The report was posted the following morning.
I noticed it only because someone else did first.
A cluster had formed near the bulletin board—too quiet to be celebratory, too still to be routine. People stood shoulder to shoulder, reading without speaking. A few turned away after a moment, expressions closed.
Curiosity was inefficient.
Still, I looked.
Dungeon Clearance Report – Lower Bronze Tier
Successful clear confirmed.Primary threat neutralized.
Secondary notes followed. Casualties listed below.
Five names.
No embellishment. No cause of death recorded. Just identifiers and confirmation.
I recognized none of them.
Someone nearby exhaled sharply. "That's the third party this month."
"Lower floors shouldn't be that bad," another replied. "Not unless something went wrong."
"Or unless someone cleared it too fast," a third muttered.
The comment drifted past without direction, unclaimed.
I folded the paper back against the board and stepped away.
People died in dungeons every day. That was not unusual. Risk was part of the profession. Anyone who entered understood that.
I understood it too.
What mattered was outcome.
The dungeon was cleared. Future casualties were prevented. Resources were saved.
Net positive.
That was the rational conclusion.
I did not think about the names again.