. The roar of flame no longer surrounded him. He felt each chant-formed word sink its root deeper into reality, and from it, form.
Golden light spun in the air before him—petals, yes, but not flat. They curved outward like half-bloomed lotus flowers, floating with slow, breathlike pulses. Their edges shimmered as if dipped in liquid dawn.
"Bloom, final flower—unyielding, unbroken."
Four petals unfurled with finality—each radiating Mind-charged heat, each anchoring a barrier between him and the dragon's fire. The shields took on shape—curved and domed, not like panes of glass, but living constructs, almost organic. Ribs of light supported them like the structure of a cathedral's dome.
"[Sakhet Bastet]."
The name finished the spell like a seal pressed into wax. Mind released—violently. The barriers flexed into full form—golden, translucent, slightly convex structures humming with latent power. Thin golden lines ran along their curvature, interwoven like veins or celestial circuitry. His feet dragged lines into the ash as he braced.
Then the dragon exhaled.
The first barrier met the breath. It didn't crack—it detonated. Light ruptured outward like shattered stained glass. A pressure wave hit him like a giant's punch. Calista's ribs screamed. He staggered but didn't collapse.
The second barrier glowed like a sun trapped in a bubble—then crumpled. The shock split the air with a clap. His right arm flinched, bones creaking. Something tore in his shoulder. He didn't scream.
The third withstood the brunt—shivered, flared, held. Then a jagged crack webbed down its curve. Heat licked through. He could feel it singing the edge of his jaw, the inside of his mouth dry as bone.
But the fourth remained.
That final flower, untouched. It glowed in the smoke like a divine verdict: You will not pass.
Smoke curled past him. Air shimmered in the aftermath of the flame. But he was still standing. Cloak blackened, reinforced leather scorched, shoulder trembling beneath its weight—but he stood.
His right arm hung at his side, twitching. Not limp—not yet—but the damage was there. Two of the four barriers had broken under the dragon's breath, and each one had sent its backlash screaming through the casting limb. The first had scorched the nerves. The second strained tendons near to tearing. His fingers ached, half-curled, as if the magic had tried to stay in him instead of leaving.
Maris was still on her knees behind him, eyes wide.
Calista glanced back at her, voice as calm as ever.
"You're not dead," he said. "So stop kneeling like you are."
Then he looked forward again, meeting the dragon's gaze with eyes sharp and clear.
"I'll need some help with the lizard."
A golden pulse rippled from his chest. Not forceful—calm. \Certain. The light washed over Maris like a second wind, a silent roar through her bloodstream. She gasped as strength returned—faster reflexes, clearer vision, fire in her veins where there'd been fear.
"You just got a power-up," Calista said, already moving. "Frontline's yours."
He pivoted and leapt backward, putting distance between himself and the beast. His bow slipped into his hand like it belonged there. Feet landed light on the scorched stone, cloak flaring behind him as he skidded into position.
Then came the roar.
The Infant Dragon lunged—not at Maris, but straight at him.
He didn't break stride.
His left hand extended, palm open, as he moved.
"Hark, O golden Bastet, the eternal guardian—"
A claw reared back. The dragon covered ground in a blur of muscle and hatred.
"I step forth, that none may fall."
The chant spilled from his lips, unbroken. His voice didn't rise. Didn't falter.
"Light envelops me, yet the suffering is mine alone—"
The dragon's eyes locked onto him, steam trailing from its jaws.
"Seven petals unfold—yet with every storm, they wither."
He finished the last steps of the chant in a single breath, turning sharply as the dragon closed the final gap.
"Bloom, final flower—unyielding, unbroken."
He pivoted, right arm extended.
"[Sakhet Bastet]."
The spell burst out—not at full force.
Two petals bloomed.
Thin, gold-rimmed shields arced around him in a flickering crescent—fragile, tired, echoes of the two that had already shattered.
The dragon's claw struck the first.
It popped like a soap bubble, light bursting outward.
The second flared—held—
—then broke, hard and loud.
And the claw crashed into him.
His leather folded in. A jolt split his ribs. His body lifted—air ripped from his lungs—
—and then the world disappeared.
Silence.
A void.
Weightless and distant, like floating beneath dark water. No pain, no breath, no thought—just the echo of motion and the memory of light.
Then breath slammed back into him. Pain surged up his spine like a metal rod. His body twisted midair, instinct flaring before thought could catch up.
He landed hard. Boots scraped stone. His right shoulder struck next, a white-hot spike through his chest. He bounced. Slid.
Stopped.
Everything hurt.
But he was awake.
Still moving.
Still alive.
He pushed up on one arm—left, the right wasn't responding. Ribs screamed. Blood trickled down his flank, warmth spreading beneath scorched leather. His vision blurred, then sharpened just in time to catch the dragon's head shifting—jaw curling, smoke fuming through its teeth, eyes burning with fresh intent.
It saw Maris.
And it wanted her next.
His fingers found the vial on his belt.
Cork snapped free.
Cool liquid scorched down his throat. The taste was bitter-metallic, like steel soaked in peppermint.
Relief bloomed—not instant, not total—but there. The swelling in his chest eased. His lungs loosened.
He didn't rise.
Didn't need to.
Just shifted onto one knee, bow raised half-drawn in his left hand, sight steady down the shaft.
"Still here," he murmured. "Try harder."
His right arm dangled uselessly—bone cracked, ligaments torn and trembling from the force of every barrier breaking in sequence. It had carried too much, channeled too much, and been punished for every inch of magic that bloomed through it. But he moved it anyway.
Pain spiked—blinding—but he gritted his teeth, ignored the scream of ruined flesh, and pulled.
Muscles jumped. Joints clicked. Fingers curled around the string, and though the grip was uneven, he made it work.
The dragon reared back, steam boiling from its jaws.
Not a breath.
Just fury.
He nocked an arrow one-handed, bracing the bow against his ribs to pull the string taut. A breath. A flicker of motion. He loosed.
The shaft flew straight, unerring—slammed into a scale high on the dragon's shoulder, just beneath the ridge of its neck. It didn't even flinch, but light shimmered along the impact point—brief, sharp, like something had registered. A resonance.
That scale wasn't like the others.
The dragon's head jerked toward him, eyes narrowing—singeing red slits locking onto the source of the sting.
Then—
Behind him, Maris surged forward.
"Hey, ugly!" she barked, slapping her blade against her bracer. "Pick on someone with teeth!"
The dragon's gaze snapped away from Calista, swinging toward her with a snarl.
Good.
Calista shifted his stance, breath slow, one eye squinting against the sting of smoke. Maris had its attention now. That gave him room.
Another arrow.
This one slammed into the same point—again, and again the shimmer came, more visible now. The scale flexed slightly under the strike, like something brittle beneath its surface.
A heartbeat later, Maris's blade carved through a narrow gap near the creature's forelimb. Steam hissed out, white-hot and angry. The dragon didn't recoil—it snapped its claws toward her in a wild, hammering arc.
The strike landed.
Calista's breath caught as she hit the ground, tumbling across the stone like a thrown doll. Dust kicked up in her wake. She gasped, weapon still clenched tight, knuckles white with pain.
But she rose.
Staggering, blood down her temple, eyes locked forward like the hit had only pissed her off.
Another arrow flew.
Dead-on.
It struck the same scale. This time, the light rippled. Not just a shimmer—hairline fractures radiated outward like glass under strain.
Maris darted wide, feet barely touching stone, slashing high. The dragon roared—not in pain, not yet—but something close.
Still standing.
Still not enough.
It slammed its claws down again.
She moved.
A blur—she dove under the strike, tucked and rolled as stone shattered beside her. Gravel sprayed across her face, but she didn't stop.
Calista exhaled slowly.
Drew another armor-piercing arrow from his quiver.
"Now, Maris!"
He fired.
The arrow streaked through the haze, whistling toward the weak point—and struck.
The scale buckled.
Then burst.
Flesh tore open—slick and red, glistening in the light.
Maris didn't hesitate.
She charged—feet pounding, sword raised—and drove the blade deep, hilt slamming against muscle.
The dragon howled.
Steam erupted in a geyser. Blood sprayed from the wound.
And finally, it staggered.
A gout of steam poured from the open wound, boiling red and black beneath the ruptured scale. Its claws scraped at the stone, heavy body sagging—but not down. Not yet.
Maris stumbled back, panting, covered in soot and blood.
Calista didn't speak. He reached to his belt, drew two glass vials in a smooth motion, and flicked them underhanded toward her.
She caught them mid-roll, popped the corks with her teeth, and downed both without breaking stride.
"Remind me to actually thank you if we live!"
He didn't reply. Another arrow already kissed the string.
He drew. Released.
It struck true once again—deep into the wound.
The dragon howled, smoke hissing from its core as the shot buried itself just beside the last.
Maris darted forward with a sharp exhale, vaulting off its hind leg. Her blade swept horizontally, carving deeper into the bleeding fissure. Flame and blood geysered out, slicking her armor with heat.
The dragon whipped around.
A claw crashed into her mid-air.
She didn't scream.
Her body slammed into the ground with a crunch. She tumbled once—twice—then didn't move.
Calista's arrow froze between fingertips.
His grip didn't tighten. His breath didn't catch.
But something inside him cracked.
"No."
The bowstring thrummed.
The arrow flew.
It pierced the wound again, punching into the pulsing meat beneath the cracked hide.
The dragon turned.
It charged.
Calista stepped back, just once. Then jumped—cloak flaring like torn wings as he flipped over the lunging snout. The beast's jaw snapped shut beneath him, the air pressure alone enough to buffet his legs mid-arc.
He landed light—low—already pivoting into another shot before the soles of his boots kissed stone.
Another arrow. Another perfect hit.
It punched into the soft tissue of the wound—no longer a weak point but a ravine of molten red, raw flesh hissing, twitching, boiling from within.
The dragon reared back, mouth open in something between a bellow and a wail.
Its chest glowed.
Calista didn't hesitate.
It inhaled, body arching, scales along its spine pulsing with molten light. No chant. No time. No barriers. Just reflex.
It roared—
—and fire surged.
Calista moved.
He dove sideways, twisting mid-air just as the blast ripped through the earth behind him. Heat bit into his right arm—exposed skin blistering, fabric charring to black ribbons. The flames licked low along his legs as he hit the ground, and the golden anklet on his right leg—already scorched—cracked with a sharp snap and burst, scattering molten fragments like sparks across the stone.
He hit the ground rolling. One knee dragged wide across the scorched floor, shoulder scraping stone. Smoke curled past his cheek like fingers.
He exhaled slowly. Controlled. Detached.
The dragon wasn't slowing.
Maris was down.
His arm was broken.
No potions left.
Attrition was suicide.
So he changed the plan.
Calista slipped back into the debris—cloak drawn low, head low, movements tight and practiced. Smoke swirled like ghosts across the chamber, shadows thrown wide by the dragon's breath. He became one of them.
His steps matched the rhythm of growls. His breath synced with the hiss of steam.
To the side—there. A stalagmite. Massive. Hung from the ceiling like a blade of the gods, poised but waiting. Its wide base flared like a root sunk into stone, but at its tip—
Just beneath it, the Infant Dragon prowled, circling with twitching claws, eyes flaring red, muscles tight.
Calista moved wider. Circled opposite. The beast turned the other way, smoke spilling from its mouth like a warning, but its gaze missed him.
He reached cover. Lifted his eyes.
There.
A fracture. Fine as a breath. A line of weakness at the stalagmite's base, spiderwebbing from where fire had kissed it too long.
His fingers brushed another arrow.
One left.
He stepped from the rubble, smooth and slow.
The dragon turned.
Too late.
He drew. Aimed. High.
Loosed.
The arrow sliced upward—no flourish, no magic, just force and precision. Wind shifted around it, air warping faintly, guiding the shot.
It struck the crack.
A half-second passed.
A silence, sharp and expectant.
Then—
CRACK.
The stalagmite broke loose with a roar like falling thunder.
It fell like a spear of the gods.
The Infant Dragon tried to move. A desperate lurch of muscle and mass. Too slow.
The stone slammed into its flank, pinning it to the ground. Dust and shards erupted outward in a violent wave.
When the air cleared, it was thrashing—snout slamming against the floor, body twisting under the weight. One hind leg kicked uselessly against the rubble. Its left side was trapped, crushed beneath the slab of rock. Blood smeared the ground in thick, burning streaks.
It roared—flames spraying wild in every direction, lighting the cavern like a furnace.
Calista rose from cover. No rush. No wasted motion.
He drew another arrow.
"Sorry," he said quietly. "But I'm not the one who dies today."
The arrow flew.
It struck just beside the others, plunging into the bleeding wound near the shattered scale. The dragon screeched, jaws snapping—but it couldn't turn, couldn't reach.
It inhaled again.
Fire surged from its throat—but the angle was wrong. The blast carved through stone, lighting the far wall, leaving Calista untouched in the lee of the ruin.
He stepped forward. Smooth. Deliberate. Another arrow already nocked.
The dragon thrashed harder.
Another shot. Another hit. Another burst of steam and blood as the arrow buried deep.
Calista's right arm burned. His shoulder ached. His side throbbed with every breath.
The arm shouldn't have moved.
It was broken—bone cracked lengthwise, ligaments torn, every motion a scream through muscle and nerve. But he forced it anyway. Each draw of the string lit a fresh fire behind his eyes. His grip faltered with every shot, fingers stiff and blood-slicked, but they held.
They had to.
There was no other choice.
He drew again.
One arrow. One breath. One heartbeat.
Then another.
And another.
The dragon writhed beneath the stone slab, muscles rippling, jaws snapping, steam spilling from every open wound. Its left side was annihilated—crushed and bleeding, a grotesque ruin of scale and flesh beneath the collapsed stalagmite. Fire leaked from its mouth in broken gouts, its breath thick with smoke and agony.
Calista didn't flinch.
He stepped into the rhythm. A slow inhale. A clean draw. Release. Again. Again.
Each shot landed true—each arrow driving into that singular point of devastation just above the shoulder, where armor no longer existed, only meat and molten blood. The arrows sank in like facts, relentless and final, one after the next, impaling the beast's life to the stone.
Time blurred.
His right arm screamed with every motion. His shoulder radiated heat and pressure. But his posture never slipped. His breathing never changed.
The dragon tried to rise—once. Its hind legs scraped against the ground. Its good claw raked a trench across the cavern floor. But its body dragged dead weight. It couldn't reach him.
Another arrow landed. Then another.
Steam hissed from the wound with every shot. The exposed flesh pulsed slower now, twitching instead of roaring. Blood pooled beneath it—thick, black, and hot enough to melt stone.
Still, he kept firing.
Sixty seconds passed. Then two hundred. Nearly eight full minutes of calm, precise, unrelenting fire. Each shot a nail. Each arrow a sentence.
He never missed.
His right arm screamed with every draw—muscle shredded, bone grinding, pain threading his vision with white—but he refused to stop. The joint creaked. His fingers barely closed around the string anymore. The blood loss made the air feel thin, faraway. But his aim didn't falter.
A final breath of smoke escaped the beast's throat. One last, wheezing snarl—a sound full of rage and defeat. Its head sagged forward. Claws clenched. The cavern fell still.
Calista's last arrow flew in silence.
It struck the core of the wound and vanished inside.
The dragon shuddered once.
Then stopped.
The steam faded. Its chest no longer rose.
Silence returned to the chamber—heavy and complete.
Calista lowered his bow.
His fingers trembled at the edges now, nerves flayed raw from the relentless draw and release. His arms hung heavy—his right shoulder pulsing, the joint grotesquely swollen, sleeve soaked through with blood. He couldn't feel the last three fingers on that hand anymore. Didn't try to.
He exhaled, quiet and controlled.
His hair clung to his face, sweat and soot thick as warpaint, ends curled from the heat. A faint draft stirred through the ruin, catching loose strands and lifting them gently.
But he stood.
Perfect posture. Head high. Bow still in hand.
The monster lay dead. Pinned beneath the ruin of the Dungeon itself.
And Calista Aldebrand—still elegant, still composed—had never once faltered.
The bow lowered in his hand, strings still warm. He moved forward.
Maris was where he'd last seen her, collapsed just beyond the edge of the blast zone. He knelt beside her, fingers brushing her neck. A faint pulse answered. Weak, but steady. Her lips were parted slightly, breath shallow. No new blood.
He tilted her body gently, lifting her head and easing her into a reclined position against a sloped rock. The angle would help. It wasn't much, but it gave her a fighting chance.
One down. He stood.
A flash of red caught his eye—cloth, soaked in something dark. A collapsed body half-buried beneath crumbled stone. The broad-shouldered one. Calista crossed the cavern quickly. The boy's chest wasn't moving. Dirt and gravel blanketed his torso. Blood crusted the corner of his mouth, unmoving.
Calista crouched beside him and checked for a pulse, more for form than hope. Nothing.
Likely knocked out before the collapse. Just a bystander when the ruin fell. He brushed debris off the boy's face and shifted stone with careful leverage, clearing enough to lay the body out with one arm. Not reverent, but respectful. Then he rose again.
Next—another figure slumped against the wall. Lighter frame, breath still visible. Her side was soaked in blood. He crouched, pulled back the damaged leather. A deep puncture, but the bleeding had slowed. He tore a strip from his cloak and pressed it against the wound, tying it as tight as he dared. The girl didn't stir. Skin pale. Still had a chance.
Footsteps—soft, hesitant.
He glanced over his shoulder.
A half-elf girl approached, clutching a shortbow like it might bite her. Dirt streaked her uniform. Eyes locked on him like he wasn't real.
"You—you killed it," she whispered.
He didn't answer.
She swallowed hard, looked past him to the wounded.
"They're alive?" Her voice shook.
"Two of them." He stood, giving her a once-over. "You have potions?"
She blinked, then nodded quickly. "Y-Yeah. Yes."
"Good. Use one on her." He gestured to the bloodied girl—pale, motionless. "She's the worst off."
The girl scrambled to her knees, yanking a vial from her pouch and uncorking it with trembling fingers.
Calista watched her work a moment, then glanced toward Maris.
"Another one," he said. "The swordswoman. Use it gently."
"Swordswoman… you mean... Maris, right?"
He looked at her.
She flinched. "Sorry—I just… I didn't think anyone would come. Or survive."
"I didn't plan to," he said mildly. "Name?"
"Faye," she said, still kneeling. "I'm—Faye Lorren."
"Then watch the tunnel, Faye. You've done enough standing still."
That pulled her up. She fumbled to her feet, nodded, then jogged toward the narrow passage they'd entered through. The bow rattled in her grip. She turned once at the edge and looked back at him, then quickly faced forward.
Calista walked to the cavern's edge and sat. Not slumped—never that. Just rested his back against the stone.
One girl barely breathing. One stabilizing. One in shock. One gone.
And one who ran.
He glanced toward the tunnel.
If the Pallum had reached the surface—and he had no doubt he had—then Guild help wasn't far. Maybe five minutes. Maybe ten.
Long enough to bleed out. Not long enough to relax.
Still.
He had done what mattered.
Eina hadn't lost anyone.
Not this time.
—
Faye had never seen anyone move like that.
She'd watched from behind a jagged boulder—frozen, breath shallow, arms locked around her bow like it could protect her. The heat of the Dragon's breath had rolled across the stone, blistering and acrid, and still she couldn't make herself move.
Not when Garret hit the wall.
Not when Veyna stopped moving.
Not when Maris charged in alone.
And definitely not when that monster—the Infant Dragon—reared back with fire in its throat.
She'd heard the warnings. Everyone in the Guild had. If you see one—run.
But they hadn't.
They hadn't run.
And then—
She appeared.
Golden light had exploded in front of Maris—like petals blooming from a sunbeam. Four shimmering barriers, delicate but blinding, layered one over the next like a divine shield. And standing between them all…
Was a girl.
Small. Cloaked. Hair like wildfire, glowing red-gold in the blastlight.
She didn't flinch. She didn't stagger.
She stood.
Held back a Dragon's breath with nothing but will and magic.
Faye's mouth had gone dry.
She didn't even know her name. Just bits, in passing. Something Maris had mentioned once with a shrug.
"Friend of a friend. Pretty. Talks like a noble. Kinda intense."
But this wasn't just intensity. This wasn't recklessness or showboating.
This was something else.
The girl took the full brunt of that breath—watched her barriers break, one by one—and still stayed on her feet. Faye saw her arm jolt from the force. Saw her shoulder pop. But she didn't scream. Didn't fall.
And when it was over… she looked back.
Calm. Commanding.
"You're not dead. So stop kneeling like you are."
That voice—Faye would never forget it. Cool. Elegant. Like a noble giving battlefield orders. And Maris listened.
Not once did she raise her voice.
Not once did she panic.
Even when the Dragon charged her—her, not Maris—she kept chanting. Magic flowed from her lips like poetry, her tone unshaken.
Faye had felt useless. Pathetic. All her planning, all her caution—what had it gotten her? She'd stood behind a rock and watched her party fall apart.
But that girl? She'd arrived alone and held the line by herself.
She took a claw to the chest.
Flew across the cavern.
And still got back up.
Her right arm had gone limp. Her shoulder was wrong. She bled from the ribs. But she kept fighting. One-handed. Bracing her bow against her body, nocking arrows like it was second nature.
And when Maris couldn't move anymore—when even her sword slipped from her grasp—she took over everything.
Faye had never seen anyone fight like that. Not Garret. Not Veyna.
That girl didn't just survive the Dragon.
She killed it.
Shot it until it staggered. Dropped a stalagmite on its back. Pinned it like a bug. Then kept firing—shot after shot—until it stopped breathing.
She was perfect.
Silent. Composed. Lethal.
Like some fallen goddess made of sapphire eyes and golden light.
Faye didn't even remember moving when the girl turned and asked, "You have potions?"
She just nodded and ran, like a servant responding to royalty.
She administered the potions exactly as told.
Tried not to fumble.
Tried not to look too long.
But every time she glanced at her—every time she saw her move—it felt like watching something out of a storybook.
Then—
"Another one," the girl said. "The swordswoman. Use it gently."
Faye blinked.
Swordswoman?
She stared at the collapsed figure in front of her. The one who'd been shouting commands, the one who always argued and led from the front. Her mouth opened.
"Swordswoman… you mean... Maris, right?"
It was like the whole world had narrowed to just her. The fire, the blood, the wreckage of their party—it all faded. Even Maris's name had slipped for a second.
The girl looked at her.
Eyes like cold fire.
Faye flinched. "Sorry—I just… I didn't think anyone would come. Or survive."
"I didn't plan to," the girl said.
Then she turned away like that was the end of it.
And Faye did what she was told. Because in that moment, there was no question of who was in charge.
She glanced back once from the tunnel mouth. The Dragon's corpse still steamed beneath the stalagmite, pinned and oozing, lit by the flicker of dying embers.
And there she was.
Sitting at the cavern's edge.
Hair mussed, arm broken, posture flawless.
She didn't slump. Didn't complain.
She simply was.
Who is she? Faye thought, heart still pounding. What kind of girl walks into the Dungeon alone and does… that?
She didn't know.
But one thing was certain.
Whoever that girl was— whatever her name might be—
Faye would never forget her.
---
A/N: Fun fact! Calista actually died! when she got struck by that dragon? yeah took out her entire Hp bar instantly, downnnnnnnnn to 0, remembered he had potions, so I made it so that he blacked out for a second, then got a second wind long enough to drink the potion, if he didnt have the potion he'd have died! Also Maris would have been dead too if she didn't drink the 2 potions that Calista threw at her, while Calista took an attack that was weakened by the 2 barriers, Maris took the full brunt of it, while already pretty low on HP, tbh I didn't acc plan for her to live or die, it was luck that i chose to make calista give the potions to maris because yknow shes the frontliner she needs hp but HOLY yeah the Infant Dragon is too strong for them tbh being a level 2 monster, really the only reason Calista won was because of plot armor, and a lot of environmental help. it literally took 8 minutes of him firing arrows where the damage wouldn't have been reduced and it still took that long sooo yeah anyway if you want to know more or spot a plot bunny tell me!
...
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