Having overcome the severe psychological trauma of the fifth floor with ease and incredible grace—at least, that's how Rane sarcastically dubbed that ill-fated encounter with the Minotaur to himself—he descended to the sixth level of the Labyrinth.
A completely different kind of crowd awaited him here.
Rane froze in the center of the spacious stone corridor, watching the birth process of his new target with interest. Unlike the goblins or kobolds, which disgustingly hatched from the walls through a short stage of flesh formation, this monster appeared differently. It seemed as if the gray wall of the Dungeon itself cracked for a moment, turning into a dark portal from which a fully formed silhouette stepped out with a faint rumble.
A "War Shadow." A creature that veteran adventurers, with a nervous chuckle, called the rookie killer.
The monster was roughly one hundred and sixty centimeters tall. Its proportions resembled a human's—two arms, two legs, a torso—but the similarities ended there. The shadow was absolutely, pitch-black. It had no skin, no fur, no scales. On its smooth, neckless, cross-shaped head, there was no face—only a flat, rounded surface embedded in the center, eerily resembling a cloudy mirror.
The creature simply stood there, swaying slightly, while three razor-sharp, elongated blade-fingers gleamed dully at the ends of its long arms.
Rane scoffed. Pointedly, with a dry click, he slammed his one-handed sword back into the scabbard on his belt. Spreading his legs slightly and letting his arms hang by his sides, he looked into the monster's mirrored "face" with anticipation.
"Come on then, stop making eyes at me."
As if reacting to the provocation, the Shadow let out a quiet, hissing rustle and bolted from its spot. Its speed truly couldn't be compared to the sluggish monsters of the upper floors. The silhouette darted forward in a blurred smear, simultaneously thrusting its right arm in a deadly lunge.
Completely immersed in the rhythm of the fight, he slid forward to meet it.
The Shadow attacked with the fury of a machine that knew no fatigue. A thrusting strike to the chest—Rane smoothly weaves to the left. A sweeping horizontal slash—a short duck underneath. An overhead strike—a sidestep. He didn't try to counterattack; he only dodged, absorbing every movement of his opponent. Reading the trajectories.
A genuine, thrill-seeking smile slowly spread across his lips. This had its own charm.
Waiting for the next straight lunge, Rane decided to seize the initiative. His left hand darted forward like a snake, rigidly grabbing the monster's wrist. Rane twisted his torso, intending to use the Shadow's momentum for a classic hip throw.
But the laws of human anatomy didn't apply here.
Instead of losing its balance, the monster's captured limb suddenly bent at a completely inconceivable angle. It simply had no bones. While in the air, the Shadow fluidly shifted its center of gravity and, arching like a bow, threw its other arm out in a snapping, whip-like lunge.
Rane had to abruptly break the distance, instinctively throwing up his forearm to defend himself.
Screech.
Three long finger-blades scraped across the metal plate of his new bracer, leaving a shallow but distinct groove on it.
Rane jumped back a couple of meters and looked at the scratched armor with feigned sadness.
"Hey, take it easy! I just bought these!" he tossed out, trying to lighten the mood.
The mirrored cross of the monster's head didn't even flinch. The Shadow merely hissed again, preparing for a new strike.
"Right..." the young man sighed.
The brief skirmish had given him all the necessary information. The monster's body only imitated a human shape, but in reality, it was something like dense jelly. No joints or other fleshly limitations. This allowed the Shadow to strike smoothly, sharply, and elongate its limbs at the moment of attack. But at the same time, the only real threat was the hard blades at the ends of its arms.
The combat reconnaissance was over. It was time to get down to business.
Rane smoothly drew his sword from its scabbard. The Shadow immediately rushed forward, winding up for a wide, sweeping arc meant to take the human's head off.
Rane took a sharp, gliding step forward, right into the attack's dead zone. The deadly arm whistled past his back, cutting nothing but air. In that same split second, the young man's one-handed blade flashed upward. The dark limb, unable to return to its starting position in time, was severed from the shoulder with a clean cut.
The Shadow twitched, but Rane was already crouching, letting the desperate swing of the second arm pass over him. A quick flick of the wrist—and a second perfect cut stripped the monster of its last weapon.
Giving his opponent no chance to regroup, Rane straightened up, pulled his left arm back, and with a short exhale, drove his fist straight into the monster's smooth, yielding chest. His hand sank into the black mass like thick mud. His fingers found the hard, pulsating core. Gripping the magic stone tightly, Rane forcefully ripped it out.
The War Shadow's body froze, and a moment later, lost its shape, crumbling onto the stone slabs in a pile of gray ash.
A trophy remained lying on the floor—one of those very same sharp fingers. The smooth, glossy surface of the perfect blade beautifully reflected the dim light of the glowing moss. Realizing that this drop would easily slice his backpack open from the inside, the youth carefully wrapped the blade in a spare scrap of thick cloth and stashed it in his bag.
At that moment, the corridor walls emitted a low, guttural hum. The stone around him began to "soften" in several places at once. New shadows crawled from the bulkheads of the Labyrinth, reacting to the presence of an intruder.
Rane flicked invisible dust from his blade and lightly cracked his neck.
"If you insist..."
Several hours later, Rane stood in the middle of the seventh floor.
In his left hand, gripped by a hard chitinous crest, thrashed the head of a monster. It was the size of a good watermelon, completely detached from its torso, yet it continued to furiously snap its two massive, jagged mandibles, its faceted red eyes glowing malevolently in the gloom.
A "Killer Ant."
In Rane's opinion—an absolutely uninteresting, boring opponent. Essentially, just a hypertrophied insect. They had a tough carapace against which an inexperienced rookie could easily dull their weapon, but their body structure remained primitive. The connective tissues between the chitin segments were so vulnerable that he could not only easily slice them with a short sword, but also, applying proper force, simply rip the limb off barehanded. In fact, that was exactly what he had done with this particular specimen's head.
The peculiar trait of these creatures was that their magic stone was located not in their chest, but in their head. Therefore, even deprived of its body, this underground roach continued to live and aggressively snap its jaws in the youth's hand.
On its own, an ant posed no threat. All the fear they instilled in explorers was based on their herd instinct. And in order to calmly study this snapping head, Rane had to methodically butcher the remaining dozen individuals whose ashen remains now littered the cave floor.
He could have crushed the skull and taken the stone, but the young man was in no hurry. These insects had one biological function that was extremely convenient from a pragmatic standpoint.
When on the brink of death or in a state of high stress, Killer Ants began to copiously secrete specific pheromones, calling their kin for help.
Rane stood in the middle of the cave, holding the live bait at arm's length, and listened intently. Why run through the tangled corridors of the Labyrinth, wearing out his feet looking for scattered groups of enemies, when he could force the prey to come to the hunter itself?
In the distance, from the dark maws of adjacent tunnels, the distinct, rhythmic clatter of hundreds of clawed feet against stone began to build. The sound approached from all sides, merging into a single, terrifying hum. The pheromone worked flawlessly.
Rane shifted his gaze to the snapping head in his hand, and then to the darkening passages, from which mandibles gleaming in the dark had already begun to emerge.
"A perfect end to the day," he said calmly.
With a careless motion, he tossed the bait's head aside and adjusted his grip on his sword hilt, shook the tension from his shoulders, and, looking at the oncoming wave of chitin, stepped forward to meet it.
I think that's more than enough for today, Rane mentally concluded, pulling the coarse leather straps tight on his hiking backpack.
The fabric strained threateningly. The knapsack was packed to the brim: hard ant carapaces, razor-sharp shadow claws, kobold fangs, and many dozens of magic crystals. The youth hefted the heavy load onto his back with a jerk. The pleasant weight of the acquired loot warmed his soul, but the straps had already started digging noticeably into his shoulders, reminding him of the harshness of this world.
Sweeping his gaze over the stone floor slick with monster blood, Rane grimaced slightly. A whole scattering of small magic stones still gleamed dully in the dust. Leaving them here was akin to a crime against his own wallet. However, grim pragmatism dictated its own rules: valuable monster body parts used for crafting sold for much more at the Guild market, but they also took up a disastrous amount of space. If he continued like this, next time he would literally have to choose between expensive loot and crystals.
Turning around, the guy began the long ascent to the surface.
The higher he climbed, the more often the cave labyrinths gave way to the wide, well-trodden corridors of the upper floors. Life boiled here. Heading toward him, or passing him on the way up, were other adventuring parties. Rane, accustomed to observing everything around him, closely studied their formations.
Practically every coordinated group, besides a clearly defined vanguard and rearguard, had one connecting link. A person, usually the scrawniest or youngest, who didn't charge into the heat of battle. He stayed behind, bending under the weight of a colossal backpack, and swiftly gathered the loot from fallen enemies.
A Supporter, popped into Rane's memory.
From a tactical standpoint, it was a brilliant invention. Having support allowed the fighters not to get distracted by looting, to maintain concentration, not to lose their breath, and, most importantly, to keep their hands free for their weapons. A fighter burdened with fifty kilograms of gear on his back lost a good third of his potential maneuverability. Rane was feeling that in his own skin right now.
His solitary figure, loaded to the max, inevitably attracted attention. Most passing squads simply gave him surprised looks—solo players at this depth were rare, and those who survived and returned with a full backpack were even rarer. Some simply walked by indifferently, absorbed in their own wounds and exhaustion.
But there were others.
In the twilight of the tunnel, Rane locked eyes with a trio of suspicious types. Their armor was battered, and their eyes slid greedily over his bulging sack. They exchanged glances, clearly evaluating the chances of cleaning out a lone youth in a dark corridor with no witnesses. One of them even took a hesitant half-step to intercept him.
Rane didn't slow his pace for a fraction of a second. He simply shifted his gaze to the trio.
Instead of fear or youthful bravado, an absolute, icy calm rippled in his dark eyes. The old warrior shifted his center of gravity slightly, and his hand, seemingly completely by accident, rested on the pommel of his blade. He didn't exude obvious bloodlust, but a heavy, oppressive sense of inevitable death suddenly hung in the air—the aura of a man just waiting for a reason to slit a throat.
The trio of hyenas instantly broke out in a cold sweat. Their self-preservation instinct triggered faster than their minds. They quickly averted their eyes, pressed themselves against the tunnel wall, and tried to blend in with the stone, letting him pass.
Too heavy, the youth mentally returned to the original problem, leaving the failed muggers behind. The logistics issue was becoming critical. Every stone left on the floor echoed with bitterness.
Rane had never suffered from greed just for the sake of greed. In his past life, material wealth was the last thing he cared about. But here, in Orario, money was the equivalent of survival. He was irritated by the thought that right now, while he was forced to leave loot in the dirt of the Dungeon, his Goddess was standing in the market square. He vividly imagined Hestia plastering on a mandatory smile, offering cheap potato snacks to passersby just to earn a few pitiful coppers for evening stew.
This dissonance drove him crazy. The world of gods and mortals lived in monstrous contrasts. Some bathed in luxury, while others dragged out a miserable existence at the very bottom of society. And Rane perfectly understood the fundamental reason for this abyss.
The Gods. According to Hestia's own stories, from the moment of their appearance in the Heavenly Realm—Tenkai—each of them had their own purpose, sphere of influence, or element. They were immortal, perfect, and devoid of those base needs that drove humanity. They didn't need food to survive, they didn't need to fight for a roof over their heads. The absence of natural necessity, the fear of death, and the need to overcome oneself had corrupted many of them, turning eternity into endless boredom.
Hestia, however... Rane sighed mentally. May the higher powers forgive him, but his patroness was the living embodiment of divine maladaptation to the realities of the Lower World. Up in Heaven, she spent millennia just sitting and tending the Sacred Flame. He had no idea how important that process was to the universe, but Hestia spoke of it with such fiery pride that there was no room for doubt. Although, sometimes watching his Goddess, he just wanted to call her a hikikomori.
And she also bore the proud title of one of the "Three Great Virgin Goddesses of Heaven."
Rane chuckled dryly. No matter how you slice it, in the harsh, capitalistic world of Orario, that title sounded absolutely useless. Purity and innocence didn't pay the Guild bills and didn't forge armor.
Dragging Hestia out of this swamp would require colossal effort. Standing on par with the city's leading factions was a task bordering on madness.
Striding up the spiral staircase of the Babel Tower, the youth structured Orario's political map in his head. The entire city, essentially, rested on three titanic pillars of influence.
The first pillar—the war machine. The Loki Familia. Uncontested leaders in deep-level exploration, possessing the highest number of top-tier adventurers. A disciplined army sweeping away everything in its path.
The second pillar—the web of influence. The Freya Familia. A faction capable of competing on equal footing with Loki's house in pure strength, but operating differently. The Goddess of Beauty herself possessed a power terrifying to the point of trembling. Hestia once mentioned in passing that even without using Arcanum—forbidden divine power—Freya's charm alone was absolute. It seeped into mortal souls, subjugating their will, turning them into fanatical warriors ready to tear the world to pieces for just one look from her.
The third pillar—economic monopoly. The Hephaestus Familia. A manufacturing giant. Even though other smithing factions existed in the city, Hephaestus dictated the rules of the game. The lion's share of the highest quality, most durable, and most expensive gear came from beneath her blacksmiths' hammers. Rane remembered walking with Bell through the luxurious floors of Babel, gazing at the display windows of their brand stores. Weapons there cost enough to buy a small castle. The other two great factions depended directly on Hephaestus's supply.
And here was Rane. The sole member of a Familia whose Goddess was currently frying potatoes in an apron.
His task, as Captain, was to elevate this tiny hearth to the level of those very three worldly pillars. Not just survive, but make all of Orario reckon with Hestia's name. Make Loki choke on her mockery, and Freya acknowledge them as equals.
Rane stepped out onto the wide paved square. The sky over Orario blazed crimson and gold—the setting sun was slowly sinking behind the fortress walls, painting the tower spires in the colors of molten metal. The city was lighting its magic lamps, preparing for the nightlife.
The youth adjusted the heavy strap of his backpack, inhaling the smell of roasted meat, fresh pastries, and street dust. His dark eyes swept over the majestic silhouette of the central Tower.
The goal was clear. The scale was defined. The stakes were higher than ever.
"And how the hell am I supposed to do that?" he asked the setting sun barely audibly, with an ironic smirk, striding forward to meet the evening city.