The Dungeon's corridors stretched ahead, dark and winding. The dim glow of its walls pulsed faintly, casting eerie shadows across the uneven ground. The scent of damp earth mixed with something more primal.
Orcbolg moved silently, his steps deliberate. The weight of his gear was balanced, his grip on his sword firm but relaxed.
Ahead, goblins lurked—four of them. They had yet to notice him.
He crouched, observing.
A narrow passage to the left—good for funneling them.
Loose stalactites above—potential hazard.
A small, elevated rock outcropping—advantageous positioning.
He reached into his pouch and retrieved a handful of crushed monster stones—fine dust that could obscure vision when thrown.
With a flick of his wrist, the dust scattered through the air.
The goblins turned, their eyes widening as the particles clouded their sight.
Orcbolg moved.
A quick step forward—blade to throat. A goblin fell, gurgling.
A second lunged blindly—Orcbolg sidestepped, catching its arm and twisting it behind its back before driving his dagger into its spine.
The remaining two panicked. One attempted to flee—
Thwip.
A dagger flew, embedding into its nape.
The last goblin stood frozen, watching its fallen kin. It snarled, raising its crude club.
Orcbolg exhaled slowly.
A feint left—bait the attack.
A swift counter—blade through the ribs.
The goblin collapsed.
Silence returned to the Dungeon.
Orcbolg cleaned his blade. Efficient. Methodical. No wasted movement.
Dungeon – Rest Spot
As Orcbolg tended to his equipment, he felt eyes on him.
A small party of adventurers had been watching.
One of them, a young swordsman, hesitated before stepping forward.
"That was… amazing," he admitted. "I've never seen someone fight like that."
Orcbolg remained focused on his blade. "You lack preparation."
The swordsman blinked. "Huh?"
"You engage without scouting. No positioning. No contingencies."
The young man's face flushed. "W-Well, we usually just—"
"If you rely on strength alone, you will die."
The words were blunt. Matter-of-fact.
The swordsman opened his mouth to argue—but then closed it.
Orcbolg stood, sheathing his sword. "Improve."
Without another word, he walked past them.
Evening – Abandoned Church
Hestia sat at the table, watching as Orcbolg set down his gear. His movements were always the same—calm, precise, unwavering.
She waited until he finished before speaking.
"Did things go well today?" she asked.
He nodded. "Hunted."
Hestia sighed. "You always just say that. Hunted."
She crossed her arms. "I get it, you're experienced. But you don't just swing your sword around. You think—you plan things out before you even lift a weapon."
Orcbolg was silent.
Hestia leaned forward slightly. "Most adventurers just charge in. But you? You treat every fight like a battle where losing isn't an option."
She didn't say it outright, but she could guess why.
His world hadn't given him the luxury of mistakes.
Orcbolg finally looked at her. "...It is necessary."
Hestia met his gaze. "Maybe. But it's not just that, is it?"
Orcbolg didn't answer.
Hestia exhaled, leaning back in her chair. "Just don't forget, okay? You don't have to do everything alone anymore."
Orcbolg was still for a long moment.
Then, ever so slightly, he nodded.
Hestia smiled.