Robin couldn’t summon any more defenses, no clever words, no veiled deflections. He was stripped bare, the last remnants of his bluffing armor shattered, leaving him vulnerable, exposed. His secret—fragile and buried deep—was no longer safe. Minona, with her merciless curiosity, had broken through, her words slicing deeper each time, like thin blades cutting toward the core of him, toward that dark, hidden chamber he’d guarded so fiercely. How had he let her do this? How had he let her unravel him with that sweet, innocent curiosity, with her childlike questions that felt harmless at first but now dug into him like claws?
“You know all of this just by looking, you say?” His voice cracked, the only sound he could manage, as hollow as the walls of the dungeon around them.
Minona giggled—of course she did. She was enjoying this, the gleam in her voice unmistakable. "I was terrified of my own abilities before,” she mused, spinning her words with that light, almost dismissive tone. “Of how much I could see, how much I could understand. But then I started to enjoy it—because it’s the only thing I’m good at, right now.” She hovered above him, her form still, serene, like a solitary star hanging in the cold, vast night, watching with detached amusement.
And just like that, Robin felt his strength leave him. The energy that had sustained him, kept him upright and on guard, seeped away into the cold dungeon air. His muscles weakened, his limbs felt heavy, useless. He could feel it slipping away—the last of his resistance. How could he fight back against her? Not with words, not with his mind—he was never quick enough, never sharp enough to keep pace with her games. She’d gotten him good. He had no more places to hide, no clever words left to throw up as a shield, nothing but the uneasy weight of her presence pressing down on him, making him feel small, cornered.
There was only one thing left—a gnawing sense of caution. A quiet, growing dread that with every word, every taunt, she was drawing him closer to the edge, to some unspoken danger. Robin could only hope, pray even, that she wasn’t playing for the other side. That her teasing, her relentless probing, wasn’t the prelude to something darker.
"Your way of thinking, Minona… it’s terrifying." Robin's voice, low and resigned, felt like it belonged to someone else, a man far older than the one standing there now. He was tired—too tired to keep playing this game of evasion and defense. Maybe if he offered her the truth, just a sliver of it, she’d stop, leave him to his quiet torment. He took a breath, knowing what was coming, hating that it had come to this. "They took everything from me—my village, my life, even my name. And in the end, I killed them, all of them, because I was afraid—afraid they’d take more."
Silence filled the space between them, thick and oppressive. Minona didn’t respond, didn’t offer her usual sly remarks or playful jabs. She just hovered there, a silent specter in the cold dungeon air, but Robin could feel her watching, feel her judgment pressing down on him, like eyes he couldn’t see but knew were there, burning through whatever façade he still clung to. It was as if she was waiting, knowing there was more he hadn’t said, more he was holding back, and her silence became a weight too heavy to bear.
“I wasn’t myself…” The words came out in a rush, desperate, like a confession forced out by a guilty conscience. He reached up, scratching at the tangled mess of his hair, his fingers working at it like he was trying to dig out some hidden torment, some gnawing parasite that had burrowed deep into his scalp. “I didn’t know what I was doing! I don’t know anything anymore!” His voice cracked, rising with frustration, with a pleading edge, as if begging her to stop, to let him be. “Don’t ask me to explain things I can’t—just don’t!”
But even as he spoke, Robin knew it was too late. He had already opened the door, let too much slip. And Minona, with her sharp gaze and sharper mind, wouldn’t let it go. He was a man trapped, not just in this dungeon, but in the weight of his own choices, his own failures. And now, with nothing left to hide behind, he could only wait for her next move.
“Is that so…?” Minona’s voice was like a thin thread of silk, teasing and sharp all at once. She floated before him, drifting just in his line of sight like the single, glaring lamp in an interrogation room, all-knowing and merciless. “And about that assassin business… you lied, didn’t you?”
Her words hit him like a thunderclap, a jolt straight to his spine. His heart skipped, his mind racing. He knew he was easy to read, an open book, but how could she have seen through him so easily, so thoroughly? Robin lowered his gaze to the cold, unfeeling stone beneath him, the dungeon floor somehow reminiscent of the alleyway—the place that had betrayed him, the place that had once felt like home. That alley. The very one where he let his rage take control, where the corrupt official’s sneering words had lit the fuse, driving him to madness, leading him to kill her in cold blood. That was the day it all began, the day the spree started. And now, here she was, peeling back the layers, seeing through every excuse.
“W-what do you mean?” He let out a chuckle, quiet and strained, the sound hollow even to his own ears. Maybe it was the fear pressing down on him, or maybe—just maybe—it was some twisted sense of relief. Was it possible he was glad, in some corner of his mind, that someone as perceptive as Minona was on his side? “You’ve got my attention. Tell me what you’re getting at.” He tried to sound flippant, tried to play along, but his words came out more like a request than a taunt.
“You sound amused,” she said, voice dripping with mischief, “More than you did a moment ago. Boo, I thought I had you there.” She pouted, floating back toward him with a huff before settling once again in her familiar perch, nestled in the tangled mess of his hair. “My powers of analysis aren’t supposed to be for your amusement, human. I was so sure I’d got under your skin.”
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He said nothing, but his pulse quickened as she continued, her tone now more boastful, almost smug.
“You’re a killer—calculated, professional. The kind of assassin that even Lucia’s craftiest can’t compare to. A spree, you called it, but no ordinary spree—every move you made was precise, intentional. You were good. Too good.”
“Is that a compliment?” he muttered, though he already knew the answer.
“Yes, obviously,” she chirped, “But let’s not get distracted. You killed for a reason, didn’t you? And if I piece together your little story and the abilities of your Dungeon Walker, there’s something you were taking from those you killed, isn’t there? Something you were retrieving.” Her voice grew sharper, more curious, more dangerous. “So what was it, Robin? What did you take from them?”
Her question hung in the air, a blade just waiting to cut. Robin’s stomach twisted, a sick mixture of awe and fear settling deep inside him. How did she know? How did she see so clearly what even he struggled to understand?
She was playing with him, toying with his mind, yet her playful malice was too sharp, too clever to brush aside. He knew now—there would be no hiding from her. Not anymore.
Robin bit his lip, chewing on the bitter taste of memories he wished he could bury. His mind churned with those dark experiences, the ones tied to his past, each detail rising to the surface, one after the other. The faces, the blood, the fear—every recollection carved into his brain with an unsettling precision, forming sentences that no longer felt like they belonged to him, but to a version of himself he barely recognized. Why had he killed? What had he taken from those corrupt officials, really? It was all a blur, and yet somehow too clear.
“As far as I remember,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, “I killed because I was afraid they’d steal from me again.”
“They say in Lucia,” Minona’s voice slipped in, light as air, almost offhand, “fear is the greatest motivation to survive.” There was no malice now, no sharpness to her words, just an eerie calm. She said it as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though the weight of his confession had no meaning. Maybe she was satisfied, maybe she had heard enough. Her interest seemed to wane, a slow fading of that predatory curiosity she’d shown before. “But don’t you get tired of it?” she continued, her tone shifting, losing any focus on his past. “This dark, dingy place… don’t you want to see the sun again?”
Robin paused. His mind was anything but calm—a storm raged inside, questions crashing like waves against him. He had never heard someone speak so casually about killing, as though it were nothing more than a necessary part of life. Fear, the driving force. How could someone—something—speak of it with such indifference? What kind of world was he in, where killing was a skill to be honed, a tool to survive? At least the things he killed barely resembled humans anymore. Monsters, just like this place.
But Minona—what about her? Could he trust her? There was something in the way she shifted, how quickly her interest faded once she had her fill. Like a cat playing with a mouse, only to lose interest once it stopped squirming. Hiding from her would be a different game entirely, a challenge he wasn’t sure he was prepared for. She knew too much, saw too much. And now, she seemed content to move on, to leave his darkest secrets hanging in the air between them like unfinished sentences.
It unsettled him. He realized, with a deep, sinking feeling, that Minona was something else entirely—something to be wary of, perhaps more dangerous than the dungeon itself.
"Do I even deserve to feel the sun on my skin for what I’ve done?" Robin's voice was low, strained, the weight of his past pressing harder now, the darkness around them amplifying the guilt festering within him.
"Who cares?" Minona’s answer cut through the tension with a flicker of light, her playful tone a stark contrast to his brooding. "You won’t know if you’re dead, right?"
Her flippancy struck him like cold water, and something broke inside, frustration leaking into his voice. "Have you ever felt sorry? Or killed someone and affected innocents in the process?" He raised his voice, not quite angry, but curious—desperate, even, to know if she understood the weight of her own words.
"Yes," she answered, simple, straightforward, but so unexpected that it knocked the wind from his chest. Robin had been bracing himself for another mocking retort, but now he had to swallow his words whole, disbelief rippling through him. "I mean, I am a princess of the throne." There was a detached ease in her voice, as if she were recounting an old story long forgotten. "Every day, I smiled at assassins, knew their names, knew what weapons they preferred, and strolled the castle halls with my dress soaked in their blood."
"You… you killed them all? What if they had families? What if they were just desperate?" His voice trembled, but not from fear—more from the absurdity of it, from the way she made it sound so normal, so casual, like she was talking about brushing dust from her gown.
"Did you—" Minona scoffed, barely restraining a laugh, the sound sharp and almost mocking. "Did you listen to what you just asked?"
Robin sighed, long and heavy, the truth of it sinking into him like a slow poison. She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t struggling with the moral weight of her actions, not the way he was. She didn’t even bother to justify herself, didn’t hide behind excuses about protecting her people, or surviving for some noble cause. And yet, that was better than hearing her admit she enjoyed it—enjoyed killing, the same way she had laughed while purging those Dang-goras.
"Fine," he muttered, still leaning back, legs trembling with the exhaustion he hadn’t yet shaken. "But seriously, you need to learn some empathy."
"Don’t worry, human." Minona’s voice was airy, smug, as if she had already outgrown any notion of guilt or remorse. He felt her shift above him, her weight settling into his hair like a bird rustling into a freshly made nest. "I’ve lived longer than you to learn what empathy always had been."
Robin closed his eyes, his body aching with the weight of it all—the dungeon, the secrets, and the constant dance with Minona’s cryptic, boastful mind. He had learned something, though—if he kept anything from her, she’d find a way to dig it up, to turn it over and over in his mind until the pressure alone made him want to spill everything. She was dangerous like that, and he realized he’d need as much caution with her as he would with the dungeon. Maybe even more.
"Hey, human," Minona’s voice floated down, light as a whisper, but carrying that playful edge. "Have you ever in relationship for once?"
Robin groaned, "Let me rest, will you?" letting his head fall back against the cold dungeon wall, eyes half-closed in weary defeat. “Everything has its own time.”