I had already left the hall when Malaca said she still needed to settle a few points of the collaboration contract. Still, my mind kept replaying Marcoriel's smile — Calme apparently was just a simple exploration task, maybe even a training mission to help the young bourgeois level up. The details didn't interest me. I preferred to let Malaca handle it. I didn't know the Malok, so I had no prejudices. As long as they paid, they could jump rope with a drunk dryad in the middle of the forest for all I cared.
What I didn't know... was that everything was about to fall apart so quickly.
Now, there I was — in my sleepwear, eyes still heavy with sleep, standing in front of Malaca. The woman who normally radiated authority now trembled, her eyes brimming with tears, her posture undone. She was... broken.
— You must be out of your mind. — My voice came out harsher than I intended, but disbelief spoke louder than empathy.
— I'm sorry, Fly... I didn't want to do this, but my hands are tied. They... they kidnapped my granddaughters.
The tears ran silently, sincerely. And in that moment, I recognized what she was feeling. That suffocating helplessness that twists your stomach and tightens your chest. I knew that feeling. And I hate how well I know it.
I took a deep breath, swallowing the rage.
— How?
I knew things could go wrong. I knew everything felt off. But... this? This went too far.
— Malaca, pull yourself together. Tell me exactly what happened.
She nodded, wiping her tears clumsily, like someone trying to piece together a shattered mirror. And then she began to explain. In just a few hours — while I slept soundly like an idiot — the situation had turned into a nightmare.
According to her, some subordinates of the young bourgeois — that damned son of a bitch — broke into the guild in the middle of the night. Silent. Precise. Ruthless. Zomeia and Bromeia were taken while they still slept. No one realized until it was already too late.
— But the guild has defenses against this kind of invasion! — I growled, more to myself than to her.
— It had. But they brought someone with magic far too powerful. — She said, and the weight in her words sent a chill through me. — That person... tore through all the protection layers like wet paper.
A shiver ran down my spine. This wasn't just an attack. It was an operation. And it was done well.
— Malaca... the one who set up the barriers was a silver-level mage from the Neruzan Guild, right?
My voice came out low, scratching my throat, as if the words themselves were afraid to exist. The name of the guild still echoed in the air like a cursed whisper. Neruzan. Specialists in arcane magic and summoning. I didn't know Lord Birbane personally, their leader, but his reputation was one of extreme competence.
The alliance among the four great guilds was ancient, forged in times of war and long before I ever came to this world. Each one sustained a vital part of the city: Malaca provided the guards who patrolled the walls and protected the civilians; Leonan trained warriors to supervise travelers and keep the peace; Calipso managed the economy, watching every coin like it was a soldier; and Neruzan — they took care of what no one saw. Curses. Enchantments. Barriers that separated the living from the monsters that crawled in the dark.
But someone had failed. Miserably.
— Yes. — Malaca answered, her voice thick. — And even so... it didn't last ten minutes.
Ten minutes.
That changed everything. Breaking through that wasn't just hard — it was nearly impossible. Except... for someone at Gold Level or higher.
— The person who did this... is at Gold. Without a doubt. — I murmured, more to myself than to her. And if that's true... then maybe the whole mission charade was just that: a charade. A cover.
— But... why now? — My mind spun in circles, trying to find logic in that chaos. — They could've done this before... or after. Why now? What changed?
Malaca looked at me, her eyes hard now, despite the tears.
— They want you, Fly. They want you so desperately they used my two girls as currency.
The truth struck me like lightning. There was no denying it. I was the target. And worse... now I was cornered. Forced.
— So... I'll have to go with them — I said at last, the bitter taste of the decision filling my mouth.
Malaca's eyes filled with tears again, but she only nodded, swallowing the pain.
— I'm sorry... They're the only family I have... I...
— Don't say another word. — I cut her off, voice steady. — It's all right.
For the first time, I realized how calm I was. Maybe because, deep down, I never feared dying. I'd already done it once — and the second time, honestly, felt almost honorable. To die for someone, not drunk and drowning in some filthy bathtub, surrounded by moldy tiles and regret.
— I don't have anything to wear for this. Help me get ready, please... Do you have something that can protect my musical instrument? — I looked at the guitar as if it were an extension of my soul. — And a weapon...?
Malaca didn't hesitate. She ran to the back of the supply room and returned with a reinforced case, made of dark leather with magical stitching. It would protect my instrument — my greatest asset. And a dagger. Short, precise, cruel.
I took the blade on instinct... and instantly regretted it.
A chill ran up my arm, as if the air itself rejected me. It was like trying to breathe underwater. My chest tightened, and the energy that normally surrounded me... simply vanished.
— What the hell is this? — I growled, dropping the dagger like it was cursed.
— I'm sorry... — Malaca hesitated. — I figured since you never entered dungeons, I didn't need to explain weapon penalties.
— Goddammit, Malaca! You really have to stop hiding the details! Every time it's some new damned surprise!
I was angry. But more than that... I was frustrated. I was a Buffer. My job was to enhance others, not slit throats. But what if there were no "others" to fight in my place?
I took a deep breath.
— Shit... All right. We still have time. Can you get potions from Eluria? Anything. Even just health ones.
Malaca hesitated, but returned quickly, bringing a few bottles. I noticed they were from her own reserves.
— Six potions. It's all I can give you right now.
I accepted silently. If I used mana, I might've asked for magical regeneration potions, but that was the least of my worries. I still hadn't learned to actively manipulate mana — and carrying something I couldn't use was just dead weight.
I put on what armor I had. Dark leather, taken from some creature on floors 1 or 2 of the dungeon. Flexible enough not to hinder my movement, but still... nothing special. And maybe that's why Malaca insisted on one extra piece: a blackened steel helm that fully protected the skull, with an open front that left my face visible.
— The creatures that ambush humans... they always aim for the same place — Malaca said, giving the helmet a tap, like someone who's lived through this more than once. — Neck and head. Protect what you can.
I nodded, testing the weight of the helmet. It was strange, stifling... but not impossible. I glanced at myself in the foggy wall mirror. I didn't look like a hero. Not even close. I looked like a lost bard, a musician about to walk into a war he never asked for. A makeshift survivor.
— If I die... — I began, but Malaca raised her hand.
— No. If you die, I'll ask a shaman to summon your corpse as a zombie just so I can kill you again.
She forced a smile. And so did I.
— Okay... then let's finish what we started.
I strapped the reinforced guitar case to my back. Each step hurt more than the last — not physically, but emotionally. I knew there was no turning back. From here on out, everything could end. But if those girls were in danger, if Malaca had swallowed her pride to ask for my help...
...then let them come with everything they had.
Because today, I wasn't going to die so easily.
Not without a fight.
— Thank you, Malaca. I know what you're giving me is valuable... maybe more than it should be. — I took a deep breath. — And... I'm not angry at you. Honestly? If it were my children or grandchildren, I'd do the same.
She just looked at me, silently. Her eyes flickered, and for a moment, the weight of shame shone in them more than any tear. She didn't reply, but I understood.
We walked toward the dungeon entrance. The sun was still rising on the horizon, painting the sky in a timid orange, as if the world itself hesitated to witness what was about to unfold. The dungeon's entrance was empty — absolutely silent. No other groups, no guards, no onlookers. They had bought out the entire area... just for this.
— They're there... — said Malaca, voice low and tense. — Zomeia and Bromeia too.
I turned and saw them.
The bourgeois boy stood at the front, flanked by his elders, all armed to the teeth. But it was deeper within the scene that I saw what hit me like a punch to the gut: the two girls, trapped inside a dome of energy. Similar to the one Malaca used to muffle sound... but there was something twisted about this one. The energy felt dense, suffocating, alive. As if the prison itself took pleasure in torturing its captives.
— A total containment dome... — Malaca murmured. — That's low... even for a bourgeois.
A mocking laugh echoed just behind the armed elders. A man stepped from the shadows, shoulders relaxed, as if this were just another casual power play.
When his face caught the light, Malaca gasped.
— Varnak... Why?
The name struck me like thunder.
It wasn't just any name. It was one of the wealthiest in the region, well known both among the people and in books. Known as the "Architect of Trade Routes," Varnak had built his fortune by monopolizing the commercial roads between southern territories. They said he started as a simple commoner — no magic, no noble blood, no blades — just intelligence, vision, and sheer will. His face was on the cover of a book I'd read; his speeches about hard work and perseverance were quoted endlessly, to the point of exhaustion.
But I'd heard a different version. A quieter one. A truer one.
Varnak wasn't an architect. He was a butcher. A man who cleared paths with blood, not stone. The stories told by adventurers — those who had crossed his path in shady missions or unsigned contracts — said he climbed by stepping over corpses. Literally. Disappearing competitors, "revised" contracts after convenient accidents, cities that suddenly changed routes... always to his benefit.
There were rumors he bought silence with gold and erased pasts with steel. That none of his enemies lived long enough to watch him fall. And worst of all — he was the father of my contractor.
— Miss Malaca — he said, with a voice as smooth and polished as a merchant selling poison. — I hope you understand my position.
— You son of a bitch! — she spat, with raw fury, hands already half-clenched...
— Whoa. — another voice cut in. Deep. Familiar.
A hooded man stepped forward. But that voice... I knew it.
The old bearded man.
The mage.
— I suggest you watch your tone, madam. Unless you want your granddaughters... in a glass.
As he spoke, he twirled the staff in his hands and the dome began to shrink. Slowly. Cruelly.
The structure glowed red as the prison's edges compressed. The girls were unconscious... but when the space became too tight, survival instinct kicked in, waking them with a choked cry of pain and desperation.
— STOP NOW! — my voice tore through the air before I even realized I'd shouted.
Varnak raised a hand, and the mage obeyed immediately. The dome stopped compressing, but didn't return to its original size. It was a reminder. A warning. A clear "this can get worse."
— Very well. — said Varnak, with a satisfied smile. — I think we can reach a sensible agreement. I see you brought the boy. He looks... ordinary. Did you explain it to him, Malaca?
She lowered her head. Almost shrank into herself. The shame looked crushing.
— I'm aware. — I said before she could respond. — And I'll go with you.
There was silence. Long. Heavy.
For some reason, they wanted me alive. They needed me to enter the dungeon with them. But the reason... remained hidden. Not even Malaca knew. Neither did I.
But one thing was certain.
I wasn't just a hostage.
I was the key.