The Elynthian Monarchy was the cradle of guilds. Here, centuries ago, the idea of factions and organized collectives had first taken root, spreading like ivy until every street, every trade, and every ambition was tangled in their influence. Guild Wars were a natural offspring of that legacy—wars that were never truly wars.
There were no armies marching under banners, no trumpets sounding in the streets. Instead, they unfolded in the shadows of taverns, in alleys that stank of rain and refuse, or in markets where laughter drowned out the whispers of bribes and sabotage. To the law, they were nothing. To the guilds, they were everything. Influence. Popularity. Control of the public eye.
And among the tactics employed, one remained as common as it was brutal: kidnapping. Remove a rival, flip them into a traitor, or strip them of secrets until they were useless—this was the unspoken language of guild war.
Scalp—no, Kleiko Kestisa—groaned awake. Her head throbbed from the blow, and the first thing she noticed was the cold, the metallic chill of shackles biting into her wrists and ankles. She tugged, once, twice. Clink. Mana-reinforced steel. No use brute forcing.
"...Shit." Her voice echoed through the dungeon chamber. Her weight shifted on the bench; her muscles tensed, instinct screaming for violence, but her reason doused it. They had her caged well.
The memory crawled back: the alley fight, the Null brat with the daggers, and the invisible boy who drowned her senses in illusions. Underestimating them had been her downfall.
Footsteps tapped against the wet stone. The shift of mana in the air warned her before the cell door creaked open. In walked Dejoyye, ever-formal in his iron-gray uniform. Behind him flowed Taft Pantzir, the infamous Neighborhood Gale, her hazy wind-veil keeping her entirely untouched by the dungeon's damp air.
With them came others: Bloom, sleek and silent, her black-furred tail flicking lazily as her golden eyes cut through the dark. Lotha, young but armored in conviction, the newly promoted paladin of Party 5. And last—Scalp's lip curled—Nira, the black-haired rogue whose presence made shadows stir like restless animals.
Taft stepped forward first, her green eyes gleaming like honed glass. "Scalp."
The horse-woman's jaw flexed. "Name's Kleiko."
Taft tilted her head, unimpressed. "Your birth name. But we both know what you go by in the streets of Alpime. Scalp. Lieutenant of Dototore Fakshyun." Her voice cut through the air like the sharp hiss of a blade unsheathed. "Let's not waste time. Where is your front base in Alpime?"
Kleiko let out a dry laugh, leaning back as her shackles clinked. "So direct. No warm-up? No polite questions about my day?" Her amber eyes narrowed. "You already know the headquarters isn't here—it's up north in Heinirerc. So what difference would Alpime make to you?"
"We don't need the lecture," Taft said coolly. "We need your answer. Where."
Kleiko's grin widened, her scar pulling taut at her cheek. "And why would I? You think Tropico Guilders understand people like me? People like Exequiel? Do you even know why Dototore takes us in?"
Lotha stepped forward, his voice low but firm. "Does it matter? You let yourself become criminals. That choice was yours."
"Choice?" Kleiko's laugh came harsher this time, echoing off the walls. "You talk like choice ever existed for us."
The chamber grew tense. Bloom shifted, her ears twitching, then flicked her gaze toward Nira. A silent nod passed between them.
Nira's lips curved, not into a smile but into something colder. The shadows around her stirred like ink poured into water. Her hand brushed against the floor, and the candlelight dimmed, replaced by a slow encroaching murk.
Kleiko's confident grin faltered.
Deathspeaker.
One of the three primary disciplines of Shadow Magic. The most feared. The most accursed. Unlike simple stealth or misdirection, Deathspeaker warped shadow itself into liquid black, granting its wielder access to the Realm of Shadows. A place of silence, cold, and whispers that didn't belong to the living. A place that demanded a toll for every trespass.
Too long within it, and one would hear the voice of the Matron of Shadows, death incarnate, whose patience with mortals was thin as spider silk. Those who lingered too long were never the same again.
And Nira—infamous prodigy of Party 5—was its wielder.
The shadows slithered up Kleiko's arms, cold and wet, sinking into her skin like oil. Her breath hitched as her body instinctively recoiled, chains rattling in protest.
"What're yo—"
"You won't die," Nira murmured, her voice soft as a lover's whisper. "But you'll taste it. The silence. The cold. The moment when breath halts and the Matron leans close."
The dungeon dimmed further, the shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls, forming shapes that twitched and bent. The air grew heavier. The sound of her own pulse hammered in Kleiko's ears.
For the first time since waking, she looked afraid.
Taft's voice broke the silence, calm and commanding. "Tell us where Dototore's Alpime front is, Kleiko. Now. Or let Nira open the door wider."
Kleiko clenched her jaw, sweat trailing down her temple despite the cold. The murk swirled tighter, a whisper brushing her ear—something no one else could hear. Something hungry.
Her teeth ground together as her eyes darted between them.
"…You wouldn't dare."
Nira's shadow-crested fingers curled, and the darkness climbed higher.
Kleiko's breath quickened.
And the dungeon waited.
Several long, suffocating minutes dragged on inside the dungeon.
The room was cold, damp, and still, save for the rippling sound of the black pool at Scalp's feet. Nira stood motionless, her expression unreadable, but her hand hovered steady above the surface of shadow as if directing its shape with sheer will.
The pool churned. From within its depthless black, something moved.
A hand—no, a claw—pushed itself free. Long, rotted fingers stretched out, dripping with a darkness thicker than ink. It twitched unnaturally, each movement stiff yet purposeful, until it turned its palm outward, reaching for Scalp's shackled arm.
Her eyes widened, muscles straining against the reinforced steel bindings."H-hhghh—!"
She tried to yank back, but the shadows clung to her wrist like oil. Her breath hitched, panicked gasps filling the dungeon. The others—Bloom, Lotha, Taft, even Dejoyye—watched in silence, their expressions heavy, as though this was a ritual they were unwilling to interfere with.
For the first time, Scalp felt something she had never known in all her years of mercenary work—pure, unfiltered fear.
The blackened hand twitched again, closer now, just at the edge of gripping her. The air itself thickened, pressing down on her lungs. Something—someone—was on the other side, watching. Waiting.
Her throat tightened. Tears pricked her eyes."N-no, no, no—!"
The hand poised itself, fingers stretching wide. She could feel the chill of it already, brushing at her skin—
"F—fine! I'll talk! I'll talk!" Scalp screamed, her voice cracking, shoving the words out of her lungs before the darkness could claim her.
"010 Brunge Street!" she shouted again, louder this time, as if that alone could drive the hand back. "Their front base— in Alpime! T-that's it!"
At that very instant, Nira closed her fist.
The pool of shadows hissed as though in protest before snapping back into nothingness, the hand vanishing like smoke caught in a gust of wind. The dungeon was silent again, save for Scalp's ragged, broken breaths.
She snatched her arm back, clutching it tight to her chest, her body trembling uncontrollably. The chains rattled against the stone wall as her weight sagged down. Tears streaked down her face before she could stop them.
"…I'm sorry, Exequiel," she whispered, barely audible, her voice shaking as though the words themselves betrayed her.
Nira said nothing, simply stepping back, her eyes shadowed. Bloom gave the faintest nod, as though satisfied. Taft's expression softened for only a moment, then hardened again.
They had their answer.
But in the heavy silence that followed, the image of that rotted, reaching hand lingered in everyone's mind.
Not just Scalp's.
Late evening draped itself over Western III, the outpost alive with dim lantern light and the distant hum of guild activity that never quite ceased, even after dark.
Mina let out a long sigh, flopping back across Ashe's bed like a cat denied its meal."So much for night market skewers," she muttered, pressing the back of her hand dramatically to her forehead. "I was this close to stuffing myself with grilled meat and candied fruits…"
Ashe, seated on the edge of the bed, didn't look up from the glossy pages of his magazine. "Guild duties first, stomach second. You know how it is."
Mina groaned, rolling over to face him. "Yeah, yeah. Still doesn't make it hurt any less."
Earlier that morning had been chaos, and the noon hours hadn't offered them any reprieve—reports, errands, assisting Handlers, and all the fallout from the Scalp incident. Their "temporary" Handler promotion had been stripped away as quickly as it had been given. Back to Dungeon Cleaners, the both of them.
Ashe flipped a page, the rustle of paper filling the quiet. "Dungeon Cleaners aren't really supposed to meddle in guild affairs anyway. That promotion was just so we could lend a hand when things got rough. Now that it's handled, so are we."
Mina pouted, though her attention wandered to the cryo-cooling humming softly from the wall. Unlike her room in the left wing of the dormitories, Ashe's right-wing room actually had cooling units installed. The chill was a small luxury. Maybe that's why she found herself here more often than her own bed.
She curled deeper into the sheets while Ashe kept reading Tropical Tropico, the guild's no.1 news magazine. His eyes lingered on a headline.
"…Journalists heading for the Southern Seas," he said aloud, more to himself than her. "That's rare."
Mina perked up. "The south? Isn't that—"
"One of the most dangerous places in the world, yeah," Ashe cut in, scanning the article. His brow arched slightly. "Apparently the Lipadiyan Empire is making its second push. The so-called '2nd Southern Conquest.' Led by their Empress herself, Victoriya Kyrsano Lamagon."
Mina whistled low. "Even I've heard of her. Blitzing through pirate fleets like it's a hobby."
Ashe chuckled dryly. "The south doesn't get much coverage, but when it does… it's always bloody. The people there are raised different. Law, society, everything's just so vicious. Some say even the kids can stand toe to toe with most adults."
He flipped another page, but his tone carried a thoughtful edge. "Guess it comes from centuries of fending off invaders. Central powers tried to break them, and they adapted. If you go there as a foreigner, you're not a guest—you're a target until proven otherwise."
Mina shivered, half from the thought and half from the cool air. "…That's insane. Living like that, every day."
"Insane, yeah." Ashe agreed, though a hint of respect lingered in his voice.
The room quieted after that. Mina found herself fiddling with a nailclipper she'd pulled from Ashe's desk, clicking it open and shut absentmindedly. Her mind drifted forward, to tomorrow, to more dungeons, more cleaning, more grind.
Another day of crawling through grime instead of chasing skewers and sweet fruit at Alpime's glowing night market.
"Life's life," she murmured again, softer this time.
The small hand on Ashe's clock ticked past 9:22 pm. Mina cracked one eye open, just to check, then closed it again with a faint groan.
Dinner had been light—roasted venison, split between her and Ashe because meat this month was scarce. Scarce, and expensive. Mina's stomach had protested the tiny portion, but she forced herself to ignore it. Guild life taught her early how to swallow hunger.
Now she lay sprawled sideways on Ashe's bed, half her face buried into the sheets that smelled faintly of old soap and cryo-cooled air. She let her body sink, but her mind refused to quiet.
Three years.
That's how long she'd been at this. Three years since Captain Ferris plucked her and Ashe off the streets of Elynthi's capital—two half-starved brats stealing crusts to get by. She'd been thirteen then. Just a rat scuttling in alleys. And now? Now she was a Dungeon Cleaner.
The lowest rung of the guild ladder. The invisible ones. The "after team."
She knew her role well enough by now. Wait until the dungeon's already cleared—the monsters beaten back, traps dismantled, treasure plundered, dungeon master slain. Then her work began. Crawling through the leftover halls with Ashe at her side, combing for what was missed. Hidden rooms. Forgotten traps. Secret treasures. Or worse—those monsters that clung to shadows and survived the main raid.
It was thankless, dangerous, and dirty. But it was also steady. And she'd learned a lot—maybe more than most Adventurers gave her credit for.
Still, her chest tightened with a stubborn little ache. It's not the same.
Three years, and she'd never cleared a dungeon. Not truly. Not at the first strike. Party 5—her unit—went in for the real fights, while she and Ashe stayed behind. Always cleaning up scraps, never standing in the vanguard.
Her thoughts slipped toward the names she knew by heart: Trevus Regulus, the firm but steady leader. Harlen Sprieggen, whose laughter could fill a chamber louder than a battle cry. Camylle Aurburst, quick and sharp as lightning. Lotha Mireyer, recently promoted from priest to paladin, growing into her armor with surprising grace. Nira Hollows, the shadow prodigy, whose gaze could chill air itself.
And then, of course, Ashe Vaxille. Her partner. Always her partner.
Mina curled her toes against the sheet, restless.
Just a few more runs. A few more cleanings. Then maybe… maybe Trevus and Captain Ferris will say yes. Maybe they'll let us stand with Party 5 at last. Our debut. Our first real raid.
The thought stirred a small fire in her chest. Excitement. Fear. Both.
She remembered a scrap of guild history she once overheard—about the dungeons themselves. Ancient things, older than kingdoms, older than dynasties. Ten thousand years old, some said, stretching back to the Strygan Period. The Era before the Rapture.
Mina didn't pretend to understand. History was just dusty stories to her. Ten thousand years might as well be infinity. And yet, scholars said it was short. A blink. She snorted softly at that.
Short, huh? Try living to fifty. If you're lucky.
Death was everywhere in the Central Continent. If monsters didn't take you, war would. The Elynthian Monarchy and the Imperium of Barryl saw to that. Two powerhouses, eternally pressing, eternally bleeding the land.
Mina tugged Ashe's pillow over her face, muffling a small groan.
And I'm supposed to think ten thousand years is short? Don't make me laugh.
Still, her path felt set. She was Tropico Guild, through and through. Dungeon Cleaner, maybe. But tomorrow, and tomorrow after that, she'd work, and fight, and wait.
Wait until her time came.
She peeked sideways at Ashe, who sat against the wall, flipping lazily through his magazine, utterly absorbed. She smiled faintly despite herself.
"…Just a few more runs," she whispered under her breath, as though promising both him and herself.
Mina rolled onto her side, propping her head with one arm as her gaze fell on Ashe. He hadn't even noticed her staring—too busy flipping through the glossy pages of Tropical Tropico. The faint hum of the cryo-cooling mixed with the rustle of paper, a strangely domestic sound in a place like this.
She bit her lip. Her thoughts had been swirling for too long, and they weren't about to stop unless she said something.
"…Hey, Ashe."
He glanced up, his pale eyes blinking at her over the magazine's edge. "Hm? What's up?"
Mina hesitated. The words felt heavier once they reached her tongue. But she forced them out.
"What do you think… about getting ready for our debut? You know. As Adventurers. In eight months."
The clock ticked once in the silence that followed.
Ashe lowered the magazine onto his lap, his expression shifting from idle curiosity to thoughtfulness. "…Eight months, huh." He exhaled slowly, as though tasting the weight of it. "That's what you're aiming for?"
Mina's heart skipped, heat prickling her ears. "W-well… yeah. Isn't that what we've been working toward all this time? Cleaning dungeons, tagging along with Party 5, learning everything they'll let us. It's not like I wanna be stuck as a Cleaner forever."
She clenched the pillow she held, almost defensively. Say something. Don't just look at me like that.
Ashe tilted his head, his bangs falling into his eyes. "It's not that I disagree. But eight months feels… short."
Mina sat up straighter, indignation sparking in her chest. "Short?! We've been doing this for three years already, Ashe! Don't tell me you're fine just staying behind while everyone else gets the glory."
Her voice carried more bite than she intended, but the fire was real. She hated the idea of being left behind. Of being overlooked.
Ashe didn't flinch. Instead, he gave her a small, almost lopsided smile. "…I'm not against it, Mina. Really. I just don't want us to rush in and get killed because we wanted to stand at the front too soon. You've seen what happens in the first waves. How many Adventurers don't come back."
Her chest squeezed at his words, but she shot back anyway. "And you think I don't know that? Of course I do. That's why I want us to train harder now. To actually be ready when the time comes. Otherwise, we'll never get out of this Dungeon Cleaner rut."
Her fists curled into the sheets. Three years. I'm tired of being invisible. Tired of being treated like some tag-along brat.
Ashe's eyes softened. For a moment, the tension eased as he leaned back against the wall, thoughtful. "…Eight months, huh." He repeated it again, but quieter this time.
Then he looked at her directly, and Mina felt pinned by the seriousness in his gaze. "Alright. If that's what you want, I'll aim for it too. Our debut. No excuses."
Mina blinked. "…You mean it?"
"Of course I mean it." He smirked faintly. "Besides, you'd drag me along even if I said no."
Her cheeks burned, and she threw the pillow at him. "D-damn right I would!"
The pillow hit him square in the chest, and for the first time that long day, Mina let herself laugh.
Inside though, her heart was pounding. Eight months. We'll be Adventurers. Together.
Ashe's smirk faded, replaced by that same quiet seriousness he always wore when he was thinking too hard.
"…But Mina."
She blinked, caught off guard by his tone. "What?"
His hand drifted to the magazine, closing it softly as if to give weight to his words. "I'm worried. About one thing."
Mina tilted her head, unease stirring in her chest. "…And what would that be?"
"You," Ashe said simply. "Your Null nature."
The words landed like a stone in her stomach. Mina's lips pressed together, her frown forming almost instantly. "…What about it?"
Ashe leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Nulls are tougher, yeah. Twice the resilience against curses, twice the resistance against magical effects. But that only goes so far. Monsters are one thing—most of them don't fight smart. But once we're in the front lines as Adventurers…" His eyes narrowed slightly. "We'll be facing humans. And humans fight dirty."
Mina turned her face away, staring at the cryo unit's soft glow against the wall. Of course he'd bring this up. Her chest ached at the familiar knot inside, the same knot she'd carried since she was a child.
"…So what if I'm a Null?" she muttered, forcing the words past her tightening throat.
"You know what I mean," Ashe pressed, his voice low but not unkind.
"Magic won't bend for you, Mina. You can't throw fire, or bend air, or even use a simple shield spell. No runes, no sigils. Nothing, especially when you weren't born with Mana Pathways. And when we're up against mages—or worse, Adventurers with full arsenals of tricks & techniques—you'll be in the thick of it with nothing but steel."
Mina's fingers curled into the blanket beneath her. Like I haven't heard this before. Like I haven't lived it every damn day.
"…So you're saying I'll drag us down?" she snapped, sharper than intended.
Ashe flinched, but he didn't back away. Instead, he met her glare with a steady calm.
"No. I'm saying I don't want you to die because you're stubborn."
Her breath caught.
For a long moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the faint hum of the cooling unit. Mina swallowed hard, her throat dry.
She hated this. Hated how much truth was in his words. Hated even more that he was the only one who knew—the only one she ever let know—what being a Null really meant for her. How it tied back to the childhood she buried, the streets she survived, the scars she'd never name aloud.
"…I don't want to talk about it," she whispered, turning her face away. "You're the only one who knows, Ashe. And that's already too much."
His expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. He leaned back, giving her space.
"…Alright. I won't push."
Mina hugged her knees, staring at the faint steam of her own breath in the chilled air. Her heart ached, but a part of her was grateful—grateful he always knew when to stop pressing.
But the weight of his words lingered, heavy and unshakable.
Null. Steel and blood. And nothing else.
The spark in her eyes—
golden, tired, resolute—
a faint glint of crimson burned still.
Not bright.
Not yet.
But alive.
A spark.
A warning.