At the entrance of the Amethyst Dungeon, the air always carried a damp, earthy staleness, with a faint undertone of rot that never quite went away.
Veyra tightened her grip on the curved blade at her hip, her sharp gaze sweeping over her two companions. Fein, the mage, was nervously adjusting the cuffs of her robe, while her twin sister Phylline appeared far calmer.
“Veyra,” Fein’s voice held the slightest tremor as her eyes drifted to the cavernous entrance yawning like the throat of a beast. “Are we… really going down now? Didn’t the raid team just—”
“Come back in tatters?” Veyra finished for her, eyes steady as ice. “Yes. But precisely because of that, now is the best time to go down.”
She turned to Fein, explaining in a hushed tone so the nearby adventurers wouldn’t overhear.
“I’ve asked around. Just yesterday, a small squad made it down to the third floor and came back intact. They said the Pujis inside have already gone ‘back to normal.’”
The raid had failed, the Pujis still held the dungeon, but adventurers had lives to live.
The bold had already begun cautiously exploring again, while the cautious continued to wait and watch.
“We all know the Pujis have a habit of stuffing loot into Fat Pujis’ bellies. And when the raid survivors came out, they were stripped bare.”
Fein’s eyes widened as realization dawned.“You mean… the raid team’s gear could still be inside some Fat Puji, waiting to be… drawn out?”
“Exactly!” Veyra snapped her fingers. “If we start hauling in monster corpses now and get in early, we might just score some incredible loot before others catch on.”
She gave Fein a quick wink. The younger sister’s tense face finally softened with a flicker of excitement.
Just as the three prepared to descend, Veyra’s eyes caught on two unusual figures by the entrance—utterly out of place.
A stocky, weatherworn man in mud-stained homespun gripped a polished but battered hayfork in white-knuckled hands, his eyes tight with unease.
Beside him stood a boy of twelve or thirteen, clad in patched clothes, a basket half his size strapped to his back. His face brimmed with reckless curiosity, craning to peer into the dungeon’s depths.
The pair lingered for some time before finally stepping inside.
Veyra frowned and asked a tall, thin adventurer leaning against the wall, cleaning his dagger.
“Hey. You know what’s up with those two?”
The man looked annoyed at first, but when he recognized Veyra, his expression softened.
“Oh, Veyra. Thanks again for that potion last time.”
She waved it off with a smile.
He continued, “Those two? Don’t know them. But judging by their clothes, they’re probably farmers from Mura Village.”
“Farmers? What are they doing in the dungeon?” Phylline blurted.
The first floor was nearly harmless—for adventurers.
To even qualify as an adventurer required reaching at least copper rank, around LV20.
The first floor’s LV5 monsters posed no threat to them.
But for farmers, it was different.
Most adult humans could reach LV10 naturally, but without combat skills, an unlucky encounter with two or three monsters could easily be fatal.
So for farmers to enter the dungeon was bizarre. And besides—
“Doesn’t the guild stop them?” Veyra cast a glance at the two guards stationed by the gate.
By rights, without adventurer status, they should have been turned away.
The man spat on the ground.
“Tch. What, you want to deny them even a chance to live? Their village got hit by disaster. Some bastard set a fire, torched their crops to ash! With nothing left, what can they do? They’ve got no choice but to risk the dungeon, pick some mushrooms to sell. And those two aren’t the first.”
Veyra fell silent, nodding grimly. Lately, stories like this seemed to be cropping up everywhere.
Without another word, she motioned to the twins and led the way inside.
The light dimmed sharply as they entered, leaving only the faint glow of luminous fungi along the walls.
Though the dungeon was overrun with mushrooms, the mycelium usually stuck to corners, walls, and ceilings, leaving the adventurers’ paths conspicuously clean.
Unnatural, really.
Considering the growing rumors that the Pujis possessed higher intelligence, Veyra found herself inclined to believe it.
But even if true, it changed little. They’d coexisted with adventurers long before. All one had to do was follow their rules—rules that weren’t even harsh.
To be safe, despite Fein’s ability to conjure light, they’d rented a Lamp Puji, like paying a protection fee.
Not far inside the first floor, they spotted the farmer and his son again.
The boy crouched, tugging eagerly at a clump of gray mushrooms by a corner.
The man hovered over him like a hawk, firebrand in one hand, hayfork in the other, eyes darting nervously across the passages.
“Wait!” Veyra’s sharp voice cut the silence.
In a flash, she strode forward, catching the boy’s wrist just as he was about to uproot the cluster.
The boy recoiled, startled. “W-What are you doing?”
The man tensed instantly, hayfork raised. “This… this gentleman?”
Only farmers would call an adventurer “gentleman.”
Veyra didn’t answer at once. She brushed aside the larger gray caps, revealing a single hidden green mushroom.
“Not deadly, but unless you want to fall unconscious after every meal, don’t take these.”
The man stammered out gratitude. Veyra gave a brief nod and left them behind.
…
By the second floor, Veyra noticed the Lamp Puji hadn’t scurried back to the mycelium carpet.
Instead, it waddled boldly along beside them, struggling awkwardly down the stairs one stubby leg at a time, its round body wobbling dangerously.
Veyra half-expected it to roll down like a ball.
Phylline rolled her eyes and finally scooped the little thing up, cradling it securely.
“Come on, short legs.” The Puji nestled docilely in her arms, its glow steady, lighting their way.
When they finally dragged their monster spoils into the fifth-floor Fat Puji cavern, Veyra’s brows lifted.
The cavern wasn’t empty.
A heap of freshly “drawn” weapons and armor lay stacked in a corner, gleaming coldly in the Lamp Puji’s glow.
Veyra swept her eyes over them and immediately recognized the distinct emblems and craftsmanship of the Church’s armory.
Their arrival, undisguised, naturally drew the attention of the party already pulling loot.
One man turned, broad and rough-faced, his expression still flushed with excitement. Wariness flickered at first—then melted into a broad grin of recognition.
It was Horn.
“You too, huh?”