The heavy wooden door of the Guild's archive room creaked shut behind Draco, muffling the distant murmur of adventurers and staff.
The air within was thick with the scent of aged parchment, dried ink, and a faint, sweet mustiness.
Tall shelves, dark with time, stretched to the high ceiling, crammed with scrolls, leather-bound tomes, and meticulously labeled files.
Light filtered weakly through a surprisingly clean, high-set window, casting long, dusty shadows across the narrow aisles.
Upon accepting Ouranos's request, Draco hadn't immediately gone into the dungeon.
Instead, he had come to the guild archive seeking information.
The mission to retrieve the Jewel Fetus from the deep floors of the dungeon, was far from normal.
And for good reason.
Draco quickly found an empty table in a secluded corner, pulling out a stool that seemed almost comically small beneath him.
Spreading out a few maps and diagrams retrieved from a filing cabinet labeled "Deep Floor Expeditions," he began his meticulous study.
Despite being the strongest adventurer in Orario, undeniably at the very peak of level seven, Draco had never ventured beyond the 36th floor.
That particular floor marked the true end of what was considered the 'lower levels.'
From the 37th floor downwards, the dungeon transformed into the unforgiving 'deep floors.'
The information he'd quickly scanned earlier confirmed his long-held understanding.
The deep floors were a different beast entirely.
Here, even level four adventurers with a D-rank status could only barely cope with the monstrous inhabitants.
For Draco, raw power wasn't the issue.
His strength was absolute, his skills honed to a razor's edge.
What concerned him was the unknown, the unpredictability.
The terrain below the 36th floor was notoriously more complex.
It was also filled with traps, like strange monsters, miasmas and harmful environmental conditions that could sap an adventurer's strength or inflict debilitating debuffs.
The sheer scale of these areas was far greater than anything encountered in the lower floors, making navigation a nightmare even for seasoned explorers.
Getting lost, or succumbing to an insidious affliction far from the surface, was a scenario he refused to entertain.
His target, the 45th floor, was deep enough to warrant utmost caution.
He needed to plot the most optimal path, a route that would minimize travel time and exposure to unnecessary risks, ensuring a swift journey to his destination and an even swifter return.
More than the environmental hazards, a deeper, more primal unease gnawed at Draco.
The Jewel Fetus.
It was a unique monster, perhaps even a living resource, but some specifics were vague.
While seemingly harmless to someone of his immense caliber, the true danger lay in his own nature.
Draco was a dragon-kin, a potent blend of dragon and spirit.
To the dungeon's denizens, particularly those with a taste for spiritual entities, he was a prime delicacy.
This included the Jewel Fetus itself, as well as the more elusive Demi-Spirits and, worst of all, the corrupted spirits.
He frowned, tracing a finger across a faded map depicting the general layout of the 44th to 49th floors.
There was no telling how the Jewel Fetus would react to his unique essence.
Would it be drawn to him like a moth to a flame, or repulsed?
More ominously, could any interaction end up drawing the unwanted attention of a Demi-Spirit or even the corrupted spirit.
A Demi-Spirit, he mused, he could, somehow, manage.
It would be a decent battle, one that could possibly be even enjoyable for him.
A corrupted spirit, however… that was a different matter entirely.
There was no telling the outcome of such an encounter, no guarantee of survival for anyone, even him.
'Sigh, no need thinking the worst,' Draco scolded himself, his fingers curling slightly into a fist. He forced the unsettling thoughts away, flipping onto the next page of the archived reports.
He had a job to do, and unproductive worry served no purpose.
Yet, the thought of Demi-Spirits had already opened a door in his mind, pulling him back five years, to the devastating war with Evilus.
He hadn't seen it in person, but couldn't help but wonder if Delphyne, the monstrous creature summoned by Erebus during that conflict, was somehow related to these Demi-Spirits.
The similarities in descriptions, were too striking to ignore.
That line of thought, in turn, inevitably led him to Alfia.
The war had claimed her, or so it was stated.
But the official record felt incomplete, hollow.
There had been no physical evidence of her demise, only witness reports from Loki and his familia members who were at the scene.
'She was consumed by flames and burnt to ashes,' was the grim observation.
And even though a thorough search had been conducted, no signs of her body were ever found.
It had been speculated that the dungeon, had simply devoured her remains, leaving no trace. But… there was always that nagging 'what if' scenario.
Draco immediately put an abrupt end to the ridiculous thought process, shaking his head.
It had been over five long years since the war.
Five years.
With the severe state of her injuries and the progression of her illness, survival was simply not possible, especially after falling into a pit of special flames several floors deep within the dungeon.
It was a cruel hope, one he couldn't afford to entertain now.
Refocusing on his task at hand, Draco bent his head once more over the documents.
He rapidly memorized the critical information: specific environmental warnings for floors 37-49, known monster spawn points, potential shortcuts, and even environmental instability reports.
His mind, cataloged every detail with some level of clarity.
He committed important parts of the maps to memory, visualizing the twisting passages, the vast chambers, and the treacherous crevices.
Once he was satisfied, he carefully returned the documents to their proper places, gathered his thoughts, and exited the archive room.
...............…
The noon sun blared menacingly in the cloudless sky as Draco exited the Guild building, its heat pressing down on the bustling streets of Orario.
His first order of business still wasn't the dungeon, but a trip home for money.
This wasn't going to be a quick in-and-out mission.
Heading to the 45th floor, plus the time required to locate and retrieve the Jewel Fetus, would likely take at least a week, perhaps even more.
He needed to be fully prepared.
The Bahamut familia estate, offered a brief respite from the city's din.
After retrieving a heavy stack of Valis, he set out again, his destination the market district.
First on his shopping list were dry rations.
Draco ate a lot, his powerful body demanding a constant supply of energy.
He had to prioritize filling and energy-rich meals over taste, though he grimaced inwardly at the thought of eating only nutrient-dense rations for over a week.
He purchased a truly absurd quantity, enough to feed a small squad for days, earning him curious stares from the nearby vendors
Next came the challenge of finding a new dungeon bag.
His old one, battered and patched countless times, was beyond repair, and truth be told, way too small for his current frame.
He had grown a lot in the years since he last had a full set of gear made.
This seemingly simple task turned out to be more grueling than his earlier archival research. Most bags, even the largest expedition-grade ones, were simply not designed to accommodate someone of Draco's ridiculous size and the sheer volume of supplies he intended to carry.
In the end, after visiting several shops and finding nothing suitable, he had to request a custom-made one.
He paid an exorbitant extra fee for it to be made a priority, promising collection in a few hours.
'Guess I won't be hitting the dungeon today,' Draco thought, a faint sigh escaping him.
Even the best tailor in Orario would need at least a few hours to craft a bag sturdy enough and large enough to meet his specifications.
This delay could have been avoided, he knew, by hiring a supporter...an invaluable role for any adventurer venturing deep into the dungeon.
A supporter would carry supplies, provide backup, and help manage inventory, freeing the adventurer to focus on combat.
But Draco found the idea troublesome for a number of reasons.
First of all, what supporter in their right mind would willingly venture that deep into the dungeon without a proper expedition team, complete with multiple front-liners and robust security? Unless one was extremely desperate for money, or simply enjoyed being in ridiculously dangerous situations, they would never accept such a commission.
It wasn't just the depth; it was the nature of his mission, the threats he might encounter.
How would a regular supporter even begin to comprehend the dangers of a Demi-Spirit or, worse, a corrupted spirit?
Additionally, and perhaps more importantly, there was the critical issue of trust.
Going into the dungeon, especially to the deep floors, with a complete stranger was a dangerous gamble, even for Draco.
He pictured a scenario: after an exhausting, brutal fight against a tough monster, his guard momentarily lowered, he got stabbed in the back.
Or perhaps, more subtly, his rations, water, or potions were poisoned, his life slowly draining away while he was deep underground, miles from any hope of rescue.
The outcome was a chilling thought, a swift and ignoble end to life.
While it sounded a bit exaggerated, he knew these were not mere paranoid fantasies.
Such betrayals, such desperate acts, had been happening between adventurers over the past thousand years, a dark undercurrent in the supposedly noble pursuit of dungeon exploration.
'If only they were home,' Draco lamented, a familiar longing surfacing.
He thought of his familia members, currently still out on their own expedition.
With them, trust was absolute, tested by fire and blood.
But he was alone for this mission.
Shaking his head for the 'nth' time that day, urging himself to focus on the present, Draco made his way along the northwestern main road.
The sun, still high in the sky, beat down relentlessly, making the usual city bustle feel even more oppressive.
His next destination was the Hephaestus Familia home and workshop.
He needed some armor customized to fit his current frame.
His growth meant his existing gear, while still top-tier, was uncomfortably unfit.
Additionally, he wanted to finally pay a proper visit to both Tsubaki and Hephaestus.
It had been quite a while since he had returned to the city, and despite his presence, he hadn't yet properly paid his respects to the two women who were not just masterful crafters, friends and potentially much more.
"Hopefully they aren't too busy," Draco muttered, the words barely audible above the street noise, as he stood before the gates of the Hephaestus Familia compound.
In his hand, held with surprising gentleness, was a bouquet of vibrant flowers.
He wasn't sure what exactly to bring for his visit, feeling a sense of awkwardness about social pleasantries.
In the end, he had simply picked two bouquets from a random shop on his way through the market.
As for the type of flowers, their meanings, or any associated symbolism… how was he supposed to know any of that?
They simply looked pretty and smelled nice, and that had been the entire extent of his thought process behind the choice.
Taking a deep breath, he was immediately hit with the familiar smell of smelting metals, the acrid tang of coal smoke, and the underlying scent of oil.
This was interwoven with the rhythmic sound of huffing bellows, the resonant clang of hammers shaping masterpieces against anvils, and the occasional sharp hiss of quenching steel.
It was the music of creation, the heartbeat of the finest workshop in all of Orario.
Shaking off the slight nervousness that had suddenly crept up his tail...a peculiar sensation for someone so outwardly inept...Draco pushed the gates open and stepped into the organized chaos of the Hephaestus Familia workshop.