「 ✦ Rimuru Tempest ✦ 」
The door creaked open.
But what greeted me on the other side wasn't more darkness, or the stale, bitter scent of blood-soaked stone. It wasn't the pressure of ancient traps or the tension of another deathmatch waiting to spring.
It was light.
I stepped through, slowly—cautiously. My senses, honed and sharpened to edge-of-death alertness, softened. I didn't lower my guard—never that—but even I couldn't help but marvel. There was a sky.
A blue sky.
Birds. Clouds. The sun. A gentle breeze stirred the hem of my coat, and I paused, blinking against the illusion. Because this has to be, right? We were still deep beneath the surface—so far below the crust of this world that light should've been a myth.
And yet… I stepped onto grass. Real grass.
It bent beneath my weight, damp and cool.
The Sanctuary of Oscar Orcus.
The path before me was lined with marble tiles, each carved with runes I didn't recognize at first glance. The air was fresh. Too fresh. Like it was continuously filtered and recreated, tailored for the perfect balance of peace. To my left, wildflowers bloomed in patches. Lavender and white lilies and roses of many hues.
And at the center of it all—surrounded by hedges and tall, wispy trees—stood a mansion. No, a manor. Pale stone, ivy climbing the corners, with a fountain in the courtyard quietly bubbling. It looked lived in. But no one was here.
Only me.
I excitedly approached the door, half-expecting it to slam shut the moment I touched the handle. But instead, it opened with a soft click. The hallway beyond was pristine—wooden floors, deep red carpets, sunlight spilling in from windows.
I wandered around.
There were paintings on the walls. One of Oscar himself, I presumed—broad-shouldered, weathered face, dark hair tied back, eyes that looked like they'd seen too much but carried it all anyway. The air was warm, and there were no traps and no death awaiting behind some illusion. There was just peace and silence.
Eventually, I found the bathroom.
Or maybe calling it that was underselling it. It was practically a temple to hygiene. The bathtub was enormous—almost a hot spring built into marble, with golden fixtures and carved designs shaped like dragons and eagles. Steam billowed out the moment I turned a valve, the temperature rising to something just below scalding.
I slipped off my coat. My boots. My gloves.
I wore my birthday suit for the first time in an awful long time. I saw my reflection caught in the mirror—messy, soot-smudged hair, tired eyes, and dried blood on my cheek. Not mine, of course. Never mine.
And I looked beautiful despite it all.
I looked away and stepped in.
Ah, bliss.
The water hit like a soft explosion. It soaked into everything. I sank deeper, letting my body stretch, relax, drift. The water smelled faintly of minerals and something floral. Maybe mint. Maybe magic. Probably both. I didn't realize how long I'd been submerged until the steam began to fade and my fingertips felt like they were wrinkling. But for the first time in days… weeks? I didn't care.
I felt clean.
I found a robe in the next room. A silky, deep navy robe that somehow fit perfectly.
My next stop was the kitchen. And that was where the real magic started.
…
Polished countertops. A stone hearth. Rows of knives sharper than anything I'd used before. Spices I couldn't name. Ingredients in modern-looking containers—meats, vegetables, bottles of aged liquids and glowing grains.
"Now this is a kitchen," I muttered to myself, smiling. And I felt like cooking.
I picked a simple dish. Omelette rice. Familiar and comforting. The sizzle of the pan echoed pleasantly through the kitchen. I added a twist—some mushrooms I found in a coldbox, diced them finely, and caramelized them with diced onions and meat. The rice absorbed it all, smoky and golden.
I folded the egg over it just right. When I plated it, I found a sprig of fresh parsley and laid it neatly on top. I sat by the window, sunlight (or the illusion of it) warmed my face.
And I took the first bite.
I didn't realize how hungry I was until that moment.
Not energy-hungry. That wasn't the issue.
I was human-hungry.
Hungry for something simple and warm and real.
And it tasted amazing.
I leaned back in the chair, setting down the fork. Through the window, I could see the clouds drifting across a painted sky. It really was beautiful. The kind of peace that couldn't exist in a world still turning on blood and ambition. Oscar must've made this place to escape.
A paradise beneath a battlefield. Maybe he hoped someone would reach it. Maybe he hoped someone like me wouldn't. But here I was. And for the first time in a while, I didn't feel the need to move. Didn't feel like I was racing toward something.
I just sat and breathed (figuratively).
··—–—⚜—–—···
I awoke from my artificial sleep without alarms, dreams, or even tension on my shoulders. There was just a quiet—pure, restful silence that wrapped around me like another set of warm sheets.
After breakfast (which, I'll admit, was just another bowl of that delicious stew I'd made last night—seriously, it hit the spot), I wandered through the house again. Not out of restlessness, but curiosity. Every room had something to say.
And then I found it.
The workshop.
It was tucked behind a simple wooden door near the east wing, half-hidden by a rather fanciful painting. The moment I stepped inside, I felt like I was walking into the brain of a sorcerer-engineer-artist hybrid.
Tools hung neatly from racks—blades for carving magic inscriptions, quills dipped in perpetually full ink wells, vials of liquified mana, containers filled with exotic minerals labeled in faded but elegant script. There were even Azantium, a few pieces of them which Great Sage told me to be the strongest material in this world.
Workbenches were arranged in concentric arcs, each dedicated to a specific craft—enchanting or smithing and alchemy or whatnot. A circular dais lay at the center, its surface engraved with complex geometric runes.
Then, suddenly…
<
<
<
I blinked at the influx of system messages echoing in my mind, and I couldn't help it. I smiled.
"Time to play."
First order of business was the outfit.
It started with the fabric.
I used a bolt of dense mana-infused silk from one of the vaults, reinforcing it with solidified dark plasma to give the threads a unique energy resistance while imbuing most of my resistances. Each stitch was careful, not by my own hand, of course, since I had Great Sage. Smooth, efficient. Seamless.
The shirt came first—a simple black, sleek, with soft sheen like obsidian. No frills. Just the kind of thing I'd wear around Tempest if I didn't want to look like a blob trying to act cool. Straight-cut black trousers followed, trimmed with a subtle dark-silver lining.
Then the cape: it draped around my shoulders and cut off just above the waist, clasped by an ornate obsidian hook with a carved scarlet gem. Stylish, but not too flashy. I wanted mobility, not a cape dragging around like some edgy villain.
The red necklace was the centerpiece. I crafted it from a crushed core of a certain Sky Dragon I'd stored away. Embedded within it were multiple enchantment layers: temperature regulation, emergency defense burst, and mana equilibrium stabilization. All integrated with Deviant's synthesis capabilities.
Last, the boots. Classic black chelsea design, polished but rugged. Lightweight, durable, reinforced with layered monster hide and energy-reactive metal soles to allow directional thrust when needed—basically built-in air steps. Because why not?
I threw the full ensemble on, turned toward one of the polished mirrors, and whistled.
"…Damn. I'd date me."
Now, onto the next thing: solidifying black flame and black lightning.
I deemed my violent fighting style a little lacking of finesse, so I figured that in order to compensate for my lost sword, I might as well learn to make it from my pseudo-voidlike elements. And the catch was that it wouldn't be restricted to just swords.
But!
This was trickier. Dark Plasma was my specialty, yes, but it was never something I could fully touch. It was volatile, unstable—unreal. It burned through matter and energy alike. But now? Now I had Law Manipulation. And suddenly, this wasn't as rigid as it used to be.
I called forth a small orb of black flame in my palm. Then I concentrated—slowing the particles, wrapping it in a conceptual shell, altering the properties through force of will. It hardened, like obsidian, but alive—beating like a heart with malevolent heat.
Next, the black lightning. It sparked like coiled serpents around my arm as I wrestled with it. It resisted, but I enforced new boundaries. Reaffirmed my laws. I shaped it into a jagged spearhead. I stabbed the obsidian flame orb with the lightning spear.
The workshop trembled.
The entire space shivered like it was about to reject the laws I had forced upon it—then… it stabilized. Two constructs hovered in the air. One burning, the sword, and the spear one buzzing. Tangible destruction. Touch-sensitive power.
"…Yup," I muttered. "I'm officially scary."
Great Sage buzzed, almost pleased.
<
And so, I spent hours just playing.
Sword dancing with constructs. Creating new shapes, new weapons. Experimenting with the limit of what I could "materialize"—at one point I even made a floating throne of shadowed glass and hovered around on it for fun.
Eventually, I settled by one of the reinforced benches with a cup of tea (summoned, obviously) and leaned back in my new outfit, legs crossed and arms folded behind my head.
And it was nice.
··—–—⚜—–—···
I eventually made my way to the top floor of the mansion.
Despite the rest of the sanctuary being cozy and warm, there was something different about this place. Not musty, or stale, just inexplicable. The doors groaned faintly as I pushed them open.
Inside, the ceiling stretched upward, arching with golden inlays and constellations I didn't recognize. On the floor, etched into smooth stone, was a massive layered magic circle.
But what really drew my attention was at the far end of the room.
There, sitting atop a solitary throne carved from polished darkwood and etched with archaic silver filigree, was a skeletal corpse. Slumped forward slightly, the figure was still clad in resplendent garments—elegant, dignified, and preserved by magic.
I stared for a moment, eyes narrowing. "Is this supposed to be him?"
<
Oscar Orcus. The creator of this entire labyrinth. One of the Seven Mavericks—or Liberators, depending on who you asked. A man who'd built an entire world beneath the surface, and apparently stayed here… until the very end.
"Some dedication, man," I muttered, walking toward the circle.
The moment I stepped into its boundary—
<
"Oh, uh, sure," I replied, blinking. "I'll leave you to it."
The world around me fractured. Reality peeled away like a dream dissolving into another. Suddenly, I wasn't in that room anymore.
Instead, I was suspended in the sky—thousands of meters above the ground. There was no wind, yet clouds passed below us in heavy trails. The sun blazed high above. Beneath us, stretched across the horizon like a scar on the world, was war. Millions of figures moved below. Armies. Cities burning. Skies splitting from arcane bombardments. Colossal spells clashing like divine titans.
And amidst it all, seven glowing stars—no, people—stood against it all.
They looked like they fought not for conquest, not for ego, but for something far more fragile.
Hope.
"…The gods of this world are nothing short of demented."
The voice came from beside me.
I turned to find a man standing there, floating alongside me. Long, dark hair tied back neatly. Pale skin. A polite, almost apologetic expression worn like a well-practiced mask. He looked tired. Soul-tired.
"…Are you supposed to be Oscar Orcus?" I asked, keeping my tone even, eyes watching both him and the carnage below.
"Indeed," he said with a nod. "I am."
"And is this memory your legacy? A gift for the conquerors of your labyrinth?"
"That, it is."
I didn't say anything for a while. I didn't need to. We both watched in silence as the scene below played out—the seven Mavericks pushing back against overwhelming odds.
But it wasn't enough.
One by one, they fell—not slain by monsters or demons, but by people. The very people they had once sworn to protect.
"We fought for them. Against the tyranny of divine doctrine. We rose against gods that cared more for control than compassion. And yet… it was they—our own kin—who raised blades against us. Stirred by holy edicts and falsified miracles."
He turned away, fists clenched at his sides.
"We were disgusted by their sickening disregard for life. We took up arms to free this world. But they turned the people against us. All through some measly, sickly divine providences and decrees."
His eyes flicked back to me. "I apologize for the outburst, conqueror."
"Nah, it's fine." I shrugged, waving him off. "You guys got it rough, huh. Your world and your people are basically a giant chess board for the things they worship as gods. Should've seen that coming, to be honest."
Oscar didn't laugh, but he did agree.
More memories began to stir.
The scene changed.
Now we stood in a great hall—marble pillars, stained glass shattered across the floor. A young Oscar stood trial, accused of heresy by high priests who wore golden chains around their necks and smiles sharper than daggers.
Another shift. A laboratory filled with strange cores and artificial vessel designs—Oscar and another Maverick working tirelessly to preserve knowledge in case they were eradicated.
Another. A quiet meadow where the seven sat around a campfire, laughter echoing under the stars. Hope, still intact. Friendship, still unbroken.
And then the last one.
Oscar, alone.
Wounded. Hands shaking as he inscribed the final glyphs into the floor of his sanctuary. A dying man preparing a coffin not for himself—but for truth. One that would only awaken when someone strong enough—and perhaps kind enough—reached him.
The memory faded.
And I was back.
The workshop lights glowed faintly. The corpse still sat on the throne, unmoving. But I knew now—this wasn't just a tomb. It was a will. A story he'd wanted someone to carry.
<
Yes.
Oscar never got to change the world.
And I think that's a damn shame.
He built this place not to trap adventurers.
But to pass on truth.
And to find one person—just one—who might understand.
"Well," I muttered amidst the silence. "It's about time I get the hell out of here."
··—–—⚜—–—···
「 ✦ Shizuku Yaegashi ✦ 」
We should've never left the castle.
I was used to chaos.
You didn't survive a death trap like the Great Orcus Labyrinth without learning how to remain calm when everything around you was falling apart. You didn't pick up a sword and charge into battle unless you'd steeled yourself to the weight of it—to blood, screams, pain.
Except this wasn't chaos.
This was slaughter.
It started like any other field training mission. The kingdom had wanted us to "rehabilitate" by engaging in something normal—something practical. So they sent us, a group of half-traumatized teenagers, out near the Reisen Gorge to hunt low-tier monsters with a small platoon of royal knights as support.
And for a while, it was almost peaceful. Almost normal. Just an hour ago, we were still joking with the knights, laughing at Kouki's exaggerated bravado while swinging our swords at dumb, oversized lizards. I even remember rubbing the back of my head, thinking how absurdly easy it all felt.
Until it arrived.
The trees fell silent before we heard the screech.
The air turned thick before the blood began to fall.
And then it tore through the knight platoon like paper.
A nightmare given flesh. Sleek black limbs, unnaturally long. A shining, eyeless head that glinted like obsidian and a serrated tail that cut through steel like silk. It moved with the grace of a predator and the cruelty of a demon.
We didn't even get a proper formation going!
The knights—twenty of them, fully armored and battle-trained—were wiped out in less than ten minutes. I watched one of them get impaled through the chest and thrown into a tree like a discarded toy. Another screamed before his voice cut off mid-note, his head rolling to the forest floor.
Kouki tried to play hero again.
As always.
He charged it before any of us could stop him, sword blazing with holy light. But it batted him away like a bug. He crashed into the rocks, blood spilling from his mouth, eyes unfocused. Still, he staggered back to his feet, screaming about justice and not giving up.
He was going to get himself—and everyone else—killed.
I barely dodged the next sweep of the creature's tail. I could feel the shockwave against my ribs. There were too many injured—too many scattered. Kaori was trying to stabilize Ryutarou, who had a massive gash across his back. Some of the other students were sobbing, hiding behind trees, unable to process the massacre unfolding around them.
And then it turned toward me.
It moved in a flash, faster than I could react. I stepped back, blade raised, breathing steady despite the racing of my heart. I'd trained for this. I had to hold firm.
But I wasn't going to make it.
Kouki tried to intercept, but he stumbled—his ankle twisted, sword slipping from his grasp.
Fuck.
It lunged.
I saw its inner jaws open mid-leap.
I saw death.
And then—
"You've got to be kidding me."
The voice was smooth. Young. Almost amused. Pleasant in a way that didn't belong on a battlefield soaked in blood and smoke.
And then steel sang.
A flash of obsidian.
The Xenomorph-thing's claws clanged against a blade so black it reflected no light, only void. The force of the impact shattered the ground beneath us, dust and stone erupting in a storm. I blinked against the debris, heart still pounding, mind barely registering what had just happened.
When the dust settled, I saw him.
No, them.
A young-looking figure stood between me and the creature, one hand on the hilt of that impossible sword. They couldn't have been older than thirteen or fourteen—petite, almost delicate—but something about them felt… off.
Uncanny.
Uncanny valley.(This unsettling sensation occurs because entities are too similar to humans but not quite convincingly realistic, triggering a psychological conflict.)
Silver-blue hair shimmered under the sun like flowing moonlight.
Golden eyes—not gold-colored, but actual gold—shone with stars of blue and red dancing in them. Their beauty was otherworldly, divine, and utterly detached from the carnage around them.
The monster hissed, tail lashing, but the figure didn't flinch.
Their sword twitched once, and the tail was gone—severed, flung aside like garbage. The creature reeled, screaming in a voice that wasn't a sound but a curse.
And then they spoke again.
"You're loud, ugly, and overconfident. That's three strikes."
He smiled.
And then he moved.
I didn't see the step. One moment he was there, and the next he was behind the creature, obsidian sword cleaving through it in clean, surgical arcs. The monster shrieked, tried to counter, but it was too late. Each swing carved symbols of light in the air. Magic. Not any kind I recognized, though.
The final blow wasn't flashy. Just a casual, almost lazy stab through its center. But the moment the blade pierced the core, the monster disintegrated—imploding in a whirl of dark embers.
Silence.
Even the wind was too afraid to stir.
I stared.
He turned to me then—golden eyes settling on mine. I froze.
There was a strange comfort in that gaze. Like he saw me. Like he knew me.
"You alright?" he asked, voice casual, like we hadn't just been seconds from death. "That thing was annoying. You're lucky I was nearby."
My throat was dry. "Who… are you?"
He tilted his head.
"Oh, right. I should probably introduce myself." He scratched his cheek, sheepish. "Name's Rimuru Tempest."
He smiled again. Bright. Simple.
"I'm a boy."
…
A what?