“Oy, Monk,”
“It’s Fujiwara.”
Early in the afternoon, a familiar visitor had arrived at an even more familiar store.
Without looking up, Fujiwara opened a ledger, sitting at a counter and having coffee, giving his usual answer.
No matter how long these two were acquainted, Tristan would never stop calling Fujiwara ‘Monk’, so by now this dialogue was akin to a greeting between the two.
“Where’s the store owner?”
“My master is out buying things in Western Labyrinth City.”
“Ka, do you think I don’t you’re the manager? Even if my age is receding I’m not senile.”
“It’s annoying that I’ve got to do all this work so early on because Master is out. I’ll be willing to do the Appraisal but if it’s some textbook s.h.i.t…” (tl: this dialogue was rough)
“Hey, don’t get angry with me.”
There was no harm in pointing out that Tristan was elderly, yet an active Seeker. Most of the reason for his visits were to appraise unusual items he found in the Dungeon.
Today, however, he was empty-handed. Fujiwara wondered what on earth he could have come for.
Fujiwara brought out an awful, chipped cup meant for certain visitors, pouring coffee into it on their back porch.
“Please dilute it with some goat’s milk.”
“There’s nothing that high quality here. It would be impolite to make me go to the market to get it over coffee, so, please drink it as is.”
“Eh, you should be more anxious over your elder’s health.”
“If that’s the case, go to a pub, then.”
“Oh, right, that’s it.”
Tristan seemed to have remembered something, snapping his fingers and saying
“Monk, do you know the latest story?”
“Which is it?”
“In “The Underground House to Look at the Sun”, it’s all of the buzz.”
“I don’t have any idea, at all.”
“The Underground House to Look at the Sun” is a popular tavern which many Seekers gathered in in this Labyrinth City.
It was also Fujiwara’s favorite coffee-and-snack shop which they often got orders to takeout from.
They often only spoke but a few words at the counter, so he had not heard of this new information.
“You rarely talk at all with anyone but customers… I’ll tell you this time as a special service. Someone entered the Tenth Floor independently after such a long time.”
“Oh, are you serious? Who is the daredevil?”
“It was a fledgling rookie.”
Being alone on the tenth floor meant you had arrived there all alone. This was a major feat.
Arriving at the tenth floor alone was seen as a kind of compet.i.tion between Seekers, a trial of courage. Of course, when in a party that has a few of the Ten Cla.s.ses, it was no major occurrence, but alone it was a huge feat.
There are a number of reasons for this. First, when alone, you cannot sleep. There is no one to take guard duty and ensure you are safe. Second, if you are trapped with an injury it’s certain you will be left injured.
Even if you mentioned the advantage of reputation and not splitting loot, the risk reward was such a disadvantageous game that it was essentially gambling with your life.
“It has been a decade since the last great talent. He was standing at the base of the Great Sword when I saw him.”
“Were you searching for them?”
“Well, it was by chance.”
Tristan said as much, but Fujiwara had suspicions. Fujiwara knew this old man was p.r.o.ne to ridiculous pranks to satisfy his own curiosity.
While on this topic, one must note that tracking other seekers’ actions is considered a major breach of conduct, to the extent of a robber or highwayman.
“They’re out now. They have two names in the rumors.”
People with a degree of fame were followed by nicknames, especially Seekers, and often in the case of experts their nickname would supersede their real one. Despite this one being considered a novice, with such an exceptional performance, it was only natural they’d have one or two.
“What is the name?”
“Footsteps of Death” (tl: introduced here as Deadly Dance)
“Footsteps?”
“He wears full body armor. He makes giant ‘SHA SHA’ sounds every time he takes a step.
“…”
“Hihihihi. Isn’t it funny?”
“That’s insane, isn’t it?”
Fujiwara didn’t believe his ears.
Tristan should be aware that such a joke wasn’t funny either. “Footsteps of Death”, with this behavior, would be a prime suicide candidate.
The Dungeon was a den of carnivorous monsters. They were always starving, seeking out food, and they could even react to quite speaking voices or fearful footsteps. To make loud sounds would be bad for your escape rate. Therefore, careful adventurers make preparations for quiet armor, or devise plans to keep them quiet.
This Mr. Whole Body Armor (which covered the body with no gaps, as the name suggests), had taken no such measures, and therefore it was unexpected to wear that sort of thing. This was like running out into the dungeon magnificently, slamming pots together and yelling in front of the fierce animals.
Indeed, this is a “Deadly Dance”.
“Ah, the name comes from what follows behind him. While they roll on through the Dungeon, hordes of monsters chase behind.”
“……”
They seem to defeat all monsters ahead of them in an instant, leaving the rest chasing behind. Such terrifying strength and fort.i.tude, a person who could do this and live would be ‘a miracle’.
“This Footsteps of Death, what sort of person is he?”
“That’s the problem.”
Tristan snapped again, pointing his index finger.
“They are completely unidentified. They would be a real ghost if it weren’t so clearly alive.”
“Neither name nor family?”
“Because of their helm, we don’t even know their face. In addition, because they seem to be rather antagonistic, even if someone greets them in the Dungeon they don’t even say h.e.l.lo.
“I see.”
Fujiwara finally understood, while nodding.
This was the matter so immediate that this old Seeker had come here.
Even if he was the type who liked talking, he was not aimless or wasteful of his time. Now that Fujiwara understood, it was likely that this time was well spent.
“Then, I see now. Is the appearance of this character a popular bet at the pub?”
“Yes. The most popular is a s.h.a.ggy dwarf. The runner up is a run-away Lizard Man, and the dark horse bet was a half-elf.
“That’s your bet, Tristan?”
“Well.”
His purpose was finally clear.
In other words, he visited the store this time to involve Fujiwara in the gambling.
He occasionally starts s.h.i.tty bets with the guys in the tavern, sometimes indeed involving Fujiwara.
This always left Fujiwara wracked thin with worries.
Since the events of the “Expedition Event”, many Seekers like him were left depressed.
So as not to get in the pandemonium, Tristan occasionally began bets, trying to avoid going into the Dungeon as much as possible while still earning a living.
This was indeed related to the recent Recession of Labyrinth City.
Very few monsters were dropping items now, and if you did not get drop items, what could the shops sell? What could you sell to the shops?
Small gambles couldn’t heal that depression, but it could help.
“So, will Mr. Monk bite as well?”
“…I’d rather refrain.”
Fujiwara politely declined.
His shop was also undergoing a depression as well, and he would be troubled if he could not afford the Coffee charge because he lost the bet.
◆
Tristan said “Well, if you change your mind on the betting, let me know any time”, leaving the store.
Fujiwara, now alone, finished off the leftover coffee and put the ledger away quickly.
Since no visitors had come, he began cleaning the store. Fujiwara was reluctant, but Master did not like the store becoming dirty and would complain, so he made sure it stayed clean.
“…Fu.”
Fujiwara finished sweeping the store, going outside with a broom.
Outside the store was a bright, sunny day, ideal for a stroll.
He wanted to do just that and place a placard upon the door, but if Fujiwara’s master returned, he was unsure what punishment he would receive. He promptly stopped that train of thought.
When he was cleaning the outside properly, he found at the very end of the property something large under a pile of leaves. It seemed to be a silhouette.
“…”
Fujiwara was developing a headache.
Nearby the store was the Entrance Hall of the Dungeon, and this was a place injured Seekers often fell over.
-But.
The silhouette he saw just now could not have possibly been a person. It looked more like someone left their equipment lying there. Rather than dig under the pile, he decided to go clean up the back yard, hurriedly changing his plans like so.
Fujiwara began to turn around and begin walking to the store, but then stopped.
“…”
He felt that his master had once told him to aggressively help those who fall down nearby.
Of course not out of philanthropy, but “That person will likely become regulars from then on. They might even reward you”, and sordid thoughts such as that.
Fujiwara contemplated, rubbing his forehead.
The thing under the pile would be troublesome, but if he left it there, he would be preached at by his master yet again. Either decision was troublesome to Fujiwara.
“…I really do not like people. Ah, well,”
It was indeed not in his nature to ignore the person under the leaves, however. Fujiwara sighed, deciding to approach it with the broom leaning against the wall.
Under the pile lay armor. The armor was from the tip of the head to the tip of the toe, covered by thick armor all around. This was the so-called ‘Full Body Armor’.
The possibility that this was just thrown away armor was dispelled when Fujiwara heard a faint breathing within.
Unfortunately, it was a person.
They had a good stature, one uncommon to find in the city, and it was unusual to have a person in such perfect armor.
This was likely the rookie ‘Footsteps of Death’ that was the source of the rumors.
“Uuu…”
A painful sound was heard.
Fujiwara checked all over the armor but could find no dints, nicks, or other abnormalities. No hollow areas or bruise marks, not even a damage scar.
“…They might be hungry,” Fujiwara considered.
Food is a common thing to run out of in the Dungeon.
As he bent close to the covered face, Fujiwara smelled something.
Some smell was leaking from the gaps of the Full Helm.
Fujiwara tried to make sense of the smell, and coughed.
“I see, is it poison?”
Poison gas seems to have been caught in the nearly air-tight Full Body Armor. They had likely wandered into a trap, unknowingly.
“I’ll begin the healing”, Fujiwara decided while cupping his nose and mouth with one hand.
He was contemplating how to remove this troublesome thing, failing, when he found a clasp around the gorget of the armor (tl: neck/breastpiece, French armor), removing that, and then removing it easily.
There was still one thing Fujiwara couldn’t comprehend. It was why this person wore the armor even now. In a situation like this, shouldn’t you remove the armor and let the collected gas scatter away?
“…”
Fujiwara unconsciously held his breath.
Instead of scars or burns he was greeted with smooth skin, abundant eyelashes, long eyelids and red lips like roses, with a golden bob of hair held in an additional ceramic casque (tl: headpiece, helmet).
It would seem that this Footsteps of Death was indeed a girl. In fact, a beautiful one, to the extent that Fujiwara could feel lost while looking.
But, the situation could not be hung up just like that.
Even at a glance, Fujiwara saw the terrible symptoms.
Their skin was pale in complexion from loss of blood.
Their breaths were shallow, barely leaking from their throat.
Their eyes were convulsing, and they were nearly entering a comatose state.
Fujiwara decided to bring them to a free medical hospital posthaste (tl: clinic, I think), but could not do so until after the first aide was completed.
Fujiwara was too weak to carry her, lifting her instead into a leaf cart and barreling her inside the store.