By the time Lily and her group had withdrawn from the Dungeon, Luthar and his team had already passed through the tenth floor without incident.
The corridors still bore faint scars of an encounter that was not theirs. Shallow gouges marked the stone, darkened patches lingering where blood had soaked in before the Dungeon reclaimed it. The party did not slow, nor did anyone comment. The Black Widows moved with silent precision, weapons ready should anything emerge.
His thoughts returned, briefly, to the earlier Minotaur encounter.
It had been a complete disappointment.
There was no weapon. No Battle Cry. No Rage state. The creature had not even forced him to take action. Its movements had been crude, its reactions slow, its lack of equipment almost insulting. A brute relying on size alone.
Still, he had not dismissed it outright.
For the Black Widows, it had been valuable. An early encounter outside expected parameters. A reminder that the Dungeon always found ways to defy expectation.
Experience was experience, even when the enemy was weak.
They descended without stopping.
By the time the Dungeon's gradient shifted and the air thickened just enough to be noticeable, they were no longer on the tenth floor.
The eleventh passed quietly.
At the threshold of the twelfth, he raised a hand.
The group halted immediately.
The space opened wider here. Ceilings higher. Sightlines longer. The Dungeon felt less cramped, less forgiving. Sound carried strangely, as if absorbed and returned with delay. Mana density pressed in subtle waves against the senses.
This was where assumptions started killing people.
He turned and unsealed a compact case from his pack.
One by one, he handed out equipment.
Helmets first.
Every Widow accepted hers without comment, checking seals and fit with practiced efficiency.
Then came the handguns.
Small. Compact. Intended as secondary weapons to wound or distract monsters, yet lethal by default to anything without the Dungeon's natural defenses. He placed one in each of their hands, along with spare magazines.
The Black Widows inspected the weapons briefly, fingers adjusting grip, testing balance. The reaction was instinctive, not born of doubt.
The response told him what he needed to know.
"From this point on, engagement patterns will change," he said at last. His voice was level, almost casual. "The Dungeon reacts to weakness. The moment you slow down, it escalates. I won't be able to cover every mistake. Adapt quickly, or the Dungeon will do it for you."
No one asked questions.
He activated the systems connected to his armor and mask. Data asserted itself directly into his brain—range, vectors, movement probabilities—processed beneath conscious thought. Environmental input followed as structured impressions rather than images, incomplete but usable.
Formation shifted subtly. Two Widows adjusted to provide overlapping lines of sight. Another drifted half a step back, covering their rear with practiced ease. No orders were given. They adapted to the situation naturally.
Good.
He stepped forward first.
The twelfth floor did not greet them with a group of monsters. The Dungeon and its inhabitants preferred patience over quick engagement. Threats layered themselves quietly, letting confidence build before tearing it apart.
They advanced.
Behind them, the corridors they had passed through began to fill. Monster silhouettes shifted in the distance, not charging, simply occupying space.
He noted it and moved on.
Ahead, the passage bent into a wider chamber. The space opened abruptly, ceilings rising, shadows stretching farther than the light should have allowed. The kind of room that revealed nothing from the edges.
The Black Widows tightened their grips, feeling the increase in tension.
From this depth onward, the Dungeon stopped testing strength.
At the same time, Lily emerged from the Dungeon, and the tension finally began to loosen.
The familiar noise of the surface rushed in to replace the Dungeon's silence. Voices overlapped. Boots scraped against stone. Adventurers passed in both directions, some preparing to descend, others returning with packs heavier or lighter than they had started with.
Lily stood there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the normality settle in, before turning back to her group.
"Let's move," she said quietly.
They began to clear the immediate area, easing away from the Dungeon's mouth to avoid blocking traffic. Adventurers flowed past them, some sparing quick glances, others too focused on their own preparations to care.
Only after they had put some distance between themselves and the Dungeon did Lily slow them again.
The stone-paved road was busy in a different way. Supply carts rattled past. Familia members clustered near notice boards, arguing over rewards and requests. The smell of food drifted from nearby stalls, mixing with iron and sweat in a way that felt almost comforting after hours below.
They merged into the flow of the road, drawing no obvious attention.
Behind them, two figures moved in the opposite direction.
Daphne walked with her usual guarded stride, spear resting against her shoulder as she spoke under her breath. Cassandra followed half a step behind, hood lowered, her gaze unfocused, as if her attention were turned inward rather than on the street ahead.
They would have passed without incident.
But Cassandra slowed.
Not abruptly. Just enough for her step to lose rhythm. She turned her head, eyes catching on Lily's group as they moved away through the crowd.
"Daphne," Cassandra said softly.
Daphne stopped and turned back, irritation already on her face.
"What is it?"
Cassandra hesitated, then shook her head slightly. "I need to ask them something."
Daphne frowned, following Cassandra's gaze toward the group already moving away. "You're serious?"
Cassandra nodded.
Daphne sighed, then raised her voice. "Hey. Excuse us—can we have a moment?"
Ahead, Lily slowed. A brief gesture brought her group to a halt before she turned. Her expression was neutral, attentive rather than curious.
Cassandra approached, uncertainty visible now that she had committed.
"Sorry," she said. "This might sound strange, but… do you happen to know a woman named Natasha?"
The name landed harder than it should have.
Lily's pause was brief, but real. Natasha had only recently begun to move openly; there was no reason for some random person on the street to know her name.
"…Why do you ask?" Lily asked.
"Because I need to speak with Natasha," Cassandra said.
Her gaze lingered on the Black Widows a moment longer. Not their faces, but the suits. The material was flexible, a completely different style from other adventurers.
"I noticed your friends are wearing the same style of clothing as hers," she added. "That's why I stopped you."
Lily glanced back at the Black Widows. She met their eyes briefly, then turned back to Cassandra.
"Follow me," Lily said. Not an invitation. A decision.
She turned without waiting for agreement and resumed walking, pace steady and deliberate, letting them follow behind. This was not the right place to talk.
Cassandra let out a breath she had been holding. After hours of searching, she had finally found her first clue. Relief softened her shoulders, tension easing just enough to matter. She fell into step quickly, afraid the moment might vanish if she hesitated.
Daphne followed with a scowl, spear tapping once against the stone as she adjusted her grip. She glanced at Cassandra from the corner of her eye. This was not how Cassandra usually handled things.
"The pressure of death really does change people," Daphne murmured.
For the first time, she felt the world was changing—and her friend was already being pulled along with it.
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