Cold sweat slid down Bell's cheeks.
The newcomer was strong. Just his presence alone made it clear he was nothing like the three men already lying unconscious.
"Who are you?"
Bell tried to stall for time, hoping to find an opening to escape with Naaza.
Saving the Chienthrope girl came first.
The man's build was massive, his body solid and muscular. In this downpour, retreating would be far wiser than trying to fight head-on.
"Just a mercenary. No name."
The man's face was hidden behind a thick black mask shaped like jagged teeth, his voice rasping and unnatural.
He approached slowly, his composure unwavering—completely unlike the others.
Before the mercenary could get a feel for the room's layout, Bell grabbed a healing potion, lifted Naaza into his arms, and dashed toward the back of the shop.
Behind a brown curtain was a small resting area.
The cramped room had no exits—just a narrow ventilation window high on the wall.
A mistake.
This place was too simple in design. No back door, no escape route.
The mercenary seemed to know that already, his heavy boots stepping carefully over the spilled potions as he closed in.
Each footstep thudded louder and louder. Bell glanced up at the high window.
If he were alone, he could probably reach it by using the bed as a boost. Barely.
Recklessness is an adventurer's greatest enemy.
For now, getting out and calling for Guild support was the rational move.
He'd only met Naaza twice. There was no need to risk his life for her.
He had already done enough. Anyone would call that heroic.
Enough.
There was no more time.
He should just run.
Logic screamed at him to flee, but his feet wouldn't move.
He couldn't leave.
If Bell only cared about his own safety, he would never have come here in the first place.
Their goal was kidnapping, not killing. The risk here was far less than what he faced in the Dungeon. And if he truly wanted to be a hero, danger was part of the path.
Bell tightened his grip on the dagger and prepared to fight.
The mercenary lifted the curtain carefully. Seeing Bell still there, he sounded almost disappointed. "I even gave you time. Guess that was pointless."
The man's heavy armor groaned as he stepped forward, the floor shaking under his weight.
"What do you people want with her?" Bell asked, setting Naaza gently beside the bed.
"Just a job. I don't ask about the client's reasons." The mercenary frowned slightly. "But you'd better not give her that healing potion. The girl's suffering from drug poisoning. She needs an antidote, not recovery medicine."
Bell had already noticed Naaza's strange condition—her lips were stained with rainbow hues from the mixed potions—so he hadn't tried to heal her right away.
Still, the man's "helpful" warning only made him more uneasy.
"Relax," the mercenary added. "My client needs her alive. Just figured I'd give you a fair warning."
As he drew closer, Bell saw it clearly—the mask's inner curve wasn't just decorative. It caved inward, as if part of the man's jaw and mouth were missing altogether.
That distorted, hollow voice suddenly made sense.
"Then can I at least cure her first?" Bell asked, lowering his stance and readying his blade.
"Sorry," the man replied flatly. "I'm just another failure who never reached Level 3. Fighting both of you at once would be a hassle."
His tone was void of emotion, giving nothing away—no anger, no humor, no humanity.
The instant he finished speaking, he lunged forward with terrifying force.
Bell drew his dagger, shielding Naaza behind him.
The room was too narrow for swords. The mercenary didn't even reach for the one at his waist. Instead, he used his armor as a shield and his entire body as a weapon.
The impact was coming fast. Bell wanted to dodge, but the man's speed and the confined space left him no room.
No.
There's no time.
Then I'll use his momentum—meet him head-on!
Bell thrust forward with all his strength, driving the dagger toward the gap in the armor.
Crack.
The cheap blade struck something solid and shattered instantly.
A spray of glittering shards hit the floor like metal dust. Before Bell could even register it, the mercenary's charge slammed into him, sending him crashing backward.
With a thunderous crash, the wall seemed to cry out in pain.
Bell had felt this kind of impact before in the Dungeon—but this time, there was no healer to mend his wounds.
He spat out a mouthful of blood, his body writhing in agony.
Maybe it was a broken rib—or maybe it was just the pain warping his senses. In the haze of suffering, Bell couldn't tell.
He simply clenched the broken dagger shard in his fist, blood pouring down his hand, refusing to let go.
"Sorry, kid. My body's a bit special. The gaps in my armor? They're intentional."
The mercenary slung Naaza over his shoulder, revealing a sleek silver prosthetic leg—an unspoken message.
He stepped out of the room, cast a look of disgust at the three men sprawled on the floor, chugged a healing potion straight from the bottle, and grabbed an antidote on his way out.
"Trash. Get up. Keep playing dead, and I'll make sure you stay that way for life."
The three of them scrambled to their feet one after another.
"Want me to carry her for you? That's what porters are for," one of them offered, eyeing Naaza.
The mercenary's response was a brutal kick to the groin. The man screamed, clutching himself as he stumbled toward the last remaining vial of healing potion.
The scarred man watched his companion's misery and hesitated. "That white-haired brat from earlier… want me to finish him off?"
The mercenary shot him a cold look but said nothing.
"R-right... never mind. Let's just head back," the scarred man stammered, forcing an awkward laugh as he followed.
The mercenary walked silently into the pouring rain, unease gnawing at his chest.
That boy had taken his full-body charge head-on—with a broken weapon, no less.
By all logic, he shouldn't be able to move.
Even if the mercenary went back to finish him off and tie him up, there would've been no danger.
And yet… the man who had barely survived the Dungeon felt something he hadn't in years—a chilling, inexplicable fear.
It was the same primal terror that struck when facing a monster—the instinctive dread of death pressing close.
As if, in the very next heartbeat, that white-haired boy would kill him.
There was no reason for it. But the feeling lingered—cold and absolute.
Who was that kid, to make him feel fear like this?
In the end, the mercenary chose to trust his instincts. Carrying Naaza, he turned and disappeared into the storm.
After all, someone that injured couldn't possibly stand again so soon.
...
When the mercenary's presence vanished, Bell finally let the dagger shard slip from his hand.
Pain consumed his entire body. The voices outside were drowned beneath the roar of rain, leaving only the echo of doubt in his mind.
"See? You should've run while you could."
"You can't save anyone."
"You're no hero. You barely qualify as an adventurer."
"Stop lying to yourself. You, the lowest of the low in Orario—how could you ever be the hero of any tale?"
It was true. The only one who ever told him stories of heroes—his grandfather—was long gone.
Who was even waiting for him now?
"What are you talking about, kid? Haven't you already met so many girls by chance? Even an old man like me's jealous."
At some point, his grandfather's face appeared vividly before him.
The healer who stood before him. The goddess who supported him. The advisor who guided him. The shopkeepers who had shown him warmth, even after just one meeting.
As Bell recalled each of them, the flame in his heart flickered back to life.
Even if his body shattered, even if the pain tore through every nerve, he would stand.
Gritting his teeth, Bell dragged himself forward.
He heard bones grind out of place.
Hot blood blurred his vision red.
Still, he didn't stop.
He reached out his battered right hand toward the bedside, just barely grasping the healing potion he'd brought—meant for Naaza.
It almost slipped from his grasp, but Bell lunged forward, ignoring his body's screams, and caught it.
The potion's sweetness filled his throat, but it was a low-grade one—far too weak to mend such severe wounds.
Even so, Bell forced himself upright.
Outside the curtain, the floor was littered with shattered bottles and spilled Potions—only a few unbroken vials remained, none of which he recognized.
It didn't matter. As long as he could move, that was enough.
Find them first. Then plan the next step.
Through the sheets of rain, the silhouettes of the mercenary and his men were faintly visible.
Clutching his side against the stabbing pain, Bell slipped into the storm's veil and followed them in silence.