Chapter 81 – Adventurers

You have slain Stone Crawler (Level 63 | Tier 2) x32.

An experience bonus has been awarded for slaying monsters 10 levels above you.

Your race has leveled up to level 55.

Your class has leveled up to level 55.

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Strength Threshold Surpassed: 500

Special Skill Unlocked: [Load Bearing]

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I narrow my eyes slightly at the system notification floating in front of me.

The monster levels went up again.

Mildly concerning.

I think about it for a second.

Then shrug.

More experience for me.

Also, more importantly, my Strength finally crossed five hundred thanks to the last two levels, which means I now possess a shiny new milestone skill.

Excellent.

My ears twitch.

I turn toward the approaching adventurer party, who are currently weaving their way through the aftermath of the battle with varying degrees of caution.

The cavern is a mess.

Crawler corpses litter the stone floor in pieces, some cleanly severed, others reduced to shattered chunks of rock and gore. Frost spreads in pale veins across parts of the cavern where the Catkin’s blue flames struck hardest, while scorch marks and melted stone scar the walls from the Wolfkin’s occasional blasts of magic. Shadows sway and stretch across the cavern with every flicker of the floating flame hovering above his shoulder, turning the ruined battlefield into something almost theatrical.

And cutting through all of it is the metallic scent of blood and pulverized stone dust hanging heavy in the cavern air.

Charming atmosphere.

The group approaches together despite the obvious wariness in their posture.

Which—

Okay, fair.

I did hit them with a full-force pulse of Life Suppression and then proceed to casually carve my way through an entire swarm of monsters while ignoring most concepts related to personal safety.

Their hesitation is understandable.

Inspect fires one after another as they approach.

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Bastion Breaker [Rare] (Level 58 | Tier 2)

Race: Bearkin

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Gravitic Skyranger [Rare] (Level 55 | Tier 2)

Race: Wingkin

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Experienced Pyromage [Uncommon] (Level 52 | Tier 2)

Race: Wolfkin

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Winterfire Reaper [Rare] (Level 59 | Tier 2)

Race: Catkin

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Radiant Evoker [Rare] (Level 48 | Tier 1)

Race: Foxkin

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Wow.

That is simultaneously deeply unfortunate and extremely impressive.

The unfortunate one is obvious.

I glance briefly toward the Wolfkin mage.

Uncommon class at tier two.

Tragic.

My condolences.

The impressive one, however—

My gaze shifts toward the Foxkin healer currently making her way through the corpses with what can only be described as poorly concealed excitement.

She’s young. Around my age, maybe a bit older.

Mid-length reddish-orange hair sways behind her with every step, the warm color catching the firelight in coppery flashes. Her outfit is light and clearly built for mobility: black combat shorts with a slitted skirt similar to mine, albeit far shorter, and a fitted halter top that leaves her shoulders and midsection exposed, both etched along the edges with faintly glowing golden runes.

As she moves, her tail swishes rapidly behind her in a mixture of curiosity and excitement that would make subtlety itself file a formal complaint.

Her ears are completely locked onto me.

Despite still being tier one, Inspect reveals a rare class, likely light or holy aligned judging by the name.

Impressive.

Extremely so.

Even I only had an uncommon class at tier one, though admittedly I also spent most of my time aggressively vaporizing ecosystems with minimal effort while in tier zero.

Still.

Facts remain facts. She achieved something I did not.

My tail swishes once in clear approval.

I take the time to properly study the rest of the group while they slowly make their way over through the sea of crawler corpses.

The Bearkin is massive.

Not merely tall... massive.

He stands somewhere around eight feet in height, broad enough that it genuinely looks like he could bench press a sedan without system assistance if sufficiently motivated. Thick muscle presses against every movement he makes, each step heavy enough to crunch loose stone beneath his boots.

Interestingly, his armor is far lighter than I expected from someone clearly acting as the party’s frontline.

Most of the protection is concentrated around vital areas: hardened plates over his chest, shoulders, and forearms, while the rest favors layered leather and flexible chain designed to preserve mobility.

His shield, meanwhile, is absurd.

The thing is less equipment and more portable fortification, easily large enough to function as a door to a moderately wealthy fantasy estate. Since the fight ended, he has strapped it to his back, where it rests like an entire wall someone politely requested he carry around.

Both the armor and shield glow faintly with runic sequences, pale blue lines threading through the metal in geometric patterns.

Functional craftsmanship.

Good quality, too.

Though notably less refined than the Foxkin healer’s equipment.

Interesting.

The Wingkin is… something else entirely.

Rather than navigating the battlefield normally, she simply flies over it, pale wings beating softly as she glides above the corpses with practiced ease. Unlike the hummingbird-like wings of the previous Wingkin I encountered, hers are broad and white-feathered, almost angelic in shape.

Her outfit, however, appears to have been designed by someone deeply committed to the concept of aerodynamic shamelessness.

A chest wrap. Tiny shorts.

That is it.

Not even shoes.

Over eighty percent of her body is exposed to the cave air with a level of confidence I can only describe as spiritually aggressive.

From what little I know about Beastkin culture, this seems relatively normal. The Wingkin bandit from before was similarly dressed.

Still—

Seeing it in person is mildly jarring.

Strapped to her waist is a rifle, sleek and metallic, its surface etched with faint runic lines that pulse softly whenever she moves.

The source of the gunfire.

My ears perk slightly.

I absolutely need to examine that thing later.

From what I observed during the fight, it does not use traditional ammunition. The bullets appeared to be generated directly through mana conversion or stored spell constructs.

Which means—

Runic firearm engineering exists.

Extremely important information.

I immediately promote the rifle to “high-priority academic theft target.”

Metaphorically.

…Probably.

Next is the Wolfkin.

I look at him for approximately half a second before deciding I do not care very much.

Then my attention shifts to the Catkin instead.

Far more interesting.

He saunters across the battlefield with the relaxed confidence of someone who has absolutely knocked objects off tables specifically to see what sound they make upon impact.

There is an undeniable menace to his vibe.

A whimsical menace.

His clothing is actually fairly similar to the healer’s: a sleeveless top exposing well-defined muscle and a pair of fitted shorts, both stitched through with glowing runic lines.

Unlike the healer’s outfit, however, his clothes are tight-fitting and clearly built for aggressive mobility rather than comfort.

Also—

No skirt.

A tragedy for fashion everywhere.

Two curved sabers rest at his waist, their hilts angled for quick drawing.

More interestingly, the sheathes themselves are runed.

Not decorative etching, either. They look functional. Purposeful.

My eyes narrow slightly.

Intriguing.

The group finally completes their approach, slowed somewhat by the Bearkin’s extremely obvious lack of Dexterity investment.

The floating flame drifting above the Wolfkin’s shoulder casts a warm, flickering glow across the cavern, shadows swaying along the rough stone walls as the Wingkin descends lightly from the air to land nearby.

The Bearkin speaks first.

His voice is deep and rough enough to vibrate through the stone around us, yet somehow still strangely gentle beneath the sheer mass of it.

“Ah. There you are.”

…

An interesting opening statement considering I am very visibly standing directly in front of him.

He opens his mouth to continue, but before he gets the chance, the Foxkin healer abruptly springs into action.

She darts toward me with the unstoppable energy of a seagull dive-bombing an unattended sandwich.

Then—

She starts sniffing me.

…

I don’t think I will ever fully adapt to Beastkin behavior.

Her nose wrinkles slightly after a second, and she raises her staff toward me.

I tense automatically, instincts already preparing to remove her head from her body if necessary.

Instead—

“Purify.”

Warm golden light washes over me in a soft wave.

The blood staining my dress evaporates instantly. Dirt and grime disappear from my skin, leaving behind only clean fabric and a faint lingering warmth.

I blink once.

Useful.

The healer nods to herself with visible satisfaction.

Then the Catkin immediately smacks her across the back of the head with a loud thunk.

She stumbles forward slightly, clutching the back of her head as tears spring to her eyes.

“Ow! What was that for?!”

The Catkin looks entirely unrepentant.

“Stupid,” he says flatly. “Pointing your staff at someone without asking permission first is a great way to get yourself killed on instinct alone.”

Her ears twitch.

Then her eyes widen in dawning horror.

“Oh…”

She slowly turns back toward me before lowering her head slightly, ears and tail drooping in immediate guilt.

“…Sorry.”

…

She is kind of adorable.

Before I can stop myself, I reach out and lightly pat one of her ears.

She freezes.

The fur is unbelievably soft. Warm too.

Ten out of ten.

Her ears shoot upright in surprise before slowly angling into the touch, and after only a second of hesitation she begins leaning into the scratching slightly, tail swaying behind her in clear betrayal of any remaining dignity.

I have… deeply complicated feelings about the fact that petting a person is apparently this effective.

Clearly, this is a highly dangerous evolutionary adaptation specifically designed to manipulate Foxkin.

Still—

I continue for a few more seconds in the name of academic integrity, before reluctantly reminding myself that we currently have four spectators.

All of whom are watching us with varying mixtures of amusement, warmth, and in the Catkin’s case, the distinct expression of someone aggressively resisting the urge to say something extremely smug.

I stop petting the healer before this devolves into me aggressively adopting a random Foxkin I met five minutes ago.

Restraint truly is the greatest tragedy.

I clear my throat lightly and redirect my attention toward the group.

“So,” I begin, tone calm and composed despite the fact I am currently standing in a cave filled with crawler corpses and lingering monster gore, “what, precisely, is happening here? The monster levels appear to be rising, and I am assuming you did not intentionally decide to delve into a dungeon above your own level range for recreational purposes.”

The Bearkin blinks slowly.

“You don’t know?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

A difficult task.

If I did, I would not be asking. Fairly straightforward logic, really.

“I am newly integrated, so my understanding of how things function here is still somewhat limited.”

Not technically a lie. Older Sister did already explain that mana density is the cause, but I want to compare their explanation to hers.

The entire group looks surprised at that.

The Catkin whistles softly.

“Newly integrated? And you’re already doing…” He gestures vaguely toward the mountain of corpses surrounding us. “…all this?”

My tail sways smugly.

“Correct.”

The Bearkin clears his throat, apparently deciding not to question my existence too deeply for the sake of his own mental wellbeing.

“Mana levels are rising,” he explains. “The monsters are getting stronger along with it. This dungeon started at level fifty-five. If the boss mutates fully from the excess mana and isn’t killed soon, it’ll trigger a stampede. Probably around level seventy by then.”

I tilt my head slightly.

“Stampede?”

He nods.

“When a dungeon gets too saturated with mana, the monsters stop staying contained. They migrate toward the largest concentration of mana nearby.”

I finish the thought for him immediately.

“…The town.”

“Exactly.”

The Bearkin’s expression darkens slightly.

“The town itself would probably survive. Strong walls, plenty of defenders. But anyone outside the walls when the stampede hits…” He exhales slowly. “Not much chance.”

The Wingkin folds her arms, staring at him suspiciously.

“Don’t tell me you’re seriously thinking about clearing this place. We should retreat and warn the guild. This is way beyond us now.”

He meets her gaze evenly.

“I would agree with you.” A pause. “...If not for one factor.”

Realization dawns across the Wingkin’s face almost immediately.

I also understand the implication instantly.

Ah.

They want my help.

The Bearkin turns back toward me, clearly preparing to ask.

I answer before he gets the chance.

“Sure.”

He blinks.

The Catkin snorts.

The healer looks absurdly relieved.

“But first,” I continue smoothly, “I need to deal with some system matters, and all of you need to recover your resources before we continue.”

I pause.

Then tilt my head slightly, placing a finger against my cheek.

“Also… do you happen to have any food?”

The entire group shakes their heads.

The healer, in particular, shakes hers with the intensity of someone whose soul left her body approximately twenty minutes ago and still hasn’t fully returned.

I nod solemnly.

Then begin excavating food from my spatial storage.

Plates appear one after another in neat stacks atop a relatively intact section of stone. Jerky. Bread. Berries. Skewers. Various street foods I purchased earlier specifically because they looked tasty enough to justify irresponsible spending habits.

The smell alone immediately changes the atmosphere of the cavern.

The Wolfkin stares.

The Wingkin’s wings twitch slightly.

The healer looks at me like I just descended from the heavens carrying salvation itself.

Good. They understand that I am important.

I gesture casually toward the crawler corpses surrounding us.

“Help me retrieve the mana cores from everything I killed, and this food is yours.”

The healer’s expression somehow becomes even more emotional.

My tail flicks once behind me in unconcealed smug satisfaction.