The fierce battle raged on.
This was a fight on the edge of a cliff—one strike could send the opponent tumbling into the abyss.
Both combatants constantly shifted positions. Whenever Bell dodged the longsword and slipped into the mercenary's blind spot, his foe would twist his body and unleash a sweeping counterattack. The blade's edge grazed his skin, slicing off several strands of white hair.
The howling wind, like the roar of hell itself, tore through Bell's eardrums.
He could win.
As long as he avoided getting hit, that monstrous sword, no matter how terrifying its power, was nothing but a bluff.
Though Bell struggled to keep up with the mercenary's speed, he could read his movements. Heavy chops, sweeping strikes, parries—his vision had never been so clear. Every motion imprinted itself in his mind.
By predicting his opponent's attacks, he could dodge and counter through sheer technique.
These were lessons passed down from his grandfather.
When he first began training, the young Bell had been confused. Heroes, he thought, were supposed to fight monsters and save those in need. Yet his sparring partners were not monsters, but his grandfather's old acquaintances.
When Bell asked why, his grandfather only gave a knowing smile and said, "You'll understand when the time comes."
Now, Bell did.
Drawing upon those lessons, he evaded, deflected, and survived—barely keeping the balance. He darted between arcs of steel like a swift white rabbit, weaving through death with every breath.
The battle reached a tense stalemate.
Then came the shift.
Seeing that the youth had adapted to his rhythm, the mercenary abruptly changed his stance. Gripping his sword in both hands, he brought it down with a crushing blow.
There was no blocking this one. Even dodging meant being caught in the shockwave.
"Bell!" Eina's cry broke free before she could stop herself.
The ground cracked under the strike, letting out a sound like the world itself crying out. Dust exploded upward, but in the cratered rubble below—there was no sign of the boy.
Amid the swirling gray haze, a dagger gleamed sky-blue, cutting through the cold air like a falling star.
Brilliant.
Ryuu's heart stirred in silent awe.
The boy hadn't just predicted the attack—he had used that instant to counter. Such precision, such instinct, was something even seasoned adventurers rarely achieved in their early days.
Clang!
The metallic crash rang through the hall. Bell's desperate counter left only a shallow scratch on the silver armor.
"Not enough force," Ryuu muttered softly.
The difference in their ranks created a gulf too wide to cross. It was a hopeless disparity.
Worse yet, Bell couldn't pierce through the mercenary's armor.
Ryuu, who often traversed the Middle Floors, recognized it immediately—the metal had been reinforced with the outer hide of a Minotaur. The scar on the man's jaw was likely the mark of its twin horns.
Wounded by a monster, only to turn its hide into armor.
The man before Bell was no longer merely human, but a monster forged by obsession.
"If you can… please help that boy."
Naaza's weak voice trembled from Ryuu's back, her senses only now clearing through the haze of the potion's effects.
Ryuu furrowed her brow, gripping her wooden blade tightly before glancing toward Riveria standing by the corridor's entrance.
Revealing herself didn't matter—but compared to her, that elf who mastered rapid chants could guarantee the boy's safety far better.
"With Nine Hell here, there's no need to worry."
Ryuu kept her selfish thoughts to herself.
Even with the battle looking grim, she still believed the boy would win—just as he had promised.
She knew it was an unreasonable expectation she'd placed upon him, but she wanted to believe in it.
The gray mist began to clear.
Bell hadn't expected that his full-force strike would fail to harm his opponent and instead send a numbing shock through his arm. The sharp clash of metal rang in his ears, leaving only a dull hum behind.
His right hand, still clutching the dagger, trembled uncontrollably.
Just a single moment of weakness—
The mercenary's roar followed, carried on the weight of fury and steel.
Once again, he gripped his sword with both hands and brought it down in a crushing arc.
Bell had no time to dodge. He twisted his body as much as he could, narrowly escaping death.
The blade sliced downward, grazing the bridge of his nose by a hair's breadth.
Blood beaded across his cheek.
But that strike—was only the beginning.
BOOM.
The ground shook. The air itself trembled.
Bell, caught at the edge, was swept away as if engulfed by a violent whirlwind, flung helplessly through the air.
The wooden table shattered, scattering potions in all directions. Blood mixed with the spilled liquid, soaking through the boy's clothes.
The mercenary raised his longsword and advanced, clearly convinced the youth wouldn't fall so easily.
Riveria gripped her staff tightly.
Bell had fought to this point relying entirely on his exceptional combat technique. Though his opponent was a retired Level 2 Adventurer from the Middle Floors, the gap in their ability to wield their Status was enormous. Combined with the man's leg injury, that imbalance had been the only thing keeping the battle even.
But the mercenary had noticed this as well.
He shifted his fighting style, gripping his sword with both hands and striking with raw, unrestrained strength. These were heavy blows stripped of all finesse—sheer power no novice could possibly endure. For someone of Bell's level, even the shockwave alone was nearly impossible to withstand.
Was this the end?
Just as Riveria began to chant a spell, the youth's body shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.
Blood covered him from head to toe, his figure like a soul returning from the depths of hell.
Battered, bleeding, but unyielding—he pressed forward.
Without question, this boy possessed the potential of a [Hero].
"Such a pity... he's too young," Riveria whispered to herself.
The mercenary remained in his heavy-swinging stance, his aura fierce and unstoppable.
Charging in with nothing but raw determination, the youth looked like a lamb rushing into the jaws of a beast.
The distance between them shrank rapidly.
As Bell accelerated, the world around him seemed to slow. The wind's roar, the echo of a scream—every sound stretched out endlessly.
The mercenary's sword loomed high before him like a guillotine.
Even so, Bell didn't slow down.
The mercenary raised his silver blade, locking his joints like an executioner preparing to strike.
The instant the blade began to fall, a glass vial flew from the boy's hand.
Pointless.
What did it matter if the potion blocked his sight? Once the blade fell, the result would be the same.
The mercenary didn't flinch.
Glass shattered. Potion splashed across his armor.
A sharp clang.
Then came the roar of flames.
Black smoke exploded outward, and a violent blast stopped the mercenary mid-swing.
A wave of unbearable heat followed.
Searing blue fire burst upward, devouring everything in sight.
In an instant, the flames spread unchecked, engulfing the entire battlefield.
"A Magic Stone lighter?" Eina murmured softly.
It was a common and convenient alchemical tool—indispensable when brewing potions indoors. But if mishandled, it could easily cause an explosion.
Eina recalled hearing that the goddess Hestia herself had once caused an incident with one during her early days of work. Even now, she was still known as "The Natural Disaster of North Street."
No one could have imagined Bell would turn such a device into a weapon—using the potion's reactive ingredients to ignite a firestorm.
The blaze consumed the mercenary's flesh.
Amidst cries torn between agony and rage, the youth surged forward once more.
...
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