"Well," he said, glancing at Reginleif, "I think we've earned a little peace and quiet."
Reginleif gave a rare smile. "Agreed."
They made their way back to the inn. The moment they stepped inside, the warmth and faint scent of burning wood welcomed them. Reginleif flopped face-first onto her bed without a word.
Azazel chuckled. "You're gonna break that mattress one day."
"Don't care," she mumbled into the pillow.
He stretched again, then said, "Let's go to the Guild bar. I'm starving."
Reginleif rolled over lazily. "All right, let's go."
---
The Guild's tavern was already lively by the time they arrived. The clatter of mugs, the smell of grilled meat, and the hum of conversation filled the air. They found a seat near the counter, where the light was dim but warm.
"Feels good to sit somewhere that's not made of stone," Azazel muttered, leaning back.
Reginleif nodded in quiet agreement.
He waved a hand to the waiter. "Two plates of whatever you recommend, and a drink that won't kill us."
As they waited, Azazel turned toward her. "Hey, how about tomorrow we just… take a break? Ever since we met, it's been nonstop survival mode. I think we earned one day off."
Reginleif blinked, surprised by his tone. Then she smiled softly. "Yeah, you're right. Constantly fighting is doing us no good. A day off sounds great once in a while."
"Good. I like this new version of us already," Azazel said with a grin. "Now if only this place served fried chicken, life would be perfect."
Their food arrived soon after—*Marinated Carpaccio* and *Diced Steak*, perfectly seared.
They ate slowly, talking about the dungeon, the odd creatures they'd faced, and the strange logic of this world's magic. Azazel couldn't help but laugh when Reginleif compared living armor to "walking tin cans with bad temper."
By the time they finished, the tavern had begun to quiet.
"Let's head back," Reginleif said, stretching.
"Yeah."
Back at the inn, Reginleif tossed herself onto the bed again, sighing with contentment. Azazel sat cross-legged on the floor, Mythic energy whispering faintly around him like smoke.
"Be careful not to lose yourself in that," Reginleif murmured, half-asleep. "Your Mythic is darkness. Not many people have that kind of power… or the danger that comes with it."
Azazel nodded silently. He extended his hand, shaping the darkness into small figures—shadow puppets that danced across the candlelight. One by one, the flames dimmed as the black haze passed over them, until one candle went out entirely.
"All right," he murmured to himself. "I can spread it around me, but I can't control shadows made by other sources. They don't… respond."
Reginleif turned her head lazily toward him. "That's because your Mythic flows from your body. To reach beyond that, you have to *send* your energy outward—like how I do."
She raised her hand, and from the open window, the night breeze slipped inside. The curtains danced as the wind twisted gently between her fingers, swirling like a living thing.
Azazel watched in quiet fascination. "I think I get it now."
"Cool," she whispered—and within seconds, she was asleep.
The room was quiet except for the faint sound of wind and the hum of Mythic energy. Azazel continued to practice, shaping and shifting the shadows, his concentration flickering like the candlelight.
Eventually, exhaustion caught up to him. The last thing he remembered was the soft glow of the remaining candle as he drifted off, still sitting on the floor.
When morning came, the sun broke through the window.
Azazel rubbed his eyes, stood up, and glanced at Reginleif, who was already awake and ready.
"Morning," he said with a yawn. "Still up for that day off?"
Reginleif smirked. "Definitely."
They stepped out into the light—ready for one rare, peaceful day before whatever waited next.
Morning sunlight spilled through the windows of the inn, cutting through thin curtains and warming the wooden floor.
Azazel blinked awake on the floor where he'd fallen asleep practicing Mythic control. His back ached, his eyes were gritty, but he couldn't help grinning. Guess I overdid it.
Reginleif was already dressed, brushing her long hair back beneath her cloak. "Finally awake?"
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, stretching. "You said day off, right? Let's actually do that before the Guild throws another quest at us."
She nodded. "Then get moving, sleepyhead."
The Streets of Fortress Cong
Outside, Fortress Cong was alive in a way the dungeon never was. Market stalls lined the cobblestone streets, merchants shouting over one another, spices mixing with the smell of roasted meat and oil.
Children darted between legs. Blacksmiths hammered away. It felt… real—not like the brutal rhythm of monsters and Mythic duels.
Azazel adjusted his hood and walked beside Reginleif. "You ever wonder how big this place actually is? Every corner looks different."
"Fortress Cong is one of the border cities," she explained. "Built between five trade routes. That's why the Guild here has so many requests—it feeds the entire western corridor."
He whistled. "So this is basically the middle of everything."
"Exactly."
They stopped by a vendor selling skewered meat and flatbread. Azazel bought two without thinking and handed one to her.
"You buying me food now?" she said, arching a brow.
"Don't read too deep into it," he replied, taking a bite. "Just keeping the party healer alive."
The Artisan Quarter
After breakfast, they wandered into the Artisan Quarter—rows of tailors, alchemists, and rune engravers. A faint shimmer of Mythic residue lingered in the air from crafted relics and enchanted fabrics.
Reginleif's eyes flicked over an open workshop window where a smith shaped a blade surrounded by a faint blue aura. "Rune-steel… that's rare outside royal armories."
Azazel caught the note in her voice but didn't comment. Royal armories, huh?
He just said, "Bet that costs more than our room and food for a month."
"Try a year," she replied dryly.
They lingered in front of a stall of old trinkets. A hunched old woman sold fragments of monster cores and worn-out relics. Azazel picked up a cracked pendant—black glass with silver veins running through it. It pulsed faintly in his hand.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Remnant of a failed Mythic seed," the woman said. "Used to belong to a Dark caster, maybe. Not dangerous, just… echoes."
Azazel felt a strange vibration in his chest before setting it down. "Yeah, no thanks. Got enough darkness already."
At the Fountain Square
By midday, they reached the central square—a huge marble fountain shaped like intertwined dragons. Adventurers relaxed on the benches, kids tossed copper coins into the water for luck.
Reginleif sat down, removing her cloak for once. Her silver hair caught the sunlight.
Azazel leaned against the fountain edge, staring at the ripples. "Feels weird, huh?"
"What does?"
"Just… slowing down," he said. "Back home, I never stopped moving. You stop, you get left behind."
She looked at him for a long moment, then said quietly, "You don't have to run here."
Azazel blinked. "What?"
"This world moves slower, remember? Even time itself. Maybe that's the world's way of telling you to breathe."
He smirked faintly. "That's deep. You sure you're not secretly a philosopher?"
Reginleif chuckled—soft, genuine. "Shut up."
Evening at the Guild Tavern
As the sun dipped low, they returned to the Guild's tavern. The crowd was lighter tonight, mostly low-rank adventurers trading stories.
Azazel sipped something close to beer but sweeter. "You know, for a place built around killing monsters, this city's got a soul."
Reginleif nodded. "Every fortress does. It has to. Otherwise it'd just crumble under the weight of what's outside."
"Yeah," he murmured, glancing at his reflection in the cup's dark surface. "Outside and inside."
They shared a comfortable silence before Reginleif finally stood. "Come on, let's get some rest. The next journey won't wait forever."
Azazel followed, the tavern noise fading behind them.
For the first time since he'd woken up in this strange world, he felt something close to peace but deep inside he misses Ruyi he true love.