Though it was summer, the shadows grew long and deep once eight o'clock passed, swathing the Labyrinth City Exil in night. Taverns and brothels glowed with light powered by countless magic items, a hallmark of any city teeming with adventurers—much like Gilm.
However, Exil's population vastly exceeded Gilm's, and the abundance of magic items cast a far more brilliant glow over its streets.
The city was structured around the dungeon entrance at its center, with four grand mansions situated at the cardinal points of the compass. These estates belonged to the descendants of the original party that had discovered the dungeon, the lineages that now governed Exil as an autonomous city.
The mansion to the south, however, belonged to a family long since fallen into ruin. The structure was a decaying husk, and because the city’s main gate lay to the northeast, few ever had reason to pass its gates. Though small compared to a true noble’s estate, it was still an expansive property in the eyes of the common folk. Merchants and speculators had once vied to purchase the land, but the weight of Exil’s history made a careless sale impossible, and so the estate continued its slow, lonely decline.
"…Mm."
A faint light leaked from a single room within the dark mansion. Inside, a ten-year-old child sat alone, eating a meager meal of dried meat and water.
The girl's name was Byune Flaut. She was the sole heir of House Flaut, the descendant of one of the four adventurers who had first explored the labyrinth and established the foundation of the city. For their achievements, the family had been permitted a surname, but the title was purely formal; they possessed no noble rights, though they were also spared a noble’s obligations.
It had been three centuries since House Flaut fell from grace. The mansion remained standing only because it had been built with an abundance of magic items, but the cost of maintaining the structure and its enchantments was staggering. With both her parents dead, Byune dove into the dungeon every day to earn the funds necessary to keep her home from crumbling.
Perhaps it was her greatest misfortune that she was a thief of considerable skill. Had she lacked talent, she would have lost the mansion long ago; had she been a true genius, she might have lived in comfort. Instead, she existed in a precarious middle ground, earning just enough as a solo adventurer to keep the lights on. To those who knew of her, the girl was a prodigy in the making, though many in Exil viewed her potential with predatory eyes, hoping to claim her skills for their own factions.
"Mm."
Silent and stoic from her long stretches of solo work, Byune fixed her gaze on a portrait hanging on the wall. It was a painting of her parents, commissioned with the last of their savings when they were wed. She stared at it without a word, her expression flat, yet her eyes were filled with a profound, distant loneliness—the gaze of a child longing for an affection she would never again know.
After ten minutes, Byune looked away and lay down on the floor. Her bed and sofa had long since become unusable, so she simply pulled a thin blanket over herself and rested her body against the hard wood. Tomorrow, she would return to the labyrinth alone to earn her keep.
In the northern reaches of the city stood a mansion that was less a home and more a fortress. Its gardens were not meant for leisure; they were maintained as a rigorous training ground for warriors.
Inside, a roar of fury shook the walls.
"The Princess General of Duke Kerebel's House and the Crimson have entered Exil!?"
A massive fist slammed into a table. The furniture was crafted from Treant wood scavenged from the dungeon—material far sturdier than ordinary oak—yet the blow left a deep, fist-shaped indentation in the surface.
The man, standing well over two meters tall and weighing more than a hundred and twenty kilograms, was Bosk Silwa. Unlike the fallen Flauts, he was one of the true rulers of the Labyrinth City.
The messenger who had brought the news shrank back in terror before Bosk’s fierce, upturned eyes. Seeing this, Bosk exhaled sharply, forcing himself to calm down.
"My bad," he growled. "That report caught me off guard. You did your job; don't take it personally."
"Y-yes, sir!"
Bosk Silwa was a man of violence, ruthless to his enemies, but he was also known as a dependable leader who looked after his own. This "big brother" persona earned him the fierce loyalty of his subordinates. Though he was the youngest of the three heads governing Exil, his raw momentum and charisma drew many to his side.
"Damn it... what are those two celebrities doing in a place like this? Well, if they're here, they're after the dungeon. No doubt about that. Thanks for the word. Go buy yourself a drink."
He flicked a silver coin to his subordinate. The man, surprised by the generous tip, bowed deeply with a grin.
"Thank you, Big Bro Bosk!"
Once the messenger had left, Bosk leaned back. "Troublesome people at a troublesome time. The Crimson is a headache on his own—at least an A-rank threat, brings a Gryphon, and is rumored to be Margrave Larkus's right hand. But to have the Princess General of Duke Kerebel's House with him... what is their angle? The Byune incident is reaching its final stage. I don't need them interfering now."
Bosk was a warrior to his core, but he understood the value of information. He kept tabs on every major power in the kingdom, which included Elena Kerebel and the young man known as Rei, who had gained rapid fame during the War with the Bestia Empire.
He stabbed a fork into a steak—meat that was barely seared and dripping with blood—and bit into it directly, eschewing a knife. As he washed the iron-rich meat down with wine, Bosk began to plan for the complications ahead.
In the mansion to the west, a woman in her forties received the same report.
"The Crimson and the Princess General, hmm? I wonder what brings such famous figures to my doorstep."
Though she sighed, her appearance was anything but weary. Brilliant gemstone rings adorned every finger, and a lavish gold ornament sat upon her head like a crown. Mithril earrings dangled from her ears, and around her neck hung a necklace made of polished Wind-Thunder Ore—the crystallized essence of wind and lightning magic. Her dress was woven from the finest silk by master craftsmen over the course of several months.
An amateur thug would have viewed her as a walking fortune, but anyone who actually tried to rob her would have been obliterated by her magic. Every person who had ever targeted her for her wealth had already been scrubbed from existence.
This was Pri Masterche. The descendant of the original party’s mage, she was a powerful spellcaster in her own right, specializing in water magic and earth magic. Her collection of magic items allowed her to fire off high-level attack magic indefinitely without fear of exhausting her mana. She was a woman of insatiable greed who would resort to any underhanded tactic to acquire more gems.
"I don't mind the fame, as long as they don't get in my way," she murmured, admiring her jewelry. "If they do... well, people go missing in the dungeon all the time. Such a tragedy it would be—a Duke’s daughter and the kingdom’s newest hero, lost to the depths. People would talk, certainly, but they came here knowing the risks. It's only natural."
"That is correct, Master," a voice replied.
Pri was alone in the room, yet the voice answered her without hesitation. She didn't even blink.
"Yes. It would be a pity, but unavoidable. Of course, provided they don't develop some tiresome sense of justice, it won't come to that. You should pray for their sake, Bridget."
"Understood. I shall pray to the Master."
Pri gazed lovingly at the massive gemstone on her right hand, her mind already drifting to the new treasures she intended to claim. "Yes... all the jewels in the world belong at my feet."
"Yes, Master," the voice echoed from the shadows.
In the mansion to the east, an elderly man in his seventies or eighties knit his brows in irritation.
"The Princess General? The Crimson? Why have such pests come to my Exil?"
"I expect, sir, that they are here for the dungeon..."
"Silence! Who gave you permission to speak!?"
Shafner Rebisole snarled and hurled his cup at his subordinate. It struck the man’s forehead, drawing blood. It was only because Shafner’s physical ability had withered with age that the man’s skull hadn't been shattered along with the cup.
Shafner was the descendant of the founders’ archer. Unlike Bosk, who was in his prime, or Pri, who maintained her magical edge, Shafner was a man in his twilight years, haunted by the specter of death.
"Damn it... finally... I finally have a chance to claim the hope held by that little girl, and then these alias holders show up!"
He stood up and shoved a small cask of wine off the table, sending a pungent, sour stench throughout the room.
"I won't die yet. I've spent my whole life fighting for this. I gripped my bow when they said I had no talent; I ruled this city when they said I was dull... Fortune owes me this one favor at the end. ...No, that's not it."
Shafner’s eyes clouded with a muddy, obsessive madness—the desperation of an old man who refused to accept his end. His subordinates stood in terrified silence, waiting for the storm to pass.
"If the Goddess of Fortune won't smile on me, I'll simply take what I need from God myself. You. You mentioned those people were seeking an audience?"
One of the subordinates hesitated before realizing his meaning. "You mean... the Holy Light Religion?"
"The same. They worship some 'Goddess of Holy Light.' If they want to preach in my city, they will answer my summons."
"But sir, they’ve been gaining traction lately, and the rumors about them are foul. Is it safe to trust them?"
"Hmph! Dangerous or not, they wouldn't dare cross me in Exil. Bring them to me at once. And make sure Bosk and Pri don't hear a word of it."
The subordinate tried to protest, but Shafner was far beyond the reach of reason.
With the arrival of the Crimson and the Princess General, the hidden gears of Exil’s three houses began to turn, each faction accelerating their dark designs.