The forge should have been loud—ringing steel, roaring flames, the familiar rhythm of craft. Instead, the only sound in Hephaestus Familia's office was the dry flick of parchment as Tsubaki turned each page with visible irritation.
Paper filled the office in messy stacks, enough to hide the desk but not the woman glaring at it. Contracts for merchants, lists of drivers, and proposals for renting out their new transport trucks lay scattered across her workspace. Every sheet represented logistical challenges and a constant parade of Guild scrutiny.
Everything was here.
Everything except proper forging.
She let out a low groan, rubbing her temples.
"This is not what I was born for," she muttered flatly. "If paperwork is a divine trial, then may the gods help me finish it quickly so I can get back to learning new forging techniques… not approving permits."
The door opened with a warm gust of forge-heat, and Hephaestus stepped inside—red hair tied back, tools still hanging from her belt. She paused at the sight of Tsubaki drowning in documents, then raised an amused brow.
"I leave you alone for a few days," Hephaestus said with a light laugh, "and suddenly you're in love with paperwork."
Tsubaki shot her a withering look. "If this is love, please put me out of my misery."
Hephaestus approached and skimmed the top files—applications for new drivers, expansion plans for transport routes, material requests. All necessary. All tedious.
The forge had changed. Ever since Luthar introduced engines and metal-frame carriages, the Familia was no longer only crafting swords and armor—they were building trucks, supply chains, and an entire logistics network. Profitable, certainly. But consuming every ounce of manpower they had.
Tsubaki leaned back with a sigh.
"You know the irony? While I'm buried in documents, Luthar is out there mass-producing weapons and pushing his skills forward."
"Busy, but not broke," Hephaestus replied with a half-smile. "If this transportation project continues, we'll control most of Orario's logistics."
"Right." Tsubaki snorted. "A blacksmith managing logistics… next thing you know, we'll be selling bread."
Despite the joke, her expression tightened.
"I want to improve my forging. Innovate. Not stamp forms like there's no tomorrow."
Hephaestus placed a steady hand on her shoulder—firm, grounding, sister-like.
"If you don't want to handle everything, then don't. You're in charge of the transportation project, yes—but no one said you must do every part alone."
Tsubaki blinked—surprised, then visibly irritated at how much time she had wasted.
Hephaestus continued, "Take a few clerks from our shops. Ones with experience. Let them handle the paperwork and merchant negotiations."
A spark returned to Tsubaki's eyes—frustration melting into renewed motivation.
"Then I'm going back to the church to study," she said, pushing the stack of papers aside. "Maybe—finally—I can make a new weapon instead of another document."
Hephaestus nodded, amused but firm.
"You should. But don't ignore the transportation work completely. And check the new design concepts Luthar uploaded—some of them might give you inspiration."
Tsubaki grinned, energy returning to her posture.
"Now that's something worth reading."
As she put aside the documents, far from the forge, deep beneath Orario's streets, another form of work continued.
Deep within the Dungeon, Luthar stood at the head of his unit, boots planted on the rough, uneven ground of the tenth floor. The stone beneath them trembled now and then, a muted warning of monsters moving through the corridors just beyond sight.
Behind him stood four women.
Natasha held position at his right, calm but inwardly wary. On the left, the three former Black Widows waited—light on their feet, balanced with the instinctive poise of trained killers. Even here, deeper in the Dungeon, their uniforms remained unchanged: dark, fitted cloth with not a single piece of metal to protect them. Only short, plain swords—effective on upper floors, suicidal on the tenth.
A shape broke from the far end of the corridor—a single Minotaur, massive and furious, its hooves cracking the stone with every step. The air trembled around it as the beast lowered its head and charged.
All four women tightened their grips on their swords, bodies tensing instinctively. Their training told them to stay calm, but even they felt the cold spike of reality settle in their chests. This wasn't a controlled drill. This was a monster—and one mistake meant death.
"Spread," Luthar ordered, already analyzing angles and speed.
The women moved—assassins forced into open ground. The only saving grace was that the Minotaur carried no weapon.
One Widow darted left, narrowly avoiding the sweeping arm that could have shattered her spine. Another slipped under its reach, blade dragging across the beast's hide—not deep, but enough to divert its attention. The third stayed behind its blind spot, low and silent, waiting.
Natasha stepped in, dropping low as the Minotaur thundered past. Her blade flashed in a tight arc, slicing across the back of its knee—barely enough to break its gait, but enough. The beast stumbled, its charge collapsing for a single precious heartbeat.
A heartbeat was all they needed.
Two Widows seized the opening immediately. One hooked her arm around the creature's injured leg while the other struck at its remaining support, forcing its weight backward. Their combined pull dragged the Minotaur off balance, its massive body crashing down to one knee.
The third Widow moved instantly, driving her sword into the exposed side of its neck—clean, decisive, without hesitation.
Blood burst from the wound in a violent spray, streaking the stone and the women closest to it. The creature tried to rise, but its body no longer obeyed. Its legs buckled.
The Minotaur collapsed with a heavy thud. A final rattling breath escaped it—then its form shuddered, began to break apart, and dissolved into drifting grey particles.
When the dust cleared, two things remained on the floor: a fist-sized magic stone and a curved Minotaur horn, still faintly warm.
Silence settled over the corridor, heavy and unmoving.
The three Black Widows let out long breaths as tension drained from their bodies. Sweat clung to their skin, and one wiped a streak of blood from her cheek with shaking fingers.
"That… actually worked," one whispered, still trying to steady her voice.
"Worked, yes," another said, breathing hard, "but we were one heartbeat away from dying."
Natasha said nothing. She kept her attention on Luthar, waiting for the verdict that mattered.
Luthar studied the aftermath with his usual cold focus. Their formation had improved. Their timing was sharper. But the gap between what they could do and what they needed to do remained wide.
"This was just the surface," he said. "From here on, the monsters are faster, stronger, and far less predictable. Assassin reflexes alone won't keep you alive."
He nodded toward the horn.
"Take thirty minutes. Recover."
Tired or not, they straightened immediately. Natasha gave a small nod.
One Widow hesitated. "What about weapons…?"
"You'll receive proper ones once we reach the sixteenth floor," Luthar replied. "For now, you need to adapt—shift from fighting humans to fighting monsters. Your instincts must change."
He stepped past the settling dust.
"When you can handle these creatures without faltering," he said, "only then can I leave you on the fortieth floor to search for the herbs I need."
The women exchanged looks—tired, anxious, but understanding.
This wasn't cruelty.
It was a training for depths most adventurers doesn't even want to go.
Luthar checked the dark corridor ahead.
"Rest," he said. "We move after."
They lowered themselves to the ground, focusing on steadying their breath, bodies slowly recovering in the quiet.
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