Outside the Blue Pharmacy, the rain grew heavier.
"You scared the hell out of me! We're just low-level punks—are you really going to draw your blade on us?"
The scarred man's words begged for mercy, but the grin on his face only grew more insolent.
Naaza ignored his provocation. Since he had chosen to stir up trouble and destroy the place she cherished most, there was no reason for her to hold back.
The dagger, cold and sharp as her gaze, flashed with a chilling glint as it sliced through the air.
Just as it was about to pierce the scarred man's body, a roar erupted from outside the door.
It was deep and drawn-out, a horrific sound that could only be produced by twisting one's throat into something inhuman.
It resembled a hound's growl, but far more disturbing—something that clawed directly at the most primal fear in a person's heart.
A Hellhound.
Naaza didn't want to recall that nightmare, but her body instinctively recognized the sound.
That voice, the one that had haunted her endlessly day and night—she could never mistake it.
With that dreadful memory came the image of burning crimson eyes and searing, unbearable pain.
Naaza trembled.
That instinctive fear led to a fatal mistake.
The knife continued forward with inertia, leaving only a shallow scratch.
"I told you we're Lv1. That actually hurt, you know."
The scarred man sneered, grabbed the hammer he carried, and swung it hard against Naaza's head.
Everything was going according to plan.
Orario was full of hidden strength. Rumor had it that even a high-level adventurer who once caused trouble at the Hostess of Fertility had been easily handled by its proprietress.
To ensure Naaza's elimination, the scarred man had already investigated every detail about the Blue Pharmacy.
The heavy blow to her head sent Naaza collapsing to the floor. Her clothes soaked through with spilled potion.
The scarred man kicked her in the face. "You really believed I was Lv1? Scared yourself at the sound of a monster, huh? Hahaha!"
"Hey… we're not gonna get retaliated against, right?" one of the men asked nervously, glancing at the blood seeping from Naaza's head.
"Relax. Sure, she's from a mid-tier Familia, but her god went deep into debt to buy her that prosthetic arm. Guess what happened? The rest of her Familia bailed. Hah! Who'd avenge dead weight like that? We just need to finish this before the god finds out."
The scarred man kicked aside Naaza's right arm. Beneath the loose sleeve, her silver prosthetic was stained with potion, looking both pitiful and grotesque.
"She's really Level 2? You didn't mention that before!" another man shouted angrily.
"I was clear enough. You're just the porters. Now move—get her out of here."
The scarred man glanced at the downpour outside. With rain this heavy, there was no need to worry about witnesses. It was practically divine favor.
"Then what was that monster's roar just now…"
"Don't tell me it was real?"
The two men hesitated as they lifted Naaza from the potion-covered floor, their eyes darting nervously toward the entrance.
Even if they'd never seen one, they knew that sound wasn't something a human could imitate.
"That was another mercenary mimicking it," the scarred man said coldly. "Keep your mouths shut and move. His temper's worse than mine—piss him off, and…"
He trailed off, instinctively taking a step back as if remembering something unpleasant.
That unexplainable fear ended up saving his life.
"!"
"You—!"
At that instant, Naaza's eyes snapped open. She drew the short blade at her waist—meant for cutting materials—and lunged straight at the leader.
If she could take down the scarred man, the other two wouldn't matter.
Even after retiring from adventuring, her decisions remained sharp and unhesitating.
But misfortune, like the relentless rain, refused to stop.
By a hair's breadth, the scarred man dodged her strike.
A cold light flickered in his eyes as he swung the hammer down again with all his strength.
Naaza broke free from their grip and raised her right arm to block.
Clang.
The sharp metallic clash rang out, overpowering even the roar of the storm.
"How can you still stand?!" the scarred man shouted in disbelief.
Based on the information he'd gathered, Naaza's endurance was her weakness—there was no way she could have recovered so quickly.
Recovered…
Something clicked in his mind.
Because of their rampage, the floor had long been soaked in spilled potions.
Naaza spat out a bit of dust, her expression cold, ignoring his question.
"You're insane!" The scarred man's composure vanished, his face twisting with fear.
Medicine is poison.
Every adventurer knew that truth. Potions of different effects were created by expert alchemists using entirely different materials. Mixing them was absolutely forbidden.
The potion mixture on the floor had likely turned into a deadly toxin.
Naaza had gambled her own life just to stand again.
She took a step back, struggling to steady her breathing, motionless for the moment.
"Hey, you two—attack together," the scarred man ordered.
"She's Level 2! There's no way we can take her!" both men protested at once.
"She's been retired for years. Besides, her main weapon's a bow—she's not skilled in close combat. I've leveled up since then. What's there to be afraid of?" The scarred man regained his focus, analyzing the situation coldly.
It was a relief that Naaza's movements were rusty. If she still had her former strength, that short blade would have slit his throat cleanly.
Drinking that chaotic mix of potions in one gulp was bound to have side effects.
That earlier ambush had been her last chance.
Information is everything.
Just as he predicted, Naaza was on the verge of collapse.
The warm shop where she once lived alongside her god now looked, in her eyes, like a den of monsters.
Hellhounds howled. The ground trembled. Even the counter where she used to stand beside her god felt like a cold, lifeless tomb.
Leaning against that imaginary gravestone, she felt herself sinking.
Guilt and regret crashed over her like a tide, pressing down until she could barely breathe.
The roar of the rain sounded, in her ears, like the god's rebuke.
"Those without talent should realize their limits early. You're the reason I've lost everything—bankrupt and alone."
The voices of her former companions followed.
"You only lost one hand, and you want to drag the whole Familia down with you?"
"If you'd just died in the Middle Floors, we wouldn't be suffering like this."
"You selfish, despicable fool."
"You're useless—living off a god's kindness is all you can do."
...
Naaza wanted to deny it, to shout back.
The god who saved her, the companions who once stood by her side—they would never say such cruel things.
But she couldn't speak.
She couldn't tell anyone about this darkness consuming her.
The hellhound's roar sounded again.
She couldn't tell if it was a hallucination or her enemy's trick.
The fact that she was still standing at all was already a miracle.
The thought of protecting her god and her only home was the last thing holding her up—but even that was being swallowed by endless darkness.
Naaza didn't regret drinking the tainted potion. It had given her one last chance to fight.
But misfortune had stolen that resolve away.
Rain poured in torrents—the same heavy downpour as the day she lost her arm.
As the iron hammer struck and her consciousness faded...
Something surfaced in her memory—something she should never have forgotten.
That day, when the hellhound's flames devoured her arm, both her god and her comrades were shouting her name.
Those voices rose above the storm, louder than any monster's roar.
Voices she could never forget.
They pierced her heart.
They shook her soul.
And now...
The white-haired boy's cry echoed with the same power.