Chapter 7: A False Sense Of Calm

The morning sun bled through the cliffside in fractured beams, catching on pockets of lingering mist that shouldn’t be here this late in the day. The light felt thin—deliberate, almost—as if the dungeon itself had twisted the dawn to its preference.

No birds called. No insects droned. Even the leaves above hung heavy and still, their shadows swaying just out of sync with the breeze, as though moved by a different rhythm entirely. The air carried a faint, metallic tang beneath the scent of moss.

Allen’s grip tightened around his makeshift spear. The wood answered with a faint creak—like a comrade sharing its own unease. His eyes swept the jagged horizon in quick, trained flicks, the habit of someone who’s counted exits before taking a breath. Behind him, Protag‑kun scuffed a boot on the stone, shattering the stillness with an echo that made Allen’s jaw clench.

They moved in formation: Allen and Mei taking point, their steps precise and almost soundless, each unconsciously falling into the rhythm—the “hunter’s beat.” Monica, Miyu, and Cinnamon drifted at the rear, with Protag‑kun in the vulnerable center. A lopsided marching order born of habit, not strategy… but it had kept them alive this far.

The ground sloped downward. Moss gave way to jagged blackstone veined with pale minerals that pulsed faintly — a slow, irregular heartbeat underfoot. Ahead, a cavern yawned, its mouth too symmetrical to be natural, as though hands — not water — had carved it open.

“Uh… anyone else getting serious boss‑level vibes from that cave?” Protag‑kun’s attempt at humor landed flat against the stagnant air, his voice just a touch too high to be convincing.

Allen didn’t answer. He felt it too — the density in the air, the faint hum vibrating up through his boots. An old miners’ saying came back to him: Still air in a cave isn’t still. It’s listening.

The ground trembled. Not from collapse — the rhythm was too precise. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Stone splintered. From the cavern’s mouth, a tide of orcs surged into daylight, eyes blazing with something more than hunger — a predator’s focus sharpened by discipline. Orcs weren’t supposed to move like this. Not unless—

“Run!” His barked command cut the thought short.

They scattered. The orcs moved with uncanny cohesion, cutting off flanks, driving them like sheepdogs herding prey. In the churn, Allen’s mind locked on one conclusion: someone was commanding them.

Two hulking shapes detached from the pack, clubs raised. Allen lunged to intercept, missing the first blow only by marrying physics to blind luck.

“Protag‑kun! Magic — now!”

“Explosion!” The golf‑ball‑sized flame fizzled out mid‑air, managing only to singe the lead orc’s shin. It didn’t break stride.

From the corner of his vision, Allen caught the smallest twitch — an orc snatching up a goblin cub and hurling it like a living missile toward Protag‑kun.

Mei moved. No pause. No breath. Just pure, water‑swift action. Her heel kissed the ground once before she leapt, palm connecting mid‑arc. The impact rang like a taiko drum, scattering pine needles and dust; the orc behind it staggered under the same force.

Allen blinked, recalibrating what he thought he knew about her. Not just a pop idol.

They fought in tandem, spear strikes weaving like choreography drilled on instinct. One orc dropped, then another. The air between heartbeats went still.

From the trees, humming. Monica emerged with Miyu and Cinnamon, as if strolling back from a festival, her locket glowing a measured, deliberate gold. The scent of something floral but faintly bitter wafted ahead of her.

Allen’s relief snapped into anger. “What were you thinking!?” His voice cracked the brittle quiet. “That was beyond reckless.”

Monica tilted her head, eyes too calm — that faint, knowing glint she got before revealing a “surprise” Allen usually hated.

“The orcs have been dealt with.”

Allen blinked hard. Dealt with?

He followed, pulse drumming against his ribs, into a clearing that felt… wrong. Too clean. No broken undergrowth, no smell of blood — as if the forest had tidied up before letting them see.

Dozens of orcs stood bound in thick violet vines that shimmered with an inner, pulse‑like light. The coils tightened and relaxed in slow beats, feeding on a thready rhythm Allen could almost hear in his teeth. The air was syrup‑thick with Lustroot bloom — sweet at first breath, cloying by the second, like perfume left to steep in summer heat.

Allen’s relief evaporated. “Are you insane, Monica!? You risked Miyu’s life — for this? An amusing stunt?”

Monica’s smile faltered. Her shoulders stiffened; her voice shed its airy lilt. “It didn’t go wrong. The orcs are secured. Nothing is wrong.”

But Allen saw it — the fine, repeated quiver along the vines, the one detail light novels always flagged before disaster. The orcs’ bliss‑soft features stiffened… all in perfect sync.

With the sound of wet parchment tearing, the vines split. Mei’s inhale caught sharp. “Impossible… Lustroot can hold a troll three days without fail.”

Her tone wasn’t fear — it was the brittle edge of disbelief. And disbelief meant the rules they trusted were breaking.

From the cavern’s dark throat, mist spilled. Not fog. Not breath. Something older. It crept like liquid light, coating stone, pooling low — a predator’s advance disguised as weather. The metallic tang on Allen’s tongue thickened until his throat ached.

The orcs sucked it in greedily. Crimson flooded their eyes; veins surged beneath their skin like twisted rope. Their movements snapped into the jerky precision of puppets on new strings.

“That’s gotta be an OP Cheat Skill,” Protag‑kun managed between coughs. “Rage… enhancement…”

Allen’s decision was immediate. “Run!”

The group tore into motion. The ground trembled with the drum of pursuit. Allen barked over his shoulder, “Monica — how much charge?”

She glanced at the locket. Its orange glow guttered. “Five percent. I can’t transform long.” She hauled Miyu up against her, Cinnamon climbing to her shoulder, the creature’s tail wrapped tight like a sash.

“Protag‑kun!” Allen’s tone sharpened. “Fire — now!”

“I told you, it’s weak!” The words cracked with panic. He forced his shaking arm up anyway. “Explosion!”

A fireball sputtered from his palm, fizzled to embers before striking. The orcs surged undeterred.

Allen’s hand was already in his satchel, closing on cool clay container. He pulled free a jar of viscous, faintly glowing slime‑essence. It pulsed in rhythm with his own heartbeat. Without ceremony, he hurled it into the oncoming horde.

The jar shattered. Mana detonated. The shockwave tore through air and bone alike; lesser orcs crumpled, the cavern ceiling coughing chunks of stone into their path. The roar of collapse sealed the way behind, leaving a haze of dust and mana‑smoke that clung like oil.

They stumbled forward, coughing, the sound of their own heartbeats loud in the dim. Somewhere behind the rubble, the muffled, distorted howls began again.

Protag‑kun gaped at Allen, voice shaking. “What… was that? Where’d you even get it?”

Allen’s answer came low, almost swallowed by the muffled drip of water somewhere deeper in the stone. “After the slime encounter, I harvested what was left. Bottled it before the essence dispersed. Just in case.”

Protag‑kun didn’t know, but he felt the weight of the secrecy like a hand on his spine. They were barely more than strangers, bonded only by necessity. Secrets, in that context, felt sharper than a blade.

“You… had those this whole time?” The pitch of his voice cracked between relief and betrayal. “Why hide it?”

Allen’s shoulders sagged, gaze skimming over a faintly glowing vein of crystal in the cavern wall, as if consulting it. “You’re already wrestling your magic. If I’d told you, you’d try to match me — or worse, lean on it instead of yourself.”

He pulled two more jars free. Their light was wan now, pulsing slow like a tired heartbeat. “Didn’t even know if it would work on orcs… or if it would turn on us.”

The silence that followed was brittle. Even the air seemed to prickle — the faint phosphorescence in the ceiling’s fungi dimmed a fraction, and the ever‑present background hum of mana dipped lower, as though the cavern were leaning in.

“You didn’t trust me,” Protag‑kun growled.

Allen met his stare. Didn’t answer.

Mei stepped forward, gentle but firm. “We’re alive. Let’s not—”

“Back off, Mei.” The snap in Protag‑kun’s voice slapped the space flat.

Her eyes widened — not in fear, but in the disbelief that comes when someone you’ve shared warm tea and late‑night jokes with suddenly draws a line you can’t cross.

Allen’s jaw flexed. “Enough.”

But Protag‑kun wasn’t looking at Mei anymore. His gaze drilled into Allen, and something in his expression changed — the tightening recognition of an old enemy. A type.

“There it is,” he muttered, almost to himself. “The look of a normie.”

Allen’s laugh was short and sharp, bouncing oddly in the mana‑thick air. He folded his arms. “Go on. Try it. Let’s see what you’ve really got.”

A bead of light formed in Protag‑kun’s palm, shivering like mercury in a draft. “I will.”

The cave’s glow warped around them, motes drifting faster, as if caught in an unseen current.

Allen shoved him, the smirk turning surgical. “I’m not the failure here.”

The air tightened. Mei’s hand twitched toward them, Monica’s locket stuttered — and then Protag‑kun screamed his incantation.

The blast tore into the cavern wall. Stone fractured. Mana flared bright enough to bleach the shadows — and through the new gap tumbled a charred orc, smoke curling from its tusks.

Allen had flinched, but his hand was raised not in defense — in redirection. He’d bent the blast’s path at the last heartbeat, drawing it toward the attacker that had been silently tunnelling behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. His voice carried the exhaustion of someone who’d been weighing this moment for hours. “Your magic’s tied to emotion. Panic cuts it to threads. But anger…” He exhaled, slow. “Anger sharpens it.”

The ambient glow steadied, as if the cavern itself had decided — for now — to watch rather than act.

That’s when the new sound began: a rhythmic, granular scraping. Dust sifted down from the ceiling in time with it. The kind of digging that didn’t care how much rock lay between predator and prey.

Allen’s head tilted toward the sound. His voice fell to a warning growl. “We move. Now.”

The digging ceased as if someone had pressed a hand over the world’s mouth. Even the dust motes seemed to hover, waiting. Then the wall ruptured.

Shards of stone and choking grit fanned out in a shockwave. The air instantly thickened — mana here was different, older, and it clung to skin like damp cloth in a thunderstorm.

Through the breach came a shape that made the air fold away from it. The orc was vast, a head and shoulders above its kin, but that wasn’t what froze them—it was the skin: sallow‑grey, like moonlit bone, and the jagged tusks that resembled toppled fortress towers. It didn’t roar. It screamed, a note that set the cavern’s mineral veins quivering, a vibration you could feel in your teeth.

Behind him surged more orcs, eyes rolling with frenzy. The way they moved — in ragged unison — made the narrow cavern feel like the throat of a predator.

The scream leeched the warmth from the air. Mei shuddered, her breath fogging in the sudden chill. Monica’s locket flared a warning orange, heat radiating from it like a small hearth fighting a storm.

She caught Allen’s eye — no words, just a thread of understanding — then raised her chin. “By the power of friendship and justice—transform!”

Light detonated from the locket, ribbons spiralling like silk caught in wind, but the usual crisp shimmer bled at the edges, as though the Orc Lord’s presence resisted it.

“Mei, with me!” Monica’s boots struck stone, sparks spraying.

Mei slid in beside her, all fluid angles and disciplined timing. Her movements carried traces of old choreography — Allen had once seen her demonstrate her fighting abilities. Now it shattered orc sternums.

They met the first wave like a tide wall. Clubs rang off glowing barriers, the sound chased by whiplash cracks of Monica’s ribbons. Mei’s palm strikes rippled the floor, sending fissures crawling through the stone.

Allen plunged through the maelstrom, Miyu clinging tight to his back, Cinnamon wound around her like a scarf. Behind, Protag‑kun fired erratic bursts of flame, each weaker than the last, his breath coming ragged.

An orc brute broke from formation, eyes locking on Protag‑kun. Allen read the inevitability in its line and moved. He set Miyu and Cinnamon onto a narrow outcrop, murmuring, “Guard her, Cinnamon,” in the tone of a man delegating command. Then he turned, body already braced.

The club struck like a siege ram. Bone gave; white light burst behind his eyes. The world canted. Through blur, he registered Protag‑kun’s shock before gravity claimed him.

“Why?” Protag‑kun’s voice cracked raw. “Why would you save someone like me!”

Allen couldn’t answer. His breath was busy keeping him alive.

On the line, Monica’s frills were torn, boots gouged with deep scuffs. Mei’s rhythm faltered — just for a breath. With one last parry, Monica’s outfit unraveled into fading ribbons. Her locket’s glow went out, and the small heat it carried leeched from the air.

The magic was gone.

“Allen!” Monica’s voice cracked, the sound catching against the cavern’s walls and coming back to her thinner, more fragile. Her boots scraped backwards through grit. The orcs sensed the opening and surged — a tide smelling blood.

Then came the roar.

It wasn’t the bellow of a beast in pain. It was deep enough to rattle the pale crystal veins above them, old enough to carry the resonance of places unlit for centuries. It rolled closer, pressing on lungs and wills alike.

The horde split apart without resistance. Through the gap strode the Orc Lord, and the ambient mana seemed to lean toward him like metal shavings to a lodestone. His eyes found Monica’s — not burning with rage, but fixed with a terrible, proprietary calm.

He spoke. The words were broken, thick with that grave‑spring resonance. Even Mei’s battle‑hardened stance faltered. Monica heard them more in her spine than in her ears. “Beau… tiful.”

Her pulse pounded loud enough to drown the battlefield. The locket at her throat was nothing but dead glass now, cool and heavy. The Orc Lord stepped closer, tusks catching light in jagged flashes. “Queen. Be… mine.”

Miyu’s voice rang sharp as temple bells. “Monica, no!” The Kitsune pearl at her own neck glimmered faintly, like it recognized the wrongness.

Monica turned just enough to meet her eyes, tears cutting clean tracks in the grime. “It’s okay, Miyu. I know what I am.” The familiar anime catch‑phrase landed hollow — no wink, no levity.

She stepped forward — and a voice, raw and shredded, cut across the gap.

“She’s not yours!”

Allen. Upright somehow, swaying like a mast in gale winds. Blood striped his face, but his eyes held steady.

The Orc Lord’s expression fractured into rage. “AAARRGH… ELIMINATE THOSE TWO!”

The horde swallowed Allen and Protag‑kun. The sound was all impact and breathless cries. Miyu’s knuckles whitened around Cinnamon’s fur; Monica’s scream tore out of her before she knew she’d made it. Mei shoved forward, each strike a frantic opening carved, but the bodies kept closing.

Then Allen’s limp form rose above the chaos, gripped in orc hands, carried toward the abyssal breach behind the Orc Lord.

Miyu moved.

Her small hands closed over the Kitsune’s Pearl. Light bloomed, steady and ancient — the heartbeat of something that had watched these halls long before orcs claimed them. Warmth rolled out, tangible, defying the cavern’s chill.

The ground gave way. The roar that followed was not entirely the Orc Lord’s — it was the cave itself, wounded and wrathful, crystal veins flashing in synchrony. They fell into the rushing dark, and for one held‑breath instant, there was no sound at all.