The cold wind swept through the hall, and the mercenary's voice was low and steady.
"The Chienthrope girl is safe for now."
He didn't ask why the boy was so determined to fight, nor where that courage came from. The intruder stood before him—that alone was enough. All he had to do was drive him back.
"Thanks for the information."
Bell spoke with genuine gratitude.
The mercenary was nothing like the others—his strength was on an entirely different level. In a direct confrontation, Bell knew he would lose.
The wounds from that morning still ached faintly. The shattering force that had ripped through his body lingered in his memory like a nightmare from the previous day, carving tremors into his limbs.
Even just standing before him, Bell's palms were slick with cold sweat.
Run. Leave this fight to the Elf girl.
His body trembled, screaming at him to flee.
Run. What good would another battle do? Another round of pain and blood—what meaning did that hold?
Bell was a rational person. Passion didn't mean recklessness.
If he could have escaped, he would have.
But not now.
He and the Elf girl had only met a few times. Though she had offered to help, they weren't close enough to share full trust or reveal everything to each other.
Ryuu was strong—far stronger than him.
And because of that, Bell had to believe in her. He had to hold off the mercenary, to buy her time to rescue Naaza.
"Seems you've made up your mind."
The mercenary stood still, watching as the trembling in Bell's hands vanished.
Bell took a deep breath. Trust in his heart, he reaffirmed his role as the [Bait].
"Where did you take Naaza?"
It seemed there was no point in further words.
The mercenary could see it—the unyielding fire burning in the boy's eyes.
He shifted his stance and charged forward.
The same move.
The same force.
The only difference was that now, the fear that once haunted him had turned to fury.
There was no reason for him to fear this boy.
One nightmare was enough—he would not allow another human to haunt his dreams.
He threw his weight forward, charging like an unstoppable bull.
A powerful foe.
Yet Bell found himself puzzled.
Too slow.
He could see every motion. The man's speed was barely faster than the adventurers he had just fought.
Bell turned his body slightly, easily dodging the rush.
Too slow.
A feint? A trap?
Bell stepped back, watching quietly.
The same towering frame. The same mask. The same armor and weapon.
It was undoubtedly the same mercenary.
But after that single exchange, Bell could tell—the man before him was weaker.
The silver-white armor gleamed under the Magic Stone lamp. The mercenary's charge missed, and he steadied himself, turning sharply to face Bell.
What just happened?
He dodged?
A cold unease coiled like a serpent up the mercenary's spine.
Had the boy grown stronger mid-battle?
No. Impossible.
The Falna granted by the gods wasn't something so simple or cheap.
Adventurers could only update their Status in the presence of their god.
So what was happening here?
Driven by doubt, the mercenary drew his longsword and slashed forward.
Clang!
Silver met sky-blue, and the ring of steel echoed through the hall.
The solid strike was stopped by the boy.
The mercenary's brow furrowed.
That familiar sensation—like fighting a monster—rose within him.
Without hesitation, he knocked the dagger aside, drew back his longsword, and retreated a few steps.
Had he kept pressing forward, he would have been the one to fall first.
That abnormal instinct sent cold sweat running down his back.
It wasn't that the boy had become faster.
It was that his own strength had weakened.
How could such a ridiculous thought even cross his mind?
The mercenary refused to accept it.
He'd heard rumors of "weakening" abilities in Orario, but such a feat was far beyond the reach of a rookie Adventurer.
Where did this abnormality come from?
Swordlight flashed. The Divine Mirror's view never wavered from the white-haired youth.
The Goddess of Beauty smiled faintly.
As the hidden hand behind this abnormality, she felt no guilt.
Each swing of Bell's dagger made Freya's expression shimmer with joy.
A pure white soul—one that kept falling, yet always rose again.
From the very first glance, she had been captivated by the fire burning within him.
This was her gift to him.
Even if he never knew it, the Goddess of Beauty had bestowed her blessing out of affection.
The boy had suffered failure and ridicule again and again. Now, he needed something to restore his faith in moving forward.
This pitiful mercenary was the perfect opponent.
Weakened by her charm, he could easily be handled by a boy so skilled in combat.
He would become nourishment for Bell.
Experience for his growth.
A faint madness crept across Freya's flawless features as she watched, delighted by his progress.
This [abnormality] had its roots in divine malice.
The mercenary would never uncover its source.
Each parry felt like venom coursing through his veins, dulling his mind and slowing his limbs.
Stand firm. Step forward. Swing. Cross blades...
He no longer thought—his body moved on reflex alone, clashing mechanically with the youth.
That nightmarish white-haired figure had become real.
The fight remained even, but if it went on, victory would inevitably belong to Bell.
The difference in armor and build made it impossible for Bell to land a fatal blow, so he kept attacking, chipping away at the man's endurance.
Fatigue accumulated.
The mercenary faltered.
It wasn't a trap, just a flaw forced open by Bell's relentless assault.
Bell didn't waste the chance.
He lowered his stance and drove his blade into the gap at the mercenary's leg.
The man could have adjusted to block, but exhaustion and weakness overtook him—his defeat was sealed.
A sky-blue flash cut through the air as the mercenary fell to his knees, armor clattering against the ground.
The outcome was clear.
Freya smiled in satisfaction at the youth.
Then, within the Divine Mirror, the scene suddenly shifted.
Bell sensed it and instinctively stepped back.
The mercenary's aura warned him—
Don't chase him down.
If he did, he would be the one to fall.
The mercenary smiled faintly.
Someone had once approached him, warning that the dagger was poisoned.
He had prepared an antidote long ago. Removing his mask, he drank it in one gulp.
Without the terrifying fanged mask, his true face was even more ghastly.
Half his jaw and part of his neck were gone, replaced by hollow, dark brown scars.
"This is from the Dungeon. If it frightens you, I apologize."
Each time he spoke, the twisted scars writhed with the motion.
"It looks better than that mask of yours."
Bell gripped his dagger tighter and replied.
"Heh."
Blood streamed down the mercenary's leg, dyeing his silver armor red.
He smiled as he rose. If he'd been born in this boy's time, they might have been good friends.
Both were defeated by the Dungeon—yet the path the youth had chosen was the exact opposite of his own.
Bell Cranel's very existence denied everything about the mercenary's life.
He would never accept that.
Just looking at the boy made him loathe himself.
After being beaten by the Dungeon, he had let fear consume him.
For the sake of his family, he had surrendered to the darkness.
Each day was spent living with nightmares and guilt.
Evil always falls. Justice always comes.
He had betrayed his heart, committed countless wrongs, and long expected punishment to find him.
But not like this.
Even if he was destined to become the boy's stepping stone, he refused to fall as easily as the others.
Anger burned through divine will. Conviction shattered the [abnormality].
With a roar, the mercenary charged.
The true rematch had begun.
...
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