Ais looked curiously at the man in front of her, the threat of the minotaurs all but forgotten. Somewhere, her instincts whispered that Bete would handle it. A detached certainty. Her gaze roved over the stranger's armor, a patchwork of plates that reminded her of the killer ants above. Had he forged it himself, or did someone else craft it for him? The black helm obscured his face, eerily similar a War Shadow's vacant mask.
"Excuse me... are the wounds on your back healed?" Her mouth moved almost on its own, and she was surprised. She didn't really care about the man's wounds. A simple healing potion would have fixed them, and asking about such a small injury after two weeks was pointless. What she really cared about was how a middling level 1 adventurer who struggled against kobolds could now overwhelm minotaurs in such a short span of time.
The man's voice echoed within the cavern, a sound almost fitting for the foggy cave. "My wounds have healed. Your concern is… appreciated." The neutrality in his tone was like a barrier, as if dismissing the world beyond his armor. The helmet remained locked in place, not a hint of emotion or acknowledgement.
She heard the words, but their meaning skated off her thoughts like water over stone. She was too engrossed in the emptiness of that mask, searching for something—anything—beneath it. There was a familiar irritation there, a smudge on her perception, that she couldn't scrub clean. Why couldn't she remember his face? She should remember. How was he even breathing in that thing?
Was he hiding his strength back then? The thought whispered, slipping through the fog of her recollection. She hadn't paid much attention before, not really. But how could she be so certain he was the same person she'd seen back then? Everything about him felt altered, his presence, his armor—but still, something tethered him to her memory, a sense of familiarity she couldn't rationalize.
The man's voice broke the silence again, piercing through her contemplation like a lance. "I am thankful for your concern. I will now depart." The words were even, flat—devoid of intent or emotion. Ais felt a pang of recognition; it was like hearing an echo of herself.
She watched as he turned, moving with the exaggerated slowness that plagued the weak—like he was wading through deep water.
Little Ais shuddered, thinking about deep water, but Ais kept her gaze trained on the man, now two meters farther than he had been before. For a moment, the mist swallowed him, and her vision narrowed, focusing on the space he left behind. An ache gnawed at the edges of her mind, a frustration she couldn't name.
No. She couldn't let him slip away, not like this.
Her thoughts scrambled, clawing for a way to draw him back. How could she pry the secret from him without shattering the "civility" Riveria always urged her to maintain?
Oh! The idea struck her mind like a flash of lightning, and with the man already eight and a half meters away, she didn't bother stopping her mouth from moving.
"Your swordsmanship... is bad."
He paused, and she caught the shift in his posture, the slight tilt of his head. Through the helm's unyielding black, she felt his gaze on her, as if he could see past her words and peer straight into her intent. She stiffened, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of her sword.
"Would you like… help… to improve?" The offer felt raw in her mouth, a blade she wasn't sure how to wield. Ais knew the weight of her skill—few could claim to surpass her. This was a gambit, a risk to draw him in, to bind him to her by offering something only she could give.
But his response was the same infuriating monotone as before. "I shall… consider it. Until next time." His words slipped from the mist and vanished like smoke, dispersing her intentions as he resumed his slow, methodical retreat. She watched, silent and unmoving, as the labyrinth swallowed him whole.
She stood there, caught between the fading echoes of his presence and the distant cries of beasts she no longer heeded. A slow realization dawned, curling like a serpent around her thoughts.
She hadn't even introduced herself... The absurdity of it stung; was she so used to people knowing her by sight that she'd forgotten that some might not? That this masked man might not recognize her at all?
For a moment, embarrassment bloomed, a heat she rarely felt. She hadn't even asked his name. Her lips pressed into a thin line. But then, the thought shifted, and she felt something like hope stir—a sliver of opportunity. She could ask Riveria about him. A Black-masked adventurer would not escape her knowledge. She would find him again, and next time, she would do it right.
Ais Wallenstein, she would say. Level 6.
The idea lingered, the shadow of a smile brushing against the mask she wore. Small Ais laughed beside her, a whisper of mischief, but her true self remained as still as stone.
It felt like progress. Like one more step toward what she truly sought. Toward vengeance.