Aiven helped the two recently-healed miners up with Virelle floating closely.
The miners kept rubbing at their limbs—arms and legs that had been twisted and mangled only moments before. Now, the flesh was whole, unbroken, and clean, as though the wounds had never existed at all. Only their shredded clothing and the haunted looks in their eyes bore witness to what had been taken from them.
When one of them made eye contact with Virelle, he rasped, voice thick with emotion. "You... you saved us. Thank you, elven mage. We owe you our lives."
Virelle tilted her head, her translucent sleeves fluttering as she drifted closer. She looked at them with a mixture of boredom and regal detachment. "While I certainly appreciate the gratitude—and trust me, it is well-deserved—you are thanking the wrong person," she said, her voice echoing with a melodic chime. She gestured with a lazy flick of her wrist toward Aiven. "I only did what my Master told me to do. If he hadn't ordered me to save you, I would have let the pebble finish its meal. Thank him."
The two miners blinked, turning their gaze to Aiven. He looked like anything but a "Master." He was dusty, his clothes were singed, and he was clutching a nicked short sword like a drowning man clutches a plank.
"Thank you, sir," the other miner said, bowing deeply. "We won't forget this."
Aiven let out a long, weary breath and stepped forward. "I'm just glad you're alright. But... I have a request. A very serious one."
He looked from the miners to the glowing violet core in the crater. "When we get out of here, I need you to keep the details of how that monster was defeated a secret. If anyone asks, you say the three of us—Rysa, Virelle, and myself—worked together. We fought it as a party, and we managed to bring it down through a combined effort."
The miners exchanged a confused look. "But... she made quick work of the monster which was probably a boss-class," the first miner said. "Why hide a miracle like that? The government would probably give you a medal. You'd be famous."
Virelle's eyes narrowed, a sharp violet glint returning to her pupils. "You should do exactly what my Master told you to do," she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, silken register. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer to return to your previous state? Moaning on the cavern floor with your bones shattered? I'm quite adept at reversing my own benevolence."
The miners flinched, stepping back in unison.
"Virelle, stop," Aiven said softly, though his tone was firm. He looked at the miners with an apologetic wince. "I'm sorry for her behavior. But the attention towards us would be dangerous. If the government hears that an F-Rank is traveling with a mage who can defeat a boss-class monster in seconds, they won't give me a medal. They'll see us as a threat to be studied or an asset to be seized. I don't want the eyes of the High Council on us. Not yet."
The weight of his words seemed to sink in. The miners looked at the crater again, then back at the exhausted man before them. They realized that the "miracle" they had witnessed was a burden as much as a blessing.
"We understand," the older miner said, nodding solemnly. "You saved our lives. The least we can do is keep our mouths shut about how you did it."
The ascent to the surface was a slow, grim procession. Aiven and Rysa helped the miners walk, while Virelle drifted silently behind them, her prismatic orb dimming to a neutral grey.
As they emerged from the dark archway of Sector 4, they were met by a wall of movement. A dozen government soldiers in heavy plate armor were stationed at the entrance, their spears glowing with readiness. Beside them stood an official in a high-collared blue coat—a representative of the Mining Bureau.
"Report!" the official barked as he saw them. "We received a distress signal. Where is the anomaly?"
Virelle let out a loud, theatrical sigh, floating just high enough to look down on the soldiers. "You're late," she announced with a dismissive wave. "The problem has been taken care of. While you were busy polishing your spears and discussing paperwork, we've already finished the job."
The official's face turned a brilliant shade of red, but before he could snap back, the miners stepped forward.
"It's true, sir," the older miner said, sticking to the lie with practiced ease. "There was a deformed Lurker. Massive thing. These three... they saved us. It was a hell of a fight. They worked together and managed to crack the core."
The official looked from the miners to the trio. His gaze lingered on Rysa's charred bandages, Aiven's battered sword, and finally on Virelle. He looked suspicious, his eyes squinting as he tried to reconcile their disheveled appearance with the death of a major anomaly.
"A combined effort, you say?" the representative muttered, scribbling something on a clipboard. "Very well. We will send a verification team down to inspect the site and confirm the kill. If your story holds, the Guildhouse will be notified and your reward will be processed shortly. For now, move along. This area is under Bureau jurisdiction."
Rysa didn't wait for a second invitation. She grabbed Aiven's arm and began leading him toward the awaiting carriage. "You heard the man," she muttered. "Let's get out of here."
The carriage journey back to the Guildhouse was significantly more cramped than the ride out. Whether it was the tension or simply the lack of space, the air inside the small wooden cabin felt thick.
Virelle had abandoned her usual floating antics in favor of sitting directly on the bench. She was pressed so tightly against Aiven's side that he could feel the faint, rhythmic pulse of her mana through his sleeve. Her thigh was flush against his, and every time the carriage hit a rut in the rough mountain road, she used the momentum to scoot even closer.
Aiven was stiff, his hands clasped awkwardly in his lap. He could feel the warmth of her presence, and despite his exhaustion, a prickle of nervous heat rose to his neck. He tried to shift an inch to give them both some breathing room, but Virelle simply followed the movement, her silver-lavender hair brushing against his shoulder as she leaned in. She seemed entirely unbothered—or perhaps, entirely deliberate.
Rysa sat on the opposite bench, observing the scene with her arms crossed. There was a very noticeable gap between her and Virelle, as if a physical barrier of frost had been erected between them.
"Hey, Aiven," Rysa began, her expression turning serious as she leaned forward to ask a question. "About—"
"No," Virelle cut in sharply, her violet eyes snapping toward the pugilist. Her voice was as smooth as silk and as cold as a mountain spring.
Rysa blinked, her brow furrowing. "No? I haven't even finished the sentence."
"It doesn't matter," Virelle said, a smug, territorial smile playing on her lips. "You have exceeded your daily limit for interaction with my Master. Any further queries will be redirected to the nearest wall."
Rysa let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "Since when is there an interaction limit?"
Virelle's prismatic orb chimed a sharp, defensive note. "Since you saw fit to grab his arm and drag him toward the carriage without his consent moments ago. Such familiarities are reserved for those with a higher standing than a common brawler."
Virelle then leaned even heavier against Aiven's arm, her eyes never leaving Rysa's. "You have been quite handsy today, vixen, consider your remaining time in this carriage a period of mandatory silence."
Aiven looked between them, his face turning a deeper shade of red. "Virelle, she was just trying to get us away from the soldiers..."
"Silence, Master," Virelle said softly, her fingers curling around his sleeve. "I am simply maintaining order. Outsiders have a habit of misunderstanding their place when boundaries aren't made clear."
Rysa stared at Virelle for a long beat, then looked at Aiven's flustered expression. She let out a long, weary sigh and leaned back against the carriage wall, looking out the window.
"Unbelievable." Rysa muttered under her breath.
The carriage finally rattled to a halt in the bustling hub of the central district.
They headed straight for the main counter. Clara, the receptionist, didn't even wait for them to speak. She eyed the bag Rysa dropped onto the counter—the dimension pack bulging with the weight of the Lurker cores.
"Twenty cores," Rysa announced, her voice flat with fatigue.
Clara counted them out, her fingers flying with clerical precision. "Twenty Rock-Shelled Lurker cores. At five silver each, that is exactly one hundred silver coins." She slid a heavy, jingling pouch across the wood.
Rysa took the pouch and looked at Aiven. "Alright, let's split this. I... honestly lost track of how many I took out versus how many you got. And between the fire and the light, everything was a bit of a blur."
Aiven shook his head, his hands held up in a gesture of refusal. "It's fine, Rysa. You should take a larger share. If it wasn't for your D-rank badge, we wouldn't have even been allowed to take the quest. You're the one who got us the job."
Virelle, who had been busy inspecting her reflection in a polished bronze shield nearby, drifted back toward them with a sharp huff. "Excuse me? Master, you cannot be serious. If we are splitting based on contribution, you should be receiving at least eighty percent. I was the one who eliminated that oversized anomaly while the red-haired brawler was busy failing to singe its toes."
"Virelle, be respectful," Aiven said, his voice quiet but firm.
Rysa looked at Virelle, then back at Aiven. She didn't look offended; if anything, she looked thoughtful. "What she said actually makes a certain kind of sense, Aiven. That monster in the pit... if it hadn't been for Virelle, I wouldn't be standing here to collect a single copper. But," she paused, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes as she weighed the pouch, "as long as you're okay with it, I'm certainly not going to argue with more silver."
"I'm okay with it," Aiven insisted.
Rysa smirked and tucked a larger portion of the silver into her own belt. She looked at Virelle and gave a small, mocking shrug. "Hear that, miracle elf? It's what your Master wanted. No hard feelings."
Virelle's eyes flared a dangerous violet, her cheeks puffing out in a spectacular pout as she looked away, muttering something about "ungrateful commoners."
Clara cleared her throat, tapping a piece of parchment that had just been spat out of a brass tube on her desk. "Wait. There's more. A report just came in from the Mining Bureau's verification team."
Aiven's heart skipped a beat.
"The report states that your party successfully rescued two high-value mining specialists from an unidentified boss-class anomaly," Clara continued, her eyes widening behind her spectacles. "The government has authorized an immediate bonus for the rescue. Two gold coins, to be split among the party."
Aiven stared at the two gleaming, heavy coins Clara placed on the velvet tray. Two gold. One gold coin was worth nearly five hundred silver.
"That was fast," Aiven remarked, his jaw dropping. "The verification team just got there."
"The government has special artifacts for that," Rysa explained, her eyes fixed on the gold. "Short-range information relay magic. Efficiency is the one thing the Council actually pays for."
Rysa picked up the gold coins, handing one to Aiven and keeping one for herself. "One for me, one for you. I think even Virelle can't argue with a fifty-fifty split on gold, right?"
Virelle didn't answer, though the sight of the gold seemed to soothe her ego slightly. Aiven held the coin in his palm, the cool, heavy metal feeling like a lead weight. He would have had to work for months to earn that sum as a clerk.
As they turned to leave, Aiven felt a strange prickle at the back of his neck. He looked toward the corner of the hall, but there was nothing there but a few grizzled veterans drinking ale. Yet, the feeling of being watched didn't fade.
Outside the Guildhouse, a hooded figure slipped into the crowd and vanished among the evening foot traffic. He walked a measured distance before turning into a narrow alleyway, where the noise of the city thinned into uneasy quiet. The air grew cold.
He stopped.
With a single snap of his fingers, the shadows twisted inward. Space folded like a torn curtain, and a silent, black-edged portal bloomed before him, swallowing the light around it. Without hesitation, the figure stepped through.
The world inverted.
He emerged into a vast, lightless hall carved from obsidian stone. Towering pillars vanished into darkness above, and the floor beneath his boots was etched with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly, as if breathing. Somewhere far beyond sight, chains creaked—slow, deliberate—as though something immense had shifted its weight.
A voice echoed through the chamber. It did not come from a single direction, but from everywhere at once—deep, patient, and impossibly old.
The hooded figure dropped to one knee, his head bowed low.
"We believe we have found her, my lord," he said, his voice steady despite the pressure bearing down on his spine. "The anomaly manifested exactly as predicted. The starlight signature is unmistakable… and she is no longer dormant."
The sigils along the floor flared brighter.
A pause followed—long enough for dread to take root.