I wish I could be like him...
A certain woman watched the youth, unable to stop that thought from rising within her.
She had delicate, leaf-shaped ears and skin as pale and flawless as carved jade. Her long, beautiful black hair carried a faintly ominous air, and her crimson eyes—matching his—swirled with emotions impossible to read.
Her beauty should have drawn countless gazes, yet simply walking through a crowd caused adventurers to instinctively step back from her.
Perhaps out of Heaven's pity, she had crossed paths with the youth twice.
She saw the pathetic sight of him being struck down by Goblins, and later the desolate figure carried on Nine Hell's back after crossing blades with the strong.
She saw everything, watching him from afar, silently and alone.
At first, when she noticed that the weakest adventurer was climbing upward, she felt nothing more than mild surprise.
Misunderstood by all.
Supported by none.
Yet he still kept moving forward, step by step…
Just like herself.
But the woman knew her own path had long been sealed shut.
Not a flat plain.
Not a cliff.
But a bottomless abyss.
Just like the Dungeon.
It was precisely this difference that made her start paying attention to the youth.
When she learned of his death…
She could not accept it.
To her, the boy was not a destination.
Not a lighthouse.
Not an aspiration.
In truth, he was a stranger she had never once spoken to.
Even so, he had taken up a place within her heart.
Like a tree battered to death by storms catching sight of a single stubborn blade of grass growing alone.
There was no connection, no bond—yet she found herself caring about him for no reason at all.
And so the news of his death struck her heart like a bolt of lightning.
She had already been stripped of everything.
Was even this small, unrelated existence going to be taken from her as well?
She had never spoken of the boy to anyone.
But his death carved a pitiful emptiness into her heart.
And then, at that moment—
She learned from [a certain individual] that the youth was still alive.
In that barren wasteland of a heart, life sprouted once more.
Not only that, the youth had even saved the famed Sword Princess.
With Lv1 strength, he had seized a sliver of hope from terror and despair.
The woman trembled.
Every night, she dreamed the same nightmare.
The writhing, sickening green flesh.
Those strange, horrific screams.
Her companions being mercilessly torn apart.
And at the end of every nightmare came nothing but endless torment and struggle.
They lacked strength—that was why everyone had died without hope.
They lacked strength—that was why she had failed to save anyone.
But that excuse had been utterly overturned by the youth.
If she had possessed his wisdom, would everything have ended differently?
At last, the woman understood why she cared about him.
Courage was noble, yes—but in Orario, countless adventurers fought desperately just to survive.
She was no different.
Even as fear gnawed at her heart, she still chose to charge at terrifying enemies, fighting for the sake of her companions.
Ability was no different. If a powerful figure like the "King" had been present during that nightmare, it surely could have been overturned in an instant.
Yet everyone eventually encounters a scene of despair they cannot resist—an overwhelming force that crushes everything. Every person carries a nightmare of their own. From that perspective, wisdom capable of commanding all, and heroes who can shatter hopeless situations, are the rarest existences of all. But so-called heroes often die in tragedy, leaving only their tales for those who come after.
The incident this woman had heard about was exactly the same. A single misstep, and the youth would have fallen into the abyss of death. Yet he succeeded. Her past nightmare overlapped with the current event, and a slight tremor shook her heart.
With complicated emotions churning inside her, she told no one about the boy. It was not atonement—merely a small, fragile struggle of her own.
From that day forward, her "coincidental" encounters with the youth grew more and more frequent.
At first, in the Guild, she watched him from afar. A guild employee who seemed to be of her own race scolded the boy for faking his death while wiping at teary eyes—not with anger, but with a tone filled with empathy and relief.
The streets were no different. The Chienthrope girl who knew him, the tavern waitress in uniform, the beautiful silver-haired healer, and several new adventurers she did not recognize—all of them spoke to the youth with tears in their eyes, expressing their worry for him.
It was the joy of surviving disaster, a feeling the woman had never once experienced. The boy was surrounded by warm, heartfelt words, encircled by beautiful women. His presence shone so brightly. That intense warmth pierced straight into the woman's heart.
She was happy for him—yet lonely, as though a precious treasure of hers had been taken away. In the end, the two of them were still strangers.
Over the next few days, the boy seemed to return to his everyday routine. An adventurer's growth required Excelia; a bird in a cage would only remain stagnant. Perhaps someone had considered this, for the protective presence she had sensed earlier had completely disappeared. And so, the woman found more opportunities to stage their "chance encounters."
After returning from the Dungeon, the youth's schedule became quite busy. He went on a date with the adorable gray-haired shop assistant, the two of them feeding each other sweets at a food stall. He accepted the apology of the green-haired elf and showed her his current weapon. From time to time, he dealt with the lovely women of the Loki Familia, the Freya Familia, and the healer from Dian Cecht...
"Aren't they all just adorable girls?!"
For the first time, the woman whispered her complaint. But she quickly realized she had no right to scold the boy. Everything was one-sided.
Even if he saved countless people, even if he won the hearts of countless women—she was not among them. To be precise, no matter what happened in the future, she would never be among them. She had already sunk into the abyss.
She did not long for salvation. Simply watching from afar as the boy—once in circumstances similar to her own—continued to grow step by step was enough for her.
Yet even this tiny, insignificant wish was destroyed by cruel reality.
On the third day after the boy returned, the nightmare descended once more.
Why...
The woman's heart trembled. Everything before her eyes seemed to collapse and fade into darkness.
And it all began with a single message:
"The weaker the pawn, the lower the risk of exposure. The time to strike has come."
A surviving remnant of an unnoticed Evilus faction, holding a cursed blade, bared its fangs toward the youth.
Why...
Why kill that boy?
Never in her life had the woman been shaken so deeply. Her heart churned in violent turmoil.
Why had she fallen into such a state? Why was the world so cruel? What had the boy done to deserve such a deadly fate?
Why…
Why...
In a corner where no one could see, the woman cried and wailed.
There had been one other time when things had unfolded in a similar way. Unable to understand the true intentions of a God, she had simply obeyed and joined an adventurer party. At first, their progress through the Dungeon had been smooth. Though the adventurers knew of her past, none of them treated her with suspicion.
As a result, the group was ambushed and completely consumed by terrifying monsters.
The woman realized she had been used. She tried to resist, tried to save those dragged into the tragedy—but her efforts amounted to nothing. Despair seeped into her heart. Though she had never killed anyone, in truth, she had become the bait that lured the monsters.
Hellish images flashed across her mind. Was that same despairing scene about to unfold again?
If she had been deceived before, what excuse could she possibly give now to watch others die?
Why... why must it be that boy?
A month earlier, she had been ordered to kill several of her companions. She could only scream in hysterical refusal and fight back desperately. Yet, alone, she could change nothing. Her companions slaughtered one another, dying right before her eyes.
The bottom of the abyss was still nowhere in sight.
She had considered revealing everything to the world, but doing so would only hasten the calamity and bring more death.
She stood at the brink of collapse.
And yet—this boy, whose past mirrored her own—him alone she could not allow to die.
Countless nightmares flashed through her mind.
The day she lost her companions.
The day she fell into the abyss.
The day she was used to lead an adventurer party to their deaths.
From that day onward, she bore a dreaded name.
Even the faintest glimmer of hope… could someone as filthy as she was still pass even a sliver of light to that boy?
If it could reach him…
If you survive…
Then surely I can continue struggling forward in this hideous form...
Please—grant me a shred of courage.
If I am destined to be a tragedy, then let all of it fall upon this body instead!
That boy who kept walking forward, that resilient young sprout—why must he face such pure malice?
Is it truly this world's law to watch the noble fall, to watch the brave lose their lives?
How could she accept such an absurd world...
The woman began sprinting through the Dungeon, tears and grief flooding out of her. That nightmare had repeated countless times, and each time she refused to accept it as reality.
Day after day, a single thought consumed her heart:
If only a hero had appeared that day...
Isn't it the same now?!
That boy swallowed by malice—he was her past self. Even if she was ugly, even if she was fragile, this tainted body could still carry him.
Please... you must live...
Crossing the passageway, she witnessed a horrifying scene. The boy lay in a pool of blood, and the assassin—apparently struck by the boy's desperate counterattack—had triggered a suicide blast at the last moment.
Aside from the mangled flesh and a cursed dagger, the scene held no other trace.
Without hesitation, the woman hoisted the boy onto her back and raced toward the Dungeon entrance. She concealed her face as she entrusted him to others. A vicious curse gnawed at the youth, blood flowing endlessly.
The woman removed the cloak she had prepared and quietly stepped out of the Tower of Babel. Watching him being carried away, she silently offered her blessings.
Then, from nearby, an adventurer's voice rang out.
"Hey, stay away from her. That one's a death elf."
The sun hid behind dark clouds as a thin drizzle fell like quiet mourning. Rain beat against her face as Filvis slipped silently into a dark alley.
Her retreating figure went unnoticed.
...
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