Live Dungeon!

“You’ve got to be kidding me!! That doesn’t count! It’s void! Refund our money!”

“He was dead! He HAD to be! How the hell does that count as surviving!? This has never happened before!”

“Why is this happening!? You told me he was done for! I already spent my whole payout!”

“Shut up! Stop shrieking at me! I don’t get it either, all right!? This whole thing’s unprecedented! If I don’t get my money back, heads are gonna roll!”

Tsutomu had blacked out in the Guild and was being carried back to his Clan House. Meanwhile, chaos erupted in the Pedestal Market, on a scale the city had never seen before.

The cause: Gambling! Specifically, betting whether or not Tsutomu would die.

In Boss battles where escape was impossible, and the outcome hinged solely on the challengers’ survival or death, betting on such things was the most common form of gambling. And with no one having witnessed Tsutomu’s actual death before, he was an especially popular betting subject. The bizarre turn of events and outcome on the ninetieth layer had further inflamed the crowd’s interest, bringing the odds to a razor-thin balance and stoking the fires of anticipation.

But once the Corroded Elder Dragon had unleashed its merciless fury, even turning Tsutomu’s allies undead, his odds had taken a nosedive. And when he fled the arena, the consensus was clear that it was over, that he would be dead by the end of it. Those who had bet on this outcome were already celebrating.

After all, even if he managed to hide, the black mass would descend after twenty-four hours and forcibly remove him. That, to the betting houses, was the end of the story; they had even prepared to make a show of the payout time, displaying mountains of coins as practically decoration for their booths. Some gamblers had even splurged their expected winnings the night before.

But then came the twist: Tsutomu survived past the twenty-four hour mark, emerging from the black mass with a grin and a wave to the God Eye, looking none the worse for wear.

The betting consortium debated furiously, and in the end, they ruled it as him surviving. Those who had bet on his survival, most of them coming to Monitor #1 with historically low expectations to confirm the results, quickly hid their betting slips and slipped away from the crowd before anyone could notice.

As for those who had bet on his death, their fury defied description. A sure win had become a stunning loss, and not just a financial loss. Some had already spent their supposed windfall. Now they were angry, embarrassed, and desperate. The crowd turned on the organizers, and what began as shouting soon swelled into a full-blown riot.

“Don’t move!” security staff warned them. “Keep this up, and we’ll have to restrain you with skills!”

“Go ahead and try it, you bastards! [

“Screw you! [, [, [!! You’re all dead! I’m done with this world!”

“Don’t you dare look down on us Explorers! I’ll kill you all!”

Some of the more powerful Explorers lost their tempers completely and began casting offensive skills, despite the strict prohibition against such use in the city. The Pedestal Market became a battlefield. Civilians screamed and fled as magical power burst through the air, and dozens were already wounded by stray attacks.

“Poor fools…” Bruno muttered, voice thick with pity, while lugging eight unconscious rioters stacked like lumber.

As members of the much more powerful and skilled Security Team rapidly surrounded and incapacitated the rampaging Explorers, Bruno glanced at those still resisting.

Men and women were surrounded and being cuffed one by one.

“Help! My son… he’s bleeding!” A mother cried out, cradling her wounded child.

“Critical patients are the priority. [ will patch that shallow wound right up.”

Unlike the child, others were much worse off. Some had been hit by stray [ and were left with severe burns. Others had been sliced open by sword skills, spilling out their entrails; for these ones, every second was vital. White Mages triaged with precision, focusing their full healing powers on the most critical cases, while several others fanned out and bathed the entire market area in broad, shallow waves of [.

Thanks to their coordinated efforts, the worst of the wounded were stabilized. Those with lesser injuries, though still in pain, found their suffering eased.

The riot’s instigators were eventually subdued, shackled, and locked away in magical Shield cages conjured by Master Spada, the patriarch of House Babenberg. The citizenry-turned-criminals and hotheaded Explorers alike were hauled off under guard.

Meanwhile, the battered Pedestal Market was slowly restored. Monsters such as Shell Crabs, recently introduced to the populace under Babenberg’s city expansion initiative, were deployed to begin the repair work.

After the dust settled, questions began to resurface.

“So why didn’t the black mass affect Tsutomu, anyway?”

“Hell if I know. Even the Dungeon Maniacs are stumped; there’s no way we’d figure it out…”

Monitor #1’s surreal finale had sparked intense speculation, but no one in the crowd could offer a coherent answer. Not even the Dungeon Maniacs, the city’s most obsessive analysts, could make sense of it.

Tsutomu had explained what happened after his return to the Guild… But he had rattled off mechanics and edge cases in a blur of IT jargon; unless one had played video games or was a computer scientist, most of it sounded like gibberish. And while Eunice’s indignant shouting afterwards contained some degree of truth, the nuance was lost on the average listener, causing rumors to be spread by the clueless ones.

If the incident had been limited to Tsutomu, it might have been easier to dismiss it as a fluke. But the fact that Stephanie and her Ealdred Crow team, who had been in the hundredth layer at the time, as seen on Monitor #2, had also been forcibly ejected from God’s Dungeon only deepened the confusion.

And perhaps the greatest barrier to understanding was faith. Most residents of Dungeon City took the term ‘God’s Dungeon’ quite literally. Among all those in Dungeon City, perhaps only two notable individuals were known to regard the structure of God’s Dungeon as a system rather than divine providence. Tsutomu, of course, and Pollux of Ealdred Crow, who applied Explorer skills in pursuit of artistic expression. There may have been others among the populace who entertained similar thoughts, but if so, none voiced them aloud.

Understanding how Tsutomu had survived the black mass required a mindset far removed from reverence. Unless one viewed God’s Dungeon with a meta-logical perspective, the concept of circumventing its rules was unthinkable. As most people accepted its workings as divine and unquestionable, the idea of exploiting loopholes was as blasphemous as it was inconceivable.

“How disgraceful… the actions of a heretic, without a doubt.” Someone muttered.

Tsutomu had long been branded a heretic by the religious organizations that denounced entering God’s Dungeon altogether, and his recent maneuver only deepened their condemnation. Even so, they had little foothold in Dungeon City, as many victims of their teachings in the Royal Capital had also moved here during the post-Stampede influx. It would be some time, if ever, before such religious groups gained enough sway to influence public discourse again.

▽▽

“…Good morning,” Tsutomu said wearily as he entered the living room, glancing toward a beam of sunset streaming through the window.

“Ah! Sir Tsutomu! Good morning!” Daryl replied, his tail wagging with the excitement of a dog reunited with its owner.

“I don’t believe it’s quite morning anymore, but… well. Good morning nonetheless,” Leleia said with the tone of a nagging mother. “Are you feeling better?”

“Not… really…” Tsutomu groaned. “Just thinking about how I’ll have to reset my sleep schedule tomorrow already makes me feel tired.”

Brushing off Daryl and ignoring Leleia’s continued nagging, he slumped onto a sofa, picked up a newspaper from the side table, and began flipping through its pages.

[No decisive photos… There are mean-spirited illustrations, sure, but this is still within the range of plausible deniability. They really embellished it, given the limited evidence.]

The Solit newspaper had presented the events with detached analysis, supported by photographs. Other papers, however, had taken less charitable angles, depicting Tsutomu trembling before the Corroded Elder Dragon with exaggerated cowardice. In truth, he had deliberately concealed himself from both his party and the God Eye’s gaze, fleeing to the Ancient Castle in a mess of sweat, tears, or maybe even snot. Well, he was not sure which. Given that, the depiction in Solit’s newspaper was quite merciful. Only Tsutomu knew just how restrained their coverage really was.

And yet, despite lacking definitive evidence, the illustrations’ malice was clear. Ironically, Solit’s biggest competitors had been some of the news agencies Tsutomu had invested in to break Solit’s prior near-monopoly. He had poured in personal funds and leveraged his party’s influence to do so; that they now bit the hand that fed them was not a surprise, only a disappointment.

“How are Garm and Amy doing?” he asked.

“They’re sparring intensely with Amira at the Guild,” Leleia replied. “Hannah joined in too, with Korinna acting as the designated Healer. Xeno took your story to heart and is helping Miss Pico with article supervision. The rest, as you can see, are here in the Clan House.”

“All right… Thanks. And what’s SHE doing here?”

“How about you be a bit more grateful when a lady comes to visit you during your recovery, hmm?”

Leleia stepped aside, revealing Alma seated at the dining table. Beside her, surprisingly, sat Diniel with her hair let down, nibbling on cookies with a glass of milk, evidently prepared by Maribel, and shared between the two.

“You look well,” Alma said. “Though after watching Monitor #1, I more or less expected it.”

“So why are you here?”

“I thought I might cheer you up with a loan of the Black Staff if you were depressed over your brush with death,” she replied, draining her teacup before rising. “But clearly, that won’t be necessary.”

She nodded politely to Maribel, adjusted her black witch hat, and made for the door. But before she left, she leaned close and spoke in a low voice, just for Tsutomu.

“Solving everything alone isn’t always the best path, you know? I can’t help but feel sorry for your party members. You never show a single weakness. Isn’t it also part of your job, as the Clan’s leader, to let them see your vulnerabilities once in a while?”

“…”

“Maybe it’s not my place to say,” she added, “but it reminded me of the old Scarlet Devil Squad. I only said it because I worry that Absolute Helix might end up the same.”

With that, Alma gave him a soft jab on the shoulder with her Black Staff and walked out of the Clan House.

Tsutomu watched her go in silence, then turned his gaze to Leleia, who likely understood Alma’s veiled message.

“Garm and the others are probably feeling pretty inadequate after watching you ‘clear’ the hundredth layer alone…” She said. “Amira in particular seemed ready to kick your sorry butt if you were moping around. She was VERY frustrated and embarrassed. I must say, though… I found it quite charming. Thank you for that, Tsutomu.”

“…You really need to get your sense of gratitude checked.”

Leleia smiled, clearly lost in the memory of Amira’s flustered expression. The Salamander perched on her shoulder gave a slow, weary shake of its head, as if to say, “Give me a break.”

“Well, Daryl, you look like you’re doing fine. Not feeling that inadequacy like everyone else?” Tsutomu asked.

“N-no, that’s not it!” Daryl sat upright. “I do know how inexperienced I am… but I guess, somewhere deep down, I believed you’d pull something off. That’s probably why it didn’t hit me as hard.”

For Daryl, Garm was more than a teacher; he was like an older brother. And Tsutomu, who Garm himself looked up to, was something like a mentor’s mentor. Daryl certainly aspired to catch up, but compared to Garm’s feelings, his own lacked intensity.

“Speaking of which, Diniel was making Elvish-sounding proverbs yesterday,” Leleia said.

“Shut it,” Diniel promptly snapped back. “I’ve got nothing to hear from someone who smirked when they thought Tsutomu was going to die.”

“…You never change, do you?” Tsutomu sighed. “It’s a wonder the spirits still tolerate you.”

“Perhaps spirits have a fondness for people with terrible personalities…” Leleia mused.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Tsutomu sighed again. As if to shake off the fatigue, he raised a hand and conjured a [ just in time to block the rubber band Diniel had snapped at him. Then, still lounging on the sofa, he turned his thoughts to the action he should take once Garm and the others returned.