Invader.
A word that Sein Dungeon had given an entirely new meaning.
Nowadays, when people in Bedford City and the surrounding regions heard those words, the first things that came to mind were colorful phantoms, suspicious-looking weapons, and all manner of strange headgear.
That's right.
Headgear.
Ever since the appearance of the mysterious Hooded Man, hoods had taken on enormous cultural weight among both invaders and the adventurers who hunted them. Whether you were breaking into someone else's run or lying in wait for people who did, you picked a hood that suited your style. Any style was acceptable — elegant, tattered, severe, or completely ridiculous.
The most popular by a wide margin was the Slave Hood, better known as the Thief Hood.
The moment an invader showed up wearing one, adventurers could immediately relax.
This match was already decided.
Because people who wore that thing were either genuine masters or complete beginners. Everyone in between regarded it with a kind of reverence and didn't dare put it on casually — which meant the field was conveniently self-sorting.
By now, hoods had become something close to a symbol of identity and spirit. If two adventurers got into a heated argument and both happened to own a Thief Hood, all it took was one person producing theirs for the whole conflict to dissolve into laughter.
The greatest practical purpose of a hood, of course, was concealing one's face.
An invader's true identity must never be discovered.
Never.
Some things bore repeating every single day.
Every day brought fresh examples — invaders getting their hoods torn off mid-fight, identities exposed, and angry victims showing up at their doors to exact revenge in person. The bloody reality was right there for everyone to see. It had given rise to a genuine advocacy movement around what people were now calling hood safety.
Sein Dungeon had conveniently responded by introducing a Hood That Could Not Fall Off.
It was an instant bestseller.
Still, the fact that being unmasked so reliably led to real-world retaliation said everything that needed to be said about the general reputation of invaders.
Which raised the obvious question: if invaders were that notorious, why did so many people keep doing it?
The answer was simple. It was one of the more efficient ways to earn souls — and souls, since the opening of the Liurnia of the Lakes region, had quietly become one of the most useful resources in the dungeon ecosystem.
In the past, souls were used exclusively for leveling up at bonfires. Now they could be spent on supplies from Merchant Kale and Shrimp Bro, used to forge weapons and purchase smithing stones from Blacksmith Andre, exchanged for instruction at certain classrooms in the Academy of Magic, or spent triggering random events in underground labyrinths. Invasion rewards could also be traded at the Soul Altar for covenant items.
The enthusiasm for invasions had only grown since Liurnia opened.
As invaders spent more time operating in the same spaces, they gradually got to know one another. Eventually, that familiarity coalesced into a loose organization — the Invaders' Guild, which occasionally accepted paid contracts to go after bounty targets. The guild was still in its infancy, barely taking shape, but its reputation had already grown to rival underground institutions like the Necromancer Association and the Thieves' Guild.
This was precisely why the Bedford Family refused to release any Invader-themed merchandise. The association brought nothing but bad publicity. Sales of the Soul statues from the previous product line had already suffered from the proximity.
Being the kind of organization that dealt in exactly this sort of intelligence, the Light Eagle Mercenary Company had taken notice of the Invaders' Guild quickly. For the purpose of slowing down the Skyrim Group's exploration progress, they placed an order.
Which led, without further ceremony, to the current situation.
"Why are you back already? Still couldn't find them?"
Near the middle layer of the Catacombs of Carthus, Aston — captain of the logistics team — looked at "IDontLikeRosemary," who had just returned from what appeared to be an unsuccessful expedition.
Based on how deep explorers had managed to push, people had informally divided the Catacombs into upper, middle, and lower layers. It wasn't a precise classification — more of a practical shorthand. At present, teams were mapping the upper layer, actively working through the middle, and making cautious attempts into the lower. In practice, every team that pushed too deep into the lower section died and returned within a short time. The dangers below were self-evident.
They knew nothing, incidentally, about Elsa's exploration progress.
To accelerate their own advancement, the Light Eagle had assembled over a dozen full teams, each staffed with professional dungeon explorers. Independent mercenaries had also flooded in on their own initiative, drawn by the prospect of lucky finds and the fact that teleport crystal expenses were being fully reimbursed. With no wars to fight at the moment, dungeon diving had become a surprisingly popular way to pass the time.
Aston himself wasn't working on the front lines today. He had been assigned a special task. The dozen or so people with him were all invaders — each one cycling through repeated invasions, hoping to stumble across the Skyrim Group. A slow method, but there genuinely wasn't a better one available.
"I found them. Couldn't beat them. They're too strong."
"IDontLikeRosemary" shook his head and walked directly toward the dungeon exit.
"Where are you going?" Aston asked.
"I'm done. Fighting opponents I can't beat serves no purpose. I'll return your payment."
He waved without looking back and exchanged a brief meaningful look with several other invaders as he passed.
"I'm out too. Spent all day searching and couldn't find a thing. The gods clearly aren't favoring this job."
"Same. I'm leaving."
Within moments, half the invaders had walked out.
Aston stood there, utterly baffled.
Are these people always this casual about work?
Had he looked more carefully, he would have noticed that every single person who left was a seasoned veteran. The ones remaining were newcomers — and they had no idea what was about to happen to them. The veterans couldn't be bothered to warn them. Everyone enjoyed a good show.
"No sense of professionalism. Adventurers are completely unreliable."
Aston didn't bother trying to retain them. In his estimation, the invader tactic was supplementary at best. The real path to winning the competition ran through actual exploration results.
According to his intelligence, the public had only discovered the most obvious route near the bonfire — Route One, as it had come to be called. The Skyrim Group was working the same route. This was highly advantageous for the Light Eagle, because they had found Route Two: farther from the bonfire, considerably more winding, but equally capable of reaching the lower levels. With teams running both routes simultaneously and a decisive numerical advantage, their exploration speed might prove no slower than the Skyrim Group's.
Aston could barely wait to see their faces when Route Two was revealed as a card he had been holding all along.
That reaction was going to be worth savoring.
"Back to work, everyone. Don't be like the quitters who just left. I'm raising your pay."
The remaining invaders cheered.
Aston straightened up with satisfaction.
Whatever else could be said, they had no shortage of money.
[Invaded by "ILikeRosemary"]
"Hm?"
The satisfaction evaporated instantly.
What was happening? Who would be foolish enough to invade them here?
[Invaded by "CanIPlayInvaderForever?"]
[Invaded by "InvincibleBedWarGod"]
Three dark spirits materialized directly in front of Aston.
Point-blank range.
He bared his teeth and pulled the warhammer from his hip. He was going to give these invaders the most spectacular death they had ever experienced and teach them exactly what genuine cruelty looked like.
What he failed to notice was that every invader he had hired had gone completely still.
Not one of them was moving. Several had already initiated invasions of their own just to get out of the immediate area.
Strange.
"So you're Aston."
InvincibleBedWarGod pointed at him while drawing a reverse-grip sword, its Ash of War labeled [Blind Spot].
"Get ready to have your ass sent west."
CanIPlayInvaderForever? licked his dagger. His actual specialties, for anyone paying attention, were the miracle [Force] and the prayer [Rejection].
Click. Click.
ILikeRosemary quietly loaded two repeating crossbows. Specialty bolts of various types gleamed across his back.
The Thief Hoods of all three men practically shone.
"I'm not afraid of you!"
Aston roared and charged first, swinging his hammer in a wide arc.
The impact cratered the ground with a network of cracks.
Why the ground?
Because he hadn't hit anyone.
"Hehe — Blind Spot!"
The invader dropped his center of gravity and moved like smoke. Aston wrenched his weapon up to block — and the invader was already behind him.
One strike punched straight through his kidney.
"AAAGH!"
Horror. What kind of combat skill allowed an attack from a blindspot with no counter available?
Before he could process it, a crossbow bolt storm descended.
He spun his weapon to deflect — a smoke bomb detonated at his feet — thick smoke swallowed the area —
Not good.
"Your ass belongs to me."
A profoundly unsettling voice materialized behind him.
[Force] detonated.
The shockwave launched him bodily through the air.
"Oops. Bit too much force. Knocked him clean out of the smoke."
Aston hit the ground in a heap. He pressed a hand to his bleeding side and turned a furious glare on the spectators.
"What are you all doing?! Why isn't anyone helping?!"
"B-Boss, it's not that we don't want to…"
One man stammered through his explanation.
"Anyone with a nickname that ridiculous is definitely serious. We can't afford to be involved in this."
What kind of absurd unwritten rule is that?!
Aston nearly choked.
For the first time in recent memory, he genuinely regretted not bringing more of the Light Eagle with him.
Meanwhile, the three invaders came after him, laughing loud enough to echo off the stone walls. The pressure was suffocating. All he could do was glare at the useless bystanders and run.
Bolts of every type screamed in from behind — sleep, bleed, burn, paralysis, frostbite, effects he couldn't even name cycling through his body in rotation. No matter how hard he dodged, something was always finding him.
At some point he managed to turn and desperately kill one invader.
Then —
[Invaded by…]
A new one appeared immediately.
There was no way to know how many were queued up, waiting their turn to stab his kidneys.
Every single one was a veteran whose individual strength rivaled elite adventurers.
Looking at what appeared to be an inexhaustible line of invaders, Aston felt a despair that went deeper than anything Master Kent had experienced in his worst moments inside the Painted World.
Did I offend some god today? Why are they all targeting me specifically?
The answer, as it happened, was that they weren't all targeting him specifically.
Throughout the entire day, everyone active in the Catacombs of Carthus reported the same phenomenon: the number of invasions had spiked dramatically. But many invaders would appear, look around for a moment, and leave without attacking anyone.
Which was very strange — until the pattern became clear.
They were all busy with the Light Eagle mercenaries.
The mercenaries were experiencing a level of sustained, coordinated harassment without precedent. Their entire profession was built around killing people, and yet somehow, whenever they went up against invaders, it felt like they were the challengers. The invaders' technical skill and PvP instincts genuinely surpassed those of professional soldiers.
How had it come to this?
How had mercenaries become outclassed by dungeon invaders?
Well.
They had only themselves to blame for making an enemy of adventurers. The defining characteristic of adventurers — perhaps their most consistent trait across all other differences — was that they stuck together.
Even notorious invaders were no exception.
And so began what would come to be known not as the First Purge, but rather —
The First Sein Unlimited Invasion Tournament.
Every target: a mercenary.
Under the relentless pressure of the Dark Spirit army, the Light Eagle's exploration speed collapsed. Progress was delayed repeatedly. Medical expenses and supply costs spiraled. By the time the mercenaries had finally adapted to invader tactics and begun organizing effective countermeasures — slowly, painfully clawing back the upper hand —
The competition deadline arrived.
The original victory condition — defeating the boss first — would have taken far too long, so an additional rule had been added: whoever had achieved the deepest exploration progress before the deadline would be declared the winner.